10716	----	The Epic: an Essay By Lascelles Abercrombie 1914. By the same Author: Towards a Theory of Art Speculative Dialogues Four Short Plays Thomas Hardy: A Critical Study Principles of English Prosody PREFACE _As this essay is disposed to consider epic poetry as a species of literature, and not as a department of sociology or archaeology or ethnology, the reader will not find it anything material to the discussion which may be typified in those very interesting works, Gilbert Murray's "The Rise of the Greek Epic" and Andrew Lang's "The World of Homer." The distinction between a literary and a scientific attitude to Homer (and all other "authentic" epic) is, I think, finally summed up in Mr. Mackail's "Lectures on Greek Poetry"; the following pages, at any rate, assume that this is so. Theories about epic origins were therefore indifferent to my purpose. Besides, I do not see the need for any theories; I think it need only be said, of any epic poem whatever, that it was composed by a man and transmitted by men. But this is not to say that investigation of the "authentic" epic poet's_ milieu _may not be extremely profitable; and for settling the preliminaries of this essay, I owe a great deal to Mr. Chadwick's profoundly interesting study, "The Heroic Age"; though I daresay Mr. Chadwick would repudiate some of my conclusions. I must also acknowledge suggestions taken from Mr. Macneile Dixon's learned and vigorous "English Epic and Heroic Poetry"; and especially the assistance of Mr. John Clark's "History of Epic Poetry." Mr. Clark's book is so thorough and so adequate that my own would certainly have been superfluous, were it not that I have taken a particular point of view which his method seems to rule out--a point of view which seemed well worth taking. This is my excuse, too, for considering only the most conspicuous instances of epic poetry. They have been discussed often enough; but not often, so far as I know, primarily as stages of one continuous artistic development_. I. BEGINNINGS The invention of epic poetry corresponds with a definite and, in the history of the world, often recurring state of society. That is to say, epic poetry has been invented many times and independently; but, as the needs which prompted the invention have been broadly similar, so the invention itself has been. Most nations have passed through the same sort of chemistry. Before their hot racial elements have been thoroughly compounded, and thence have cooled into the stable convenience of routine which is the material shape of civilization--before this has firmly occurred, there has usually been what is called an "Heroic Age." It is apt to be the hottest and most glowing stage of the process. So much is commonplace. Exactly what causes the racial elements of a nation, with all their varying properties, to flash suddenly (as it seems) into the splendid incandescence of an Heroic Age, and thence to shift again into a comparatively rigid and perhaps comparatively lustreless civilization--this difficult matter has been very nicely investigated of late, and to interesting, though not decided, result. But I may not concern myself with this; nor even with the detailed characteristics, alleged or ascertained, of the Heroic Age of nations. It is enough for the purpose of this book that the name "Heroic Age" is a good one for this stage of the business; it is obviously, and on the whole rightly, descriptive. For the stage displays the first vigorous expression, as the natural thing and without conspicuous restraint, of private individuality. In savagery, thought, sentiment, religion and social organization may be exceedingly complicated, full of the most subtle and strange relationships; but they exist as complete and determined _wholes_, each part absolutely bound up with the rest. Analysis has never come near them. The savage is blinded to the glaring incongruities of his tribal ideas not so much by habit or reverence; it is simply that the mere possibility of such a thing as analysis has never occurred to him. He thinks, he feels, he lives, all in a whole. Each person is the tribe in little. This may make everyone an astoundingly complex character; but it makes strong individuality impossible in savagery, since everyone accepts the same elaborate unanalysed whole of tribal existence. That existence, indeed, would find in the assertion of private individuality a serious danger; and tribal organization guards against this so efficiently that it is doubtless impossible, so long as there is no interruption from outside. In some obscure manner, however, savage existence has been constantly interrupted; and it seems as if the long-repressed forces of individuality then burst out into exaggerated vehemence; for the result (if it is not slavery) is, that a people passes from its savage to its heroic age, on its way to some permanence of civilization. It must always have taken a good deal to break up the rigidity of savage society. It might be the shock of enforced mixture with a totally alien race, the two kinds of blood, full of independent vigour, compelled to flow together;[1] or it might be the migration, due to economic stress, from one tract of country to which the tribal existence was perfectly adapted to another for which it was quite unsuited, with the added necessity of conquering the peoples found in possession. Whatever the cause may have been, the result is obvious: a sudden liberation, a delighted expansion, of numerous private individualities. But the various appearances of the Heroic Age cannot, perhaps, be completely generalized. What has just been written will probably do for the Heroic Age which produced Homer, and for that which produced the _Nibelungenlied, Beowulf_, and the Northern Sagas. It may, therefore stand as the typical case; since Homer and these Northern poems are what most people have in their minds when they speak of "authentic" epic. But decidedly Heroic Ages have occurred much later than the latest of these cases; and they arose out of a state of society which cannot roundly be called savagery. Europe, for instance, had its unmistakable Heroic Age when it was fighting with the Moslem, whether that warfare was a cause or merely an accompaniment. And the period which preceded it, the period after the failure of Roman civilization, was sufficiently "dark" and devoid of individuality, to make the sudden plenty of potent and splendid individuals seem a phenomenon of the same sort as that which has been roughly described; it can scarcely be doubted that the age which is exhibited in the _Poem of the Cid_, the _Song of Roland_, and the lays of the Crusaders (_la Chanson d'Antioche_, for instance), was similar in all essentials to the age we find in Homer and the _Nibelungenlied_. Servia, too, has its ballad-cycles of Christian and Mahometan warfare, which suppose an age obviously heroic. But it hardly falls in with our scheme; Servia, at this time, might have been expected to have gone well past its Heroic Age. Either, then, it was somehow unusually prolonged, or else the clash of the Ottoman war revived it. The case of Servia is interesting in another way. The songs about the battle of Kossovo describe Servian defeat--defeat so overwhelming that poetry cannot possibly translate it, and does not attempt it, into anything that looks like victory. Even the splendid courage of its hero Milos, who counters an imputation of treachery by riding in full daylight into the Ottoman camp and murdering the Sultan, even this courage is rather near to desperation. The Marko cycle--Marko whose betrayal of his country seems wiped out by his immense prowess--has in a less degree this utter defeat of Servia as its background. But Servian history before all this has many glories, which, one would think, would serve the turn of heroic song better than appalling defeat and, indeed, enslavement. Why is the latter celebrated and not the former? The reason can only be this: heroic poetry depends on an heroic age, and an age is heroic because of what it is, not because of what it does. Servia's defeat by the armies of Amurath came at a time when its people was too strongly possessed by the heroic spirit to avoid uttering itself in poetry. And from this it appears, too, that when the heroic age sings, it primarily sings of itself, even when that means singing of its own humiliation.--One other exceptional kind of heroic age must just be mentioned, in this professedly inadequate summary. It is the kind which occurs quite locally and on a petty scale, with causes obscurer than ever. The Border Ballads, for instance, and the Robin Hood Ballads, clearly suppose a state of society which is nothing but a very circumscribed and not very important heroic age. Here the households of gentry take the place of courts, and the poetry in vogue there is perhaps instantly taken up by the taverns; or perhaps this is a case in which the heroes are so little removed from common folk that celebration of individual prowess begins among the latter, not, as seems usually to have happened, among the social equals of the heroes. But doubtless there are infinite grades in the structure of the Heroic Age. The note of the Heroic Age, then, is vehement private individuality freely and greatly asserting itself. The assertion is not always what we should call noble; but it is always forceful and unmistakable. There would be, no doubt, some social and religious scheme to contain the individual's self-assertion; but the latter, not the former, is the thing that counts. It is not an age that lasts for very long as a rule; and before there comes the state in which strong social organization and strong private individuality are compatible--mutually helpful instead of destroying one another, as they do, in opposite ways, in savagery and in the Heroic Age--before the state called civilization can arrive, there has commonly been a long passage of dark obscurity, which throws up into exaggerated brightness the radiance of the Heroic Age. The balance of private good and general welfare is at the bottom of civilized morals; but the morals of the Heroic Age are founded on individuality, and on nothing else. In Homer, for instance, it can be seen pretty clearly that a "good" man is simply a man of imposing, active individuality[2]; a "bad" man is an inefficient, undistinguished man--probably, too, like Thersites, ugly. It is, in fact, an absolutely aristocratic age--an age in which he who rules is thereby proven the "best." And from its nature it must be an age very heartily engaged in something; usually fighting whoever is near enough to be fought with, though in _Beowulf_ it seems to be doing something more profitable to the civilization which is to follow it--taming the fierceness of surrounding circumstance and man's primitive kind. But in any case it has a good deal of leisure; and the best way to prevent this from dragging heavily is (after feasting) to glory in the things it has done; or perhaps in the things it would like to have done. Hence heroic poetry. But exactly what heroic poetry was in its origin, probably we shall never know. It would scarcely be history, and it would scarcely be very ornate poetry. The first thing required would be to translate the prowess of champions into good and moving narrative; and this would be metrified, because so it becomes both more exciting and more easily remembered. Each succeeding bard would improve, according to his own notions, the material he received from his teachers; the prowess of the great heroes would become more and more astonishing, more and more calculated to keep awake the feasted nobles who listened to the song. In an age when writing, if it exists at all, is a rare and secret art, the mists of antiquity descend after a very few generations. There is little chance of the songs of the bards being checked by recorded actuality; for if anyone could write at all, it would be the bards themselves, who would use the mystery or purposes of their own trade. In quite a short time, oral tradition, in keeping of the bards, whose business is to purvey wonders, makes the champions perform easily, deeds which "the men of the present time" can only gape at; and every bard takes over the stock of tradition, not from original sources, but from the mingled fantasy and memory of the bard who came just before him. So that when this tradition survives at all, it survives in a form very different from what it was in the beginning. But apparently we can mark out several stages in the fortunes of the tradition. It is first of all court poetry, or perhaps baronial poetry; and it may survive as that. From this stage it may pass into possession of the common people, or at least into the possession of bards whose clients are peasants and not nobles; from being court poetry it becomes the poetry of cottages and taverns. It may survive as this. Finally, it may be taken up again by the courts, and become poetry of much greater sophistication and nicety than it was in either of the preceding stages. But each stage leaves its sign on the tradition. All this gives us what is conveniently called "epic material"; the material out of which epic poetry might be made. But it does not give us epic poetry. The world knows of a vast stock of epic material scattered up and down the nations; sometimes its artistic value is as extraordinary as its archaeological interest, but not always. Instances are our own Border Ballads and Robin Hood Ballads; the Servian cycles of the Battle of Kossovo and the prowess of Marko; the modern Greek songs of the revolt against Turkey (the conditions of which seem to have been similar to those which surrounded the growth of our riding ballads); the fragments of Finnish legend which were pieced together into the _Kalevala_; the Ossianic poetry; and perhaps some of the minor sagas should be put in here. Then there are the glorious Welsh stories of Arthur, Tristram, and the rest, and the not less glorious Irish stories of Deirdre and Cuchulain; both of these noble masses of legend seem to have only just missed the final shaping which turns epic material into epic poetry. For epic material, it must be repeated, is not the same thing as epic poetry. Epic material is fragmentary, scattered, loosely related, sometimes contradictory, each piece of comparatively small size, with no intention beyond hearty narrative. It is a heap of excellent stones, admirably quarried out of a great rock-face of stubborn experience. But for this to be worked into some great structure of epic poetry, the Heroic Age must be capable of producing individuality of much profounder nature than any of its fighting champions. Or rather, we should simply say that the production of epic poetry depends on the occurrence (always an accidental occurrence) of creative genius. It is quite likely that what Homer had to work on was nothing superior to the Arthurian legends. But Homer occurred; and the tales of Troy and Odysseus became incomparable poetry. An epic is not made by piecing together a set of heroic lays, adjusting their discrepancies and making them into a continuous narrative. An epic is not even a re-creation of old things; it is altogether a new creation, a new creation in terms of old things. And what else is any other poetry? The epic poet has behind him a tradition of matter and a tradition of style; and that is what every other poet has behind him too; only, for the epic poet, tradition is rather narrower, rather more strictly compelling. This must not be lost sight of. It is what the poet does with the tradition he falls in which is, artistically, the important thing. He takes a mass of confused splendours, and he makes them into something which they certainly were not before; something which, as we can clearly see by comparing epic poetry with mere epic material, the latter scarce hinted at. He makes this heap of matter into a grand design; he forces it to obey a single presiding unity of artistic purpose. Obviously, something much more potent is required for this than a fine skill in narrative and poetic ornament. Unity is not merely an external affair. There is only one thing which can master the perplexed stuff of epic material into unity; and that is, an ability to see in particular human experience some significant symbolism of man's general destiny. It is natural that, after the epic poet has arrived, the crude epic material in which he worked should scarcely be heard of. It could only be handed on by the minstrels themselves; and their audiences would not be likely to listen comfortably to the old piecemeal songs after they had heard the familiar events fall into the magnificent ordered pomp of the genuine epic poet. The tradition, indeed, would start afresh with him; but how the novel tradition fared as it grew old with his successors, is difficult guesswork. We can tell, however, sometimes, in what stage of the epic material's development the great unifying epic poet occurred. Three roughly defined stages have been mentioned. Homer perhaps came when the epic material was still in its first stage of being court-poetry. Almost certainly this is when the poets of the Crusading lays, of the _Song of Roland_, and the _Poem of the Cid_, set to work. Hesiod is a clear instance of the poet who masters epic material after it has passed into popular possession; and the _Nibelungenlied_ is thought to be made out of matter that has passed from the people back again to the courts. Epic poetry, then, as distinct from mere epic material, is the concern of this book. The intention is, to determine wherein epic poetry is a definite species of literature, what it characteristically does for conscious human life, and to find out whether this species and this function have shown, and are likely to show, any development. It must be admitted, that the great unifying poet who worked on the epic material before him, did not always produce something which must come within the scope of this intention. Hesiod has just been given as an instance of such a poet; but his work is scarcely an epic.[3] The great sagas, too, I must omit. They are epic enough in primary intention, but they are not poetry; and I am among those who believe that there is a difference between poetry and prose. If epic poetry is a definite species, the sagas do not fall within it. But this will leave me more of the "authentic" epic poetry than I can possibly deal with; and I shall have to confine myself to its greatest examples. Before, however, proceeding to consider epic poetry as a whole, as a constantly recurring form of art, continually responding to the new needs of man's developing consciousness, I must go, rapidly and generally, over the "literary epic"; and especially I must question whether it is really justifiable or profitable to divide epic poetry into the two contrasted departments of "authentic" and "literary." FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: hos d' ote cheimarroi potamoi kat opesthi rheontes es misgagkeian xumballeton obrimon udor krounon ek melalon koilaes entosthe charadraes. _Iliad_, IV, 452.] [Footnote 2: Etymologically, the "good" man is the "admirable" man. In this sense, Homer's gods are certainly "good"; every epithet he gives them--Joyous-Thunderer, Far-Darter, Cloud-Gatherer and the rest--proclaims their unapproachable "goodness." If it had been said to Homer, that his gods cannot be "good" because their behaviour is consistently cynical, cruel, unscrupulous and scandalous, he would simply think he had not heard aright: Zeus is an habitual liar, of course, but what has that got to do with his "goodness"?--Only those who would have Homer a kind of Salvationist need regret this. Just because he could only make his gods "good" in this primitive style, he was able to treat their discordant family in that vein of exquisite comedy which is one of the most precious things in the world.] [Footnote 3: Scarcely what _we_ call epic. "Epos" might include Hesiod as well as epic material; "epopee" is the business that Homer started.] II. LITERARY EPIC Epic poetry, then, was invented to supply the artistic demands of society in a certain definite and recognizable state. Or rather, it was the epic material which supplied that; the first epic poets gave their age, as genius always does, something which the age had never thought of asking for; which, nevertheless, when it was given, the age took good hold of, and found that, after all, this, too, it had wanted without knowing it. But as society went on towards civilization, the need for epic grew less and less; and its preservation, if not accidental, was an act of conscious aesthetic admiration rather than of unconscious necessity. It was preserved somehow, however; and after other kinds of literature had arisen as inevitably and naturally as epic, and had become, in their turn, things of less instant necessity than they were, it was found that, in the manner and purpose of epic poetry, something was given which was not given elsewhere; something of extraordinary value. Epic poetry would therefore be undertaken again; but now, of course, deliberately. With several different kinds of poetry to choose from, a man would decide that he would like best to be an epic poet, and he would set out, in conscious determination, on an epic poem. The result, good or bad, of such a determination is called "literary" epic. The poems of Apollonius Rhodius, Virgil, Lucan, Camoens, Tasso and Milton are "literary" epics. But such poetry as the _Odyssey_, the _Iliad,_ _Beowulf_, the _Song of Roland_, and the _Nibelungenlied_, poetry which seems an immediate response to some general and instant need in its surrounding community--such poetry is "authentic" epic. A great deal has been made of this distinction; it has almost been taken to divide epic poetry into two species. And, as the names commonly given to the two supposed species suggest, there is some notion that "literary" epic must be in a way inferior to "authentic" epic. The superstition of antiquity has something to do with this; but the presence of Homer among the "authentic" epics has probably still more to do with it. For Homer is the poet who is usually chosen to stand for "authentic" epic; and, by a facile association of ideas, the conspicuous characteristics of Homer seem to be the marks of "authentic" epic as a species. It is, of course, quite true, that, for sustained grandeur and splendour, no poet can be put beside Homer except Dante and Milton; but it is also quite clear that in Homer, as in Dante, and Milton, such conspicuous characteristics are simply the marks of peculiar poetic genius. If we leave Homer out, and consider poetic greatness only (the only important thing to consider), there is no "authentic" epic which can stand against _Paradise Lost_ or the _Aeneid_. Then there is the curious modern feeling--which is sometimes but dressed up by erroneous aesthetic theory (the worship of a quite national "lyricism," for instance) but which is really nothing but a sign of covert barbarism--that lengthy poetic composition is somehow undesirable; and Homer is thought to have had a better excuse for composing a long poem than Milton. But doubtless the real reason for the hard division of epic poetry into two classes, and for the presumed inferiority of "literary" to "authentic," lies in the application of that curiosity among false ideas, the belief in a "folk-spirit." This notion that such a thing as a "folk-spirit" can create art, and that the art which it does create must be somehow better than other art, is, I suppose, the offspring of democratic ideas in politics. The chief objection to it is that there never has been and never can be anything in actuality corresponding to the "folk-spirit" which this notion supposes. Poetry is the work of poets, not of peoples or communities; artistic creation can never be anything but the production of an individual mind. We may, if we like, think that poetry would be more "natural" if it were composed by the folk as the folk, and not by persons peculiarly endowed; and to think so is doubtless agreeable to the notion that the folk is more important than the individual. But there is nothing gained by thinking in this way, except a very illusory kind of pleasure; since it is impossible that the folk should ever be a poet. This indisputable axiom has been ignored more in theories about ballads--about epic material--than in theories about the epics themselves. But the belief in a real folk-origin for ballads, untenable though it be in a little examination, has had a decided effect on the common opinion of the authentic epics. In the first place, a poem constructed out of ballads composed, somehow or other, by the folk, ought to be more "natural" than a work of deliberate art--a "literary" epic; that is to say, these Rousseau-ish notions will admire it for being further from civilization and nearer to the noble savage; civilization being held, by some mysterious argument, to be deficient in "naturalness." In the second place, this belief has made it credible that the plain corruption of authentic epic by oral transmission, or very limited transmission through script, might be the sign of multiple authorship; for if you believe that a whole folk can compose a ballad, you may easily believe that a dozen poets can compose an epic. But all this rests on simple ignoring of the nature of poetic composition. The folk-origin of ballads and the multiple authorship of epics are heresies worse than the futilities of the Baconians; at any rate, they are based on the same resolute omission, and build on it a wilder fantasy. They omit to consider what poetry is. Those who think Bacon wrote _Hamlet_, and those who think several poets wrote the _Iliad_, can make out a deal of ingenious evidence for their doctrines. But it is all useless, because the first assumption in each case is unthinkable. It is psychologically impossible that the mind of Bacon should have produced _Hamlet_; but the impossibility is even more clamant when it comes to supposing that several poets, not in collaboration, but in haphazard succession, could produce a poem of vast sweeping unity and superbly consistent splendour of style. So far as mere authorship goes, then, we cannot make any real difference between "authentic" and "literary" epic. We cannot say that, while this is written by an individual genius, that is the work of a community. Individual genius, of whatever quality, is responsible for both. The folk, however, cannot be ruled out. Genius does the work; but the folk is the condition in which genius does it. And here we may find a genuine difference between "literary" and "authentic"; not so much in the nature of the condition as in its closeness and insistence. The kind of folk-spirit behind the poet is, indeed, different in the _Iliad_ and _Beowulf_ and the _Song of Roland_ from what it is in Milton and Tasso and Virgil. But there is also as much difference here between the members of each class as between the two classes themselves. You cannot read much of _Beowulf_ with Homer in your mind, without becoming conscious that the difference in individual genius is by no means the whole difference. Both poets maintain a similar ideal in life; but they maintain it within conditions altogether unlike. The folk-spirit behind _Beowulf_ is cloudy and tumultuous, finding grandeur in storm and gloom and mere mass--in the misty _lack_ of shape. Behind Homer it is, on the contrary, radiant and, however vehement, always delighting in measure, finding grandeur in brightness and clarity and shining outline. So, again, we may very easily see how Tasso's poetry implies the Italy of his time, and Milton's the England of his time. But where Homer and Beowulf together differ from Tasso and Milton is in the way the surrounding folk-spirit contains the poet's mind. It would be a very idle piece of work, to choose between the potency of Homer's genius and of Milton's; but it is clear that the immediate circumstance of the poet's life presses much more insistently on the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ than on _Paradise Lost_. It is the difference between the contracted, precise, but vigorous tradition of an heroic age, and the diffused, eclectic, complicated culture of a civilization. And if it may be said that the insistence of racial circumstance in Homer gives him a greater intensity of cordial, human inspiration, it must also be said that the larger, less exacting conditions of Milton's mental life allow his art to go into greater scope and more subtle complexity of significance. Great epic poetry will always frankly accept the social conditions within which it is composed; but the conditions contract and intensify the conduct of the poem, or allow it to dilate and absorb larger matter, according as the narrow primitive torrents of man's spirit broaden into the greater but slower volume of civilized life. The change is neither desirable nor undesirable; it is merely inevitable. It means that epic poetry has kept up with the development of human life. It is because of all this that we have heard a good deal about the "authentic" epic getting "closer to its subject" than "literary" epic. It seems, on the face of it, very improbable that there should be any real difference here. No great poetry, of whatever kind, is conceivable unless the subject has become integrated with the poet's mind and mood. Milton is as close to his subject, Virgil to his, as Homer to Achilles or the Saxon poet to Beowulf. What is really meant can be nothing but the greater insistence of racial tradition in the "authentic" epics. The subject of the _Iliad_ is the fighting of heroes, with all its implications and consequences; the subject of the _Odyssey_ is adventure and its opposite, the longing for safety and home; in _Beowulf_ it is kingship--the ability to show man how to conquer the monstrous forces of his world; and so on. Such were the subjects which an imperious racial tradition pressed on the early epic poet, who delighted to be so governed. These were the matters which his people could understand, of which they could easily perceive the significance. For him, then, there could be no other matters than these, or the like of these. But it is not in such matters that a poet living in a time of less primitive and more expanded consciousness would find the highest importance. For a Roman, the chief matter for an epic poem would be Roman civilization; for a Puritan, it would be the relations of God and man. When, therefore, we consider how close to his subject an epic poet is, we must be careful to be quite clear what his subject is. And if he has gone beyond the immediate experiences of primitive society, we need not expect him to be as close as the early poets were to the fury of battle and the agony of wounds and the desolation of widows; or to the sensation of exploring beyond the familiar regions; or to the marsh-fiends and fire-drakes into which primitive imagination naturally translated the terrible unknown powers of the world. We need not, in a word, expect the "literary" epic to compete with the "authentic" epic; for the fact is, that the purpose of epic poetry, and therefore the nature of its subject, must continually develop. It is quite true that the later epics take over, to a very great extent, the methods and manners of the earlier poems; just as architecture hands on the style of wooden structure to an age that builds in stone, and again imposes the manners of stone construction on an age that builds in concrete and steel. But, in the case of epic at any rate, this is not merely the inertia of artistic convention. With the development of epic intention, and the subsequent choosing of themes larger and subtler than what common experience is wont to deal in, a certain duplicity becomes inevitable. The real intention of the _Aeneid_, and the real intention of _Paradise Lost_, are not easily brought into vivid apprehension. The natural thing to do, then, would be to use the familiar substance of early epic, but to use it as a convenient and pleasant solvent for the novel intention. It is what has been done in all the great "literary" epics. But hasty criticism, finding that where they resembled Homer they seemed not so close to their matter, has taken this as a pervading and unfortunate characteristic. It has not perceived that what in Homer was the main business of the epic, has become in later epic a device. Having so altered, it has naturally lost in significance; but in the greatest instances of later epic, that for which the device was used has been as profoundly absorbed into the poet's being as Homer's matter was into his being. It may be noted, too, that a corresponding change has also taken place in the opposite direction. As Homer's chief substance becomes a device in later epic, so a device of Homer's becomes in later epic the chief substance. Homer's supernatural machinery may be reckoned as a device--a device to heighten the general style and action of his poems; the _significance_ of Homer must be found among his heroes, not among his gods. But with Milton, it has become necessary to entrust to the supernatural action the whole aim and purport of the poem. On the whole, then, there is no reason why "literary" epic should not be as close to its subject as "authentic" epic; there is every reason why both kinds should be equally close. But in testing whether they actually are equally close, we have to remember that in the later epic it has become necessary to use the ostensible subject as a vehicle for the real subject. And who, with any active sympathy for poetry, can say that Milton felt his theme with less intensity than Homer? Milton is not so close to his fighting angels as Homer is to his fighting men; but the war in heaven is an incident in Milton's figurative expression of something that has become altogether himself--the mystery of individual existence in universal existence, and the accompanying mystery of sin, of individual will inexplicably allowed to tamper with the divinely universal will. Milton, of course, in closeness to his subject and in everything else, stands as supreme above the other poets of literary epic as Homer does above the poets of authentic epic. But what is true of Milton is true, in less degree, of the others. If there is any good in them, it is primarily because they have got very close to their subjects: that is required not only for epic, but for all poetry. Coleridge, in a famous estimate put twenty years for the shortest period in which an epic could be composed; and of this, ten years were to be for preparation. He meant that not less than ten years would do for the poet to fill all his being with the theme; and nothing else will serve, It is well known how Milton brooded over his subject, how Virgil lingered over his, how Camoen. carried the _Luisads_ round the world with him, with what furious intensity Tasso gave himself to writing _Jerusalem Delivered_. We may suppose, perhaps, that the poets of "authentic" epic had a somewhat easier task. There was no need for them to be "long choosing and beginning late." The pressure of racial tradition would see that they chose the right sort of subject; would see, too, that they lived right in the heart of their subject. For the poet of "literary" epic, however, it is his own consciousness that must select the kind of theme which will fulfil the epic intention for his own day; it is his own determination and studious endurance that will draw the theme into the secrets of his being. If he is not capable of getting close to his subject, we should not for that reason call his work "literary" epic. It would put him in the class of Milton, the most literary of all poets. We must simply call his stuff bad epic. There is plenty of it. Southey is the great instance. Southey would decide to write an epic about Spain, or India, or Arabia, or America. Next he would read up, in several languages, about his proposed subject; that would take him perhaps a year. Then he would versify as much strange information as he could remember; that might take a few months. The result is deadly; and because he was never anywhere near his subject. It is for the same reason that the unspeakable labours of Blackmore, Glover and Wilkie, and Voltaire's ridiculous _Henriade_, have gone to pile up the rubbish-heaps of literature. So far, supposed differences between "authentic" and "literary" epic have resolved themselves into little more than signs of development in epic intention; the change has not been found to produce enough artistic difference between early and later epic to warrant anything like a division into two distinct species. The epic, whether "literary" or "authentic," is a single form of art; but it is a form capable of adapting itself to the altering requirements of prevalent consciousness. In addition, however, to differences in general conception, there are certain mechanical differences which should be just noticed. The first epics were intended for recitation; the literary epic is meant to be read. It is more difficult to keep the attention of hearers than of readers. This in itself would be enough to rule out themes remote from common experience, supposing any such were to suggest themselves to the primitive epic poet. Perhaps, indeed, we should not be far wrong if we saw a chief reason for the pressure of surrounding tradition on the early epic in this very fact, that it is poetry meant for recitation. Traditional matter must be glorified, since it would be easier to listen to the re-creation of familiar stories than to quite new and unexpected things; the listeners, we must remember, needed poetry chiefly as the re-creation of tired hours. Traditional manner would be equally difficult to avoid; for it is a tradition that plainly embodies the requirements, fixed by experience, of _recited_ poetry. Those features of it which make for tedium when it is read--repetition, stock epithets, set phrases for given situations--are the very things best suited, with their recurring well-known syllables, to fix the attention of listeners more firmly, or to stir it when it drowses; at the least they provide a sort of recognizable scaffolding for the events, and it is remarkable how easily the progress of events may be missed when poetry is declaimed. Indeed, if the primitive epic poet could avoid some of the anxieties peculiar to the composition of literary epic, he had others to make up for it. He had to study closely the delicate science of holding auricular attention when once he had got it; and probably he would have some difficulty in getting it at all. The really great poet challenges it, like Homer, with some tremendous, irresistible opening; and in this respect the magnificent prelude to _Beowulf_ may almost be put beside Homer. But lesser poets have another way. That prolixity at the beginning of many primitive epics, their wordy deliberation in getting under way, is probably intentional. The _Song of Roland_, for instance, begins with a long series of exceedingly dull stanzas; to a reader, the preliminaries of the story seem insufferably drawn out. But by the time the reciter had got through this unimportant dreariness, no doubt his audience had settled down to listen. The _Chanson d'Antioche_ contains perhaps the most illuminating admission of this difficulty. In the first "Chant," the first section opens:[4] Seigneurs, faites silence; et que tout bruit cesse, Si vous voulez entendre une glorieuse chanson. Aucun jongleur ne vous en dira une meilleure. Then some vaguely prelusive lines. But the audience is clearly not quite ready yet, for the second section begins: Barons, écoutez-moi, et cessez vos querelles! Je vous dirai une très-belle chanson. And after some further prelude, the section ends: Ici commence la chanson où il y a tant à apprendre. The "Chanson" does, indeed, make some show of beginning in the third section, but it still moves with a cautious and prelusive air, as if anxious not to launch out too soon. And this was evidently prudent, for when the fourth section opens, direct exhortation to the audience has again become necessary: Maintenant, seigneurs, écoutez ce que dit l'�criture. And once more in the fifth section: Barons, écoutez un excellent couplet. In the sixth, the jongleur is getting desperate: Seigneurs, pour l'amour de Dieu, faites silence, écoutez-moi, Pour qu'en partant de ce monde vous entriez dans un meilleur; but after this exclamation he has his way, though the story proper is still a good way off. Perhaps not all of these hortatory stanzas were commonly used; any or all of them could certainly be omitted without damaging the poem. But they were there to be used, according to the judgment of the jongleur and the temper of his audience, and their presence in the poem is very suggestive of the special difficulties in the art of rhapsodic poetry. But the gravest difficulty, and perhaps the most important, in poetry meant solely for recitation, is the difficulty of achieving verbal beauty, or rather of making verbal beauty tell. Vigorous but controlled imagination, formative power, insight into the significance of things--these are qualities which a poet must eminently possess; but these are qualities which may also be eminently possessed by men who cannot claim the title of poet. The real differentia of the poet is his command over the secret magic of words. Others may have as delighted a sense of this magic, but it is only the poet who can master it and do what he likes with it. And next to the invention of speaking itself, the most important invention for the poet has been the invention of writing and reading; for this has added immensely to the scope of his mastery over words. No poet will ever take the written word as a substitute for the spoken word; he knows that it is on the spoken word, and the spoken word only, that his art is founded. But he trusts his reader to do as he himself does--to receive written words always as the code of spoken words. To do so has wonderfully enlarged his technical opportunities; for apprehension is quicker and finer through the eye than through the ear. After the invention of reading, even poetry designed primarily for declamation (like drama or lyric) has depths and subtleties of art which were not possible for the primitive poet. Accordingly we find that, on the whole, in comparison with "literary" epic, the texture of "authentic" epic is flat and dull. The story may be superb, and its management may be superb; but the words in which the story lives do not come near the grandeur of Milton, or the exquisiteness of Virgil, or the deliciousness of Tasso. Indeed, if we are to say what is the real difference between _Beowulf_ and _Paradise Lost_, we must simply say that _Beowulf_ is not such good poetry. There is, of course, one tremendous exception; Homer is the one poet of authentic epic who had sufficient genius to make unfailingly, nobly beautiful poetry within the strict and hard conditions of purely auricular art. Compare Homer's ambrosial glory with the descent tap-water of Hesiod; compare his continuous burnished gleam of wrought metal with the sparse grains that lie in the sandy diction of all the "authentic" epics of the other nations. And, by all ancient accounts, the other early Greek epics would not fare much better in the comparison. Homer's singularity in this respect is overwhelming; but it is frequently forgotten, and especially by those who think to help in the Homeric question by comparing him with other "authentic" epics. Supposing (we can only just suppose it) a case were made out for the growth rather than the individual authorship of some "authentic" epic other than Homer; it could never have any bearing on the question of Homeric authorship, because no early epic is comparable with the _poetry_ of Homer. Nothing, indeed, is comparable with the poetry of Homer, except poetry for whose individual authorship history unmistakably vouches. So we cannot say that Homer was not as deliberate a craftsman in words as Milton himself. The scope of his craft was more restricted, as his repetitions and stock epithets show; he was restricted by the fact that he composed for recitation, and the auricular appreciation of diction is limited, the nature of poetry obeying, in the main, the nature of those for whom it is composed. But this is just a case in which genius transcends technical scope. The effects Homer produced with his methods were as great as any effects produced by later and more elaborate methods, after poetry began to be read as well as heard. But neither must we say that the other poets of "authentic" epic were not deliberate craftsmen in words. Poets will always get as much beauty out of words as they can. The fact that so often in the early epics a magnificent subject is told, on the whole, in a lumpish and tedious diction, is not to be explained by any contempt for careful art, as though it were a thing unworthy of such heroic singers; it is simply to be explained by lack of such genius as is capable of transcending the severe limitations of auricular poetry. And we may well believe that only the rarest and most potent kind of genius could transcend such limitations. In summary, then, we find certain conceptual differences and certain mechanical differences between "authentic" and "literary" epic. But these are not such as to enable us to say that there is, artistically, any real difference between the two kinds. Rather, the differences exhibit the changes we might expect in an art that has kept up with consciousness developing, and civilization becoming more intricate. "Literary" epic is as close to its subject as "authentic"; but, as a general rule, "authentic" epic, in response to its surrounding needs, has a simple and concrete subject, and the closeness of the poet to this is therefore more obvious than in "literary" epic, which (again in response to surrounding needs) has been driven to take for subject some great abstract idea and display this in a concrete but only ostensible subject. Then in craftsmanship, the two kinds of epic are equally deliberate, equally concerned with careful art; but "literary" epic has been able to take such advantage of the habit of reading that, with the single exception of Homer, it has achieved a diction much more answerable to the greatness of epic matter than the "authentic" poems. We may, then, in a general survey, regard epic poetry as being in all ages essentially the same kind of art, fulfilling always a similar, though constantly developing, intention. Whatever sort of society he lives in, whether he be surrounded by illiterate heroism or placid culture, the epic poet has a definite function to perform. We see him accepting, and with his genius transfiguring, the general circumstance of his time; we see him symbolizing, in some appropriate form, whatever sense of the significance of life he feels acting as the accepted unconscious metaphysic of his age. To do this, he takes some great story which has been absorbed into the prevailing consciousness of his people. As a rule, though not quite invariably, the story will be of things which are, or seem, so far back in the past, that anything may credibly happen in it; so imagination has its freedom, and so significance is displayed. But quite invariably, the materials of the story will have an unmistakable air of actuality; that is, they come profoundly out of human experience, whether they declare legendary heroism, as in Homer and Virgil, or myth, as in _Beowulf_ and _Paradise Lost_, or actual history, as in Lucan and Camoens and Tasso. And he sets out this story and its significance in poetry as lofty and as elaborate as he can compass. That, roughly, is what we see the epic poets doing, whether they be "literary" or "authentic"; and if this can be agreed on, we should now have come tolerably close to a definition of epic poetry. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 4: From the version of the Marquise de Sainte-Aulaire.] III. THE NATURE OF EPIC Rigid definitions in literature are, however, dangerous. At bottom, it is what we feel, not what we think, that makes us put certain poems together and apart from others; and feelings cannot be defined, but only related. If we define a poem, we say what we think about it; and that may not sufficiently imply the essential thing the poem does for us. Hence the definition is liable either to be too strict, or to admit work which does not properly satisfy the criterion of feeling. It seems probable that, in the last resort, classification in literature rests on that least tangible, least definable matter, style; for style is the sign of the poem's spirit, and it is the spirit that we feel. If we can get some notion of how those poems, which we call epic, agree with one another in style, it is likely we shall be as close as may be to a definition of epic. I use the word "style," of course, in its largest sense--manner of conception as well as manner of composition. An easy way to define epic, though not a very profitable way, would be to say simply, that an epic is a poem which produces feelings similar to those produced by _Paradise Lost_ or the _Iliad_, _Beowulf_ or the _Song of Roland_. Indeed, you might include all the epics of Europe in this definition without losing your breath; for the epic poet is the rarest kind of artist. And while it is not a simple matter to say off-hand what it is that is common to all these poems, there seems to be general acknowledgment that they are clearly separable from other kinds of poetry; and this although the word epic has been rather badly abused. For instance, _The Faery Queene_ and _La Divina Commedia_ have been called epic poems; but I do not think that anyone could fail to admit, on a little pressure, that the experience of reading _The Faery Queene_ or _La Divina Commedia_ is not in the least like the experience of reading _Paradise Lost_ or the _Iliad_. But as a poem may have lyrical qualities without being a lyric, so a poem may have epical qualities without being an epic. In all the poems which the world has agreed to call epics, there is a story told, and well told. But Dante's poem attempts no story at all, and Spenser's, though it attempts several, does not tell them well--it scarcely attempts to make the reader believe in them, being much more concerned with the decoration and the implication of its fables than with the fables themselves. What epic quality, detached from epic proper, do these poems possess, then, apart from the mere fact that they take up a great many pages? It is simply a question of their style--the style of their conception and the style of their writing; the whole style of their imagination, in fact. They take us into a region in which nothing happens that is not deeply significant; a dominant, noticeably symbolic, purpose presides over each poem, moulds it greatly and informs it throughout. This takes us some little way towards deciding the nature of epic. It must be a story, and the story must be told well and greatly; and, whether in the story itself or in the telling of it, significance must be implied. Does that mean that the epic must be allegorical? Many have thought so; even Homer has been accused of constructing allegories. But this is only a crude way of emphasizing the significance of epic; and there is a vast deal of difference between a significant story and an allegorical story. Reality of substance is a thing on which epic poetry must always be able to rely. Not only because Spenser does not tell his stories very well, but even more because their substance (not, of course, their meaning) is deliciously and deliberately unreal, _The Faery Queene_ is outside the strict sense of the word epic. Allegory requires material ingeniously manipulated and fantastic; what is more important, it requires material invented by the poet himself. That is a long way from the solid reality of material which epic requires. Not manipulation, but imaginative transfiguration of material; not invention, but selection of existing material appropriate to his genius, and complete absorption of it into his being; that is how the epic poet works. Allegory is a beautiful way of inculcating and asserting some special significance in life; but epic has a severer task, and a more impressive one. It has not to say, Life in the world _ought_ to mean this or that; it has to show life unmistakably _being_ significant. It does not gloss or interpret the fact of life, but re-creates it and charges the fact itself with the poet's own sense of ultimate values. This will be less precise than the definite assertions of allegory; but for that reason it will be more deeply felt. The values will be emotional and spiritual rather than intellectual. And they will be the poet's own only because he has made them part of his being; in him (though he probably does not know it) they will be representative of the best and most characteristic life of his time. That does not mean that the epic poet's image of life's significance is of merely contemporary or transient importance. No stage through which the general consciousness of men has gone can ever be outgrown by men; whatever happens afterwards does not displace it, but includes it. We could not do without _Paradise Lost_ nowadays; but neither can we do without the _Iliad_. It would not, perhaps, be far from the truth, if it were even said that the significance of _Paradise Lost_ cannot be properly understood unless the significance of the _Iliad_ be understood. The prime material of the epic poet, then, must be real and not invented. But when the story of the poem is safely concerned with some reality, he can, of course, graft on this as much appropriate invention as he pleases; it will be one of his ways of elaborating his main, unifying purpose--and to call it "unifying" is to assume that, however brilliant his surrounding invention may be, the purpose will always be firmly implicit in the central subject. Some of the early epics manage to do without any conspicuous added invention designed to extend what the main subject intends; but such nobly simple, forthright narrative as _Beowulf_ and the _Song of Roland_ would not do for a purpose slightly more subtle than what the makers of these ringing poems had in mind. The reality of the central subject is, of course, to be understood broadly. It means that the story must be founded deep in the general experience of men. A decisive campaign is not, for the epic poet, any more real than a legend full of human truth. All that the name of Caesar suggests is extremely important for mankind; so is all that the name of Satan suggests: Satan, in this sense, is as real as Caesar. And, as far as reality is concerned, there is nothing to choose between the Christians taking Jerusalem and the Greeks taking Troy; nor between Odysseus sailing into fairyland and Vasco da Gama sailing round the world. It is certainly possible that a poet might devise a story of such a kind that we could easily take it as something which might have been a real human experience. But that is not enough for the epic poet. He needs something which everyone knows about, something which indisputably, and admittedly, _has been_ a human experience; and even Grendel, the fiend of the marshes, was, we can clearly see, for the poet of _Beowulf_ a figure profoundly and generally accepted as not only true but real; what, indeed, can be more real for poetry than a devouring fiend which lives in pestilent fens? And the reason why epic poetry so imperiously demands reality of subject is clear; it is because such poetry has symbolically to re-create the actual fact and the actual particulars of human existence in terms of a general significance--the reader must feel that life itself has submitted to plastic imagination. No fiction will ever have the air, so necessary for this epic symbolism, not merely of representing, but of unmistakably _being_, human experience. This might suggest that history would be the thing for an epic poet; and so it would be, if history were superior to legend in poetic reality. But, simply as substance, there is nothing to choose between them; while history has the obvious disadvantage of being commonly too strict in the manner of its events to allow of creative freedom. Its details will probably be so well known, that any modification of them will draw more attention to discrepancy with the records than to achievement thereby of poetic purpose. And yet modification, or at least suppression and exaggeration, of the details of history will certainly be necessary. Not to declare what happened, and the results of what happened, is the object of an epic; but to accept all this as the mere material in which a single artistic purpose, a unique, vital symbolism may be shaped. And if legend, after passing for innumerable years through popular imagination, still requires to be shaped at the hands of the epic poet, how much more must the crude events of history require this! For it is not in events as they happen, however notably, that man may see symbols of vital destiny, but in events as they are transformed by plastic imagination. Yet it has been possible to use history as the material of great epic poetry; Camoens and Tasso did this--the chief subject of the _Lusiads_ is even contemporary history. But evidently success in these cases was due to the exceptional and fortunate fact that the fixed notorieties of history were combined with a strange and mysterious geography. The remoteness and, one might say, the romantic possibilities of the places into which Camoens and Tasso were led by their themes, enable imagination to deal pretty freely with history. But in a little more than ten years after Camoens glorified Portugal in an historical epic, Don Alonso de Ercilla tried to do the same for Spain. He puts his action far enough from home: the Spaniards are conquering Chili. But the world has grown smaller and more familiar in the interval: the astonishing things that could easily happen in the seas of Madagascar cannot now conveniently happen in Chili. The _Araucana_ is versified history, not epic. That is to say, the action has no deeper significance than any other actual warfare; it has not been, and could not have been, shaped to any symbolic purpose. Long before Tasso and Camoens and Ercilla, two Scotchmen had attempted to put patriotism into epic form; Barbour had written his _Bruce_ and Blind Harry his _Wallace_. But what with the nearness of their events, and what with the rusticity of their authors, these tolerable, ambling poems are quite unable to get the better of the hardness of history. Probably the boldest attempt to make epic of well-known, documented history is Lucan's _Pharsalia_. It is a brilliant performance, and a deliberate effort to carry on the development of epic. At the very least it has enriched the thought of humanity with some imperishable lines. But it is true, what the great critic said of it: the _Pharsalia_ partakes more of the nature of oratory than of poetry. It means that Lucan, in choosing history, chose something which he had to declaim about, something which, at best, he could imaginatively realize; but not something which he could imaginatively re-create. It is quite different with poems like the _Song of Roland_. They are composed in, or are drawn immediately out of, an heroic age; an age, that is to say, when the idea of history has not arisen, when anything that happens turns inevitably, and in a surprisingly short time, into legend. Thus, an unimportant, probably unpunished, attack by Basque mountaineers on the Emperor's rear-guard has become, in the _Song of Roland_, a great infamy of Saracenic treachery, which must be greatly avenged. Such, in a broad description, is the nature of epic poetry. To define it with any narrower nicety would probably be rash. We have not been discovering what an epic poem ought to be, but roughly examining what similarity of quality there is in all those poems which we feel, strictly attending to the emotional experience of reading them, can be classed together and, for convenience, termed epic. But it is not much good having a name for this species of poetry if it is given as well to poems of quite a different nature. It is not much good agreeing to call by the name of epic such poems as the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_, _Beowulf_ and the _Song of Roland_, _Paradise Lost_ and _Gerusalemme Liberata_, if epic is also to be the title for _The Faery Queene_ and _La Divina Commedia_, _The Idylls of the King_ and _The Ring and the Book_. But I believe most of the importance in the meaning of the word epic, when it is reasonably used, will be found in what is written above. Apart from the specific form of epic, it shares much of its ultimate intention with the greatest kind of drama (though not with all drama). And just as drama, whatever grandeur of purpose it may attempt, must be a good play, so epic must be a good story. It will tell its tale both largely and intensely, and the diction will be carried on the volume of a powerful, flowing metre. To distinguish, however, between merely narrative poetry, and poetry which goes beyond being mere narrative into the being of epic, must often be left to feeling which can scarcely be precisely analysed. A curious instance of the difficulty in exactly defining epic (but not in exactly deciding what is epic) may be found in the work of William Morris. Morris left two long narrative poems, _The Life and Death of Jason_, and _The Story of Sigurd the Volsung_. I do not think anyone need hesitate to put _Sigurd_ among the epics; but I do not think anyone who will scrupulously compare the experience of reading _Jason_ with the experience of reading _Sigurd_, can help agreeing that _Jason_ should be kept out of the epics. There is nothing to choose between the subjects of the two poems. For an Englishman, Greek mythology means as much as the mythology of the North. And I should say that the bright, exact diction and the modest metre of _Jason_ are more interesting and attractive than the diction, often monotonous and vague, and the metre, often clumsily vehement, of _Sigurd_. Yet for all that it is the style of _Sigurd_ that puts it with the epics and apart from _Jason_; for style goes beyond metre and diction, beyond execution, into conception. The whole imagination of _Sigurd_ is incomparably larger than that of _Jason_. In _Sigurd_, you feel that the fashioning grasp of imagination has not only seized on the show of things, and not only on the physical or moral unity of things, but has somehow brought into the midst of all this, and has kneaded into the texture of it all, something of the ultimate and metaphysical significance of life. You scarcely feel that in _Jason_. Yes, epic poetry must be an affair of evident largeness. It was well said, that "the praise of an epic poem is to feign a person exceeding Nature." "Feign" here means to imagine; and imagine does not mean to invent. But, like most of the numerous epigrams that have been made about epic poetry, the remark does not describe the nature of epic, but rather one of the conspicuous signs that that nature is fulfilling itself. A poem which is, in some sort, a summation for its time of the values of life, will inevitably concern itself with at least one figure, and probably with several, in whom the whole virtue, and perhaps also the whole failure, of living seems superhumanly concentrated. A story weighted with the epic purpose could not proceed at all, unless it were expressed in persons big enough to support it. The subject, then, as the epic poet uses it, will obviously be an important one. Whether, apart from the way the poet uses it, the subject ought to be an important one, would not start a very profitable discussion. Homer has been praised for making, in the _Iliad_, a first-rate poem out of a second-rate subject. It is a neat saying; but it seems unlikely that anything really second-rate should turn into first-rate epic. I imagine Homer would have been considerably surprised, if anyone had told him that the vast train of tragic events caused by the gross and insupportable insult put by Agamemnon, the mean mind in authority, on Achilles, the typical hero--that this noble and profoundly human theme was a second-rate subject. At any rate, the subject must be of capital importance in its treatment. It must symbolize--not as a particular and separable assertion, but at large and generally--some great aspect of vital destiny, without losing the air of recording some accepted reality of human experience, and without failing to be a good story; and the pressure of high purpose will inform diction and metre, as far, at least, as the poet's verbal art will let it. The usual attempts at stricter definition of epic than anything this chapter contains, are either, in spite of what they try for, so vague that they would admit almost any long stretch of narrative poetry; or else they are based on the accidents or devices of epic art; and in that case they are apt to exclude work which is essentially epic because something inessential is lacking. It has, for instance, been seriously debated, whether an epic should not contain a catalogue of heroes. Other things, which epics have been required to contain, besides much that is not worth mentioning,[5] are a descent into hell and some supernatural machinery. Both of these are obviously devices for enlarging the scope of the action. The notion of a visit to the ghosts has fascinated many poets, and Dante elaborated this Homeric device into the main scheme of the greatest of non-epical poems, as Milton elaborated the other Homeric device into the main scheme of the greatest of literary epics. But a visit to the ghosts is, of course, like games or single combat or a set debate, merely an incident which may or may not be useful. Supernatural machinery, however, is worth some short discussion here, though it must be alluded to further in the sequel. The first and obvious thing to remark is, that an unquestionably epic effect can be given without any supernatural machinery at all. The poet of _Beowulf_ has no need of it, for instance. A Christian redactor has worked over the poem, with more piety than skill; he can always be detected, and his clumsy little interjections have nothing to do with the general tenour of the poem. The human world ends off, as it were, precipitously; and beyond there is an endless, impracticable abyss in which dwells the secret governance of things, an unknowable and implacable fate--"Wyrd"--neither malign nor benevolent, but simply inscrutable. The peculiar cast of noble and desolate courage which this bleak conception gives to the poem is perhaps unique among the epics. But very few epic poets have ventured to do without supernatural machinery of some sort. And it is plain that it must greatly assist the epic purpose to surround the action with immortals who are not only interested spectators of the event, but are deeply implicated in it; nothing could more certainly liberate, or at least more appropriately decorate, the significant force of the subject. We may leave Milton out, for there can be no question about _Paradise Lost_ here; the significance of the subject is not only liberated by, it entirely exists in, the supernatural machinery. But with the other epic poets, we should certainly expect them to ask us for our belief in their immortals. That, however, is just what they seem curiously careless of doing. The immortals are there, they are the occasion of splendid poetry; they do what they are intended to do--they declare, namely, by their speech and their action, the importance to the world of what is going on in the poem. Only--there is no obligation to believe in them; and will not that mean, no obligation to believe in their concern for the subject, and all that that implies? Homer begins this paradox. Think of that lovely and exquisitely mischievous passage in the _Iliad_ called _The Cheating of Zeus_. The salvationist school of commentators calls this an interpolation; but the spirit of it is implicit throughout the whole of Homer's dealing with the gods; whenever, at least, he deals with them at length, and not merely incidentally. Not to accept that spirit is not to accept Homer. The manner of describing the Olympian family at the end of the first book is quite continuous throughout, and simply reaches its climax in the fourteenth book. Nobody ever believed in Homer's gods, as he must believe in Hektor and Achilles. (Puritans like Xenophanes were annoyed not with the gods for being as Homer described them, but with Homer for describing them as he did.) Virgil is more decorous; but can we imagine Virgil praying, or anybody praying, to the gods of the _Aeneid_? The supernatural machinery of Camoens and Tasso is frankly absurd; they are not only careless of credibility, but of sanity. Lucan tried to do without gods; but his witchcraft engages belief even more faintly than the mingled Paganism and Christianity of Camoens, and merely shows how strongly the most rationalistic of epic poets felt the value of some imaginary relaxation in the limits of human existence. Is it, then, only as such a relaxation that supernatural machinery is valuable? Or only as a superlative kind of ornament? It is surely more than that. In spite of the fact that we are not seriously asked to believe in it, it does beautifully and strikingly crystallize the poet's determination to show us things that go past the reach of common knowledge. But by putting it, whether instinctively or deliberately, on a lower plane of credibility than the main action, the poet obeys his deepest and gravest necessity: the necessity of keeping his poem emphatically an affair of recognizable _human_ events. It is of man, and man's purpose in the world, that the epic poet has to sing; not of the purpose of gods. The gods must only illustrate man's destiny; and they must be kept within the bounds of beautiful illustration. But it requires a finer genius than most epic poets have possessed, to keep supernatural machinery just sufficiently fanciful without missing its function. Perhaps only Homer and Virgil have done that perfectly. Milton's revolutionary development marks a crisis in the general process of epic so important, that it can only be discussed when that process is considered, in the following chapter, as a whole. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 5: Such as similes and episodes. It is as if a man were to say, the essential thing about a bridge is that it should be painted.] IV. THE EPIC SERIES By the general process of epic poetry, I mean the way this form of art has constantly responded to the profound needs of the society in which it was made. But the development of human society does not go straight forward; and the epic process will therefore be a recurring process, the series a recurring series--though not in exact repetition. Thus, the Homeric poems, the _Argonautica_, the _Aeneid_, the _Pharsalia_, and the later Latin epics, form one series: the _Aeneid_ would be the climax of the series, which thence declines, were it not that the whole originates with the incomparable genius of Homer--a fact which makes it seem to decline from start to finish. Then the process begins again, and again fulfils itself, in the series which goes from _Beowulf_, the _Song of Roland_, and the _Nibelungenlied_, through Camoens and Tasso up to Milton. And in this case Milton is plainly the climax. There is nothing like _Paradise Lost_ in the preceding poems, and epic poetry has done nothing since but decline from that towering glory. But it will be convenient not to make too much of chronology, in a general account of epic development. It has already appeared that the duties of all "authentic" epic are broadly the same, and the poems of this kind, though two thousand years may separate their occurrence, may be properly brought together as varieties of one sub-species. "Literary" epic differs much more in the specific purpose of its art, as civilized societies differ much more than heroic, and also as the looser _milieu_ of a civilization allows a less strictly traditional exercise of personal genius than an heroic age. Still, it does not require any manipulation to combine the "literary" epics from both series into a single process. Indeed, if we take Homer, Virgil and Milton as the outstanding events in the whole progress of epic poetry, and group the less important poems appropriately round these three names, we shall not be far from the _ideal truth_ of epic development. We might say, then, that Homer begins the whole business of epic, imperishably fixes its type and, in a way that can never be questioned, declares its artistic purpose; Virgil perfects the type; and Milton perfects the purpose. Three such poets are not, heaven knows, summed up in a phrase; I mean merely to indicate how they are related one to another in the general scheme of epic poetry. For discriminating their merits, deciding their comparative eminence, I have no inclination; and fortunately it does not come within the requirements of this essay. Indeed, I think the reader will easily excuse me, if I touch very slightly on the poetic manner, in the common and narrow sense, of the poets whom I shall have to mention; since these qualities have been so often and sometimes so admirably dealt with. It is at the broader aspects of artistic purpose that I wish to look. "From Homer," said Goethe, "I learn every day more clearly, that in our life here above ground we have, properly speaking, to enact Hell." It is rather a startling sentence at first. That poetry which, for us, in Thoreau's excellent words, "lies in the east of literature," scarcely suggests, in the usual opinion of it, Hell. We are tempted to think of Homer as the most fortunate of poets. It seems as if he had but to open his mouth and speak, to create divine poetry; and it does not lessen our sense of his good fortune when, on looking a little closer, we see that this is really the result of an unerring and unfailing art, an extraordinarily skilful technique. He had it entirely at his command; and he exercised it in a language in which, though it may be singularly artificial and conventional, we can still feel the wonder of its sensuous beauty and the splendour of its expressive power. It is a language that seems alive with eagerness to respond to imagination. Open Homer anywhere, and the casual grandeur of his untranslatable language appears; such lines as: amphi de naees smerdaleon konabaesan ausanton hup' Achaion.[6] That, you might say, is Homer at his ease; when he exerts himself you get a miracle like: su den strophalingi koniaes keiso megas megalosti, lelasmenos hipposunaon.[7] It seems the art of one who walked through the world of things endowed with the senses of a god, and able, with that perfection of effort that looks as if it were effortless, to fashion his experience into incorruptible song; whether it be the dance of flies round a byre at milking-time, or a forest-fire on the mountains at night. The shape and clamour of waves breaking on the beach in a storm is as irresistibly recorded by Homer as the gleaming flowers which earth put forth to be the bed of Zeus and Hera in Gargaros, when a golden cloud was their coverlet, and Sleep sat on a pine tree near by in the likeness of a murmuring night-jar. It is an art so balanced, that when it tells us, with no special emphasis, how the Trojans came on with a din like the clangour of a flock of cranes, but the Achaians came on in silence, the temper of the two hosts is discriminated for the whole poem; or, in the supreme instance, when it tells us how the old men looked at Helen and said, "No wonder the young men fight for her!" then Helen's beauty must be accepted by the faith of all the world. The particulars of such poetry could be enumerated for pages; and this is the poetry which is filled, more than any other literature, in the _Iliad_ with the nobility of men and women, in the _Odyssey_ with the light of natural magic. And think of those gods of Homer's; he is the one poet who has been able to make the dark terrors of religion beautiful, harmless and quietly entertaining. It is easy to read this poetry and simply _enjoy_ it; it is easy to say, the man whose spirit held this poetry must have been divinely happy. But this is the poetry whence Goethe learnt that the function of man is "to enact Hell." Goethe is profoundly right; though possibly he puts it in a way to which Homer himself might have demurred. For the phrase inevitably has its point in the word "Hell"; Homer, we may suppose, would have preferred the point to come in the word "enact." In any case, the details of Christian eschatology must not engage us much in interpreting Goethe's epigram. There is truth in it, not simply because the two poems take place in a theatre of calamity; not simply, for instance, because of the beloved Hektor's terrible agony of death, and the woes of Andromache and Priam. Such things are the partial, incidental expressions of the whole artistic purpose. Still less is it because of a strain of latent savagery in, at any rate, the _Iliad_; as when the sage and reverend Nestor urges that not one of the Greeks should go home until he has lain with the wife of a slaughtered Trojan, or as in the tremendous words of the oath: "Whoever first offend against this oath, may their brains be poured out on the ground like this wine, their own and their children's, and may their wives be made subject to strangers." All that is one of the accidental qualities of Homer. But the force of the word "enact" in Goethe's epigram will certainly come home to us when we think of those famous speeches in which courage is unforgettably declared--such speeches as that of Sarpedon to Glaukos, or of Glaukos to Diomedes, or of Hektor at his parting with Andromache. What these speeches mean, however, in the whole artistic purpose of Homer, will assuredly be missed if they are _detached_ for consideration; especially we shall miss the deep significance of the fact that in all of these speeches the substantial thought falls, as it were, into two clauses. Courage is in the one clause, a deliberate facing of death; but something equally important is in the other. Is it honour? The Homeric hero makes a great deal of honour; but it is honour paid to himself, living; what he wants above everything is to be admired--"always to be the best"; that is what true heroism is. But he is to go where he knows death will strike at him; and he does not make much of honour after death; for him, the meanest man living is better than a dead hero. Death ends everything, as far as he is concerned, honour and all; his courage looks for no reward hereafter. No; but _since_ ten thousand fates of death are always instant round us; _since_ the generations of men are of no more account than leaves of a tree; _since_ Troy and all its people will soon be destroyed--he will stand in death's way. Sarpedon emphasizes this with its converse: There would be no need of daring and fighting, he says, of "man-ennobling battle," if we could be for ever ageless and deathless. That is the heroic age; any other would say, If only we could not be killed, how pleasant to run what might have been risks! For the hero, that would simply not be worth while. Does he find them pleasant, then, just because they are risky? Not quite; that, again, is to detach part of the meaning from the whole. If anywhere, we shall, perhaps, find the whole meaning of Homer most clearly indicated in such words as those given (without any enforcement) to Achilles and Thetis near the beginning of the _Iliad_, as if to sound the pitch of Homer's poetry: mêter, hepi m hetekes ge minynthadion per heonta, timên per moi hophellen Olympios engyalixai Zeus hypsibremetês.[8] * * * * * timêson moi yion hos hôkymorôtatos hallon heplet'.[9] Minunthadion--hôkymorôtatos: those are the imporportant words; key-words, they might be called. If we really understand these lines, if we see in them what it is that Agamemnon's insult has deprived Achilles of--the sign and acknowledgment of his fellows' admiration while he is still living among them, the one thing which makes a hero's life worth living, which enables him to enact his Hell--we shall scarcely complain that the _Iliad_ is composed on a second-rate subject. The significance of the poem is not in the incidents surrounding the "Achilleis"; the whole significance is centred in the Wrath of Achilles, and thence made to impregnate every part. Life is short; we must make the best of it. How trite that sounds! But it is not trite at all really. It seems difficult, sometimes, to believe that there was a time when sentiments now become habitual, sentiments that imply not only the original imperative of conduct, but the original metaphysic of living, were by no means altogether habitual. It is difficult to imagine backwards into the time when self-consciousness was still so fresh from its emergence out of the mere tribal consciousness of savagery, that it must not only accept the fact, but first intensely _realize_, that man is hôkymorôtatos--a thing of swiftest doom. And it was for men who were able, and forced, to do that, that the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ and the other early epics were composed. But life is not only short; it is, in itself, _valueless_. "As the generation of leaves, so is the generation of men." The life of man matters to nobody but himself. It happens incidentally in universal destiny; but beyond just happening it has no function. No function, of course, except for man himself. If man is to find any value in life it is he himself that must create the value. For the sense of the ultimate uselessness of life, of the blankness of imperturbable darkness that surrounds it, Goethe's word "Hell" is not too shocking. But no one has properly lived who has not felt this Hell; and we may easily believe that in an heroic age, the intensity of this feeling was the secret of the intensity of living. For where will the primitive instinct of man, where will the hero, find the chance of creating a value for life? In danger, and in the courage that welcomes danger. That not only evaluates life; it derives the value from the very fact that forces man to create value--the fact of his swift and instant doom--hôkymorôtatos once more; it makes this dreadful fact _enjoyable_. And so, with courage as the value of life, and man thence delightedly accepting whatever can be made of his passage, the doom of life is not simply suffered; man enacts his own life; he has mastered it. We need not say that this is the lesson of Homer. And all this, barely stated, is a very different matter from what it is when it is poetically symbolized in the vast and shapely substance of the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_. It is quite possible, of course, to appreciate, pleasantly and externally, the _Iliad_ with its pressure of thronging life and its daring unity, and the _Odyssey_ with its serener life and its superb construction, though much more sectional unity. But we do not appreciate what Homer did for his time, and is still doing for all the world, we do not appreciate the spirit of his music, unless we see the warfare and the adventure as symbols of the primary courage of life; and there is more in those words than seems when they are baldly written. And it is not his morals, but Homer's art that does that for us. And what Homer's art does supremely, the other early epics do in their way too. Their way is not to be compared with Homer's way. They are very much nearer than he is to the mere epic material--to the moderate accomplishment of the primitive ballad. Apart from their greatness, and often successful greatness, of intention, perhaps the only one that has an answerable greatness in the detail of its technique is _Beowulf_. That is not on account of its "kennings"--the strange device by which early popular poetry (Hesiod is another instance) tries to liberate and master the magic of words. A good deal has been made of these "kennings"; but it does not take us far towards great poetry, to have the sea called "whale-road" or "swan-road" or "gannet's-bath"; though we are getting nearer to it when the sun is called "candle of the firmament" or "heaven's gem." On the whole, the poem is composed in an elaborate, ambitious diction which is not properly governed. Alliteration proves a somewhat dangerous principle; it seems mainly responsible for the way the poet makes his sentences by piling up clauses, like shooting a load of stones out of a cart. You cannot always make out exactly what he means; and it is doubtful whether he always had a clearly-thought meaning. Most of the subsidiary matter is foisted in with monstrous clumsiness. Yet _Beowulf_ has what we do not find, out of Homer, in the other early epics. It has occasionally an unforgettable grandeur of phrasing. And it has other and perhaps deeper poetic qualities. When the warriors are waiting in the haunted hall for the coming of the marsh-fiend Grendel, they fall into untroubled sleep; and the poet adds, with Homeric restraint: "Not one of them thought that he should thence be ever seeking his loved home again, his people or free city, where he was nurtured." The opening is magnificent, one of the noblest things that have been done in language. There is some wonderful grim landscape in the poem; towards the middle there is a great speech on deterioration through prosperity, a piece of sustained intensity that reads like an Aeschylean chorus; and there is some admirable fighting, especially the fight with Grendel in the hall, and with Grendel's mother under the waters, while Beowulf's companions anxiously watch the troubled surface of the mere. The fact that the action of the poem is chiefly made of single combat with supernatural creatures and that there is not tapestry figured with radiant gods drawn between the life of men and the ultimate darkness, gives a peculiar and notable character to the way Beowulf symbolizes the primary courage of life. One would like to think, with some enthusiasts, that this great poem, composed in a language totally unintelligible to the huge majority of Englishmen--further from English than Latin is from Italian--and perhaps not even composed in England, certainly not concerned either with England or Englishmen, might nevertheless be called an English epic. But of course the early epics do not, any of them, merely repeat the significance of Homer in another form. They might do that, if poetry had to inculcate a moral, as some have supposed. But however nicely we may analyse it, we shall never find in poetry a significance which is really detachable, and expressible in another way. The significance _is_ the poetry. What _Beowulf_ or the _Iliad_ or the _Odyssey_ means is simply what it is in its whole nature; we can but roughly indicate it. And as poetry is never the same, so its significance is never quite the same. Courage as the first necessary value of life is most naively and simply expressed, perhaps, in the _Poem of the Cid_; but even here the expression is, as in all art, unique, and chiefly because it is contrived through solidly imagined characters. There is splendid characterization, too, in the _Song of Roland_, together with a fine sense of poetic form; not fine enough, however, to avoid a prodigious deal of conventional gag. The battling is lavish, but always exciting; and in, at least, that section which describes how the dying Oliver, blinded by weariness and wounds, mistakes Roland for a pagan and feebly smites him with his sword, there is real and piercing pathos. But for all his sense of character, the poet has very little discretion in his admiration of his heroes. Christianity, in these two poems, has less effect than one might think. The conspicuous value of life is still the original value, courage; but elaboration and refinement of this begin to appear, especially in the _Song of Roland_, as passionately conscious patriotism and loyalty. The chief contribution of the _Nibelungenlied_ to the main process of epic poetry is _plot_ in narrative; a contribution, that is, to the manner rather than to the content of epic symbolism. There is something that can be called plot in Homer; but with him, as in all other early epics, it is of no great account compared with the straightforward linking of incidents into a direct chain of narrative. The story of the _Nibelungenlied_, however, is not a chain but a web. Events and the influence of characters are woven closely and intricately together into one tragic pattern; and this requires not only characterization, but also the adding to the characters of persistent and dominant motives. Epic poetry exhibits life in some great symbolic attitude. It cannot strictly be said to symbolize life itself, but always some manner of life. But life as courage--the turning of the dark, hard condition of life into something which can be exulted in--this, which is the deep significance of the art of the first epics, is the absolutely necessary foundation for any subsequent valuation of life; Man can achieve nothing until he has first achieved courage. And this, much more than any inheritance of manner, is what makes all the writers of deliberate or "literary" epic imply the existence of Homer. If Homer had not done his work, they could not have done theirs. But "literary" epics are as necessary as Homer. We cannot go on with courage as the solitary valuation of life. We must have the foundation, but we must also have the superstructure. Speaking comparatively, it may be said that the function of Homeric epic has been to create imperishable symbolism for the actual courageous consciousness of life, but the duty of "literary" epic has been to develop this function, answerably to the development of life itself, into symbolism of some conscious _idea_ of life--something at once more formalized and more subtilized than the primary virtue of courage. The Greeks, however, were too much overshadowed by the greatness of Homer to do much towards this. The _Argonautica_, the half-hearted epic of Apollonius Rhodius, is the only attempt that need concern us. It is not a poem that can be read straight through; it is only enjoyable in moments--moments of charming, minute observation, like the description of a sunbeam thrown quivering on the wall from a basin of water "which has just been poured out," lines not only charming in themselves, but finely used as a simile for Medea's agitated heart; or moments of romantic fantasy, as when the Argonauts see the eagle flying towards Prometheus, and then hear the Titan's agonized cry. But it is not in such passages that what Apollonius did for epic abides. A great deal of his third book is a real contribution to the main process, to epic content as well as to epic manner. To the manner of epic he added analytic psychology. No one will ever imagine character more deeply or more firmly than Homer did in, say, Achilles; but Apollonius was the man who showed how epic as well as drama may use the nice minutiae of psychological imagination. Through Virgil, this contribution to epic manner has pervaded subsequent literature. Apollonius, too, in his fumbling way, as though he did not quite know what he was doing, has yet done something very important for the development of epic significance. Love has been nothing but a subordinate incident, almost one might say an ornament, in the early epics; in Apollonius, though working through a deal of gross and lumbering mythological machinery, love becomes for the first time one of the primary values of life. The love of Jason and Medea is the vital symbolism of the _Argonautica_. But it is Virgil who really begins the development of epic art. He took over from Apollonius love as part of the epic symbolism of life, and delicate psychology as part of the epic method. And, like Apollonius, he used these novelties chiefly in the person of a heroine. But in Virgil they belong to an incomparably greater art; and it is through Virgil that they have become necessities of the epic tradition. More than this, however, was required of him. The epic poet collaborates with the spirit of his time in the composition of his work. That is, if he is successful; the time may refuse to work with him, but he may not refuse to work with his time. Virgil not only implies, he often clearly states, the original epic values of life, the Homeric values; as in the famous: Stat sua cuique dies; breve et inreparabile tempus Omnibus est vitae: sed famam extendere factis, Hoc virtutis opus.[10] But to write a poem chiefly to symbolize this simple, heroic metaphysic would scarcely have done for Virgil; it would certainly not have done for his time. It was eminently a time of social organization, one might perhaps say of social consciousness. After Sylla and Marius and Caesar, life as an affair of sheer individualism would not very strongly appeal to a thoughtful Roman. Accordingly, as has so often been remarked, the _Aeneid_ celebrates the Roman Empire. A political idea does not seem a very likely subject for a kind of poetry which must declare greatly the fundamentals of living; not even when it is a political idea unequalled in the world, the idea of the Roman Empire. Had Virgil been a _good Roman_, the _Aeneid_ might have been what no doubt Augustus, and Rome generally, desired, a political epic. But Virgil was not a good Roman; there was something in him that was not Roman at all. It was this strange incalculable element in him that seems for ever making him accomplish something he had not thought of; it was surely this that made him, unintentionally it may be, use the idea of the Roman Empire as a vehicle for a much profounder valuation of life. We must remember here the Virgil of the Fourth Eclogue--that extraordinary, impassioned poem in which he dreams of man attaining to some perfection of living. It is still this Virgil, though saddened and resigned, who writes the _Aeneid_. Man creating his own destiny, man, however wearied with the long task of resistance, achieving some conscious community of aspiration, and dreaming of the perfection of himself: the poet whose lovely and noble art makes us a great symbol of _that_, is assuredly carrying on the work of Homer. This was the development in epic intention required to make epic poetry answer to the widening needs of civilization. But even more important, in the whole process of epic, than what Virgil's art does, is the way it does it. And this in spite of the fact which everyone has noticed, that Virgil does not compare with Homer as a poet of seafaring and warfaring. He is not, indeed, very interested in either; and it is unfortunate that, in managing the story of Aeneas (in itself an excellent medium for his symbolic purpose) he felt himself compelled to try for some likeness to the _Odyssey_ and the _Iliad_--to do by art married to study what the poet of the _Odyssey_ and the _Iliad_ had done by art married to intuitive experience. But his failure in this does not matter much in comparison with his technical success otherwise. Virgil showed how poetry may be made deliberately adequate to the epic purpose. That does not mean that Virgil is more artistic than Homer. Homer's redundance, wholesale repetition of lines, and stock epithets cannot be altogether dismissed as "faults"; they are characteristics of a wonderfully accomplished and efficient technique. But epic poetry cannot be written as Homer composed it; whereas it must be written something as Virgil wrote it; yes, if epic poetry is to be _written_, Virgil must show how that is to be done. The superb Virgilian economy is the thing for an epic poet now; the concision, the scrupulousness, the loading of every word with something appreciable of the whole significance. After the _Aeneid_, the epic style must be of this fashion: Ibant ovscuri sola sub nocte per umbram Perque domos Ditis vacuas et inania regna: Quale per incertam lunam sub luce maligna Est iter in silvis, ubi caelum condidit umbra Jupiter, et rebus nox abstulit atra colorem.[11] Lucan is much more of a Roman than Virgil; and the _Pharsalia_, so far as it is not an historical epic, is a political one; the idea of political liberty is at the bottom of it. That is not an unworthy theme; and Lucan evidently felt the necessity for development in epic. But he made the mistake, characteristically Roman, of thinking history more real than legend; and, trying to lead epic in this direction, supernatural machinery would inevitably go too. That, perhaps, was fortunate, for it enabled Lucan safely to introduce one of his great and memorable lines: Jupiter est quodcunque vides, quodcunque moveris;[12] which would certainly explode any supernatural machinery that could be invented. The _Pharsalia_ could not be anything more than an interesting but unsuccessful attempt; it was not on these lines that epic poetry was to develop. Lucan died at an age when most poets have done nothing very remarkable; that he already had achieved a poem like the _Pharsalia_, would make us think he might have gone to incredible heights, were it not that the mistake of the _Pharsalia_ seems to belong incurably to his temperament. Lucan's determined stoicism may, philosophically, be more consistent than the dubious stoicism of Virgil. But Virgil knew that, in epic, supernatural imagination is better than consistency. It was an important step when he made Jupiter, though a personal god, a power to which no limits are assigned; when he also made the other divinities but shadows, or, at most, functions, of Jupiter. This answers to his conviction that spirit universally and singly pervades matter; but, what is more, it answers to the needs of epic development. When we come to Tasso and Camoens, we seem to have gone backward in this respect; we seem to come upon poetry in which supernatural machinery is in a state of chronic insubordination. But that, too, was perhaps necessary. In comparison with the _Aeneid, Gerusalemme Liberata_ and _Os Lusiadas_ lack intellectual control and spiritual depth; but in comparison with the Roman, the two modern poems thrill with a new passion of life, a new wine of life, heady, as it seems, with new significance--a significance as yet only felt, not understood. Both Tasso and Camoens clearly join on to the main epic tradition: Tasso derives chiefly from the _Aeneid_ and the _Iliad_, Camoens from the _Aeneid_ and the _Odyssey_. Tasso is perhaps more Virgilian than Camoens; the plastic power of his imagination is more assured. But the advantage Camoens has over Tasso seems to repeat the advantage Homer has over Virgil; the ostensible subject of the _Lusiads_ glows with the truth of experience. But the real subject is behind these splendid voyagings, just as the real subject of Tasso is behind the battles of Christian and Saracen; and in both poets the inmost theme is broadly the same. It is the consciousness of modern Europe. _Jerusalem Delivered_ and the _Lusiads_ are drenched with the spirit of the Renaissance; and that is chiefly responsible for their lovely poetry. But they reach out towards the new Europe that was then just beginning. Europe making common cause against the peoples that are not Europe; Europe carrying her domination round the world--is that what Tasso and Camoens ultimately mean? It would be too hard and too narrow a matter by itself to make these poems what they are. No; it is not the action of Europe, but the spirit of European consciousness, that gave Tasso and Camoens their deepest inspiration. But what European consciousness really is, these poets rather vaguely suggest than master into clear and irresistible expression, into the supreme symbolism of perfectly adequate art. They still took European consciousness as an affair of geography and race rather than simply as a triumphant stage in the general progress of man's knowledge of himself. Their time imposed a duty on them; that they clearly understood. But they did not clearly understand what the duty was; partly, no doubt, because they were both strongly influenced by mediaeval religion. And so it is atmosphere, in Tasso and Camoens, that counts much more than substance; both poets seem perpetually thrilled by something they cannot express--the _non so che_ of Tasso. And what chiefly gives this sense of quivering, uncertain significance to their poetry is the increase of freedom and decrease of control in the supernatural. Supernaturalism was emphasized, because they instinctively felt that this was the means epic poetry must use to accomplish its new duties; it was disorderly, because they did not quite know what use these duties required. Tasso and Camoens, for all the splendour and loveliness of their work, leave epic poetry, as it were, consciously dissatisfied--knowing that its future must achieve some significance larger and deeper than anything it had yet done, and knowing that this must be done somehow through imagined supernaturalism. It waited nearly a hundred years for the poet who understood exactly what was to be done and exactly how to do it. In _Paradise Lost_, the development of epic poetry culminates, as far as it has yet gone. The essential inspiration of the poem implies a particular sense of human existence which has not yet definitely appeared in the epic series, but which the process of life in Europe made it absolutely necessary that epic poetry should symbolize. In Milton, the poet arose who was supremely adequate to the greatest task laid on epic poetry since its beginning with Homer; Milton's task was perhaps even more exacting than that original one. "His work is not the greatest of heroic poems, only because it is not the first." The epigram might just as reasonably have been the other way round. But nothing would be more unprofitable than a discussion in which Homer and Milton compete for supremacy of genius. Our business here is quite otherwise. With the partial exception of Tasso and Camoens, all epic poetry before Milton is some symbolism of man's sense of his own will. It is simply this in Homer; and the succeeding poets developed this intention but remained well within it. Not even Virgil, with his metaphysic of individual merged into social will--not even Virgil went outside it. In fact, it is a sort of _monism_ of consciousness that inspires all pre-Miltonic epic. But in Milton, it has become a _dualism_. Before him, the primary impulse of epic is an impassioned sense of man's nature _being contained_--by his destiny: _his_ only because he is in it and belongs to it, as we say "_my_ country." With Milton, this has necessarily become not only a sense of man's rigorously contained nature, but equally a sense of that which contains man--in fact, simultaneously a sense of individual will and of universal necessity. The single sense of these two irreconcilables is what Milton's poetry has to symbolize. Could they be reconciled, the two elements in man's modern consciousness of existence would form a monism. But this consciousness is a dualism; its elements are absolutely opposed. _Paradise Lost_ is inspired by intense consciousness of the eternal contradiction between the general, unlimited, irresistible will of universal destiny, and defined individual will existing within this, and inexplicably capable of acting on it, even against it. Or, if that seems too much of an antinomy to some philosophies (and it is perhaps possible to make it look more apparent than real), the dualism can be unavoidably declared by putting it entirely in terms of consciousness: destiny creating within itself an existence which stands against and apart from destiny by being _conscious_ of it. In Milton's poetry the spirit of man is equally conscious of its own limited reality and of the unlimited reality of that which contains him and drives him with its motion--of his own will striving in the midst of destiny: destiny irresistible, yet his will unmastered. This is not to examine the development of epic poetry by looking at that which is not _poetry_. In this kind of art, more perhaps than in any other, we must ignore the wilful theories of those who would set boundaries to the meaning of the word poetry. In such a poem as Milton's, whatever is in it is its poetry; the poetry of _Paradise Lost_ is just--_Paradise Lost_! Its pomp of divine syllables and glorious images is no more the poetry of Milton than the idea of man which he expressed. But the general manner of an art is for ever similar; it is its inspiration that is for ever changing. We need never expect words and metre to do more than they do here: they, fondly thinking to allay Their appetite with gust, instead of fruit Chewed bitter ashes, which the offended taste With spattering noise rejected: oft they assayed, Hunger and thirst constraining; drugged as oft, With hatefullest disrelish writhed their jaws, With soot and cinders filled; or more than they do here: What though the field be lost? All is not lost; the unconquerable will, And study of revenge, immortal hate, And courage never to submit or yield, And what is else not to be overcome. But what Homer's words, and perhaps what Virgil's words, set out to do, they do just as marvellously. There is no sure way of comparison here. How words do their work in poetry, and how we appreciate the way they do it--this seems to involve the obscurest processes of the mind: analysis can but fumble at it. But we can compare inspiration--the nature of the inmost urgent motive of poetry. And it is not irrelevant to add (it seems to me mere fact), that Milton had the greatest motive that has ever ruled a poet. For the vehicle of this motive, a fable of purely human action would obviously not suffice. What Milton has to express is, of course, altogether human; destiny is an entirely human conception. But he has to express not simply the sense of human existence occurring in destiny; that brings in destiny only mediately, through that which is destined. He has to express the sense of destiny immediately, at the same time as he expresses its opponent, the destined will of man. Destiny will appear in poetry as an omnipotent God; Virgil had already prepared poetry for that. But the action at large must clearly consist now, and for the first time, overwhelmingly of supernatural imagination. Milton has been foolishly blamed for making his supernaturalism too human. But nothing can come into poetry that is not shaped and recognizable; how else but in anthropomorphism could destiny, or (its poetic equivalent) deity, exist in _Paradise Lost_? We may see what a change has come over epic poetry, if we compare this supernatural imagination of Milton's with the supernatural machinery of any previous epic poet. Virgil is the most scrupulous in this respect; and towards the inevitable change, which Milton completed and perfected from Camoens and Tasso, Virgil took a great step in making Jupiter professedly almighty. But compare Virgil's "Tantaene animis celestibus irae?" with Milton's "Evil, be thou my good!" It is the difference between an accidental device and essential substance. That, in order to symbolize in epic form--that is to say, in _narrative_ form--the dualistic sense of destiny and the destined, and both immediately --Milton had to dissolve his human action completely in a supernatural action, is the sign not merely of a development, but of a re-creation, of epic art. It has been said that Satan is the hero of _Paradise Lost_. The offence which the remark has caused is due, no doubt, to injudicious use of the word "hero." It is surely the simple fact that if _Paradise Lost_ exists for any one figure, that is Satan; just as the _Iliad_ exists for Achilles, and the _Odyssey_ for Odysseus. It is in the figure of Satan that the imperishable significance of _Paradise Lost_ is centred; his vast unyielding agony symbolizes the profound antinomy of modern consciousness. And if this is what he is in significance it is worth noting what he is in technique. He is the blending of the poem's human plane with its supernatural plane. The epic hero has always represented humanity by being superhuman; in Satan he has grown into the supernatural. He does not thereby cease to symbolize human existence; but he is thereby able to symbolize simultaneously the sense of its irreconcilable condition, of the universal destiny that contains it. Out of Satan's colossal figure, the single urgency of inspiration, which this dualistic consciousness of existence makes, radiates through all the regions of Milton's vast and rigorous imagination. "Milton," says Landor, "even Milton rankt with living men!" FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 6: 'And all round the ships echoed terribly to the shouting Achaians.'] [Footnote 7: 'When in a dusty whirlwind thou didst lie, Thy valour lost, forgot thy chivalry.'--OGILBY. (The version leaves out megas megalosti.) ] [Footnote 8: 'Mother, since thou didst bear me to be so short-lived, Olympian Zeus that thunders from on high should especially have bestowed honour on me.'] [Footnote 9: 'Honour my son for me, for the swiftest doom of all is his.'] [Footnote 10: "For everyone his own day is appointed; for all men the period of life is short and not to be recalled: but to spread glory by deeds, that is what valour can do."] [Footnote 11: "They wer' amid the shadows by night in loneliness obscure Walking forth i' the void and vasty dominyon of Ades; As by an uncertain moonray secretly illumin'd One goeth in the forest, when heav'n is gloomily clouded, And black night hath robb'd the colours and beauty from all things." --ROBERT BRIDGES. ] [Footnote 12: "All that is known, all that is felt, is God."] V. AFTER MILTON And after Milton, what is to happen? First, briefly, for a few instances of what has happened. We may leave out experiments in religious sentiment like Klopstock's _Messiah_. We must leave out also poems which have something of the look of epic at first glance, but have nothing of the scope of epic intention; such as Scott's longer poems. These might resemble the "lays" out of which some people imagine "authentic" epic to have been made. But the lays are not the epic. Scott's poems have not the depth nor the definiteness of symbolic intention--what is sometimes called the epic unity--and this is what we can always discover in any poetry which gives us the peculiar experience we must associate with the word epic, if it is to have any precision of meaning. What applies to Scott, will apply still more to Byron's poems; Byron is one of the greatest of modern poets, but that does not make him an epic poet. We must keep our minds on epic intention. Shelley's _Revolt of Islam_ has something of it, but too vaguely and too fantastically; the generality of human experience had little to do with this glittering poem. Keats's _Hyperion_ is wonderful; but it does not go far enough to let us form any judgment of it appropriate to the present purpose.[13] Our search will not take us far before we notice something very remarkable; poems which look superficially like epic turn out to have scarce anything of real epic intention; whereas epic intention is apt to appear in poems that do not look like epic at all. In fact, it seems as if epic manner and epic content were trying for a divorce. If this be so, the traditional epic manner will scarcely survive the separation. Epic content, however, may very well be looking out for a match with a new manner; though so far it does not seem to have found an altogether satisfactory partner. But there are one or two poems in which the old union seems still happy. Most noteworthy is Goethe's _Hermann und Dorothea_. You may say that it does not much matter whether such poetry should be called epic or, as some hold, idyllic. But it is interesting to note, first, that the poem is deliberately written with epic style and epic intention; and, second, that, though singularly beautiful, it makes no attempt to add anything to epic development. It is interesting, too, to see epic poetry trying to get away from its heroes, and trying to use material the poetic importance of which seems to depend solely on the treatment, not on itself. This was a natural and, for some things, a laudable reaction. But it inevitably meant that epic must renounce the triumphs which Milton had won for it. William Morris saw no reason for abandoning either the heroes or anything else of the epic tradition. The chief personages of _Sigurd the Volsung_ are admittedly more than human, the events frankly marvellous. The poem is an impressive one, and in one way or another fulfils all the main qualifications of epic. But perhaps no great poem ever had so many faults. These have nothing to do with its management of supernaturalism; those who object to this simply show ignorance of the fundamental necessities of epic poetry. The first book is magnificent; everything that epic narrative should be; but after this the poem grows long-winded, and that is the last thing epic poetry should be. It is written with a running pen; so long as the verse keeps going on, Morris seems satisfied, though it is very often going on about unimportant things, and in an uninteresting manner. After the first book, indeed, as far as Morris's epic manner is concerned, Virgil and Milton might never have lived. It attempts to be the grand manner by means of vagueness. In an altogether extraordinary way, the poem slurs over the crucial incidents (as in the inept lines describing the death of Fafnir, and those, equally hollow, describing the death of Guttorm--two noble opportunities simply not perceived) and tirelessly expatiates on the mere surroundings of the story. Yet there is no attempt to make anything there credible: Morris seems to have mixed up the effects of epic with the effects of a fairy-tale. The poem lacks intellect; it has no clear-cut thought. And it lacks sensuous images; it is full of the sentiment, not of the sense of things, which is the wrong way round. Hence the protracted conversations are as a rule amazingly windy and pointless, as the protracted descriptions are amazingly useless and tedious. And the superhuman virtues of the characters are not shown in the poem so much as energetically asserted. It says much for the genius of Morris that _Sigurd the Volsung_, with all these faults, is not to be condemned; that, on the contrary, to read it is rather a great than a tiresome experience; and not only because the faults are relieved, here and there, by exquisite beauties and dignities, indeed by incomparable lines, but because the poem as a whole does, as it goes on, accumulate an immense pressure of significance. All the great epics of the world have, however, perfectly clearly a significance in close relation with the spirit of their time; the intense desire to symbolize the consciousness of man as far as it has attained, is what vitally inspires an epic poet, and the ardour of this infects his whole style. Morris, in this sense, was not vitally inspired. _Sigurd the Volsung_ is a kind of set exercise in epic poetry. It is great, but it is not _needed_. It is, in fact, an attempt to write epic poetry as it might have been written, and to make epic poetry mean what it might have meant, in the days when the tale of Sigurd and the Niblungs was newly come among men's minds. Mr. Doughty, in his surprising poem _The Dawn in Britain_, also seems trying to compose an epic exercise, rather than to be obeying a vital necessity of inspiration. For all that, it is a great poem, full of irresistible vision and memorable diction. But it is written in a revolutionary syntax, which, like most revolutions of this kind, achieves nothing beyond the fact of being revolutionary; and Mr. Doughty often uses the unexpected effects of his queer syntax instead of the unexpected effects of poetry, which makes the poem even longer psychologically than it is physically. Lander's _Gebir_ has much that can truly be called epic in it; and it has learned the lessons in manner which Virgil and Milton so nobly taught. It has perhaps learned them too well; never were concision, and the loading of each word with heavy duties, so thoroughly practised. The action is so compressed that it is difficult to make out exactly what is going on; we no sooner realize that an incident has begun than we find ourselves in the midst of another. Apart from these idiosyncrasies, the poetry of _Gebir_ is a curious mixture of splendour and commonplace. If fiction could ever be wholly, and not only partially, epic, it would be in _Gebir_. In all these poems, we see an epic intention still combined with a recognizably epic manner. But what is quite evident is, that in all of them there is no attempt to carry on the development of epic, to take up its symbolic power where Milton left it. On the contrary, this seems to be deliberately avoided. For any tentative advance on Miltonic significance, even for any real acceptance of it, we must go to poetry which tries to put epic intention into a new form. Some obvious peculiarities of epic style are sufficiently definite to be detachable. Since Theocritus, a perverse kind of pleasure has often been obtained by putting some of the peculiarities of epic--peculiarities really required by a very long poem--into the compass of a very short poem. An epic idyll cannot, of course, contain any considerable epic intention; it is wrought out of the mere shell of epic, and avoids any semblance of epic scope. But by devising somehow a connected sequence of idylls, something of epic scope can be acquired again. As Hugo says, in his preface to _La Legende des Siècles_: "Comme dans une mosaïque, chaque pierre a sa couleur et sa forme propre; l'ensemble donne une figure. La figure de ce livre," he goes on, "c'est l'homme." To get an epic design or _figure_ through a sequence of small idylls need not be the result of mere technical curiosity. It may be a valuable method for the future of epic. Tennyson attempted this method in _Idylls of the King_; not, as is now usually admitted, with any great success. The sequence is admirable for sheer craftsmanship, for astonishing craftsmanship; but it did not manage to effect anything like a conspicuous symbolism. You have but to think of _Paradise Lost_ to see what _Idylls of the King_ lacks. Victor Hugo, however, did better in _La Legende des Siècles_. "La figure, c'est l'homme"; there, at any rate, is the intention of epic symbolism. And, however pretentious the poem may be, it undoubtedly does make a passionate effort to develop the significance which Milton had achieved; chiefly to enlarge the scope of this significance.[14] Browning's _The Ring and the Book_ also uses this notion of an idyllic sequence; but without any semblance of epic purpose, purely for the exhibition of human character. It has already been remarked that the ultimate significance of great drama is the same as that of epic. Since the vital epic purpose--the kind of epic purpose which answers to the spirit of the time--is evidently looking for some new form to inhabit, it is not surprising, then, that it should have occasionally tried on dramatic form. And, unquestionably, for great poetic symbolism of the depths of modern consciousness, for such symbolism as Milton's, we must go to two such invasions of epic purpose into dramatic manner--to Goethe's _Faust_ and Hardy's _The Dynasts_. But dramatic significance and epic significance have been admitted to be broadly the same; to take but one instance, Aeschylus's Prometheus is closely related to Milton's Satan (though I think Prometheus really represents a monism of consciousness--that which is destined--as Satan represents a dualism--at once the destined and the destiny). How then can we speak of epic purpose invading drama? Surely in this way. Drama seeks to present its significance with narrowed intensity, but epic in a large dilatation: the one contracts, the other expatiates. When, therefore, we find drama setting out its significance in such a way as to become epically dilated, we may say that dramatic has grown into epic purpose. Or, even more positively, we may say that epic has taken over drama and adapted it to its peculiar needs. In any case, with one exception to be mentioned presently, it is only in _Faust_ and _The Dynasts_ that we find any great development of Miltonic significance. These are the poems that give us immense and shapely symbols of the spirit of man, conscious not only of the sense of his own destined being, but also of some sense of that which destines. In fact, these two are the poems that develop and elaborate, in their own way, the Miltonic significance, as all the epics in between Homer and Milton develop and elaborate Homeric significance. And yet, in spite of _Faust_ and _The Dynasts_, it may be doubted whether the union of epic and drama is likely to be permanent. The peculiar effects which epic intention, in whatever manner, must aim at, seem to be as much hindered as helped by dramatic form; and possibly it is because the detail is necessarily too much enforced for the broad perfection of epic effect. The real truth seems to be, that there is an inevitable and profound difficulty in carrying on the Miltonic significance in anything like a story. Regular epic having reached its climax in _Paradise Lost_, the epic purpose must find some other way of going on. Hugo saw this, when he strung his huge epic sequence together not on a connected story but on a single idea: "la figure, c'est l'homme." If we are to have, as we must have, direct symbolism of the way man is conscious of his being nowadays, which means direct symbolism both of man's spirit and of the (philosophical) opponent of this, the universal fate of things--if we are to have all this, it is hard to see how any story can be adequate to such symbolic requirements, unless it is a story which moves in some large region of imagined supernaturalism. And it seems questionable whether we have enough _formal_ "belief" nowadays to allow of such a story appearing as solid and as vividly credible as epic poetry needs. It is a decided disadvantage, from the purely epic point of view, that those admirable "Intelligences" in Hardy's _The Dynasts_ are so obviously abstract ideas disguised. The supernaturalism of epic, however incredible it may be in the poem, must be worked up out of the material of some generally accepted belief. I think it would be agreed, that what was possible for Milton would scarcely be possible to-day; and even more impossible would be the naïveté of Homer and the quite different but equally impracticable naïveté of Tasso and Camoens. The conclusion seems to be, that the epic purpose will have to abandon the necessity of telling a story. Hugo's way may prove to be the right one. But there may be another; and what has happened in the past may suggest what may happen in the future. Epic poetry in the regular epic form has before now seemed unlikely. It seemed unlikely after the Alexandrians had made such poor attempts at standing upright under the immensity of Homer; it seemed so, until, after several efforts, Latin poetry became triumphantly epic in Virgil. And again, when the mystical prestige of Virgil was domineering everything, regular epic seemed unlikely; until, after the doubtful attempts of Boiardo and Ariosto, Tasso arrived. But in each case, while the occurrence of regular epic was seeming so improbable, it nevertheless happened that poetry was written which was certainly nothing like epic in form, but which was strongly charged with a profound pressure of purpose closely akin to epic purpose; and _De Rerum Natura_ and _La Divina Commedia_ are very suggestive to speculation now. Of course, the fact that, in both these cases, regular epic did eventually occur, must warn us that in artistic development anything may happen; but it does seem as if there were a deeper improbability for the occurrence of regular epic now than in the times just before Virgil and Tasso--of regular epic, that is, inspired by some vital import, not simply, like _Sigurd the Volsung_, by archaeological import. Lucretius is a good deal more suggestive than Dante; for Dante's form is too exactly suited to his own peculiar genius and his own peculiar time to be adaptable. But the method of Lucretius is eminently adaptable. That amazing image of the sublime mind of Lucretius is exactly the kind of lofty symbolism that the continuation of epic purpose now seems to require--a subjective symbolism. I believe Wordsworth felt this, when he planned his great symbolic poem, and partly executed it in _The Prelude_ and _The Excursion_: for there, more profoundly than anywhere out of Milton himself, Milton's spiritual legacy is employed. It may be, then, that Lucretius and Wordsworth will preside over the change from objective to subjective symbolism which Milton has, perhaps, made necessary for the continued development of the epic purpose: after Milton, it seems likely that there is nothing more to be done with objective epic. But Hugo's method, of a connected sequence of separate poems, instead of one continuous poem, may come in here. The determination to keep up a continuous form brought both Lucretius and Wordsworth at times perilously near to the odious state of didactic poetry; it was at least responsible for some tedium. Epic poetry will certainly never be didactic. What we may imagine--who knows how vainly imagine?--is, then, a sequence of odes expressing, in the image of some fortunate and lofty mind, as much of the spiritual significance which the epic purpose must continue from Milton, as is possible, in the style of Lucretius and Wordsworth, for subjective symbolism. A pregnant experiment towards something like this has already been seen--in George Meredith's magnificent set of _Odes in Contribution to the Song of the French History_. The subject is ostensibly concrete; but France in her agonies and triumphs has been personified into a superb symbol of Meredith's own reading of human fate. The series builds up a decidedly epic significance, and its manner is extraordinarily suggestive of a new epic method. Nevertheless, something more Lucretian in central imagination, something less bound to concrete and particular event, seems required for the complete development of epic purpose. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 13: In the greatest poetry, all the elements of human nature are burning in a single flame. The artifice of criticism is to detect what peculiar radiance each element contributes to the whole light; but this no more affects the singleness of the compounded energy in poetry than the spectroscopic examination of fire affects the single nature of actual flame. For the purposes of this book, it has been necessary to look chiefly at the contribution of intellect to epic poetry; for it is in that contribution that the development of poetry, so far as there is any development at all, really consists. This being so, it might be thought that Keats could hardly have done anything for the real progress of epic. But Keats's apparent (it is only apparent) rejection of intellect in his poetry was the result of youthful theory; his letters show that, in fact, intellect was a thing unusually vigorous in his nature. If the Keats of the letters be added to the Keats of the poems, a personality appears that seems more likely than any of his contemporaries, or than anyone who has come after him, for the work of carrying Miltonic epic forward without forsaking Miltonic form.] [Footnote 14: For all I know, Hugo may never have read Milton; judging by some silly remarks of his, I should hope not. But Hugo could feel the things in the spirit of man that Milton felt; not only because they were still there, but because the secret influence of Milton has intensified the consciousness of them in thousands who think they know nothing of _Paradise Lost_. Modern literary history will not be properly understood until it is realized that Milton is one of the dominating minds of Europe, whether Europe know it or not. There are scarcely half a dozen figures that can be compared with Milton for irresistible influence--quite apart from his unapproachable supremacy in the technique of poetry. When Addison remarked that _Paradise Lost_ is universally and perpetually interesting, he said what is not to be questioned; though he did not perceive the real reason for his assertion. Darwin no more injured the significance of _Paradise Lost_ than air-planes have injured Homer.] 
16506	----	Series Two: _Essays on Poetry_ No. 2 Samuel Wesley's _Epistle to a Friend concerning Poetry_ (1700) and the _Essay on Heroic Poetry_ (second edition, 1697) With an Introduction by Edward N. Hooker The Augustan Reprint Society January, 1947 _Price:_ 75c GENERAL EDITORS: _Richard C. Boys_, University of Michigan, Ann Arbor; _Edward N. Hooker, H.T. Swedenberg, Jr._, University of California, Los Angeles 24, California. Membership in the Augustan Reprint Society entitles the subscriber to six publications issued each year. The annual membership fee is $2.50. Address subscriptions and communications to the Augustan Reprint Society, in care of one of the General Editors. EDITORIAL ADVISORS: _Louis I. Bredvold_, University of Michigan; _James L. Clifford_, Columbia University; _Benjamin Boyce_, University of Nebraska; _Cleanth Brooks_, Louisiana State University; _Arthur Friedman_, University of Chicago; _James R. Sutherland_, Queen Mary College, University of London; _Emmett L. Avery_, State College of Washington; _Samuel Monk_, Southwestern University. Lithoprinted from Author's Typescript EDWARDS BROTHERS, INC. _Lithoprinters_ ANN ARBOR, MICHIGAN 1947 INTRODUCTION We remember Samuel Wesley (1662-1735), if at all, as the father of a great religious leader. In his own time he was known to many as a poet and a writer of controversial prose. His poetic career began in 1685 with the publication of _Maggots_, a collection of juvenile verses on trivial subjects, the preface to which, a frothy concoction, apologizes to the reader because the book is neither grave nor gay. The first poem, "On a Maggot," is composed in hudibrastics, with a diction obviously Butlerian, and it is followed by facetious poetic dialogues and by Pindarics of the Cowleian sort but on such subjects as "On the Grunting of a Hog." In 1688 Wesley took his B.A. at Exeter College, Oxford, following which he became a naval chaplain and, in 1690, rector of South Ormsby; he became rector of Epworth in 1695. During the run of the _Athenian Gazette_ (1691-1697) he joined with Richard Sault and John Norris in assisting John Dunton, the promoter of the undertaking. His second venture in poetry, the _Life of Our Blessed Lord and Saviour_, an epic largely in heroic couplets with a prefatory discourse on heroic poetry, appeared in 1693, was reissued in 1694, and was honored with a second edition in 1697. In 1695 he dutifully came forward with _Elegies_, lamenting the deaths of Queen Mary and Archbishop Tillotson. _An Epistle to a Friend concerning Poetry_ (1700) was followed by at least four other volumes of verse, the last of which was issued in 1717. His poetry appears to have had readers on a certain level, but it stirred up little pleasure among wits, writers, or critics. Judith Drake confessed that she was lulled to sleep by Blackmore's _Prince Arthur_ and by Wesley's "heroics" (_Essay in Defence of the Female Sex_, 1696, p. 50). And he was satirized as a mare poetaster in Garth's _Dispensary_, in Swift's _The Battle of the Books_, and in the earliest issues of the _Dunciad_. Nobody today would care to defend his poetry for its esthetic merits. For a few years in the early eighteenth century Wesley found himself in the vortex of controversy. Brought up in the dissenting tradition, he had swerved into conformity at some point during the 1680's, possibly under the influence of Tillotson, whom he greatly admired (cf. _Epistle to a Friend_, pp. 5-6). In 1702 there appeared his _Letter from a Country Divine to his friend in London concerning the education of dissenters in their private academies_, apparently written about 1693. This attack upon dissenting academies was published at an unfortunate time, when the public mind was inflamed by the intolerance of overzealous churchmen. Wesley was furiously answered; he replied in _A Defence of a Letter_ (1704), and again in _A Reply to Mr. Palmer's Vindication_ (1707). It is scarcely to Wesley's credit that in this quarrel he stood shoulder to shoulder with that most hot-headed of all contemporary bigots, Henry Sacheverell. His prominence in the controversy earned him the ironic compliments of Defoe, who recalled that our "Mighty Champion of this very High-Church Cause" had once written a poem to satirize frenzied Tories (_Review_, II, no. 87, Sept. 22, 1705). About a week later Defoe, having got wind of a collection being taken up for Wesley--who in consequence of a series of misfortunes was badly in debt--intimated that High-Church pamphleteering had turned out very profitably for both Lesley and Wesley (Oct. 2, 1705). But in such snarling and bickering Wesley was out of his element, and he seems to have avoided future quarrels. His literary criticism is small in bulk. But though it is neither brilliant nor well written (Wesley apparently composed at a break-neck clip), it is not without interest. Pope observed in 1730 that he was a "learned" man (letter to Swift, in _Works_, ed. Elwin-Courthope, VII, 184). The observation was correct, but it should be added that Wesley matured at the end of an age famous for its great learning, an age whose most distinguished poet was so much the scholar that he appeared more the pedant than the gentleman to critics of the succeeding era; Wesley was not singular for erudition among his seventeenth-century contemporaries. The "Essay on Heroic Poetry," serving as Preface to _The Life of Our Blessed Lord and Saviour_, reveals something of its author's erudition. Among the critics, he was familiar with Aristotle, Horace, Longinus, Dionysius of Halicarnasseus, Heinsius, Bochart, Balzac, Rapin, Le Bossu, and Boileau. But this barely hints at the extent of his learning. In the notes on the poem itself the author displays an interest in classical scholarship, Biblical commentary, ecclesiastical history, scientific inquiry, linguistics and philology, British antiquities, and research into the history, customs, architecture, and geography of the Holy Land; he shows, an intimate acquaintance with Grotius, Henry Hammond, Joseph Mede, Spanheim, Sherlock, Lightfoot, and Gregory, with Philo, Josephus, Fuller, Walker, Camden, and Kircher; and he shows an equal readiness to draw upon Cudworth's _True Intellectual System_ and Boyle's new theories concerning the nature of light. In view of such a breadth of knowledge it is somewhat surprising to find him quoting as extensively as he does in the "Essay" from Le Bossu and Rapin, and apparently leaning heavily upon them. The "Essay" was composed at a time when the prestige of Rymer and neo-Aristotelianism in England was already declining, and though Wesley expressed some admiration for Rapin and Le Bossu, he is by no means docile under their authority. Whatever the weight of authority, he says, "I see no cause why Poetry should not be brought to the Test [of reason], as well as Divinity...." As to the sacred example of Homer, who based his great epic on mythology, Wesley remarks, "But this [mythology] being now antiquated, I cannot think we are oblig'd superstitiously to follow his Example, any more than to make Horses speak, as he does that of Achilles." To the question of the formidable Boileau, "What Pleasure can it be to hear the howlings of repining Lucifer?" our critic responds flippantly, "I think 'tis easier to answer than to find out what shew of Reason he had for asking it, or why Lucifer mayn't howl as pleasantly as either Cerberus, or Enceladus." Without hesitation or apology he takes issue with Rapin's conception of Decorum in the epic. But Wesley is empiricist as well as rationalist, and the judgment of authority can be upset by appeal to the court of experience. To Balzac's suggestion that, to avoid difficult and local proper names in poetry, generalized terms be used, such as _Ill-luck_ for the _Fates_ and the _Foul Fiend_ for _Lucifer_, our critic replies with jaunty irony, "... and whether this wou'd not sound extreamly Heroical, I leave any Man to judge," and thus he dismisses the matter. Similarly, when Rapin objects to Tasso's mingling of lyric softness in the majesty of the epic, Wesley points out sharply that no man of taste will part with the fine scenes of tender love in Tasso, Dryden, Ovid, Ariosto, and Spenser "for the sake of a fancied Regularity." He had set out to defend the Biblical epic, the Christian epic, and the propriety of Christian machines in epic, and no rules or authority could deter him. As good an example as any of his independence of mind can be seen in a note on Bk. I, apropos of the poet's use of obsolete words (_Life of Our Blessed Lord_, 1697, p. 27): it may be in vicious imitation of Milton and Spenser, he says in effect, but I have a fondness for old words, they please my ear, and that is all the reason I can give for employing them. Wesley's resistance to a strict application of authority and the rules grew partly out of the rationalistic and empirical temper of Englishmen in his age, but it also sprang from his learning. From various sources he drew the theory that Greek and Latin were but corrupted forms of ancient Phoenician, and that the degeneracy of Greek and Latin in turn had produced all, or most, of the present European tongues (_ibid._, p. 354). In addition, he believed that the Greeks had derived some of their thought from older civilizations, and specifically that Plato had received many of his notions from the Jews (_ibid._, p. 230)--an idea which recalls the argument that Dryden in _Religio Laici_ had employed against the deists. Furthermore, he had, like many of his learned contemporaries, a profound respect for Hebrew culture and the sublimity of the Hebrew scriptures, going so far as to remark in the "Essay on Heroic Poetry" that "most, even of [the heathen poets'] best Fancies and Images, as well as Names, were borrow'd from the Antient Hebrew Poetry and Divinity." In short, however faulty his particular conclusions, he had arrived at an historical viewpoint, from which it was no longer possible to regard the classical standards--much less the standards of French critics--as having the holy sanction of Nature herself. Some light is shed on the literary tastes of his period by Wesley's two essays here reproduced, which with a few exceptions were in accord with the prevailing current. _The Life of Our Blessed Lord_ shows strongly the influence of Cowley's _Davideis_. Wesley's great admiration persisted after the tide had turned away from Cowley; and his liking for the "divine Herbert" and for Crashaw represented the tastes of sober and unfashionable readers. In spite of the fact that he professed unbounded admiration for Homer as the greatest genius in nature, in practise he seemed more inclined to follow the lead of Cowley, Virgil, and Vida. Although there was much in Ariosto that he enjoyed, he preferred Tasso; the irregularities in both, however, he felt bound to deplore. To Spenser's _Faerie Queene_ he allowed extraordinary merit. If the plan of it was noble, he thought, and the mark of a comprehensive genius, yet the action of the poem seemed confused. Nevertheless, like Prior later, Wesley was inclined to suspend judgment on this point because the poem had been left incomplete. To Spenser's "thoughts" he paid the highest tribute, and to his "Expressions flowing natural and easie, with such a prodigious Poetical Copia as never any other must expect to enjoy." Like most of the Augustans Wesley did not care greatly for _Paradise Regained_, but he partly atoned by his praise for _Paradise Lost_, which was an "original" and therefore "above the common Rules." Though defective in its action, it was resplendent with sublime thoughts perhaps superior to any in Virgil or Homer, and full of incomparable and exquisitely moving passages. In spite of his belief that Milton's blank verse was a mistake, making for looseness and incorrectness, he borrowed lines and images from it, and in Bk. IV of _The Life of Our Blessed Lord_ he incorporated a whole passage of Milton's blank verse in the midst of his heroic couplets. Wesley's attitude toward Dryden deserves a moment's pause. In the "Essay on Heroic Poetry" he observed that a speech of Satan's in _Paradise Lost_ is nearly equalled in Dryden's _State of Innocence_. Later in the same essay he credited a passage in Dryden's _King Arthur_ with showing an improvement upon Tasso. There is no doubt as to his vast respect for the greatest living poet, but his remarks do not indicate that he ranked Dryden with Virgil, Tasso, or Milton; for he recognized as well as we that the power to embellish and to imitate successfully does not constitute the highest excellence in poetry. In the _Epistle to a Friend_ he affirmed his admiration for Dryden's matchless style, his harmony, his lofty strains, his youthful fire, and even his wit--in the main, qualities of style and expression. But by 1700 Wesley had absorbed enough of the new puritanism that was rising in England to qualify his praise; now he deprecated the looseness and indecency of the poetry, and called upon the poet to repent. One other point calls for comment. Wesley's scheme for Christian machinery in the epic, as described in the "Essay on Heroic Poetry," is remarkably similar to Dryden's. Dryden's had appeared in the essay on satire prefaced to his translation of Juvenal, published late in October, 1692; Wesley's scheme appeared soon after June, 1693. The _Epistle to a Friend concerning Poetry_ is neither startling nor contemptible; it has, in fact, much more to say than the rhymed treatises on verse by Roscommon and Buckinghamshire. Its remarks on Genius are fresh, though tantalizing in their brevity, and it defends the Moderns with both neatness and energy. Much of its advice is cautious and commonplace--but such was the tradition of the poetical treatise on verse. Appearing within two years of Collier's first attack upon the stage, it reinforces some of that worthy's contentions, but we are not aware of its having had much effect. The _Epistle to a Friend concerning Poetry_ is here reproduced, with permission, from the copy at Harvard. The "Essay on Heroic Poetry" is reproduced, with permission, from a copy of the 1697 edition of _The Life of Our Blessed Lord_ owned by the Henry E. Huntington Library, at San Marino, California. Our reproduction of the second item was made from a typescript because the printing of the original lacks the size and clarity which are necessary for satisfactory results In lithoprinting. The typescript follows the original accurately except that italics (crazily profuse in the 1697 edition) are omitted, the use of quotation marks is normalized, and three obvious typographical errors are silently emended. Edward Niles Hooker AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND CONCERNING POETRY. By SAMUEL WESLEY. _Fungor vice Cotis._ _LONDON_ Printed for CHARLES HARPER, at the _Flower de Luce_ in _Fleetstreet_. MDCC. _25. Aprill_. PREFACE. _I have not much to say of this Poem, before I leave it to the_ Mercy _of the Reader. There's no need of looking far into it, to find out that the direct_ Design _of a great part of it, is to Serve the_ Cause of Religion _and_ Virtue; _tho' 'twas necessary for that End to dispose the_ whole _in such a manner as might be agreeable to the_ Tast _of the present Age, and of those who usually give such sort of Books the_ Reading. _If there be any Thoughts in it relating to_ Poetry, _that either are not known to_ all Persons, _or are tolerably_ ranged _and_ expressed, _the Reader is welcome to 'em for_ Over-weight: _If there are too few of these, I yet hope the Pardon of all_ candid Judges, _because I've done the best I cou'd on this_ Argument. _I can't be angry with any Person for ranking me amongst the_ Ogylbys; _my Quarrel is with these that rank themselves amongst_ Atheists, _and impudently defend and propagate that_ ridiculous _Opinion of the_ Eternity of the World, _and a fatal_ invincible Chain of Things, _which, it seems, is now most commonly made use of to destroy the_ Faith, _as our_ lewd Plays _are to corrupt the_ Morals _of the_ Nation: _An Opinion, big with more_ Absurdities _than_ Transubstantiation _it self, and of far more_ fatal Consequence, _if receiv'd and believ'd: For besides its extremely weakening, if not destroying, the_ Belief _of the_ Being _and_ Providence of God, _it utterly takes away any sort of_ Freedom _in_ Humane Actions, _reduces Mankind beneath the_ Brute Creation; _perfectly_ excuses _the greatest_ Villanies _in_ this World, _and entirely vacates all_ Retribution _hereafter. One wou'd wonder with what Face or Conscience such a_ Sett _of Men shou'd hope to be treated by the Rules of_ Civility, _when they themselves break through those of_ Society, _and_ common Humanity: _How they can expect any fairer_ Quarter _than_ Wolves _or_ Tygers; _or what Reason they can give why a_ Price _should not be sett upon their_ Heads, _as well as on the_ Others; _or at least why they should not be securely_ hamper'd _and_ muzzled, _and led about for a_ Sight, _like other_ Monsters. _'Tis the fatal and spreading_ Poyson _of these Mens_ Examples _and_ Principles _which has extorted these_ warm Expressions _from me; I cannot with_ Patience _see my_ Countrey ruin'd _by the prodigious increase of_ Infidelity _and_ Immorality, _nor forbear crying out with some_ Vehemence, _when I am giving Warning to all honest Men to stand up in the_ Defence _of it, when it is in greater and more eminent danger than it wou'd have been formerly, if the_ Spanish Armada _had made a Descent amongst us: I don't speak of these things by distant_ Hear-say, _or only from our publick_ Prints, _but from my own_ Knowledg _and little_ Acquaintance _in the World, and therefore others must have observ'd much more, and cannot but fear, that if things go on as they now are, without a greater_ Check, _and more_ severe Laws _against these wide and contagious_ Mischiefs, _at least without a more general united_ Endeavour _to put those Laws already made in_ strict Execution, _we are in a fair way to become a_ Nation of Atheists. _'Tis now no difficult matter to meet with those who pretend to be_ lewd _upon_ Principles; _They'll talk very_ gravely, _look as if they were in earnest, and come_ sobrii ad perdendam Rempublicam: _they wou'd be_ Criticks _too, and_ Philosophers: _They attack_ Religion _in_ Form _and batter it from every_ Quarter; _they wou'd turn the very_ Scriptures _against themselves, and labour hard to remove a_ Supreme Being _out of the World; or if they do vouchsafe him any_ room _in it, 'tis only that they may find_ Fault _with his_ Works, _which they think, with that_ Blasphemer _of old, might have been much better order'd, had they themselves stood by and directed the_ Architect. _They'll tell you the_ Errors _of_ Nature _are every where_ plain _and_ visible, _all_ monstrous, _here_ too much _and there_ too little; _or, as_ one of their own Poets, Here she's _too sparing_, there _profusely_ vain. _What would these Men have, or why can't they be content to sink_ single _into the_ bottomless Gulph, _without dragging so much Company thither with 'em? Can they grapple_ Omnipotence, _or are they sure they can be_ too hard _for_ Heaven? _Can they_ Thunder _with a_ Voice like God, _and cast abroad the_ Rage _of their_ Wrath? _Cou'd they_ annihilate _Hell, indeed, or did it only consist of such_ painted Flames _as they'd fain believe it, they might make a shift to be tolerably happy, more quietly rake through the World, and_ sink _into_ Nothing. _There's too great reason to apprehend, that this_ Infection _is spred among Persons of almost all_ Ranks _and_ Qualities; _and that tho' some may think it_ decent _to keep on the_ Masque, _yet if they were search'd to the_ bottom, _all_ their Religion _wou'd be found that which they most blasphemously assert of_ Religion _in_ general, _only a_ State Engin _to keep the_ World in Order. _This is_ Hypocrisie _with a Witness; the_ basest _and_ meanest _of_ Vices; _and how come Men to fall into these_ damnable Errors _in Faith, but by_ Lewdness _of Life? The Cowards wou'd not believe a God because they_ dare _not do it, for Woe be to 'em if there be one, and consequently any_ Future Punishments. _From such as these, I desire no Favour, but that of their_ Ill Word, _as their_ Crimes _must expect_ none _from me, whose_ Character _obliges me to declare an_ eternal War _against_ Vice _and_ Infidelity, _tho' at the same time heartily to_ pity _those who are_ infected _with it. If I cou'd be_ ambitious _of a_ Name _in the World, it shou'd be that I might_ sacrifice _it in so glorious a_ Cause _as that of_ Religion _and_ Virtue: _If none but_ Generals _must fight in this_ sacred War, _when there are such_ infernal Hosts _on the other side, they cou'd never prevail without one of the_ antient Miracles: _If_ little People _can but well discharge the Place of a_ private Centinel, _'tis all that's expected from us. I hope I shall never let the_ Enemies of God and my Countrey _come on without_ Fireing, _tho' it serve but to give the_ Alarm, _and if I dye without_ quitting _my_ Post, _I desire no greater Glory_. _I have endeavour'd to shew that I had no_ Personal Pique _against any whose_ Characters _I may have given in this Poem, nor think the worse of them for their_ Thoughts _of me. I hope I have every where done 'em_ Justice, _and as well as I cou'd, have given 'em_ Commendation _where they deserve it; which may also, on the other side, acquit me of_ Flattery _with all_ Impartial Judges; _for 'tis not only the_ Great _whose_ Characters _I have here attempted. And if what I have written may be any ways_ useful, _or_ innocently diverting _to the virtuous and ingenious_ Readers, _he has his End, who is_ Their Humble Servant S. WESLEY. AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND CONCERNING POETRY. As Brother _Pryme_ of old from Mount _Orgueil_, So I to you from _Epworth_ and the _Isle_: Harsh _Northern_ Fruits from our cold Heav'ns I send, Yet, since the _best_ they yield, they'll please a _Friend_. You ask me, What's the readiest way to _Fame_, And how to gain a _Poet's_ sacred Name? For _Saffold_ send, your Choice were full as just, When burning _Fevers_ fry your Limbs to Dust! Yet, lest you _angry_ grow at your _Defeat_, } And me as ill as that fierce _Spark_ should treat } 10 Who did the Farrier into Doctor _beat_; } You to my little _Quantum_, Sir, are free, Which I from HORACE glean or NORMANDY; These with some grains of _Common Sense_ unite, Then freely _think_, and as I think I write. First _poize_ your _Genius_, nor presume to write If _Phoebus_ smile not, or some _Muse_ invite: Nature refuses _Force_, you strive in vain, She will not _drag_, but struggling breaks the Chain. How bright a Spark of _Heav'nly Fire_ must warm! 20 What _Blessings_ meet a _Poet's Mind_ to form! How oft must he for those _Life-Touches_ sit, _Genius, Invention, Memory, Judgment, Wit_? There's here no _Middle-State_, you must excel; _Wit_ has no _Half-way-House_ 'twixt _Heav'n_ and _Hell_ _All cannot All things_, lest you mourn too late, Remember _Phaeton_'s unhappy _Fate_! Eager to guide the _Coursers_ of the _Day_, } Beneath their _Brazen Hoofs_ he trampled lay, } And his bright _Ruines_ mark'd their flaming Way. } 30 [Sidenote: _Genius_.] You'll ask, What GENIUS is, and Where to find? 'Tis the full _Power_ and _Energy_ of _Mind_: A _Reach_ of _Thought_ that skims all Nature o'er, _Exhausts_ this narrow _World_, and asks for _more_: Through every _Rank of Beings_ when't has flown, Can frame a _New Creation_ of its own: By _Possible_ and _Future_ unconfin'd: Can stubborn _Contradictions_ yoke, and bind Through _Fancy_'s Realms, with Number, Time and Place, _Chimera-Forms_, a thin, an airy Race; 40 Then with a secret _conscious Pride_ surveys The _Enchanted Castles_ which't had _Power_ to raise. [Sidenote: _Wit_.] As _Genius_ is the _Strength_, be WIT defin'd The _Beauty_ and the _Harmony_ of _Mind_: _Beauty's_ Proportion, Air, each lively Grace The _Soul_ diffuses round the _Heav'nly Face_: 'Tis _various_, yet 'tis _equal_, still the same In _Alpine Snows_, or _Ethiopian Flame_; While _glaring Colours_ short-liv'd Grace supply, Nor _Frost_ nor _Sun_ they bear, but _scorch_ and _die_. 50 [Sidenote: _Judgment_.] Nor these alone, tho much they can, suffice, JUDGMENT must join, or never hope the Prize: Those _Headstrong Coursers_ scowr along the Plains, The _Rider's_ down, if once he lose the _Reins_: Soon the _Mad Mixture_ will to all give Law, And for the _Laurel Wreaths_ present thee _Wreaths of Straw_. _Judgment's_ the _Act of Reason_; that which brings Fit _Thoughts_ to _Thoughts_, and argues _Things_ from _Things_, True, Decent, Just, are in its _Balance_ try'd, And thence we learn to _Range, Compound, Divide_. 60 [Sidenote: _Invention and Memory_.] A _Cave_ there is wherein those _Nymphs_ reside Who all the Realms of _Sense_ and _Fancy_ guide; Nay some affirm that in the deepest _Cell_ Imperial _Reason's_ self does not disdain to dwell: With Living _Reed_ 'tis thatch'd and guarded round, Which mov'd by _Winds_ emit a Silver Sound: Two _Crystal Fountains_ near its _Entrance_ play, } Wide scatt'ring _Golden Streams_ which ne'er decay, } Two _Labyrinths_ behind harmonious Sounds convey: } Chiefly, within, the _Room of State_ is fam'd 70 Of rich _Mosaick Work_ divinely fram'd: Of small _Extent_ to view, 'twill all things hide, Heav'n's Azure _Arch_ it self not half so wide: Here all the _Arts_ their sacred Mansion chuse, Here dwells the MOTHER of the Heav'n-born Muse: With wond'rous mystic _Figures_ round 'tis wrought _Inlaid_ with FANCY, and _anneal'd_ with _Thought_: With more than humane Skill depicted here The various _Images of Things_ appear; What _Was_, or _Is_, or labours yet to _Be_ 80 Within the Womb of Dark _Futurity_, May _Stowage_ in this wondrous _Storehouse_ find, Yet leave unnumber'd empty _Cells_ behind: But ah! as fast they come, they fly too fast, Not _Life or Happiness are more in haste_: Only the _First Great Mind_ himself can stay The _Fugitives_ and at _one Glance_ survey; But those whom he disdains not to befriend, } _Uncommon Souls_, who nearest Heav'n ascend } Far more, at once, than others comprehend: } 90 Whate'er within this _sacred Hall_ you find, } Whate'er will _lodge_ in your _capacious Mind_ } Let _Judgment_ sort, and skilful _Method_ bind; } And as from these you draw your antient Store Daily supply the _Magazine_ with more. Furnish'd with such _Materials_ he'll excel Who when he _works_ is sure to work 'em _well_; This ART alone, as _Nature_ that bestows, And in _Perfection_ both, th' accomplish'd _Verser_ knows. Knows to _persuade_, and how to _speak_, and when; 100 The _Rules of Life_, and _Manners_ knows and _Men_: Those _narrow Lines_ which _Good_ and _Ill_ divide; [Sidenote: _Learning_.] And by what _Balance Just_ and _Right_ are try'd: How _Kindred-Things_ with _Things_ are closely join'd; } How _Bodies_ act, and by what _Laws_ confin'd, } Supported, mov'd and rul'd by th' _Universal Mind_. } When the moist _Kids_ or burning _Sirius_ rise; } Through what ambiguous Ways _Hyperion_ flies, } And marks our _Upper_ or the _Nether Skies_. } He knows those _Strings_ to _touch_ with artful Hand 110 Which rule Mankind, and all the World command: What _moves_ the _Soul_, and every secret _Cell_ Where _Pity, Love_, and all the _Passions_ dwell. The _Music_ of his _Verse_ can _Anger_ raise, Which with a softer _Stroak_ he _smooths_ and _lays_: Can _Emulation, Terror_, all excite, _Compress_ the _Soul_ with _Grief_, or _swell_ with vast Delight. If this you can, your _Care_ you'll well bestow, And some new _Milton_ or a _Spencer_ grow; If not, a _Poet_ ne'er expect to be, 120 Content to _Rime_, like _D----y_ or like me. But here perhaps you'll stop me, and complain, To such _Impracticable Heights_ I strain A Poet's _Notion_, that if _This_ be _He_, There ne'er was one, nor e'er is like to be. --But soft, my Friend! may we not _copy_ well Tho far th' _Original_ our _Art_ excel? _Divine Perfection_ we our _Pattern_ make Th' _Idea_ thence of _Goodness_ justly take; But they who _copy_ nearest, still must fall 130 Immensely short of their _Original_; [Sidenote: _Converse_.] But _Wit_ and _Genius_, _Sense_ and _Learning_ join'd, Will all come short if _crude_ and _unrefin'd_; 'Tis CONVERSE only melts the stubborn _Ore_ And _polishes_ the _Gold_, too rough before: So _fierce_ the _Natural Taste_, 'twill ne'er b' endur'd, The _Wine_ is _strong_, but never rightly _cur'd_. [Sidenote: _Style_.] STYLE is the _Dress_ of _Thought_; a _modest_ Dress, _Neat_, but not _gaudy_, will true _Critics_ please: Not _Fleckno's Drugget_, nor a worse Extream 140 All daub'd with _Point_ and _Gold_ at every Seam: Who only _Antique Words_ affects, appears Like old King _Harry's_ Court, all Face and Ears; Nor in a _Load_ of _Wig_ thy Visage shrowd, Like _Hairy Meteors glimm'ring through a Cloud_: Happy are those who here the _Medium_ know, We hate alike a _Sloven_ and a _Beau_. I would not follow _Fashion_ to the height Close at the _Heels_, not yet be _out of Sight_: _Words_ alter, like our _Garments_, every day, 150 Now _thrive_ and _bloom_, now _wither_ and _decay_. Let those of greater _Genius_ new _invent_, Be you with those in _Common Use_ content. A different _Style's_ for _Prose_ and _Verse_ requir'd, _Strong figures_ here, _Neat Plainness_ there desir'd: A different _Set of Words_ to both belong; What _shines_ in _Prose_, is, _flat_ and _mean_ in _Song_. The _Turn_, the _Numbers_ must be vary'd here, And all things in a _different Dress_ appear. This every _School Boy_ lash'd at _Eaton_ knows, } 160 Yet _Men of Sense_ forget when they _compose_, } And Father DRYDEN's Lines are sometimes _Prose_. } A _vary'd Stile_ do various Works require, This _soft_ as _Air_, and _tow'ring_ that as _Fire_. None than th' _Epistle_ goes more _humbly_ drest, Tho _neat_ 'twou'd be, and _decent_ as the _best_. Such as th' ingenious _Censor_ may invite } Oft to return with eager _Appetite_; } So HORACE wrote, and so I'd _wish_ to write. } Nor _creeps_ it always, but can _mount_ and _rise_, 170 And with _bold Pinions_ sail along the Skies. The self-same Work of _different Style_ admits, Now _soft_, now _loud_, as best the _Matter_ fits: So Father THAMES from unexhausted _Veins_, Moves _clean_ and _equable_ along the _Plains_; Yet still of different _Depth_ and _Breadth_ is found, And _humours_ still the _Nature_ of the _Ground_. [Sidenote: _Reading_.] READING will mend your Style and raise it higher, And _Matter_ find to feed th' _Immortal Fire_: But if you would the _Vulgar Herd_ excel, 180 And justly gain the _Palm_ of _Writing well_, Wast not your Lamp in scanning _Vulgar Lines_, Where _groveling_ all, or _One in twenty_ shines; With _Prudence_ first among the _Antients_ chuse, The _noblest_ only, and the _best_ peruse; Such HOMER is, such VIRGIL's sacred Page, Which _Death_ defie, nor yield to _Time_ or _Age_; New _Beauties_ still their _Vigorous Works_ display, Their _Fruit_ still _mellows_, but can ne'er _decay_. The _Modern Pens_ not altogether slight, 190 Be _Master_ of your _Language_ e'er you write! _Immortal_ TILLOTSON with Judgment scan, "That _Man of Praise, that something more than Man_!" Ev'n those who hate his _Ashes_ this advise, } As from black Shades resplendent Lightning flies, } _Unwilling Truths_ break through a _Cloud of Lies_. } He _Words_ and _Things_ for _mutual Aid_ design'd, Before at _Variance_, in just _Numbers_ join'd; He always _soars_, but never's _out of sight_, He taught us how to _Speak_, and _Think_, and _Write_. 200 If _English Verse_ you'd in _Perfection_ see, ROSCOMMON read, and _Noble_ NORMANDY: We _borrow_ all from their _exhaustless Store_, Or little say they have not said _before_. _Poor Insects_ of a _Day_, we toil and strive To creep from _Dust_ to _Dust_, and think we _live_; These weak _imperfect Beings_ scarce enjoy E'er _Death's_ rude Hand our _blooming Hopes_ destroy: With _Lynx's_ Eyes each others _Faults_ we find, But to our _own_ how few who are not _blind_? 210 How _long is Art_, how _short_, alas! our _Time_! } How few who can above the _Vulgar_ climb, } Whose _stronger Genius_ reach the _True Sublime_! } With _tedious Rules_ which we our selves transgress, We make the _Trouble more_ who strive to make it _less_. But meanly why do you your _Fate_ deplore, Yet still write on?--Why do a _Thousand_ more, Who for their _own_ or some _Forefathers_ Crime Are _doom'd_ to wear their _Days_ in _beating Rhime_? But this a _Noble Patron_ will redress, 220 And make you _better write_, tho you _write less_: Whate'er a _discontented Mind_ pretends, _Distinguish'd Worth_ can rarely miss of _Friends_: Do but _excel_, and he'll at last arise Who from the _Dust_ may lift thee to the _Skies_; For his _own Sake_ will his _Protection_ grant; What _Horace_ e'er did yet _Mecænas_ want? Or if the _World_ its _Favours_ should refuse, With _barren Smiles_ alone _reward_ thy Muse; Be thy _own Patron_, thou no more wilt need, 230 For all will _court_ thee if thy _Works succeed_; At least the few _Good Judges_ will commend, And _secret growing Praise_ thy Steps attend. Who shew'd _Columbus_ where the _Indies_ lay? True to thy self, _charge through_, and _force_ to _Fame_ the way! If _Envy snarl_, indulge it no _Reply_, Write _better_ still, and let it _burst_ and _die_! Rest pleas'd if you can please the _Wiser Few_, Since _to please all is more than Heav'n it self can do_. There are who _can_ whate'er they _will_ believe, 240 That _Bail's_ too hard for _Beady_, _Three_ are _Five_: That Nature, Justice, Reason, Truth must fall, With _Clear Idea's_ they'll _confound_ 'em all: That _Parallels_ may _travel_ till they _meet_; _Faith_ they can find in L----, no _Sense_ in STILLINGFLEET. Disturb 'em not, but let 'em still enjoy Th' _unenvy'd Charms_ of their _Eternal Moi_. If to the _craggy Top of Fame_ you rise, Those who are _lab'ring after_ ne'er _despise_. Nor those _above_ on _Honours_ dazling Seat } 250 Tho _disoblig'd_, with _sawcy Rudeness_ treat, } _Revenge_ not always is _below the Great_. } Their _Stronger Genius_ may o'er thine prevail: _Wit, Power_ and _Anger_ join'd but rarely fail. Tho _Eagles_ would not chuse to _hawk_ at _Flies_ } They'd _snap_ 'em, should their _buzzing Swarms_ arise } Importunate, and hurt their _Sun bright Eyes_. } Nor should the _Muses Birds_ at _random_ fly, And _strike_ at all, lest if they strike _they die_. Why should we still be _lazily content_ 260 With thredbare _Schemes_, and nothing _new_ invent? All _Arts_ besides _improve, Sea, Air_ and _Land_ } Are every day with _nicer Judgment_ scan'd, } And why should _this_ alone be at a _stand_? } Or _Nature_ largely to the _Ancients_ gave And little did for _younger Children_ save; Or rather we _impartial Nature_ blame To hide our _Sloth_, and cover o'er our _Shame_; As _Sinners_, when their _Reason's_ drown'd in _Sense_, Fall out with _Heav'n_, and quarrel _Providence_. 270 Yet should you our _Galenic Way_ despise, And some _new Colbatch_ of the _Muses_ rise; No _Quarter_ from the _College_ hope, who sit _Infallible_ at _Will's_ and judg of _Sense_ and _Wit_: Keep fair with these, or _Fame_ you _court_ in vain, A strict _Neutrality_ at least _maintain_! Speak, like the wise _Italian_, well of all; Who knows into what _Hands_ he's doom'd to _fall_? Write _oft_ and _much_, at _first_, if you'd _write well_, For he who ne'er _attempts_ will ne'er _excel_; 280 _Practice_ will _file_ your _Verse_, your _Thoughts refine_, And _Beauty_ give, and _Grace_ to every Line: The _Gnat_ to fam'd _�neis_ led the way, And our _Immortal_ COWLEY once did _play_. Let not the _Sun of Life_ in vain decline, Or _Time_ run _waste; No Day without a Line_. Yet learn by me, my Friend, from _Errors_ past; O never _write_, or never _Print_ in _Haste_! The _worst Excuse_ Ill Authors e'er advance, Which does, like _Lies_, a _single Guilt_ enhance. 290 Lay by your _Work_, and leave it on the _Loom_, Which if at _mod'rate distance_ you resume, A _Father's Fondness_ you'll with Ease look through, And _Objects_ in a proper _Medium_ view. 'Tis _Time_ alone can _Strength_ and _Ripeness_ give; A _Hasty Birth_ can ne'er expect to _live_. Fly, _low_ at first, you'll with Advantage _rise_; This _pleases_ all, as that will all _surprize_. [Sidenote: _The Subject_.] No _Work_ attempt but where your _Strength_ you know, Be _Master of your Subject_, _Thoughts_ will _flow_: 300 The _newer_ 'tis, the _choicer Fruit_ 'twill yield, More _Room_ you have to work if _large_ your _Field_; The _Sponge_ you oftner than the _Pen_ will want, And rather _Reason_ see to _prune_ than _plant_; Yet where the _Thoughts_ are _barren, weak_ and _thin_, New _Cyons_ should be neatly _grafted_ in. [Sidenote: _A Judge_.] If you with _Friend_ or _Enemy_ are blest, Your _Fancy's Offspring_ ne'er can want a _Test_, Tho _Both_, perhaps may _overshoot_ the _Mark_: First _Spite_ with _Envy_ charges in the _Dark_; 310 _Unread_ they _damn_, and into _Passion_ fall, 'Tis _Stuff_, 'tis _Blasphemy_ 'tis _Nonsense_ all; They _sleep_ (when _doz'd before_) at every _Line_, } While your more _dang'rous Friend_ exclaims,--'Tis fine, } 'Tis _furiously Delightful_, 'tis _Divine_; } Th' _inspiring God's_ in ev'ry Page confess'd; A COWLEY or a DRYDEN at the least! Yet you'll from _both_ an _equal Judgment_ frame And stand the _nearest Candidate_ for _Fame_: What _Envy praises_, or what _Friends dislike_, 320 This bears the _Test_, and that the _Sponge_ should strike. Chuse to be _absent_ when your _Cause_ is try'd, Lest _Favour_ should the _partial Judge_ misguide; Not _others Thoughts_ implicitly prefer, Your _Friend's_ a _Mortal_, and like _you_, may _err_. Upon the _last Appeal_ let _Reason_ sit, And _here_, let _all Authority_ submit. Divest your _self of self_ whate'er you can, And think the _Author_ now some _other Man_. A thousand trivial _Lumber-Thoughts_ will come, 330 A thousand _Fagot-Lines_ will crowd for room; _Reform_ your _Troops_, and no _Exemption_ grant, You'll gain in _Strength_, what you in _Numbers_ want. Nor yet _Infallibility_ pretend; He still _errs on_ who thinks he ne'er can _mend_: Reject that _hasty_, that _presumptuous Thought_! None e'er but VIRGIL wrote without a _Fault_; (Or _none_ he has, or none that _I can find_, Who, dazzled with his _Beauties_, to his _Moles_ am blind.) Who has the _least_ is _happiest_, he the _best_, 340 Who _owns_ and _mends_ where he has once _transgrest_. Nor will _good Writers smaller Blots_ despise, Lest those neglected should to _Crimes_ arise; Such _Venial Sins_ indulg'd will _mortal_ prove, At least they from _Perfection_ far remove. Nor _Critical Exactness_ here deride, It looks like _Sloth_ or _Ignorance_, or _Pride_; _Good Sense_ is spoild in _Words unapt_ exprest, And _Beauty_ pleases more when 'tis _well drest_. [Sidenote: _Method_.] Forget not METHOD if the _Prize_ you'd gain, 350 'Twill cost you _Thought_, but richly pays the _Pain_; What _first_, what _second_, or what _last_ to place, What here will _shine_, and there the _Work_ disgrace. Before you build, your MODEL justly lay, And ev'ry Part in _Miniature_ survey; Where airy _Terraces_ shall threat the _Skies_, Where _Columns_ tow'r, or neat _Pilasters_ rise; Where cool _Cascades_ come _roaring_ down the Hill, Or where the _Crystal Nymph_ a _mossie Bason_ fill: What _Statues_ are to grace the _Front_ design'd, 360 And how to throw the _meaner Rooms_ behind. Draw the _Main Strokes_ at first, 'twill shew your _Skill_, _Life-Touches_ you may add whene'er you will. Ev'n _Chance_ will sometimes all our _Art_ excel, The _angry Foam_ we ne'er can _hit_ so well. A _sudden Thought_, all beautiful and bright, Shoots in and _stunns_ us with _amazing Light_; Secure the _happy Moment_ e'er 'tis past, Not _Time_ more _swift_, or _Lightning_ flies so fast. All must be _free_ and _easie_, or in vain 370 You _whip_ and _spur_, and the _wing'd Courser_ strain: When _foggy Clouds_ hang _bellying_ in the _Skies_, Or _fleety Boreas_ through th' _Horizon_ flies; He then, whose _Muse_ produces ought that's _fine_, His _Head_ must have a _stronger Turn_ than mine: Like _Sybils Leaves_ the _Train of Thoughts_ are rang'd, Which by _rude Winds_ disturb'd, are _nothing_ if they're chang'd. Or are there too in _Writing softer Hours_? Or is't that _Matter_ nobler _Mind_ o'erpow'rs, Which boasts her _native Liberty_ in vain, 380 In _Mortal Fetters_ and a _Slavish Chain_? _Death_ only can the _Gordian Knot_ divide, } Tho by what secret wondrous _Bands_ 'tis ty'd, } Ev'n _Reason's_ self must own she can't decide: } For as the _rapid Tides_ of _Matter_ turn } We're fann'd with _Pleasure_ or with _Anger_ burn, } We _Love_ and _Hate_ again, we _Joy_ and _Mourn_. } Now the swift _Torrent_ high and headstrong grows, _Shoots_ through the Dykes, and all the Banks _o'erflows_; Strait the _capricious Waters_ backward fly, The _Pebbles_ rake and leave the Bottom _dry_; 390 Watch the _kind Hour_ and seize the _rising Flood_, Else will your _dreggy Poem_ taste of _Mud_. Hence old and batter'd _Hackneys_ of the _Stage_, By long Experience render'd _Wise_ and _Sage_, With pow'rful _Juices_ restive Nature urge, Or else with _Bays_ of old, they _bleed_ and _purge_; Thence, as the _Priestess_ from her _Cave_ inspir'd, When to his _Cell_ the _rancid God_ retir'd, _Double Entendres_ their fond _Audience_ blind, Their _boasted Oracles_ abuse Mankind: 400 _False Joys_ around their _Hearts_ in _Slumbers_ play, And the warm _tingling Blood_ steals fast away; The _Soul_ grows _dizzy_, lost in _Senses Night_, And melts in pleasing _Pain_ and vain _Delight_. Not that the _sowrest Critick_ can reprove The _soft_ the moving _Scenes_ of _Virtuous Love_: _Life's Sunny Morn_, which wears, alas! too fast; _Pity_ it e'er should _hurt_, or should not _always last_! Has _Bankrupt Nature_ then no _more_ to give, Or by a _Trick_ persuades Mankind to _live_? 410 No--when with _Prudence_ join'd 'tis still the _same_ } Or _ripens_ into _Friendship's_ nobler _Name_, } The _Matter_ pure, immortal is the _Flame_. } No _Fool_, no _Debauchee_ could ever prove The _honest Luxury of Virtuous Love_; Then _curs'd_ are those who that _fair Name_ abuse, And holy _Hymen's_ sacred _Fillets_ loose; Who _poison Fountains_, and _infect_ the _Air_, _Ruine_ the _Witty_, and _debauch_ the _Fair_; With _nauseous Images_ their _Scenes_ debase 420 At once their Country's _Ruine_ and _Disgrace_. _Weigh_ well each _Thought_ if all be _Just_ and _Right_, For those must clearly _think_ who clearly _write_. Nothing _obscure_, _equivocal_, or _mean_, Much less what is or _impious_ or _obscene_: Altho the tempting _Serpent_ play his part, And wind in _glitt'ring Folds_ around thy _Heart_; Reject the _trait'rous Charmer_, tear him thence, And keep thy _Vertue_ and thy _Innocence_. [Sidenote: _The Manchinel, or Eves Apple_.] In wild _America's_ rank _Champaign_ grows 430 A _Tree_ which _Europe_ oft too dearly knows; It rises high in _cool inchanting Groves_, Whose green broad Leaves the fainting _Trav'ler_ loves; _Fair_ is the treach'rous _Fruit_, and charms your _Eye_, But ah! beware! for if you _taste_ you _die_. Too well alas! it _thrives_ when _planted_ here, Its deadly Branches shade our _Theatre_. Of _Mesures, Numbers, Pauses_ next I sing, And rest the breathless _Muse_ with cautious _Wing_: Of _Embryo Thoughts_, unripen'd yet by Time, 440 The Rules of _Verse_, of _Quantity_ and _Rhime_: With trembling Steps through _Shades_ unknown I stray, And mark a _rugged_ and a _dubious_ way; Yet some small _glimm'ring Light_ will hence be show'd, And future _Trav'lers_ may enlarge the _Road_. [Sidenote: _Measure_.] Of CHAUCER'S Verse we scarce the _Measures_ know, So _rough_ the _Lines_, and so _unequal_ flow; Whether by Injury of _Time_ defac'd, Or _careless_ at the _first_, and writ in _haste_; Or _coursly_, like old _Ennius_, he _design'd_ 450 What After-days have _polish'd_ and _refin'd_. SPENCER more _smooth_ and _neat_, and none than He Could better skill of _English Quantity_; Tho by his _Stanza_ cramp'd, his _Rhimes_ less chast, And _antique Words_ affected all disgrac'd; Yet _vast_ his _Genius, noble_ were his _Thoughts_, Whence equal Readers wink at _lesser_ Faults. From _France_ their _Alexandrins_ we receive Which more of _Liberty_ and _Compass_ give; Hence by our dull Translators were they us'd, 460 Nor CHAPMAN nor old STERNHOLD these refus'd; They borrow from _Hexameters_ their _Feet_, Which with _Asclepiads_ and _Iambicks_ meet; Yet in the midst we still a _Weakness_ see, Their _Music_ gives us no _Variety_. More _num'rous_ the _Pentameter_ and _strong_, Which to our _Saxon Fathers_ did belong. In this their antient _Edda_[1] seems to write, _Mysterious Rhimes_, and _horrid_ to the _sight_: Their _Runic Staves_ in this on _Rocks_ engrav'd, 470 Which long th' Assaults of _Time_ it self have brav'd. In this our antient _British Bards_ delight; } And, if I measure his _rough Numbers_ right, } In this old _Taliessin_ us'd to Write[2]. } This still _Possession_ keeps, few else we read, And _Right_ as well as _Fact_ may justly plead; Altho the _French Intruders_ oft pursue Their _baffled Title_, and their _Claim_ renew; Too oft _Impressions_ on our _Armies_ make, Cut off our _Straglers_ and our _Out-Guards_ take, 480 Which lazily our Authors now admit, And call th' _Excursions of Luxuriant Wit_; With _Badger-Feet_ the two-top'd _Mount_ we climb, And stalk from _Peak_ to _Peak_ on _Stilts of Rime_. Sweet WALLER'S _Dimeter_ we most approve For cheerful _Songs_ and _moving Tales of Love_, Which for _Heroic Subjects_ wants of _Strength_, Too _short_, as _Alexandrins_ err in _Length_. Our _Ear's_ the Judge of _Cadence_; nicely weigh What _Consonants_; rebel, and what obey; 490 What _Vowels_ mixt compose a pleasing _Sound_, And what the tender _Organs_ grate and wound. Nor at thy Reader's _Mercy_ chuse to lie, Nor let _his Judgment_ want of _thine_ supply: So _easie_ let thy _Verse_ so _smoothly_ fall, They must be read _aright_ if read at all. [Sidenote: _Numbers_.] Nor _equal Numbers_ will for all suffice, The _Sock_ creeps low, the _Tragic Bushkins_ rife; None knew this _Art_ so well, so well did use As did the _Mantuan Shepherd's_ Heav'nly Muse: 500 He marry'd _Sound and Sense_, at odds before, We hear his _Scylla bark, Charybdis roar_; And when in Fields his _Fiery Coursers_ meet The _hollow Ground_ shakes underneath their feet: Yet nicer _Ears_ can taste a _Diff'rence_ when Of _Flocks_ and _Fields_ he _sings_ or _Arms_ and _Men_. If I our _English Numbers_ taste aright, We in the grave _Iambic_ most delight: Each _second_ Syllable the Voice should _rest_, _Spondees_ may serve, but still th' _Iambic's_ best: 510 Th' unpleasing _Trochee_ always makes a _Blot_, And lames the _Numbers_; or, if this forgot, A strong _Spondaic_ should the _next_ succeed, The feeble _Wall_ will a good _Buttress_ need: Long _Writing, Observation, Art_ and _Pain_ Must here unite if you the _Prize_ would gain. [Sidenote: _Pauses_.] _Pause_ is the _Rest_ of _Voice_, the poor _Remains_ Of _antient Song_ that still our _Verse_ retains: The _second Foot_ or _third's_ our usual _Rest_, Tho more of _Art's_ in _varying_ oft exprest. 520 At ev'ry Word the _Pause_ is sometimes[3] made, And wond'rous _Beauty_ every where displaid: --But here we _guess_, and _wander_ in the _dark_; How should a hoodwink'd _Archer_ hit the Mark? The little _Glimpse_ that DRYDEN gives, is more Than all our _careless Writers_ knew before; A few _Chance Lines_ may smooth and roundly fly, But still no Thanks to us, we know not why. He finds _Examples_, we the _Rule_ must make, Tho who without a Guide may not mistake? 530 [4] "_Tho deep yet clear, tho gentle yet not dull, Strong without Rage, without o'er flowing full._" If we that _famous Riddle_ can unty, Their brightest _Beauties_ in the _Pauses_ lie, To Admiration _vary'd_; next to these The _Numbers_ justly order'd charm and please: Each _Word_, each happy _Sound_ is big with _Sense_, They all _deface_ who take one _Letter_ thence. [Sidenote: _Quantity_.] But little more of _Quantity_ we know Than what our _Accent_ does, and _Custom_ show: 540 The _Latin Fountains_ often we forsake, As they the _Greek_; nay _diff'rent Ages_ take A _diff'rent Path; Perfùme_ and _Envy_ now We say, which _Ages past_ would scarce allow: If no _Position_ make our _Accent_ strong Most _Syllables_ are either _short_ or _long_. [Sidenote: _Rhime_.] _Primitive Verse_ was grac'd with pleasing _Rhimes_, The _Blank_ a lazy Fault of _After-times_; Nor need we other proof of this to plead With those the sacred [5] _Hebrew Hymns_ can _read_: 550 If this to _lucky Chance_ alone be _due_, Why _Rhime_ they not in _Greek_ and _Latin_ too? [6] PINDAR at first his ancient _Copy_ trac'd, And sometimes equal _Sounds_ his _Numbers_ grac'd; Till with the more than _human Labour_ tir'd, He _drop'd_ his _Rhime_, and own'd him _uninspir'd_. ORPHEUS and HOMER too, who first did dream Of _num'rous Gods_, and left the _One Supreme, Religion_ both and _Poetry_ did wrong, _Apostatiz'd_ from _Rhime_, and lost the _Soul of Song_. 560 Yet still some weak and glimm'ring _Sparks_ remain'd, And still our _Great Forefathers_ this retain'd; Nor _Inundations_ of _Barbarian Rome_, Our ancient _Rhime_ could wholly overcome. [Sidenote: _Vide p._ 13.] Ne'er _cramp_ thy _Reason_ for some paltry _Chime_, Nor sacrifice _Good Sense_ to _Numbers_ and to _Rhime_: Both may be _sav'd_ and made _good Friends_; and here The Poets _Art_ and _Happiness_ appear: But when some _stubborn Word_ denies to draw In _Numbers_, and defies the _Muses Law_, 570 Reject it strait, unworthy such a _Grace_, Another _yoke_ which better fills the _Place_: Much _Reading_ will thy _Poverty_ amend And _Taggs_ without the help of _Crambo_ lend. The _Double Rhime_ is _antiquated_ grown, Or us'd in _Satyr_ or _Burlesque_ alone; Nor loves our stronger _Tongue_ that tinkling _Chime_, The _Darling_ of the _French_, a _Female Rhime_. Now, daring _Muse_! attempt a _stronger Flight_, Beyond a _Vulgar Verser's_ cautious Height, 580 Beyond thy self, and consecrate to _Fame_ } Those who a _Title_ to the _Laurel_ claim, } And may to after-times _embalm_ thy Name; } Commend the _Good_, to all but _Vice_ be kind, And cast the _smaller Faults_ in _shades_ behind; Who _first_, who _next_; the _Balance_ justly hold, As that which shines above, and flames with _Heav'nly Gold_. Great N----BY the first, ROSCOMMON gone, He rules our _Empire_ now of _Wit_ alone: The _Beauties_ he of _Verse_ exactly knows, 590 The famous DRYDEN'S not more smoothly flows: Had ORPHEUS half so sweetly mourn'd his _Fate_, As VIRGIL sung, or _Sh----d_ did _translate_; H' had made the _Manes_ once again _relent_, They would again _Eurydice_ have sent: _Death's Temple_ we with _sacred Aw_ survey, With _Admiration_ read his _Great Essay_: Was _Art_ or bounteous _Nature_ here more _kind_? } _Strong Sense_! Uncommon _Learning! Thoughts_ refin'd! } 600 A _Godlike Person_, and an _equal Mind_! } [Sidenote: _Paraphrase on_ Psal. 148 O Azure Vaults, &c.] The _next_ in Dignity, if not the _same_, Is Deathless Dorsot's lov'd and noble _Name_: How did he sing, (listen'd the _Heav'nly Quire_;) The Wond'rous Notes of DAVID's _Royal Lyre_! Ah! _Why no more_ must we for ever long And vainly languish for so _sweet_ a _Song_? The next is _Tityrus_, who not disdains To read his _Name_ among the _tuneful Swains_; _Unweary'd_ in his _Prince's_ glorious _Cause_, 610 As he of _Faith_, Defender of the _Laws_; _Easie_ to all but to himself, he shares His Monarch's _Favours_, and his Monarch's _Cares_: His flowing _Language_ cloaths his _massie Sense_, } Nor makes with _pompous Words_ a vain pretence, } _Sound_ without _Soul_, to _Wit_ and _Eloquence_. } Tho _Great_, he's still the same he was before: --I _sue for nothing_, and I'll say no more. _Montague_ left the _Muses_ peaceful _Seat_, And bore the _Cares_ and _Honours_ of the _Great_: 620 The _Pollio_ he of our _Augustan_ days, Who _Wit_ rewards with more than _hungry Praise_; _True Worth_ his _Patronage_ can never miss, He has his _Prince's Smiles_ and _that_ has _his_. Nor should he pass unprais'd whom all admire, Who, mixt with _Seraphs_, rules the _Western_ Quire; _Flowing_ and _pure_ his unexhausted _Vein_, As Silver _Thames_, which, rolling down the _Plain_, Salutes his _Sacred Dome_.---- But those _profane_ who meanly thus _commend_, 630 Th' _Immortal Cowley's_ and the _Muses_ Friend. Of _matchless_ DRYDEN only _Dryden's_ Skill Could justly say enough,--of _Good_ or _Ill_. _Envy_ must own he has our _Tongue refin'd_, And manly _Sense_ with tend'rest _Softness_ join'd: His _Verse_ would _Stones_ and _Trees_ with _Soul_ inspire, As did the _Theban_ and the _Thracian_ Lyre: His youthful _Fire_ within, like _Etna, glows_, Tho _Venerable Age_ around his Temples _snows_: If from the _modern_ or the _antient_ Store 640 He _borrows_ ought, he always _pays_ 'em more: So much _improv'd_, each _Thought_, so _fine_ appears, WALLER or OVID scarce durst own 'em _theirs_. The Learned _Goth_ has scowr'd all _Europe_'s Plains, } _France, Spain_, and fruitful _Italy_ he _drains_, } From every Realm and every Language _gains_: } His _Gains_ a _Conquest_ are, and not a _Theft_; He wishes still new _Worlds_ of _Wit_ were left: Thus _haughty Rome_, when, all the _Firm_ surpass'd, Her _Eagles_ found our _moated World_ at last; 650 Touching upon th' _unhospitable_ Coast, _Good Laws_ bestow'd for our _wild Freedom_ lost; With _Arts of Peace_ our stubborn Soil manur'd, And _naked Limbs_ from _Frost_ and _Sun_ secur'd: --But ah' how _dear_ the _Price_ of all we gain! } What _Shoals of Vices_ with 'em cross'd the Main? } What _Pride_, what _Luxury_, a foul, an odious Train? } Who weighs, like _Galcacus_, the _Good_ with _Ill_, Would wish they'd let us been _Barbarians_ still: Such _thankless Pains Ignatian Firebrands_ take 660 An _honest Pagan_ spoil, and a _bad Christian_ make. Blest be kind Heav'n, which wrap'd me in a _Gown_, And drew me early from the _fatal Town_! And blest _Her Name_, to endless Ages blest, Who gave my weary _Muse_ this calm _Retreat_ and _Rest_. True to my God, my Country, and my Friend, } Here, may I Life, not _wholly useless_, spend, } _Steal_ through the World, and _smiling_ meet my _End_! } I envy not _Great Dryden_'s loftier Strain } Of _Arms_ and _Men_ design'd to entertain, } 670 _Princes_ and _Courts_, so I but please the _Plain_: } Nor would I barter _Profit_ for _Delight_, Nor would have _writ like him, like him to write_. If there's _Hereafter_, and a last _Great Day_, What _Fire_'s enough to _purge_ his _Stains_ away? How will he _wish_ each _lewd_ applauded _Line_ } Which makes _Vice pleasing_, and _Damnation shine_, } Had been as _dull_ as honest _Quarles_ or _mine_! } With _sixty Years of Lewdness_ rest content! It mayn't be yet _too late_, O yet _Repent_! 680 Ev'n _Thee_ our _injur'd Altar_ will receive; While yet there's _Hopes_ fly to its _Arms_ and live! So shall for _Thee_ their _Harps_ the _Angels_ string, And the _Returning Prodigal_ shall sing; New _Joys_ through all the _Heav'nly Host_ be shown In _Numbers_ only _sweeter_ than thy _own_. CONGREVE from _Ireland_ wond'ring we receive, } Would he the _Town's loose way_ of Writing leave, } More Worth than all their Forfeit Lands will give: } _Justness_ of _Thought_, a _Courtly Style_, and clear, 690 And well-wrought _Passions_ in his _Works_ appear: None knows with _finer Strokes_ our Souls to move, And as he please we _smile_, or _weep_, or _love_. When _Dryden_ goes, 'tis he must fill the _Chair_, _With_ Congreve _only_ Congreve _can compare_. Yet, tho he _natural_ is as untaught Loves, His _Style_ as _smooth_ as _Cytherea_'s Doves, When e'er unbyass'd _Judges_ read him o'er, He sometimes _nodds_, as _Homer_ did before: Some Lines his most _Admirers_ scarce would please, 700 Nor _B----_'s Verse alone could _raise Disease_.[7] For _smooth_ and _well turn'd Lines_ we _T----_ admire, Who has in _Justness_ what he wants in _Fire_: Each _Rhime_, each _Syllable_ well-weigh'd and fair, His _Life_ and _Manners_ scarce more _regular_. With _Strength_ and _Flame_ prodigious _D----s_ writes Of _Loves_ lost _Wars_, and cruel martial _Fights_: Scarce LEE himself strove with a _mightier Load_, Or _labour'd_ more beneath th' _Incumbent God_: Whate'er of old to _Rome_ or _Athens_ known, 710 What _France_ or _We_ have _glean'd_, 'tis all his _own_. How few can equal _Praise_ with _C----ch_ obtain, Who made _Lucretius smooth_, and _chast_, and _plain_? Courted by _Fame_ he could her _Charms_ despise, } Still woo'd by that _false Fair_ he still denies, } And press'd, for _Refuge_ to the _Altar_ flies; } Like _votive Tablets_ offers up his _Bays_, "_And leaves to our lewd Town the Drudgery of Plays_." In lofty _Raptures_, born on Angels Wings } Above the _Clouds_, above _Castalian Springs_, } 720 N---- inspir'd, of God and _Nature_ sings; } And if one _Glance_ on this _poor World_ he throw, If e'er he mind the _Croud_ and _Buzz_ below; Pities our _fruitless Pains_ for _Fame_ and _Praise_, And wonders why we _drudge_ for _Crowns_ and _Bays_. Could _B_---- be _sober_, many he'd excel, Few know the _Antients_, or could use so well; But ah! his _Genius_ with his _Virtue's_ fled, Condemn'd to _Want of Grace_ and _Want of Bread_. Ev'n Envy _B----re's Subject_ must confess } 730 _Exact_ and _rare_, a _curious Happiness_, } Nor many could the _Fable better dress_: } Of _Words_ what _Compass_, and how vast a _Store_! His _Courage_ and his _Vertue's_ only more: More various _Scenes of Death_ his _Fights_ display Then _Aghrim's_ Field or _London's_ fatal Day: Let beauteous _Elda's Tears_ and _Passion_ prove His _Soul_ is not _unknowing how to love_: Disrob'd of _Clouds_ he view'd the _Stagyrite_ As _Nature_ he, confess'd to _Human sight_: His _Rules_ surveys, and traces to their _Springs_, } 740 Where the _blind Bard_ of flaming _Ilium_ sings; } Thence with the _Mantuan Swan_ in narrower Rings, } Tho more _exact_, he, stooping from his height, Reviews the same _fierce Wars_ and _Gods_ and _Heroes_ fight: That beauteous antient _Palace_ he surveys } Which _Maro's Hands_ had only Strength to raise, } _Models_ from thence, and _copies_ every _Grace_: } Each _Page_ is big with _Virgil's Manly Thought_, To _follow him too near's a glorious Fault_. He dar'd be _virtuous_ in the _World's_ Despite, 750 _While_ D----n _lives he dar'd a Modest Poem write_. Who can th' ingenious S----y's Praise refuse, Who serves a grateful _Prince_, and grateful _Muse_? Or _P----r_ read unmov'd, whose every _Page_ So just a _Standard_ to the opening _Age_? Neat _S----n_'s courtly _Vein's_ correct and clear, Nor shall he miss his _Praise_ and _Station_ here: Nor should the _rest_ whom I _unnam'd_ must leave, (Tho such _Omission_ they'll with ease _forgive_:) 760 _Unknown_ to me, let each his _Works_ commend, Since _Virtue, Praise_, as _Shame_ does _Vice_ attend. _Poets_, like _Leaves_ and _Words_, their _Periods_ know, Now _fresh_ and _green_, now _sear_ and wither'd grow; Or _burnt_ by _Autumn's_ Heat, and _Winter's_ Cold, Or a _new hasty Birth_ shoves off the _old_. Happy are those, and such are _some_ of ours, } Who blest by bounteous _Heav'n's_ indulgent _Show'rs_ } Bear wholsome _Fruit_, and not gay _pois'nous Flow'rs_: } Who would not ev'n a _Lawreat's self_ commence 770 Or at their _Virtue's_ or their _Faith's_ Expence: Renounce their _Creed_ to save a _wretched Play_, } And for a _crowded House_ and _full Third Day_ } At one _bold Stroke_ throw all their _Heav'n_ away. } What gain'd _Euripides_ by all his _Sense_, Who madly rail'd against a _Providence_? _Apostate Poets_ first seduc'd _Mankind_, _But ours upon the Pagan Herd refin'd_; They Vertue _prais'd_ at least, which ours _abuse_, And more than _Paganize_ the Heav'n-born Muse: 780 No Signs of _Grace_, or of _Repentance_ show, Like _Strumpets lash'd_, more _impudent_ they grow. Now learn, my Friend, and freely I'll impart My _little All_ in this delightful Art: Of _Poetry_ the various _Forms_ and _Kinds_, The widest, strongest _Grasp_ of human Minds: Not _all_ from _all_, but _some_ from _each_ I take, Since we a _Garland_ not a _Garden_ make. [Sidenote: _Epic_.] EPIC's the _first_ and _best_, which mounting sings } In _Mighty Numbers worthy mighty Things_, } 790 Of _High Adventures, Heroes, Gods_ and _Kings_: } By lively _Schemes_ the Mind to _Vertue_ forms, And far beyond _unactive Precept_ warms. The _Subject_ may be either _feign'd_ or _true_, _Too Old_ it should not be, but less _too New_: _Narration_ mixt with _Action_ most delights, _Intrigues_ and _Councils_, vary'd _Games_ and _Fights_: Nothing so _long_ as may the Reader _tire_, But all the just well-mingled _Scenes_ admire. Your _Heroe_ may be _virtuous_, must be _brave_; Nothing that's _mean_ should his great Soul enslave: Yet Heav'ns unequal _Anger_ he may _fear_, And for his _suffering Friends_ indulge a _Tear_: Thus when the _Trojans Navy_ scatter'd lay He _wept_, he _trembled_, and to Heav'n did _pray_; But when bright _Glory beckon'd_ from afar, And _Honour_ call'd him out to meet the _War_; Like a fierce _Torrent_ pouring o'er the _Banks_, Or _Mars_ himself, he _thunders_ through the _Ranks_; _Death_ walks before, while he a _Foe_ could find, 810 _Horror_ and _Ruine_ mark long frightful _Lanes_ behind. [Sidenote: _Machines_.] For _worn_ and _old_ MACHINES few Readers care, They're like the _Pastboard Chaos in the Fair_: If ought surprizing you expect to shew, The _Scenes_ if not the _Persons_ should be _new_: With _both_ does MILTON'S wondrous Scheme begin, The _Pandemonium, Chaos, Death_ and _Sin_; Which _D----s_ had with like _Success_ assay'd, } Had not the _Porch_ of _Death's Grim Court_ been made } Too _wide_, and there th' impatient _Reader_ staid. } 820 And _G----h_, tho _barren_ is his _Theme_ and _mean_, By this has _reach'd_ at least the fam'd _Lutrine_. If _tir'd_ with such a plenteous _Feast_ you call For a far meaner _Banquet_, _Meal_ and _Wall_; The _best_ I have is _yours_, tho 'tis too _long_, And what's behind will into _Corners_ throng. A _Place_ there is, if _Place_ 'tis nam'd aright, } Where scatter'd _Rays_ of pale and sickly _Light_, } Fringe o'er the _Confines_ of _Eternal Night_. } _Shorn_ of their _Beams_ the _Sun_ and _Phoebe_ here 830 Like the _fix'd Stars_, through _Glasses_ view'd, appear; Or those faint _Seeds of Light_, which just display Ambiguous Splendor round the _milky Way_; The _Waste_ of _Chaos_, whose _Auguster_ Reign Does those more barren doubtful Realms disdain: Here dwell those _hideous Forms_ which oft repair } To breath our upper _World's_ more _chearful_ Air } Bleak _Envy_, grinding _Pain_, and meagre _Care_; } _Disease_ and _Death_, the _Goddess_ of the _place_, _Death_, the _least frightful Form of all their Race_; 840 _Ambition, Pride_, false _Joys_ and _Hopes_ as vain, _Lewdness_ and _Luxury_ compose her Train: How large their _Interest_, and how vast their _Sway_ Amid the wide invaded Realms of _Day_! Soon would they our frail Race of _Mortals_ end, Did not kind _Heav'n_ auspicious _Succours_ lend; Sweet _Angel-Forms, Peace, Virtue, Health_ and _Love_, How near ally'd, how like to those _above_! These often drive the _Air_, those _Furies_ chace And fetter in their own _infernal Place_: 850 These lent at once NASSAW and ENGLAND Aid, And bright MARIA to our _Shores_ convey'd: Her, all their _Pow'r_ and all their _Charms_ they gave, To _govern_ what her _Heroe_ came to _save_. Nor _Envy_ this, who in her noisome Cell By _Traitors_ in their swift _Descent to Hell_, Her rising _Glories_ heard, then with a _Groan_ She crawl'd before her _Sov'reign's_ direful _Throne_: A _Pile of Sculls_ the odious _Fantom_ bore, With _Bones_ half-naked mixt, and dropping putrid _Gore_; 860 There thus--Shall _Heav'n_ defraud us of our _Reign_, And BRITAIN, only BRITAIN break her _Chain_? What can we there, while more than _mortal Grace_ Forbids our _Entrance_, and secures the _Place_? Awhile I _gaz'd_ and _viewed_ her as I _fled_, When first she came, till half my _Snakes_ were dead; And had I tarry'd longer near her _Throne_, Had soon some base _insipid Vertue_ grown: So fast the wide _progressive Ills_ increase, } If longer unoppos'd our _Power_ will cease; } 870 The base degenerate World _dissolve_ to Peace; } Our boasted _Empire_ there will soon be o'er, And _Mortals_ tremble at our _Arms_ no more. She said, her _Tidings_ all the _Court_ affright, And doubled _Horror_ fill'd the _Realms of Night_: Till out foul _Lewdness_ leap'd, and shook the Place. } The _fulsom'st Fiend_ of all th' _infernal Race_; } A crusted _Leprosie_ deform'd her _Face_; } With half a _bloodshot_ Eye the _Fury_ glar'd, Yet when for _Mischief_ she above prepar'd, 880 She _painted_ and she _dress'd_, those _Arts_ she knew, And to her _self_ her self a _Stranger_ grew, (Thus _old_ and batter'd _Bawds_ behind the Scenes, New _rigg'd_ and _dawb'd_, pass on the _Stage_ for _Queens_;) Nor yet, she cries, of _Britain_ we'll _despair_ } I've yet some _trusty Friends_ in _Ambush_ there, } All is not lost, we've still the _Theatre_: } I'll batter _Virtue_ thence, nor fear to gain } New _Subjects daily_ from her _hated Reign_; } Is not Great _D----_ ours and all his _Train_? } He knows he has new _Laurels_ here prepar'd, } 890 For those he lost _above_, a just Reward, } For his wide _Conquests_ he'll _command the Guard_: } _Headed_ by him one _Foot_ we'll scorn to yield, Tho _Virtue's_ glitt'ring _Squadrons_ drive the _Field_: Grant me, Dread _Sov'reign_! a _Detachment_ hence } We'll not be long alone on our _Defence_, } But hope to drive the proud _Assailants_ thence. } Bold _Blasphemy_ shall lead our black _Forlorn_, With _Colours_ from _Heav'n's Crystal Ramparts_ torn, And _Anti-Thunderrs_ arm'd; _Profaneness_ next 900 Their _Canon_ seize, and turn the _Sacred Text_ Against th' _Assailants_; brave _Revenge_ and _Rage_ Shall our _main Batt'ry_ ply, and guard the _Stage_. --But most I on dear _Ribaldry_ depend, We've not a _surer_ or a _stronger Friend_. Now shall she _broad_ and _open_ to the Skie, Now _close_ behind some _double Meaning_ lye; Now with _sulphureous Rivers_ lave the _French_, And choak th' _Assailants_ with infernal _Stench_; Each nicer _Vertue_ from the _Walls_ repel, 910 And _Heav'n_ it self regale with the Perfumes of _Hell_. This from the World our dreaded _Foe_ will drive, As _murm'ring Bees_ are forc'd to leave their _Hive_; _Souls_ so _refin'd_ such _Vapours_ cannot bear, But seek their _native Heav'n_ and purer Air: When _She_ and all her heav'nly _Guards_ are gone And her bright _Heroe_ absent, all's our own: If any _pious Fools_ should make a stand, To stop our _Progress_ through the conquer'd Land, They soon shall pass for _hot-brain'd Visionairs_, 920 We'll run 'em down with _Ridicule_ and _Farce_. Must they _reform_ the World! A likely _Task_! Tis _Vizard_ all, and them we'll soon _unmask_. The rest will _tumble_ in, or if they stay And loiter in _Damnation's_ ample Way, I've one _Expedient_ left, which can't but take, My last _Reserve_; From yon black _brimstone_ Lake, Whence two _Canals_ thro _subterranean Veins_ Are drawn to _Sodom_ and _Campania's_ Plains, My self I'll fill a _Vial_, and infuse 930 My very Soul amid the _potent Juice_: This _Essence_ near my _Heart_ I'll with me bear, } And this among my _dearest Fav'rites_ share, } Already _tutor'd_ by the _Theatre_; } Who pass'd those _Bugbears Conscience, Law_ and _Shame_ Have there been taught that _Virtue's_ but a _Name_: _Exalted Souls_ who _vulgar Sins_ despise; Fit for some _new discover'd_ nobler _Vice_; One _Drop_ of this their _frozen Blood_ shall warm, And _frighted Nature's feebler Guards_ disarm 930 Till their _chill Veins_ with hotter _Fevers_ glow } Than any _Etna_ or _Vesuvius_ know, } Scarce equal'd by their _Parent Flames_ below; } Till wide around the _gen'rous Canker_ spread, And _Vengeance_ draw on each _devoted Head_: Impatient _Heav'n_ it self our _Arms_ shall join, The _Skies_ again with _forky Lightnings_ shine; Till glutted _Desolation_ pants for Breath, And _guilty Shades_ shall croud the _Realms of Death_. --She said, the _Motion pleas'd_ she _wings_ away 940 And in blue _pois'nous Foggs_ invades the _Day_: Part of her _direful Threats_ too true we find, And _Heav'n_ avert the _Plagues_ that yet remain _behind_! [Sidenote: _Tragedy_.] The _Path_ which _Epic_ treads the TRAGIC Muse With _daring_ tho _unequal_ Steps pursues, A _little Epic_ shines through every _Scene_, Tho more of _Life_ appears, and less _Machine_; More _Action_, less _Narration_, more _Delight_; We _see_ the _Gods_ descend, and _Heroes_ fight. While _Oedipus_ is _raving_ on the _Stage_, 950 Mild _Pity_ enters and dissolves our _Rage_; We _low'r_ our _haughty Spirits_, our _Pride_ and _Hate_, And learn to _fear_ the sad _Reverse of Fate_. A _Tyrant's Fall_, a treach'rous _Statesman's_ End Clear the _Just Gods_, and equal _Heav'n_ defend: Ungrateful _Factions_ here themselves torment, And _bring_ those very _Ills_ they would _prevent_: Nor think the lost _Intrigues_ of _Love_ too mean To fill the _Stage_ and grace toe _Tragic Scene_! Who from the _World_ this _Salt of Nature_ takes, 960 _Twice Slaves of Kings_ of _Life_ a _Desart_ makes. The _Moral_ and _Pathetick_ neatly join'd, Are best for _Pleasure_ and for _life_ design'd. Be this in _Tragic_ an _Eternal Law_; _Bold Strokes_ and _larger_ than the _Life_ to draw: Let all be _Great_; when here a _Woman's_ seen, Paint her a _Fury_, or a _Heroine_: _Slaves, Spendthrifts_, angry _Fathers_, better fit The meaner _Sallies_ of COMEDIAN Wit; But _Courtly_ HORACE did their _Stage_ refuse, 970 Nor was it trod by _Maro's_ heav'nly Muse: A _Walk_ so _low_ their _nobler Minds_ disdain, Where _sordid Mirth's_ exchang'd for _sordid Gain_; Where, in false _Pleasure_ all the _Profit's_ drown'd, Nor _Authors_ with just _Admiration_ crown'd: Hence was the _Sock_ a Task for _servile Wit_, Course PLAUTUS hence, and neater TERENCE writ: Yet if you still your _Fortune_ long to take, And long to hear the _crouded Benches_ shake; 980 If you'd _reform_ the _Mob_, lov'd _Vice restrain_, The _Pulpits_ break, and neighb'ring _B----_ drain; Let _Heav'n_ at least, if not its _Priests_, be free, The _Bible_ sures's too _grave_ for _Comedy_: If she nor _lewdly_ nor _profanely_ talk She'll have a _cleaner_, tho a _narrower Walk_. Our Nation's _endless Humour_ will supply So large a _Fund_ as never can be _dry_; Why then should _Vice_ be _bare_ and _open_ shown, And with such _Nauseous Scenes_ affront the _Town_? 990 Why thrive the _Lewd_, their _Wishes_ seldom crost, And why _Poetic Justice_ often lost? They plead they copy _Nature_.--Don't abuse Her _sacred Name_ with such a _vile Excuse_! She wisely _hides_ what these, like Beasts _display_, } Ev'n _Vice_ it self, less _impudent_ than they, } Remote in _Shades_, and far from _conscious_ Day. } From this _Retrenchment_ by strong _Reason_ beat, They next to _poor Necessity_ retreat: The _Murderers, Bawds_ and _Robbers_ last pretence 1000 With equal _Justice_, equal _Innocence_! So _Crack_, in _pious Fit_, will plead she's _poor_, 'Tis a _hard Choice_, Good Sir, to _starve_ or _whore_! --Is there no _Third_, or will such _Reas'nings_ pass In _Bridewel's_ rigid Court, or save the _Lash_? Where the _stern Judge_, like _Radamanth_, surveys The _trembling Sinner_, and each Action _weighs_. A lazy, black, encumber'd _Stream_ rolls by, Whole thick _sulphureous Vapours_ load the Sky; Near where, in _Caves_ from _Heav'n's_ sweet _Light_ debar'd, 1010 _Shrieks, Groans_, and _Iron Whips_, and _Clanks of Chains_ are heard. And can't you _thrash_, or _trail_ a _Pike_ or _Pole_? Are there no _Jakes_ in Town, or _Kennels_ foul? No _honester Employment_, that you chuse With such _vile Drudgery_ t'abase the heav'n born _Muse_? The num'rous ODE in various _Paths_ delights, _Love, Friendship, Gods_, and _Heroes, Games_ and _Fights_: Her _Age_ with _Veneration_ is confess'd The _first great Mother_ she of all the rest, This [8]MOSES us'd, and DAVID'S Royal Lyre, } This he whom wond'ring _Seraphs_ did _inspire_, } 1020 Whence PINDAR stole some _Sparks of heav'nly Fire_, } Who now by COWLEY's happy Muse improv'd, Is _understood_ by some, by more _belov'd_: The _Vastness_ of his Thought, the daring _Range_, That imperceptible and pleasing _Change_, Our jealous _Neighbours_ must themselves confess The _British Genius_ tracks with most Success; But still the _Smoothness_ we of _Verse_ desire, The _Regulation_ of our _Native Fire_: This from experienc'd _Masters_ we receive, 1030 Sweet FLATMAN'S Works, and DRYDEN'S this will give. If you in _pointed_ SATYR most delight, _Worry_ not, where you only ought to _bite_: _Easie_ your _Style_, unstudy'd all and clear. _Prosaic Lines_ are _pardonable_ here. There are whose _Breath_ would blast the _brightest Fame_, } Who from _base Actions_ court an _odious Name_, } With _Beauty_ and with _Virtue_ War proclaim; } Who _bundle_ up the _Scandals_ of the _Town_, 1040 And in _lewd Couplets_ make it all their _own_: _Just Shame_ be _theirs_ who thus _debauch_ a _Muse_, To vile _Lampoons_ a _noble Art_ abuse: As _ill_ be _theirs_, and _half of_ DATS'_s Fate_, Who always dully rail against the _State_. _Kings_ are but _Men_, nor are their _Councils_ more, Those _Ills_ we can't _avert_ we must _deplore_: Not _many Poets_ were for _Statesmen_ made, It asks more _Brains_ than stocks the _Rhiming_ Trade: (At least, when they the _Ministry_ receive, 1050 To _Poets Militant_ their _Muse_ they leave.) All _sordid Flat'ry_ hate, it pleases none But _Tyrants_ grinning on their _Iron Throne_: Yet where wer'e rul'd with _wise_ impartial Sway, The _Muses_ should their _grateful Homage_ pay: 'Tis _base_ alike a _Tyrant's_ Name to raise, And grudg a _Parent Prince_ our _tributary Praise_. No wonder those who by _Proscriptions_ gain } In _Marian_ Days, or _Sylla's_ bloody Reign, } Of the divine _Augustus_ should complain; } 1060 Who stoops to wear a _Crown's uneasie Weight_, As _Atlas_ under Heav'n, to prop the _State_: No _Glory_ strikes his Great exalted Mind, No _Pleasure_ like obliging all Mankind; He lets the _Factious_ their weak _Malice_ vent, Punish'd enough while they themselves _torment_: _Satiate_ with _Conquest_, his dread _Sword_ he sheaths, And with a _Nod disbands ten thousand Deaths_. Who dares _Rebellious Arms_ against him move While his _Prætorian Guard_'s his Subjects _Love_? 1070 Admir'd by all the _bravest_ and the _best_, Who wear a _Roman Soul within their ample Breast_: Tho _charm'd_ with _both_, which shall they more _admire_ In _Peace_ his _Wisdom_, or in _War_ his _Fire_? --_One Labour_ yet remains, and that they _ask_, _Alcides_ never clear'd a _nobler Task_; O _Father_! banish'd _Vertue_ O restore! Let _Hydra Vice_ pollute thy _Reign_ no more! Strike through the _Monster-Form_, which threatning stands, Fierce with a _thousand Throats_, a _thousand Hands_! 1080 _Rescue_ once more thy _Trojans sacred Line_ } From _slavish Chains_, so shall thy _Temples_ shine } With _Stars_, and all _Elysium_ shall be _thine_. } _FINIS._ FOOTNOTES: [1] _Vide Edda Samundi--apud Sheringham, de Gentis Anglorum Origine, pag._ 28, 29. _Hiaelp beiter eitt eun thad thier hialpa mun Vid Sikum og Sottum goiru allum, Thad kenn eg aunad er thorfa Ita Syner their ed vilia lakner lisfa._ [Transcriber's Note: extremely difficult to read in the original. Transcription may not be accurate.] I know your only Help, the pow'rful Charm That aids in ev'ery Grief and every Harm, I know the Leaches Craft, and what they need Who Doctors in that Noble Art proceed. [2] the _Vide_ British Chronicle, _and_ Taliessin's _Prophecies_; Prryff fard l'yffred in ydwyfi i Elphin Am gwalad gynifio [indecipherable] Goribbin. Ionas ddewn am golwis Merddin Sebach Pob Brenmam geilw Taliesin. Gwea a gasgle elud Tra feyna bud, Gwererbin didd brawd in chospo i gnawd, Gwae ni cheidw i geil ag if yufug eil, Gwae in cheidw i ddefend chog bleiddna. [Transcriber's Note: extremely difficult to read in the original. Transcription may not be accurate.] Me _Elphin_ now his Bard may justly boast Who long of old amid the Fire-wing'd Host: Once _Merlin_ was I call'd, well known to Fame, Whom future Kings shall _Taliessin_ name. Wo to the Wretch who Wealth by Rapine gains, And wo to him who Fasts and Pray'rs refrains; Wo to the Shepherds who their Flocks betray, And will not drive the _Ravish_ Wolves away. [3] _Olli sedaro rescondit corde Latinus._ Virg. [4] _Mr._ Dryden's _Riddle, in his Preface to_ Virgil. [5] _This was observ'd before Mr._ Le Clerc _was born. Vide_ Song of the Well, _Num._ 21. 17. [Hebrew text] _Vide_ Psal. 80, & 81. _Where some Verses have Treble, where Quadruple Rhimes, four in one Verse._ [6] Ode 1. [Greek: indecipherable] [7] _Vide_ Collier's _Reflexions on_ Moarning Bride, _and_ Garth's _Dispensary_. [8] _I know some have affirm'd that_ Moses's _Song in the_ 14_th of_ Exodus _was writ in Hexameters, but I can't perceive any such thing in it, any more than in the_ 90_th_ Psalm, _or the Book of_ Job, _which seem to be written about the same time with it. The Song of the_ Well, _in_ Numbers, _pag._ 15. _is clearly an_ Ode _of unequal Measures_. [Illustration: _THE_ LIFE _of_ Christ. An Heroic Poem. _In Ten BOOKS with sixty Copper Plates._ London: _Printed for Charles Harper, & Benj. Motte._] THE LIFE OF OUR Blessed Lord & Saviour JESUS CHRIST. AN HEROIC POEM: DEDICATED TO Her Most Sacred MAJESTY. _In Ten Books._ ATTEMPTED BY _SAMUEL WESLEY_, M.A. Chaplain to the most Honourable JOHN Lord Marquess of _Normanby_, and Rector of _Epwerth_ in the County of _Lincoln_. Each Book Illustrated by necessary Notes, explaining all the more difficult Matters in the whole History: Also a Prefatory Discourse concerning Heroic Poetry. _The Second Edition, revised by the Author, and improved with the addition of a large Map of the_ HOLY-LAND, _and a table of the principal matters._ With Sixty Copper-Plates, by the celebrated Hand of _W. Faithorn_. _LONDON_: Printed for _Charles Harper_, at the _Flower-de-Luce_ over against St. _Dunstan_'s Church, and are to be Sold by him, and _Roger Clavel_ at the _Peacock_ against _Fetter-Lane_, both in _Fleetstreet_, 1697. THE PREFACE, Being an ESSAY on HEROIC POETRY A Just Heroic Poem is so vast an Undertaking, requires so much both of Art and Genius for its Management, and carries such Difficulty in the Model of the Whole, and Disposition of the several Parts, that it's no Wonder, if not above One or Two of the Ancients, and hardly any of the Moderns, have succeeded in their Attempts of this Nature. Rapin, and other Masters of Epic, represent it as an Enterprize so hardy, that it can scarce enter into the Mind of a wise Man, without affrighting him, as being the most perfect Piece of Work that Art can produce. That Author has many excellent Reflexions and Rules concerning it in his Discourse sur la Poetique; but Bossu is the first I've seen who has writ a just and perfect Tract thereon, wherein he has in a clear and Scholastic Method amass'd together most that's to be found in Antiquity on that Subject, tho' chiefly keeping to the Observations of Aristotle, which he drew from Homer, and who seems the first that reduced Poetry to an Art. That Author defines Epic, "An Artificial Discourse, in order to form the Manners by Instructions, disguis'd under the Allegories of some one important Action, recited in Verse, in a manner probable, diverting and admirable;" which he thus himself abridges, "'Tis a Fable, agreeably imitated on some important Action, recited in Verse in a manner that's probable and admirable;" In which Definition are contain'd, as he afterwards explains it, the general Nature of Epic, and that double, Fable and Poem: The Matter, some one important Action probably feign'd and imitated: Its Form, Recitation or Narration: And lastly, its End, Instruction, which is aimed at in general by the Moral of the Fable; and besides in the particular Manners of the Persons who make the most considerable Figure in the Work. To begin with Fable, which he makes included in the general Nature or Essence of Epic. This, he says, is the most essential Part of it; "That some Fables and Allegories scatter'd up and down in a Poem don't suffice to constitute Epic, if they are only the Ornaments, and not the very Foundation of it." And again, "That 'tis the very Fund and principal Action that ought to be Feign'd and Allegorical:" For which reason he expresly excludes hence all simple Histories, as by Name, Lucan's Pharsalia, Silius Italicus's Punic War, and all true Actions of particular Persons, without Fable: And still more home; that 'tis not a Relation of the Actions of any Hero, to form the Manners by his Example, but on the contrary, a Discourse invented to form the Manners by the Relation of some one feign'd Action, design'd to please, under the borrow'd Name of some illustrious Person, of whom Choice is made after we have fram'd the Plan of the Action which we design to attribute to him. Nor indeed is Bossu singular in his Judgment on this Matter, there being few or none who have ever writ on the same Subject, but are of the same mind: For thus Boileau in his Art of Poetry, Dans la vaste recit d'une longue action Se soutient par la Fable & vit de Fiction. Which his Translator I think better; In the Narration of some great Design, Invention, Art, and Fable, all must join. Rapin too gives his Vote on the same side, Rien n'est, says he, plus essentiel au Poem Epique, que la Fiction; and quotes Petronius to that purpose, Per ambages, Deorumque ministeria praecipitandus est Liber Spiritus. Nor is't only the Moderns who are of this Opinion; for the Iliads are call'd in Horace, Fabula qua Paridis, &c. And lastly, even Aristotle himself tells us, "That Fable is the principal thing in an Heroic Poem; and, as it were, the very Soul of it." [Greek: Archê kai oion psychê.] And upon this occasion commends Homer for lying with the best Grace of any Man in the World: Authorities almost too big to admit any Examination of their Reason, or Opposition to their Sentiments. However, I see no cause why Poetry should not be brought to the Test, as well as Divinity, or any more than the other, be believed on its own bare ipse dixit. Let us therefore examine the Plan which they lay for a Work of this Nature, and then we may be better able to guess at those Grounds and Reasons on which they proceed. In forming an Heroic-Poem, the first thing they tell us we ought to do, is to pitch on some Moral Truth, which we desire to enforce on our Reader, as the Foundation of the whole work. Thus Virgil, as Bossu observes, designing to render the Roman People pleased and easie under the new Government of Augustus, laid down this Maxim, as the Foundation of his Divine �neis: "That great and notable Changes of State are not accomplished but by the Order and Will of God: That those who oppose themselves against them are impious, and frequently punished as they deserve; and that Heaven is not wanting to take that Hero always under its particular Protection, whom it chuses for the Execution of such grand Designs." This for the Moral Truth; we must then, he says, go on to lay the general Plan of the Fiction, which, together with that Verity, makes the Fable and Soul of the Poem: And this he thinks Virgil did in this manner, "The Gods save a great Prince from the Ruines of his Country, and chuse him for the Preservation of Religion, and re-establishing a more glorious Empire than his former. The Hero is made a King, and arriving at his new Country, finds both God and Men dispos'd to receive him: But a neighbouring Prince, whose Eyes Ambition and Jealousie have closed against Justice and the Will of Heaven, opposes his Establishment, being assisted by another King despoil'd of his Estate for his Cruelty and Wickedness. Their Opposition, and the War on which this pious Prince is forc'd, render his Establishment more just by the Right of Conquest, and more glorious by his Victory and the Death of his Enemies." These are his own Words, as any may see who are at the pains to consult him; nor can I help it, if either Virgil or Bossu happen to be Prophets. When the Poet has proceeded thus far, and as Bossu calls it, dress'd his Project, he's next to search in History or receiv'd Fable, for some Hero, whose Name he may borrow for his Work, and to whom he may suit his Persons. These are Bossu's Notions, and, indeed, very agreeable to Aristotle, who says, that Persons and Actions in this sort of Poetry must be feign'd, allegorical, and universal. This is the Platform they lay; and let's now see if we can discover the Reasons whereon they found these Rules, being so unanimous for Fable rather than true History, as the Matter of an Heroic Poem; and, if I mistake not, these are some of the principal. 1. Because they had observ'd the best Models of Heroic Poems were laid after this manner; the greatest part of the Action both in Homer and Virgil being pure Fable. Homer beginning, and all the rest following his Steps. 2. Because no single Hero, or true History, which the Ancients knew was sufficient, without Fable, to furnish Matter for an Epic Poem. History, says Aristotle, treats of particular Things as they really are; Poetry, as they ought to be; and therefore he prefers Poetry as the more grave and more instructive; the Poets being forc'd to follow the same Methods with their Kindred-Art, that of the Painters, and gather a great many Beauties together, out of 'em all, to steal one Venus. 3. A third Reason may be, because, supposing they should have found some one Example from whence to enforce strongly any particular Point of Morality, yet it would have miss'd those other Characters of Epic, most of its Agreeableness, and all its Power to raise Admiration. A chast Historian must not go about to amuse his Reader with Machines; and a Poet that would imitate him, must have been forc'd to thin his Stage accordingly, and disband all his glorious Train of Gods and Godesses, which composes all that's admirable in his Work; according to that of Boileau; Chaque Virtue devient une divlnitie. And these, if I mistake not, were the main Reasons on which the foremention'd Rules were grounded. Let's now enquire into the Strength and Validity of them: To begin with Homer, he wrote in that manner, because most of the ancient Eastern Learning, the Original of all others, was Mythology. But this being now antiquated, I cannot think we are oblig'd superstitiously to follow his Example, any more than to make Horses speak, as he does that of Achilles, 2. If a Poet lights on any single Hero, whose true Actions and History are as important as any that Fable ever did or can produce, I see no reason why he may not as well make use of him and his Example to form the Manners and enforce any Moral Truth, as seek for one in Fable for that purpose: Nay, he can scarce fail of persuading more strongly, because he has Truth it self; the other but the Image of Truth, especially if his History be, in the Third place, of it self diverting and admirable. If it has from its own Fund, and already made to his hand those Deorum Ministeria, which cost the Poet so much in the forming 'em out of his own Brain. Nor can we suppose Fiction it self pleases; no, 'tis the agreeable and the admirable, in the Dress of Truth; and such a Plan as this would effectually answer both the Ends of Poetry in general, delectari & monere, nay come up fuller to the End of Epic, which is agreeable Instruction; and thence it follows strongly, that a Poem written in such a manner, must, notwithstanding the foregoing Rules, be a true and proper Heroic Poem, especially if adorn'd with Poetical Colours and Circumstances through the whole Body thereof. Now that all this is not gratis dictum, I think I can prove, even from most of those very Authors I've already produc'd, as of the contrary Opinion; and that I can make it appear, Bossu goes too far in fixing Fable as the Essential Fund and Soul of the principal Action in an Epic Poem. To begin with Rapin, who has this Passage, sur la Poetique, Reflex. 5. La Poesie Heroique, &c. "Heroique Poesie, according to Aristotle, is a Picture or Imitation of an Heroic Action; and the Qualities of the Action are, That it ought to be (among others) true, or at least, such as might pass for true;" Thus he. And hence it follows, according to him and Aristotle, that the principal Action in Heroic, not only ought to pass for Truth, but may be really true: For Horace, he does indeed call the Iliads a Fable; but then he does not oblige his Poet superstitiously to follow Homer in every thing, owning that he sometimes doats as well as other Men: Further, this may, and I think does, refer rather to the Dress and Turn of the Action, than to the Bottom and Ground of his History, which there's at least as much, if not more reason to believe true than false: And in the same Sense may we take Petronius and Boileau; nay, if we don't take 'em thus, I can't tell whether there were ever such a thing as a true Heroic Poem in the World; not so much as the Fairy-Queen, Gondibert, or Orlando Furioso; all which have Fable enough in 'em of any reason; but their principal Actions might be still true, as we are sure was that of the best Heroic that ever was written; (I need not say I mean Virgil) since few or no Authors ever deny'd that there was such a Man as �neas, or even that he came into Italy, built Cities there, and erected a Kingdom, which Tully mentions, as a generally receiv'd Tradition in those Parts, and which it seems he thought not frivolous, but true and solid; otherwise he'd scarce have given it a place in his Argument for his Client. Of this Opinion too seems Horace himself, in his Art of Poetry, namely, That there's no necessity of the principal Action's being feign'd; for his Direction is, "Aut famam sequere, aut sibi convenientia finge; Either follow Tradition or Fame, or else feign what's agreeable thereunto." He makes not feigning essential to Heroic Action, but gives leave to follow Fame, who is not so great a Lyar, but that she is sometimes in the right. Nay, what if we should after all have Bossu himself on our side, which I'm mistaken if he be not; for these are his Expressions, Lib. 1. Cap. 7. Le Fiction, &c. "The Fiction may be so disguis'd under the Verity of the History, that those who are ignorant of the Art of the Poet, may believe it not a Fiction; and to make the Disguisement well, he ought to search into History for the Names of some Persons, to whom such an Action has probably or truly happen'd, &c." Hence 'tis evident, that according to Bossu's own Notion, the main Action may be true; which appears even from Aristotle himself, as quoted by him, 97. [Greek: Kan ara] &c. "An Author is not less a Poet, because the Incidents he recites have truly happen'd; if so be that which happen'd had the appearance of Truth, and all that Art demands, and be really such as it ought to have been feign'd." And this Bossu himself illustrates admirably well by an ingenious Simile; "A Statuary," says he, "first forms his Design, Posture, Altitudes which he intends for his Image; but if he then lights on any precious Material, Agate, or such like, where the Figure, the Colours, and Veins will not be accommodated to all he design'd, he regulates his Design and Imagination according to his Matter; nor ought we to believe, at the same time, that these singular lucky Hits condemn the Justness of his Art." From all which, I must leave it to the Reader, whether I han't sufficiently prov'd what I've undertaken; that Fiction is not necessary to the principal Action of our Heroic Poem; on which I've been something more large, not so much on my own account; for 'tis indifferent to me by what Name any Man calls my Poem, so it answers the great End of Epic, which is Instruction; but because I've heard some Persons have been so conceited as to criticise on our immortal Cowley for this very reason, and deny his Davideis the Honour of being an Heroic Poem, because the Subject thereof is a true History. And here I should drop the Discourse of Fable, were there not another sort of Persons still to deal with, perhaps more importunate than the former: The first will not like a Piece unless 'tis all Fable, or at least the Foundation of it: These latter run into the contrary extreme, and seam unwilling or afraid to admit anything of Fable in a Christian Poem; and as Balzac in his Critics on Heinsius his Baptista, are frighted, as at some Magical Charm, if they find but one Word there which was made use of by the old Heathens; which, says he, (unluckily as things have since happened) is as preposterous as to see Turks wear Hats, and Frenchmen Turbants; the Flower-de-lis in the Musselmens Colours, or the Half-Moon on the Standard of France. He's, however, it must be granted, justly angry with Tasso, as Mr. Dryden since, for setting his Angels and Devils to stave and tail at one another; Alecto and Pluto on one side, and Gabriel and Raphael o' t'other; as well as with Sannazarius, for mingling Proteus and David, and calling the Muses and Nymphs to the Labour of the Blessed Virgin, Tho' the truth is, the Italian Poets seem more excusable, at least to a Papist, in this Case, than any other Nation, who parted with as little of their Idolatry as they could possibly, after they had kept it as long as they were able, making the Change very easie, and turning their Pantheon into an All Saints; much like the good Fathers in the Spanish Conquests in America, who suffer the Natives to keep their Old Idols, so they'll but pay for 'em, and get 'em christen'd; by this means making many a good Saint out of a very indifferent Devil. So far, I say, Balzac is undoubtedly in the right, that Christianity and Heathenism ought not to be confounded, nor the Pagan Gods mention'd, but as such, in Christian Poems. Of which Boileau also says, "They should not be Fill'd with the Fictions of Idolatry;" tho' he tells us just before, In vain have our mistaken Authors try'd Those ancient Ornaments to lay aside. As tho' he were afraid lest all Poets shou'd be forc'd to turn Christians, and yet in the next Lines he thinks it full as bad, To fright the Reader in each Line with Hell, And talk of Satan, Ashtaroth and Bel. As tho' he'd have no Christian to be a Poet. And much at the same rate is Monsieur Balzac very angry with Buchanan, for the same reason; nor will he by any means let us substitute Belzebub, Asmodeus, and Leviathan, in the room of Alecto, Tisiphone, and Megaera, which is, in his Opinion, perfect Pedantry and Affectation; and is extreamly afraid, lest any of those Barbarous Hebrew Words should disfigure the purity of the Latin Tongue; when surely he cou'd not but know, that this pure Latin Tongue it self, for which he's so much concerned, is nothing but the gradual Corruption or Barbarizing of the Greek; as that of the Phonician and Hebrew before; and the Italian, and his own French too, from the Latin afterwards, by the adulterous mixture of 'tis hard to say how many Languages: So that between 'em, they'd make it impossible for a Christian Poet to write a good Heroic Poem, or even a Tragedy, on any, but profane Subjects; by taking away all the Machines, and therein whatever is admirable. No, says Balzac, instead of those hard Words and proper Names, Appellatives may be chosen, Words common to all People: As for example, Ill luck instead of the Fates, and the Foul Fiend for Lucifer; and whether this wou'd not sound extreamly Heroical, I leave any Man to judge: It being besides certain, that 'tis singulars and particulars which give an Air of Probability, and the main Life and Beauty to a Poem, especially of this Nature; without which it must of necessity sink and languish. However so much of Truth, I must confess, there is in what he says, that I verily believe Magor-missabib, or Mahershal-alhashbaz, wou'd scarce yoke decently in one of our Pentameters, but be near as unquiet and troublesome there, as a Mount Orgueil it self. Nor can partiality so far blind my Judgment as not to be my self almost frighted at second hearing of such a thundering Verse, as Belsamen Ashtaroth Baaltii Ba'al: Which seems as flat Conjuration, as Zinguebar, Oran, &c. tho' 'tis now too late to amend it. But then there are other Words or a more soft and treatable Cadence, even in the same Hebrew Language, especially when mollified by a Latin or Greek form, or Termination; and such as these one may make use of and let others alone: though neither is our bolder rougher Tongue so much affrighted at them, as the French and Latin. But Boileau pushes the Objection further, and wou'd make it bear against the Things as well as Words, persuading himself, Our God and Prophets that he sent, Can't act like those the Poets did invent. Tho' he too, is short in History, how excellent soever in Poetry. For first, the Heathen Poets did not invent the Names of their Gods and Heroes, but had 'em from Eastern Tradition, and the Phenician and Jewish Language, tho' deflected and disguis'd after the Greek and other Forms, as Josephus tells us, which the learned Bochart has proved invincibly; and I have made some Essay towards it, in my Sixth Book. Nay further, it seems plain to me, that most, even of their best Fancies and Images, as well as Names, were borrow'd from the Antient Hebrew Poetry and Divinity, as, were there room for't, I cou'd, I think, render more than probable, in all the most celebrated Strokes of Homer, moat of the Heathen Poetical Fables, and even in Hesiod's blind Theogonia. Their Gods or Devils, which you please, were not near as Antient as the Hebrews. The Word Satan is as ancient as Job; nor can they shew us a Pluto within a long while of him. Ashtaroth, and Astarte, are old enough to be Grandmothers to their Isis, or Venus, and Bel, of the same standing with Idolatry. Lawful it must certainly be, to use these very Heathen Gods in Christian, since they were us'd in sacred Hebrew Poetry, in due place, and in a due manner; Bel boweth down, Nebo stoopeth, says Isaiah. And what a noble Description has the same Prophet of the Fall of Lucifer? Nor can I see why it may not be as convenient and agreeable, as 'tis lawful to transplant 'em from Hebrew Poetry to our own, if we use 'em as they did. And then for Angels, Prophets, and Oracles, it wou'd be strange, if they shou'd not strike the Mind as agreeably when real and true, as the Daemons, or Oracles, or Prophets of the Heathens, form'd, as has been said, partly from mistaken Fragments, or Traditions of sacred Story, partly indeed from the Juggles of the Heathen Priests, and crafty Ambitious Daemons. On the whole, we have all the Advantages they had, and yet more than they, for Heroic Poetry in these matters. As for that Question of Boileau's, "What Pleasure can it be to hear the howlings of repining Lucifer?" I think 'tis easier to answer than to find out what shew of Reason he had for asking it, or why Lucifer mayn't howl as pleasantly as either Cerberus, or Enceladus. And let any one read but his Speech, in Milton's Paradise, almost equall'd in Mr. Dryden's State of Innocence, and I'm mistaken if he's not of the same Mind; or if he be not, and it gives him no pleasure, I dare affirm 'tis for want of a true taste of what's really admirable. But Boileau comes to a stronger Objection, both against the Names and use of these Daemons, by way of Machine, I mean, in Christian Poetry; The Mysteries we Christians must believe Disdain such shifting Pageants to receive. Thus has his Translator turn'd him; and taking it in that Sence, the meaning must be, that it disgraces Christianity, to mix its Mysteries with Stories of Daemons, Angels, &c. But sure it can never be any disgrace, to represent it really as it is, with the frequent Intervention of those invisible and powerful Agents, both good and evil, in the Affairs of Mankind, which our Saviour has both asserted and demonstrated in his Gospel, both by Theory and Practice: Whence we learn, that there are really vast numbers of these Spirits, some tempting, or tormenting, others guarding and protecting Mortals: Nay, a subordination too among them, and that they are always vigilant, some for our Destruction, others for our Preservation, and that, as it seems, of every individual Man; and if this be true in general, I'm sure 'tis probable In particular: Nor can it be any disgrace to Christianity, to apply general Probabilities to particular Cases, or to mention these Daemons in Poetry any more than in Divinity. But indeed the Translator has here mended Boileau's Thought, or at least made it more plausible and defensible, tho he has miss'd his Sence; for these are his Lines: De la foi d'une Christien les Mysteres terribles D' Ornemens egayés ne sont point susceptibles. The plain English of which, I think is, "That the terrible Mysteries of the Christian Faith, are not at all susceptible of these gayer Ornaments." I'll not be too Critical here, tho' methinks its but an odd sort of Gayety that's to be found in Tales of Hell; agreeable, I own, the most dreadful thing nay be, if well manag'd in Poetry, but he can hardly ever make 'em gay without a yery strong Catachresis. But tho' we let that pass, so must not what follows, wherein he further explains his Notion. L'Evangile, &c. The Gospel offers nothing to our Thoughts But Penitence and Punishment for Faults. To which it may be first said, that supposing this true, and the Gospel did present nothing else, yet why mayn't Angels be us'd in it, to warn Sinners to that Repentance which we know they so much rejoyce in; or Devils, to punish and torment the Guilty and Impious; as in the Case of Sceva's Son, and others. But yet further, as to the assertion it self, I know not what their Gospel offers, nor I believe are they better acquainted with what ours does; but we are sure 'tis far enough from being such a dismal melancholy thing as they represent it, since Immortality and Life are brought to light therein. We know that it gives us the noblest Examples, the most divine Law, the strongest, yet justest Passions, the most glorious Combats, and Friendships, and Sufferings, such as neither History or Fable cou'd ever yet equal. It shews us a God really Descending, disrob'd indeed of all his more dazling and insupportable Glories, as our Divine Herbert; but yet clothed with what has more of true Divinity, with Humility, and Charity, and Patience, and Meekness, and Innocence. Here's War, here's Love indeed; such as never was besides, or will be more. He lov'd our Dust and Clay, and even for us, single encounter'd all the Powers of Darkness, and yet more, his Almighty Father's anger. But I'll go no farther, lest the Reader should think I forget where I am. I must return to Boileau, whose strongest Objection is yet behind; Et de vos Fictions, &c. And mingling Falshood with those Mysteries Wou'd make our sacred Truths appear like Lies. But I hope the Critic knew, that there is a fair difference between a mere Fiction, or Falshood, and an Instructive Parable or Fable, on one side, or a few more lively Poetical Colours on the other. To mingle Falshoods, or dull Legendary Fictions, without either Life or Soul in 'em, with our Saviour's Blessed Gospel, may make 'em, in some Sence, superiour to it: This wou'd indeed incline an Italian to be of the same Faith with his Countryman, that 'twas all Fabula Christi, in the worst Sence of the Word: But certainly expressing the Truth in Parables, and mingling these with the Mysteries of the Gospel, can't be thought to give it an Air of Fiction: nor dare any affirm it does so, without Blasphemy, since our Saviour has so often done it. Nor only these but deeper Allegories are thought to be made use of in the Christian Religion; for Example, the Throne and Temple of God in the Revelations, and the Description of the New Jerusalem, with all its Gates and Foundations of Sapphires and Emeralds, and that lovely Scheme of Trees and Rivers, worthy a Paradise: All this, I say, will scarcely be granted literal, and consequently must be all an Allegory; alluding partly to the Old Jewish Church and Temple, partly to Ezekiel's Visionary Representation and Prophetical Paradise. Nor can it, I think, be justly reckoned more criminal, where we have any great instructive Example, which has been real matter of Fact, to expatiate thereon; adding suitable and proper Circumstances and Colours to the whole, especially when the History it self is but succinctly Related, and the Heads of things only left us. And this some great Man have thought was the Method of the Holy Pen-man himself, whoever he were, in that lovely antient Poem of Job; which, that 't was at the bottom a real History, few but Atheists deny; and yet 'tis thought some Circumstances might be amplified in the account we have left us, particularly the long Speeches between that Great Man and his Friends; tho' the main hinges of the Relation, his Person, Character, and Losses, the malice of the Devil, the behaviour of his Wife and Friends, nay even the Substance of their Discourses, as well as of that between God and him, and the wonderful Turn of his Affairs soon after: All this might, and did, truly happen. Or, if any amplification should be here deny'd, does not the Divine however every day, Paraphrase and Expatiate upon the Words of his Text, inverting their Method as he sees occasion, and yet is still thought unblameable. All the difference is, that he delivers what's probable, as only probable; whereas the Nature of Poetry requires, that such probable Amplifications as these, be wrought into the main Action, in such a manner, as if they had really happen'd; and without this, a Man might Ryme long enough, but ne'er cou'd make a Poem, any more than this would have been one, had I begun with, Abraham begat Isaac, and so tagg'd on to the end of all the fourteen Generations, much as Nonnus has done with St. John, and yet often miss'd his Sence too, as Heinsius judges. But enough of Fable, and of those who would either reduce all Heroic Poetry unto it, or absolutely banish it thence. Next the Fable of Epics, the Poem is to be considered; which, after Bossu, is the other part of its general Nature, and shews the manner of handling it, comprehending Thoughts, Expressions and Verses; of which there need not much be said, since they are obvious to every Reader. The Thoughts must be clear and just, and noble, and the Diction or Expression suited to them. The chief Difficulty, as Rapin observes, is to keep up the Sublime, which Virgil has done admirably, even in the meanest Subjects; and which Aristotle thinks may be best done by the judicious use of Metaphors. There ought to meet, according to him, Proportion in the Design, Justness in the Thoughts, and Exactness in the Expression, to constitute an accomplish'd Heroic Poem; and the great Art of Thought and Expression lies in this, that they be natural and proper without Meanness, and sublime without a vitious Swelling and Affectation. The Matter is next in an Heroic Poem, which must be one important Action; it must be important, Res gestæ Regumque Ducumque, with Horace. "It only speaks of Kings and Princes," says Rapin, by which he must mean that it chiefly and principally turns upon them: for both Virgil and Homer have occasion for Traitors, and Cryers, and Beggars, nay even Swineherds (in the Odysses), and yet still more, of whole Armies, which can't be all compos'd of Kings and Princes. However, the more there is of these lower Walks in the Plan of a Design, the less Heroic it must appear, even in the Hands of the greatest Genius in Nature. Such a Genius, I think, was Homer's, and yet the Truth of this Assertion will be plain to any who compares his Odysses with his Iliads; where he'll find, if 'tis not for want of Judgment, in the latter a very different Air from the former, in many places much more dead and languishing, and this which I have given, seems one probable Reason on't; not excluding that of Longinus, that Homer was then grown old, and besides too much of the Work was spent in Narration; to which may be added, that he here design'd a wise and prudent rather than a brave and fighting Hero, having wrought off most of the Edg and Fury of his Youthful Spirit and Fury in Achilles, as in Ulysses he express'd more of Age and Judgment. This Action must be one and uniform: the Painture of one Heroic Action, says Rapin from Aristotle. It must be, as Bossu from Horace, simplex duntaxat & unum, that is, the principal Action on which the whole Work moves ought to be one, otherwise the whole will be confus'd; tho' there may be many Episodic Actions without making what Aristotle calls an Episodic Poem, which is, where the Actions are not necessarily or not probably link'd to each other, and of such an irregular multiplication of Actions and Incidents. Bossu instances very pleasantly in Statius's Achilleid; but he tells us there's also a regular and just Multiplication, without which 'twere impossible to find matter for so large a Poem, when as before it's so ordered that the Unity of the whole is not broken, and consequently divers Incidents it has bound together are not to be accounted different Actions and Fables, but only different Parts not finish'd, or entire of one Action or Fable entire or finished: and, agreeable to this Doctrine, Rapin blames Lucan's Episodes as too far-fetch'd, over-scholastic, and consisting purely of speculative Disputes on natural Causes whenever they came in his way, not being link'd with the main Action, nor flowing naturally from it, nor tending to its Perfection. And in this Action, the Poet ought, as Rapin tells us, to invert the natural Order of things, not to begin with his Hero in the Cradle, and write his Annals instead of an Epic Poem, as Statius in his Achilleid, the Reason of which seems plain, because this would look more like History than Poetry. It's more agreeable, more natural, in some Sence, to be here unnatural; to bring in, by way of Recitation or Narration, what was first in order of time, at some distance from that time when it really happened, which makes the whole look unlike a dull formal Story, and gives more scope for handsome Turns and the Art of the writer. Another Reason why a whole Life is not ordinarily a proper Subject for Epics, is, because many trivial Accidents must be therein recited; but if a Life can be found in which is nothing but what's diverting and wonderful, tending besides to the perfecting the main Action, and the Order of time revers'd in the whole, the Case would be so much altered, that I think their Rules would not hold. For the Form of Epic, which comes next in view, 'tis agreed on all Hands to be Recitation or Narration. Bossu says, The Persons are not at all to be introduced before the Eyes of the Spectators, acting by themselves without the Poet; not that he'd hereby exclude the Poet from introducing the persons telling their own Story, or some one of them that of the principal Hero: for great part of Epic is thus far Dramatic. And thus Virgil manages his second and third Books by way of Recitation, and that by his Hero himself, making him give Dido a long account of the Wars of Troy, and his own Actions, tho' thereby he falls into the Impropriety of commending himself, with a--sum pius �neas. Vida takes the same way of Recitation, wherein he employs two or three of his six Books; and Milton follows them both, tho' less naturally than either; for he introduces our Saviour, in his Paradise regain'd, repeating a great part of his own Life in Soliloquy, which way of Discourse includes, in a Wise Man especially, so much of Calmness and deep Reflection, that it seems improper for the great and noble Turn required in such a Work, unless in describing a Passion, where it may be more lively. All that they mean by not introducing the Parties, is not doing it as in a Tragedy: they are not to be brought in abruptly to tell their own Tale from the beginning, without the appearing Help of the Poet, as Actors in a true and proper Drama. And this Narration, says Rapin, should be simple and natural; but the greatest difficulty is, not to let its Simplicity appear, lest it thence grow disagreeable, and the chiefest Art in this, consists in its Transitions, and all the delicate surprising Turns, which lead the Reader from one thing to another without his thinking whither he's going, or perceiving any Breach or so much as a passage between 'em; after all, the more Action there is in Epic, still the more Life there will be. A Poet may, I find, easily fall into Poorness of Thought by aiming too much at the Probability and neglecting the Admirable; whereby he loses that agreeableness which is a mixture of both. He ought then to take more care than some have done, not to keep himself too long behind the Scenes, and trust the Narration with another, which, without a great deal of Art and Pains, will take off much of the Life of the Work, as Longinus has already formerly observed. And here come in the Qualities of Narration, mentioned in our Definition, that it ought to be done in a manner probable, agreeable, and admirable; 'tis rendered probable by its Simplicity and Singularity, and admirable by the Grandeur of the Subject, the Figures and Machines, or [Greek: theoi apo mêchanês], much more lawful here than in the Drama's; and lastly agreeable, as has been said, by a mixture of both. The last thing in our Definition, is, the End of Epic, indeed the first and principal which ought to be intended, and that's Instruction, not only, as Rapin thinks, of great Men, but of all, as in Virgil's Scheme, which we have already described; and, this either by the principal Moral aim'd at in the whole, or the Manners of particular Persons. Of Fable and Moral, I've already discours'd, and whether be the more lively and probable way to instruct, by that or History. But here it may be worth the while to enquire, whether the principal Hero in Epic ought to be virtuous? Bossu thinks not, the manners being formed as well by seeing Errors as Beauties in the chief Actors; but yet methinks it seems too much to form a Hero that's a perfect Almanzor, with not one spark of Vertue, and only remarkable for his extraordinary Strength and little Brains; such was certainly Homer's Achilles, of whom I think the Father was in the right when he observes, the Poet makes him not do one brave or virtuous Action, all the while he lies before the Town: whereas Virgil's Hero, is, to tell truth, an indifferent good Heathen, and, bating one or two slips, comes up pretty well to his own good word. The same however may be said for Homer, which our present Dramatists plead for their Excuse; that he copied his Hero from those who were esteemed such in the barbarous Age in which he liv'd, Impiger, iracundus, inexorabllis, acer, Jura neget sibi nata, &c. Made up of Lewdness, Love, and Fighting: who, had he liv'd in our Days, would have made an excellent Town Bully, I wish there were not too much reason to say a modish Gentleman. But tho' old Homer took this way, Virgil, who writes with much more Judgment and Exactness, and follows him in many things, here thought fit to leave him; making his Hero, as I've said, not only brave and prudent, but for the most part virtuous. Which would much better form the manners of his Reader, than if they were set to spell out Instruction from contraries, as Homer has done. Whence it follows, the more virtuous a Hero is, the better; since he more effectually answers the true end of Epics. After all, Rapin says, the chief Excellency of an Heroic Poem consists in the just proportion of the Parts; that perfect Union, just Agreement, and admirable Relation, which the Parts of this great Work bear one towards another; and blames Tasso for mingling all the Sweetness and Delicacy of Eclogues and Lyricks, with the Force of an Heroic Poem. But I should think him mistaken here, and that this is not the meaning of Aristotles [Greek: analogon]. For if we allow not such a pleasing Variety, how shall we excuse even Virgil himself, who has his Dido, as well a Tasso his Armida and Erminia? nay, how shall we manage Love? which is usually one great Episode of Heroic, if not with something of Delicacy. I grant Love ought to have a different Air in different sorts of Poems; but still if it be natural it must have something of Softness; and for his Enchanted Forrest, which this severe Critic also blames, I believe there's few who read that part of his Work, who would willingly have it omitted, for the sake of a fancied Regularity, any more than they would part with Mr. Dryden's Improvement on't in his King Arthur. However, if it be a fault, 'tis strange so many who have been Masters of the greatest Genius should unanimously fall into it; as Ovid in his Palace of Circe, Ariosto in that of Alcina, and Spencer in his Acasia's Bower of Bliss, and several others, who have taken the same Method. I should therefore rather think that this beautiful and marvellous Analogy which Aristotle requires as the best thing in Epic, relates rather to the Harmony and Agreement of the Parts with the Whole; so that there appears no Fracture or Contradiction, the different Parts, tho' much unlike, yet all together making one beautiful Figure and uniform Variety. And thus much of the Definition of Epic, containing the main Rules thereof, by which the Reader may be able to form a Judgment of this, or any other Heroic Poem: Especially if to these Rules be added some Examples to render them more plain. In order to which, I desire to express my Thoughts freely of other Poems, as I must expect every one will do of mine, always observing that piece of Justice, never to find fault, without taking notice of some Beauty to ballance it, and giving, where I can find it, the better Judgment of other Persons as well as my own. Concluding all with a brief Account of my own Work. To begin then with Grandsire Homer, this may be added to the particular Remarks that have been already made. I think none will deny but the Disposition of his Iliads, is so truly admirable, so regular, and exact, that one would be apt to think he wrote his Poem by Aristotle's Rules, and not Aristotle his Rules by his Poem. I confess, I once thought that he had been oblig'd to his Commentators for most of the Beauties they celebrated in him; but I am now, on a nearer view, so well satisfied to the contrary, that I can ne'er think his Poem writ by piece-meal, without any Connexion or Dependance: wherein Dionysius the Halicarnassian very justly praises the Order and Management of the Design, as well as the Grandeur and Magnificence of the Expression, and the sweet and passionate Movements. Nor is it without Reason that Horace, Longinus, and all Antiquity have given him, as the Model of just and noble Sentiments and Expressions. I must confess there's something in his Numbers that strikes me more than even Virgil's, his Thoughts and Expressions appear stronger than his, tho' it cannot be denied but that Virgil's Design is much more regular. Rapin says a great deal of that Prince of the Latin Poets, tho' indeed he can never say enough, "He had an admirable Taste, says he, of what's natural, an excellent Judgment for the Order, and an incomparable Delicacy for the Number and Harmony of his Versification." And adds, "That the Design of the Poem is, if we consider it in all its Circumstances, the most judicious and best-laid that ever was or ever will be." There is indeed a prodigious Variety in Virgil, and yet the same Soul visible in every Line. His own great Spirit informs his Poetical World, and like that he speaks of, ---- totos infusa per Artus Mens agitat Molem, & magno se corpora miscet. He's soft with the height of Majesty, his Marcellus, his Dido, and, I think, above all, his Elegy on Pallas is very noble and tender. The joints so strong and exactly wrought, the Parts so proportionable, the Thoughts and Expression so great, the Complements so fine and just, that I could ne'er endure to read Statius, or any of the rest of the Antient Latins after him; with whom therefore I shan't concern my self nor trouble my Reader. Ariosto was the first of the Moderns who attempted any thing like an Heroic Poem, and has many great and beautiful Thoughts; but at the same time, 'tis true, as Balzac observes, that you can hardly tell whether he's a Christian or an Heathen, making God swear by Styx, and using all the Pagan Ornaments; his Fancy very often runs away with his Judgment, his Action is neither one nor simple, nor can you imagine what he drives at; he has an hundred Hero's but you can't tell which he designs should be chief: Orlando indeed seems a wild Imitation of Homer's Achilles, but his Character is not bright enough to make him the Principal; and besides he orders it so, that he does more great Actions when he's mad then when sober. Agreeable to this are Rapin's thoughts of him, which, in few words, are "That he's elevated and admirable in his Expressions, his Descriptions fine, but that he wants Judgment; and speaks well, but thinks ill, and that tho' the Parts are handsome enough, yet the whole Work can by no means pass for an Epic Poem, he having never seen the Rules of Aristotle;" which he thinks Tasso had, and therefore wrote much better, whom he commends as more correct in his Design, more regular in the ordering his Fable, and more accomplish'd in all parts of his Poem than any other of the Italians, whom yet he justly blames, because he has two Hero's Godfredo and Rinaldo, of whom Godfredo seems the principal, and yet Rinaldo performs the greatest part of the notable Actions. He seems to imitate Agamemnon and Achilles, but then he raises his Agamemnon too high, or keeps him too low, for he hardly lets him do one great Action through the whole Work. He further criticises upon him as mingling too much Gallantry with his Poem, which, he thinks, is unbecoming the Gravity of his Subject. But whether this Censure be just, I know not, for Love and Gallantry runs through all Virgil's �neids, in the Instances of Helen, Dido, and Lavinia, and indeed it gives so great a Life to Epic, that it hardly can be agreeable without it, and I question whether ever it has been so. Nor is he more just, I think, against Tasso's Episodes, which he blames as not proper to circumstantiate his principal Action, not entring into the Causes and Effects thereof, but seeking too much to please, tho' I think this Charge is unjust, for 'tis in his Episodes, if any where, that Tasso is admirable. I might here give several Instances, but shall, at present, only refer my Reader to that of Tancred and Erminia, and I'm mistaken if he does not dissent from Rapin in this particular. Sannazarius and Vida were the next who did any thing remarkable in Epic; they both writ in Latin on the same Subject, both Christian Heroics; Rapin says they both had a good Genius for Latin, the Purity of their Style being admirable, but that their ordering of the Fable has nothing in't of Delicacy, nor is the manner of their Writing proportionable to the dignity of the Subject. For Sannazarius he's indeed so faulty, that one can hardly with Patience read him, the whole Structure of his imperfect Piece, de partu, being built on Heathen Fable; yet he has great and vigorous Thoughts and very Poetical Expressions, tho' therein Vida far excels him, whose Thoughts are so noble, and the Air of his Stile so great, that the Elogy Balzac gives his Countryman Tasso, wou'd as well or rather better have fitted him; "That Virgil is the Cause, Vida is not the first; and Vida, that Virgil is not alone." It is true, as Rapin observes, that his Fable is very simple, and perhaps so much the better, considering the Subject; tho' he forgets not Poetical Ornaments, where there's occasion, if he does not lean a little to Sannazarius's Error; for he talks of the Gorgons and Sphinxes, the Centaurs and Hydra's and Chimera's, though much more sparingly and modestly than the other. He has the happiest beginning that perhaps is to be found in any Poem, and by mingling his Proposition and Invocation, has the advantage of placing one of the noblest Thoughts in the World in the first Line, without danger of falling into the absurdity of Horace's Author with his Fortunam Priami: For thus he sings, Qui mare, qui terras, qul coelum numine comples Spiritus alme, &c. After the Invocation, in the very beginning of the Poem, he's preparing the Incidents for his Hero's Death; he brings him to Jerusalem at the Passover with Hosanna's; then raises his Machines, and falls to the Description of Hell. He through the whole, uses his Figures very gracefully; few have been more happy in Comparisons, more moving in Passion, succinct, yet full in Narration: Yet is he not without Faults; or in the second Book he brings him to his last Supper in the Garden, from thence before Caiaphas and Pilate; which too much precipitates the main Action: Besides, it seems harsh and improbable to bring in S. John, and Joseph, our Saviour's reputed Father, as he does in the Third and Fourth Book, giving Pilate an account of his Life; not to insist on the general Opinion, that Joseph was not then alive. But notwithstanding these few failures, it can't be deny'd, that his Description of our Saviour's Passion in the Fourth Book, is incomparably fine; the disturbance among the Angels on that occasion; his Character of Michael, and the Virgins Lamentation under the Cross, and at the Sepulchre, are inimitable. And thus much for Vida, on whom I've been more large because I've often made use of his Thoughts in this following Work; his Poem being the most complete on that Subject I've ever seen or expect to see. And here han't the English more reason to complain of Rapin, that he takes no notice of their Heroic Poems, than Lupez Viga of Tasso, for not mentioning the Spaniards at the Siege of Jerusalem: but since he has been so partial, as not to take any notice of our Writers, who sure as much deserve it as their Dubartas and Ronsard; we may have liberty to speak of our own, and to do 'em Justice: To begin with Spencer, who I think comes the nearest Ariosto of any other; he's almost as Irregular, but much more Natural and Lovely: But he's not only Irregular but Imperfect too, I mean, as to what he intended; and therefore we can't well imagine what it wou'd have been, had he liv'd to complete it. If Fable be the Essence of Epic, his Fairy Queen had certainly enough of that to give it that Name. He seems, by the account he gives of it to Sir Walter Rawleigh, to have design'd one Principal Hero King Arthur, and one main important Action bringing him to his Throne; but neither of these appear sufficiently distinct, or well defin'd, being both lost in the vast Seas of Matter which compose those Books which are finish'd. This however must be granted, the Design was Noble, and required such a comprehensive Genius as his, but to draw the first Sketch of it: And as the Design, so the Thoughts are also very great, the Expressions flowing natural and easie, with such a prodigious Poetical Copia as never any other must expect to enjoy. Gondibert methinks wants Life; the Style is rather stiff than Heroic, and has more of Statius than Virgil; one may see every where a great deal of Art, and Pains, and Regularity, even to a fault; nor is a Genius wanting, but it's so unnatural, that an ingenious Person may find much more pleasure in reading a worse Poet. Besides, his Stanza's often cramp the Sence, and injure many a noble Thought and Passion. But Mr. Cowley's Davideis is the Medium between both; it has Gondibert's Majesty without his stiffness, and something of Spencer's Sweetness and Variety, without his Irregularity: Indeed all his Works are so admirable, that another Cowley might well be employ'd in giving them their just Elogy. His Hero is according to the ancient Model, truly Poetical, a mixture of some Faults and greater Virtues. He had the advantage of both Love and Honour for his Episodes, nay, and Friendship too, and that the noblest in History. He had all the sacred History before him, and liberty to chuse where he pleased, either by Narration or Prophecy; nor has he, as far as he has gone, neglected any advantage the Subject gave him. Its a great Loss to the World that he left the Work unfinish'd, since now he's dead, its always like to continue so. As for Milton's Paradise Lost its an Original, and indeed he seems rather above the common Rules of Epic than ignorant of them. Its I'm sure a very lovely Poem, by what ever Name it's call'd, and in it he has many Thoughts and Images, greater than perhaps any either in Virgil or Homer. The Foundation is true History, but the turn is Fable: The Action is very Important, but not uniform; for one can't tell which is the Principal in the Poem, the Wars of the Angels or the Fall of Man, nor which is the Chief Person Michael or Adam. Its true, the former comes in as an Episode to the latter, but it takes up too great a part thereof, because its link'd to it. His Discourse of Light is incomparable; and I think 'twas worth the while to be blind to be its Author. His Description of Adam and Eve, their Persons and Love, is almost too lively to bear reading: Not but that he has his inequalities and repetitions, the latter pretty often, as have, more or less, all other Poets but Virgil. For his antique Words I'm not like to blame him whoever does: And for his blank Verse, I'm of a different mind from most others, and think they rather excuse his uncorrectness than the contraries; for I find its easier to run into it, in that sort of Verse, than in Rhyming Works where the Thought is oftner turned; whereas here the Fancy flows on, without check or controul. As for his Paradise Regain'd, I nothing wonder that it has not near the Life of his former Poem, any more than the Odysses fell short of the Iliads. Milton, when he writ this, was grown Older, probably poorer: He had not that scope for Fable, was confin'd to a lower Walk, and draws out that in four Books which might have been well compriz'd in one: Notwithstanding all this, there are many strokes which appear truly his; as the Mustring of the Parthian Troops, the Description of Rome by the Devil to our Saviour, and several other places. And now I've done with all the rest, I may take liberty to say something of my own. For the Subject I dare stand by it, that 'tis fit for a better Heroic Poem than any ever was, or will be made; and that if a good Poem cou'd not be made on't, it must be either from the weakness of the Art itself, or for want of a good Artist. I don't say the Subject with all its Circumstances is the best for Epic, but considered in it self, or with a prudent choice out of the vast Field of Matter which it affords. The Action is Important, if ever any was, being no less than the Redemption of the World, which was not accomplish'd till after our Saviours Death and Resurrection. The Ascension I confess should be left out, according to the common Rules of Heroick Poetry, but I had not the same reason of omitting it, as others have for not coming to the End of their History, a little short of which they generally stop, because after the main Business is over, nothing great remains, or however not greater than has already past. And if any thing mean followed, the Reader wou'd leave off dissatisfied. But I've as great and remarkable an Action, as any in the whole story, yet upon my Hands, and which if I had omitted, I had lost many very moving Incidents that follow'd the Resurrection; and besides, Vida before me, has carry'd it yet further, to the actual Descent of the Holy Ghost on the Disciples, and the spreading the Christian Name all the World over; which I have done only in Prophecy. The Action is I think uniform, because all the Episodes are part of the main Action, the Redemption of the World; to which his Incarnation, and Divine Conception were absolutely necessary, and so were his Holy Life, Doctrine, Miracles, and especially his Sufferings and Agonies. My principal Hero was perfect, yet imitable, and that both in active and contemplative Life. He leaves his own Kingdom to save and conquer another, endures the greatest hardships, is reduc'd to the lowest ebb, nay is at last forc'd to suffer Death it self. Yet after all, he emerges from his Misfortunes, conquers all his Enemies, fixes Laws, establishes Religion, Peace, and his own Empire, and is advanced higher than any Conquerer ever was before him. The other Persons are Heroical enough, Angels, Kings, High Priests, Governours, Councellors, nay even the Apostles themselves were more than Kings, for they were thought and call'd Gods by the People. The Moral I find not make it, in a true Example, which others are forced to Form in Fable; "That we ought to do Good, to suffer evil, submit to the Divine Will; to venture or lose a Life for a Friend; to forgive our Enemies." Yet further I desire to recommend the whole of the Christian Religion; all the Articles of Faith; all that System of Divinity and Morality contain'd in the Gospel of the Blessed Jesus, to the Study and Practice of Persons of Ingenuity and Reason; to make his Divine Person, which is already infinitely Amiable, if possible, actually more Ador'd and Lov'd; and to Vindicate his Mission, his Satisfaction, and his Divinity, against all Jews, Turks, Infidels, and Heretics; which sure are the most proper Ends that can be propos'd in a Work of this Nature: Which may be agreeably and admirably done, if 'tis not the Poets fault; for here's all the marvellous that cou'd be wished for, already done to my Hand, and all sacredly True, Angels and Demons, and Miracles, with Voices from Heaven. Now the Subject being so fit for a good Heroic Poem, I shall have the less excuse, if this be a bad one. And here I must ingenuously confess, I had seen none of these Rules given by the Masters of Epic, when I laid the Scheme of this Poem, tho I wish I had, for I might probably then have done it better, or not at all. I knew not the hazard of the undertaking, but greedily embrac'd it, when first propos'd by some Friends, who were ignorant of what they put me upon. Being full of the Design wherein, the earnest desire I had to see it accomplish'd, and either a lucky Chance, or the Happiness of my Subject, may perhaps in some Instances, have supply'd the want both of Rules and Genius. All I will say of my own performance is, that I now know the Faults on't, tho I am not oblig'd to point 'em out to my Reader, who will but too soon find 'em. That I wou'd have mended much that's now amiss, had I lived in an Age where a man might afford to be Nine or Ten Years about a Poem. And in the Mean time this satisfies me, whatever is the success, that I've done all that cou'd be done by one in my Circumstances towards the rendering it more compleat and free from Faults, and only wish that my own Reputation may suffer, by the weakness of the Work, and not the Dignity of the Subject. I cou'd plead for my self what Longinus says on Works of this Nature, wou'd it not look like Arrogance, "That even the greatest Genius may sometimes sink into meanness, when the force of their Spirits is once exhausted: That its very difficult for height of Thought to sustain it self long in an equal Tenour; and that some Faults ought to be excused when there are more Beauties." But if none of these will pass, I hope it will not much mortifie me, since I think the World and I have no great matter to do with one another. I'm sensible my Poem wou'd have had fewer Enemies, had I left out some Passages in't. But as mean as the worst of this are, I wou'd not buy their good Word at such a rate. I had almost forgot to mention the Gravers Work, which is not without Faults, particularly he has err'd in the Posture of the Disciples at the last Supper, whom he has made Sitting, when they were really Declining, or Discumbent. But its now more than time to conclude my long Preface, which I shall do in few Words. Since the chief Design in this Work, is to advance the Honour of my Hero, and next to that, the entertainment of Pious and ingenious Minds; for the truth of which, I hope I may appeal to the great [Greek: kritikos tês kardias]; I shall not be much concern'd for the success it may meet with in the World. 
2388	----	This My insuperable and fixed decree! Abstaining from a work by right prescribed Never is meet! So to abstain doth spring From "Darkness," and Delusion teacheth it. Abstaining from a work grievous to flesh, When one saith "'Tis unpleasing!" this is null! Such an one acts from "passion;" nought of gain Wins his Renunciation! But, Arjun! Abstaining from attachment to the work, Abstaining from rewardment in the work, While yet one doeth it full faithfully, Saying, "Tis right to do!" that is "true " act And abstinence! Who doeth duties so, Unvexed if his work fail, if it succeed Unflattered, in his own heart justified, Quit of debates and doubts, his is "true" act: For, being in the body, none may stand Wholly aloof from act; yet, who abstains From profit of his acts is abstinent. The fruit of labours, in the lives to come, Is threefold for all men,--Desirable, And Undesirable, and mixed of both; But no fruit is at all where no work was. Hear from me, Long-armed Lord! the makings five Which go to every act, in Sankhya taught As necessary. First the force; and then The agent; next, the various instruments; Fourth, the especial effort; fifth, the God. What work soever any mortal doth Of body, mind, or speech, evil or good, By these five doth he that. Which being thus, Whoso, for lack of knowledge, seeth himself As the sole actor, knoweth nought at all And seeth nought. Therefore, I say, if one-- Holding aloof from self--with unstained mind Should slay all yonder host, being bid to slay, He doth not slay; he is not bound thereby! Knowledge, the thing known, and the mind which knows, These make the threefold starting-ground of act. The act, the actor, and the instrument, These make the threefold total of the deed. But knowledge, agent, act, are differenced By three dividing qualities. Hear now Which be the qualities dividing them. There is "true" Knowledge. Learn thou it is this: To see one changeless Life in all the Lives, And in the Separate, One Inseparable. There is imperfect Knowledge: that which sees The separate existences apart, And, being separated, holds them real. There is false Knowledge: that which blindly clings To one as if 'twere all, seeking no Cause, Deprived of light, narrow, and dull, and "dark." There is "right" Action: that which being enjoined-- Is wrought without attachment, passionlessly, For duty, not for love, nor hate, nor gain. There is "vain" Action: that which men pursue Aching to satisfy desires, impelled By sense of self, with all-absorbing stress: This is of Rajas--passionate and vain. There is "dark" Action: when one doth a thing Heedless of issues, heedless of the hurt Or wrong for others, heedless if he harm His own soul--'tis of Tamas, black and bad! There is the "rightful"doer. He who acts Free from self-seeking, humble, resolute, Steadfast, in good or evil hap the same, Content to do aright-he "truly" acts. There is th' "impassioned" doer. He that works From impulse, seeking profit, rude and bold To overcome, unchastened; slave by turns Of sorrow and of joy: of Rajas he! And there be evil doers; loose of heart, Low-minded, stubborn, fraudulent, remiss, Dull, slow, despondent--children of the "dark." Hear, too, of Intellect and Steadfastness The threefold separation, Conqueror-Prince! How these are set apart by Qualities. Good is the Intellect which comprehends The coming forth and going back of life, What must be done, and what must not be done, What should be feared, and what should not be feared, What binds and what emancipates the soul: That is of Sattwan, Prince! of "soothfastness." Marred is the Intellect which, knowing right And knowing wrong, and what is well to do And what must not be done, yet understands Nought with firm mind, nor as the calm truth is: This is of Rajas, Prince! and "passionate!" Evil is Intellect which, wrapped in gloom, Looks upon wrong as right, and sees all things Contrariwise of Truth. O Pritha's Son! That is of Tamas, "dark" and desperate! Good is the steadfastness whereby a man Masters his beats of heart, his very breath Of life, the action of his senses; fixed In never-shaken faith and piety: That is of Sattwan, Prince! "soothfast" and fair! Stained is the steadfastness whereby a man Holds to his duty, purpose, effort, end, For life's sake, and the love of goods to gain, Arjuna! 'tis of Rajas, passion-stamped! Sad is the steadfastness wherewith the fool Cleaves to his sloth, his sorrow, and his fears, His folly and despair. This--Pritha's Son!-- Is born of Tamas, "dark" and miserable! Hear further, Chief of Bharatas! from Me The threefold kinds of Pleasure which there be. Good Pleasure is the pleasure that endures, Banishing pain for aye; bitter at first As poison to the soul, but afterward Sweet as the taste of Amrit. Drink of that! It springeth in the Spirit's deep content. And painful Pleasure springeth from the bond Between the senses and the sense-world. Sweet As Amrit is its first taste, but its last Bitter as poison. 'Tis of Rajas, Prince! And foul and "dark" the Pleasure is which springs From sloth and sin and foolishness; at first And at the last, and all the way of life The soul bewildering. 'Tis of Tamas, Prince! For nothing lives on earth, nor 'midst the gods In utmost heaven, but hath its being bound With these three Qualities, by Nature framed. The work of Brahmans, Kshatriyas, Vaisyas, And Sudras, O thou Slayer of thy Foes! Is fixed by reason of the Qualities Planted in each: A Brahman's virtues, Prince! Born of his nature, are serenity, Self-mastery, religion, purity, Patience, uprightness, learning, and to know The truth of things which be. A Kshatriya's pride, Born of his nature, lives in valour, fire, Constancy, skilfulness, spirit in fight, And open-handedness and noble mien, As of a lord of men. A Vaisya's task, Born with his nature, is to till the ground, Tend cattle, venture trade. A Sudra's state, Suiting his nature, is to minister. Whoso performeth--diligent, content-- The work allotted him, whate'er it be, Lays hold of perfectness! Hear how a man Findeth perfection, being so content: He findeth it through worship--wrought by work-- Of Him that is the Source of all which lives, Of HIM by Whom the universe was stretched. Better thine own work is, though done with fault, Than doing others' work, ev'n excellently. He shall not fall in sin who fronts the task Set him by Nature's hand! Let no man leave His natural duty, Prince! though it bear blame! For every work hath blame, as every flame Is wrapped in smoke! Only that man attains Perfect surcease of work whose work was wrought With mind unfettered, soul wholly subdued, Desires for ever dead, results renounced. Learn from me, Son of Kunti! also this, How one, attaining perfect peace, attains BRAHM, the supreme, the highest height of all! Devoted--with a heart grown pure, restrained In lordly self-control, forgoing wiles Of song and senses, freed from love and hate, Dwelling 'mid solitudes, in diet spare, With body, speech, and will tamed to obey, Ever to holy meditation vowed, From passions liberate, quit of the Self, Of arrogance, impatience, anger, pride; Freed from surroundings, quiet, lacking nought-- Such an one grows to oneness with the BRAHM; Such an one, growing one with BRAHM, serene, Sorrows no more, desires no more; his soul, Equally loving all that lives, loves well Me, Who have made them, and attains to Me. By this same love and worship doth he know Me as I am, how high and wonderful, And knowing, straightway enters into Me. And whatsoever deeds he doeth--fixed In Me, as in his refuge--he hath won For ever and for ever by My grace Th' Eternal Rest! So win thou! In thy thoughts Do all thou dost for Me! Renounce for Me! Sacrifice heart and mind and will to Me! Live in the faith of Me! In faith of Me All dangers thou shalt vanquish, by My grace; But, trusting to thyself and heeding not, Thou can'st but perish! If this day thou say'st, Relying on thyself, "I will not fight!" Vain will the purpose prove! thy qualities Would spur thee to the war. What thou dost shun, Misled by fair illusions, thou wouldst seek Against thy will, when the task comes to thee Waking the promptings in thy nature set. There lives a Master in the hearts of men Maketh their deeds, by subtle pulling--strings, Dance to what tune HE will. With all thy soul Trust Him, and take Him for thy succour, Prince! So--only so, Arjuna!--shalt thou gain-- By grace of Him--the uttermost repose, The Eternal Place! Thus hath been opened thee This Truth of Truths, the Mystery more hid Than any secret mystery. Meditate! And--as thou wilt--then act! Nay! but once more Take My last word, My utmost meaning have! Precious thou art to Me; right well-beloved! Listen! I tell thee for thy comfort this. Give Me thy heart! adore Me! serve Me! cling In faith and love and reverence to Me! So shalt thou come to Me! I promise true, For thou art sweet to Me! And let go those-- Rites and writ duties! Fly to Me alone! Make Me thy single refuge! I will free Thy soul from all its sins! Be of good cheer! [Hide, the holy Krishna saith, This from him that hath no faith, Him that worships not, nor seeks Wisdom's teaching when she speaks: Hide it from all men who mock; But, wherever, 'mid the flock Of My lovers, one shall teach This divinest, wisest, speech-- Teaching in the faith to bring Truth to them, and offering Of all honour unto Me-- Unto Brahma cometh he! Nay, and nowhere shall ye find Any man of all mankind Doing dearer deed for Me; Nor shall any dearer be In My earth. Yea, furthermore, Whoso reads this converse o'er, Held by Us upon the plain, Pondering piously and fain, He hath paid Me sacrifice! (Krishna speaketh in this wise!) Yea, and whoso, full of faith, Heareth wisely what it saith, Heareth meekly,--when he dies, Surely shall his spirit rise To those regions where the Blest, Free of flesh, in joyance rest.] Hath this been heard by thee, O Indian Prince! With mind intent? hath all the ignorance-- Which bred thy trouble--vanished, My Arjun? Arjuna. Trouble and ignorance are gone! the Light Hath come unto me, by Thy favour, Lord! Now am I fixed! my doubt is fled away! According to Thy word, so will I do! Sanjaya. Thus gathered I the gracious speech of Krishna, O my King! Thus have I told, with heart a-thrill, this wise and wondrous thing By great Vyasa's learning writ, how Krishna's self made known The Yoga, being Yoga's Lord. So is the high truth shown! And aye, when I remember, O Lord my King, again Arjuna and the God in talk, and all this holy strain, Great is my gladness: when I muse that splendour, passing speech, Of Hari, visible and plain, there is no tongue to reach My marvel and my love and bliss. O Archer-Prince! all hail! O Krishna, Lord of Yoga! surely there shall not fail Blessing, and victory, and power, for Thy most mighty sake, Where this song comes of Arjun, and how with God he spake. HERE ENDS, WITH CHAPTER XVIII., Entitled "Mokshasanyasayog," Or "The Book of Religion by Deliverance and Renunciation," THE BHAGAVAD-GITA. [FN#1] Some repetitionary lines are here omitted. [FN#2] Technical phrases of Vedic religion. [FN#3] The whole of this passage is highly involved and difficult to render. [FN#4] I feel convinced sankhyanan and yoginan must be transposed here in sense. [FN#5] I am doubtful of accuracy here. [FN#6] A name of the sun. [FN#7] Without desire of fruit. [FN#8] That is,"joy and sorrow, success and failure, heat and cold,"&c. [FN#9] i.e., the body. [FN#10] The Sanskrit has this play on the double meaning of Atman. [FN#11] So in original. [FN#12] Beings of low and devilish nature. [FN#13] Krishna. [FN#14] I read here janma, "birth;" not jara,"age" [FN#15] I have discarded ten lines of Sanskrit text here as an undoubted interpolation by some Vedantist [FN#16] The Sanskrit poem here rises to an elevation of style and manner which I have endeavoured to mark by change of metre. [FN#17] Ahinsa. [FN#18] The nectar of immortality. [FN#19] Called "The Jap." [FN#20] The compound form of Sanskrit words. [FN#21] "Kamalapatraksha" [FN#22] These are all divine or deified orders of the Hindoo Pantheon. [FN#23] "Hail to Thee, God of Gods! Be favourable!" [FN#24] The wind. [FN#25] "Not peering about,"anapeksha. [FN#26] The Calcutta edition of the Mahabharata has these three opening lines. [FN#27] This is the nearest possible version of Kshetrakshetrajnayojnanan yat tajnan matan mama. [FN#28] I omit two lines of the Sanskrit here, evidently interpolated by some Vedantist. [FN#29] Wombs. [FN#30] I do not consider the Sanskrit verses here-which are somewhat freely rendered--"an attack on the authority of the Vedas," with Mr Davies, but a beautiful lyrical episode, a new "Parable of the fig-tree." [FN#31] I omit a verse here, evidently interpolated. [FN#32] "Of the Asuras," lit. [FN#33] I omit the ten concluding shlokas, with Mr Davis. [FN#34] Rakshasas and Yakshas are unembodied but capricious beings of great power, gifts, and beauty, same times also of benignity. [FN#35] These are spirits of evil wandering ghosts. [FN#36] Yatayaman, food which has remained after the watches of the night. In India this would probably "go bad." [FN#37] I omit the concluding shlokas, as of very doubtful authenticity. 
1719	----	THE BALLAD OF THE WHITE HORSE By G.K. Chesterton Prefatory Note: This ballad needs no historical notes, for the simple reason that it does not profess to be historical. All of it that is not frankly fictitious, as in any prose romance about the past, is meant to emphasize tradition rather than history. King Alfred is not a legend in the sense that King Arthur may be a legend; that is, in the sense that he may possibly be a lie. But King Alfred is a legend in this broader and more human sense, that the legends are the most important things about him. The cult of Alfred was a popular cult, from the darkness of the ninth century to the deepening twilight of the twentieth. It is wholly as a popular legend that I deal with him here. I write as one ignorant of everything, except that I have found the legend of a King of Wessex still alive in the land. I will give three curt cases of what I mean. A tradition connects the ultimate victory of Alfred with the valley in Berkshire called the Vale of the White Horse. I have seen doubts of the tradition, which may be valid doubts. I do not know when or where the story started; it is enough that it started somewhere and ended with me; for I only seek to write upon a hearsay, as the old balladists did. For the second case, there is a popular tale that Alfred played the harp and sang in the Danish camp; I select it because it is a popular tale, at whatever time it arose. For the third case, there is a popular tale that Alfred came in contact with a woman and cakes; I select it because it is a popular tale, because it is a vulgar one. It has been disputed by grave historians, who were, I think, a little too grave to be good judges of it. The two chief charges against the story are that it was first recorded long after Alfred's death, and that (as Mr. Oman urges) Alfred never really wandered all alone without any thanes or soldiers. Both these objections might possibly be met. It has taken us nearly as long to learn the whole truth about Byron, and perhaps longer to learn the whole truth about Pepys, than elapsed between Alfred and the first writing of such tales. And as for the other objection, do the historians really think that Alfred after Wilton, or Napoleon after Leipsic, never walked about in a wood by himself for the matter of an hour or two? Ten minutes might be made sufficient for the essence of the story. But I am not concerned to prove the truth of these popular traditions. It is enough for me to maintain two things: that they are popular traditions; and that without these popular traditions we should have bothered about Alfred about as much as we bother about Eadwig. One other consideration needs a note. Alfred has come down to us in the best way (that is, by national legends) solely for the same reason as Arthur and Roland and the other giants of that darkness, because he fought for the Christian civilization against the heathen nihilism. But since this work was really done by generation after generation, by the Romans before they withdrew, and by the Britons while they remained, I have summarised this first crusade in a triple symbol, and given to a fictitious Roman, Celt, and Saxon, a part in the glory of Ethandune. I fancy that in fact Alfred's Wessex was of very mixed bloods; but in any case, it is the chief value of legend to mix up the centuries while preserving the sentiment; to see all ages in a sort of splendid foreshortening. That is the use of tradition: it telescopes history. G.K.C. DEDICATION Of great limbs gone to chaos, A great face turned to night-- Why bend above a shapeless shroud Seeking in such archaic cloud Sight of strong lords and light? Where seven sunken Englands Lie buried one by one, Why should one idle spade, I wonder, Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder To smoke and choke the sun? In cloud of clay so cast to heaven What shape shall man discern? These lords may light the mystery Of mastery or victory, And these ride high in history, But these shall not return. Gored on the Norman gonfalon The Golden Dragon died: We shall not wake with ballad strings The good time of the smaller things, We shall not see the holy kings Ride down by Severn side. Stiff, strange, and quaintly coloured As the broidery of Bayeux The England of that dawn remains, And this of Alfred and the Danes Seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns Too English to be true. Of a good king on an island That ruled once on a time; And as he walked by an apple tree There came green devils out of the sea With sea-plants trailing heavily And tracks of opal slime. Yet Alfred is no fairy tale; His days as our days ran, He also looked forth for an hour On peopled plains and skies that lower, From those few windows in the tower That is the head of a man. But who shall look from Alfred's hood Or breathe his breath alive? His century like a small dark cloud Drifts far; it is an eyeless crowd, Where the tortured trumpets scream aloud And the dense arrows drive. Lady, by one light only We look from Alfred's eyes, We know he saw athwart the wreck The sign that hangs about your neck, Where One more than Melchizedek Is dead and never dies. Therefore I bring these rhymes to you Who brought the cross to me, Since on you flaming without flaw I saw the sign that Guthrum saw When he let break his ships of awe, And laid peace on the sea. Do you remember when we went Under a dragon moon, And 'mid volcanic tints of night Walked where they fought the unknown fight And saw black trees on the battle-height, Black thorn on Ethandune? And I thought, "I will go with you, As man with God has gone, And wander with a wandering star, The wandering heart of things that are, The fiery cross of love and war That like yourself, goes on." O go you onward; where you are Shall honour and laughter be, Past purpled forest and pearled foam, God's winged pavilion free to roam, Your face, that is a wandering home, A flying home for me. Ride through the silent earthquake lands, Wide as a waste is wide, Across these days like deserts, when Pride and a little scratching pen Have dried and split the hearts of men, Heart of the heroes, ride. Up through an empty house of stars, Being what heart you are, Up the inhuman steeps of space As on a staircase go in grace, Carrying the firelight on your face Beyond the loneliest star. Take these; in memory of the hour We strayed a space from home And saw the smoke-hued hamlets, quaint With Westland king and Westland saint, And watched the western glory faint Along the road to Frome. BOOK I. THE VISION OF THE KING Before the gods that made the gods Had seen their sunrise pass, The White Horse of the White Horse Vale Was cut out of the grass. Before the gods that made the gods Had drunk at dawn their fill, The White Horse of the White Horse Vale Was hoary on the hill. Age beyond age on British land, Aeons on aeons gone, Was peace and war in western hills, And the White Horse looked on. For the White Horse knew England When there was none to know; He saw the first oar break or bend, He saw heaven fall and the world end, O God, how long ago. For the end of the world was long ago, And all we dwell to-day As children of some second birth, Like a strange people left on earth After a judgment day. For the end of the world was long ago, When the ends of the world waxed free, When Rome was sunk in a waste of slaves, And the sun drowned in the sea. When Caesar's sun fell out of the sky And whoso hearkened right Could only hear the plunging Of the nations in the night. When the ends of the earth came marching in To torch and cresset gleam. And the roads of the world that lead to Rome Were filled with faces that moved like foam, Like faces in a dream. And men rode out of the eastern lands, Broad river and burning plain; Trees that are Titan flowers to see, And tiger skies, striped horribly, With tints of tropic rain. Where Ind's enamelled peaks arise Around that inmost one, Where ancient eagles on its brink, Vast as archangels, gather and drink The sacrament of the sun. And men brake out of the northern lands, Enormous lands alone, Where a spell is laid upon life and lust And the rain is changed to a silver dust And the sea to a great green stone. And a Shape that moveth murkily In mirrors of ice and night, Hath blanched with fear all beasts and birds, As death and a shock of evil words Blast a man's hair with white. And the cry of the palms and the purple moons, Or the cry of the frost and foam, Swept ever around an inmost place, And the din of distant race on race Cried and replied round Rome. And there was death on the Emperor And night upon the Pope: And Alfred, hiding in deep grass, Hardened his heart with hope. A sea-folk blinder than the sea Broke all about his land, But Alfred up against them bare And gripped the ground and grasped the air, Staggered, and strove to stand. He bent them back with spear and spade, With desperate dyke and wall, With foemen leaning on his shield And roaring on him when he reeled; And no help came at all. He broke them with a broken sword A little towards the sea, And for one hour of panting peace, Ringed with a roar that would not cease, With golden crown and girded fleece Made laws under a tree. The Northmen came about our land A Christless chivalry: Who knew not of the arch or pen, Great, beautiful half-witted men From the sunrise and the sea. Misshapen ships stood on the deep Full of strange gold and fire, And hairy men, as huge as sin With horned heads, came wading in Through the long, low sea-mire. Our towns were shaken of tall kings With scarlet beards like blood: The world turned empty where they trod, They took the kindly cross of God And cut it up for wood. Their souls were drifting as the sea, And all good towns and lands They only saw with heavy eyes, And broke with heavy hands, Their gods were sadder than the sea, Gods of a wandering will, Who cried for blood like beasts at night, Sadly, from hill to hill. They seemed as trees walking the earth, As witless and as tall, Yet they took hold upon the heavens And no help came at all. They bred like birds in English woods, They rooted like the rose, When Alfred came to Athelney To hide him from their bows There was not English armour left, Nor any English thing, When Alfred came to Athelney To be an English king. For earthquake swallowing earthquake Uprent the Wessex tree; The whirlpool of the pagan sway Had swirled his sires as sticks away When a flood smites the sea. And the great kings of Wessex Wearied and sank in gore, And even their ghosts in that great stress Grew greyer and greyer, less and less, With the lords that died in Lyonesse And the king that comes no more. And the God of the Golden Dragon Was dumb upon his throne, And the lord of the Golden Dragon Ran in the woods alone. And if ever he climbed the crest of luck And set the flag before, Returning as a wheel returns, Came ruin and the rain that burns, And all began once more. And naught was left King Alfred But shameful tears of rage, In the island in the river In the end of all his age. In the island in the river He was broken to his knee: And he read, writ with an iron pen, That God had wearied of Wessex men And given their country, field and fen, To the devils of the sea. And he saw in a little picture, Tiny and far away, His mother sitting in Egbert's hall, And a book she showed him, very small, Where a sapphire Mary sat in stall With a golden Christ at play. It was wrought in the monk's slow manner, From silver and sanguine shell, Where the scenes are little and terrible, Keyholes of heaven and hell. In the river island of Athelney, With the river running past, In colours of such simple creed All things sprang at him, sun and weed, Till the grass grew to be grass indeed And the tree was a tree at last. Fearfully plain the flowers grew, Like the child's book to read, Or like a friend's face seen in a glass; He looked; and there Our Lady was, She stood and stroked the tall live grass As a man strokes his steed. Her face was like an open word When brave men speak and choose, The very colours of her coat Were better than good news. She spoke not, nor turned not, Nor any sign she cast, Only she stood up straight and free, Between the flowers in Athelney, And the river running past. One dim ancestral jewel hung On his ruined armour grey, He rent and cast it at her feet: Where, after centuries, with slow feet, Men came from hall and school and street And found it where it lay. "Mother of God," the wanderer said, "I am but a common king, Nor will I ask what saints may ask, To see a secret thing. "The gates of heaven are fearful gates Worse than the gates of hell; Not I would break the splendours barred Or seek to know the thing they guard, Which is too good to tell. "But for this earth most pitiful, This little land I know, If that which is for ever is, Or if our hearts shall break with bliss, Seeing the stranger go? "When our last bow is broken, Queen, And our last javelin cast, Under some sad, green evening sky, Holding a ruined cross on high, Under warm westland grass to lie, Shall we come home at last?" And a voice came human but high up, Like a cottage climbed among The clouds; or a serf of hut and croft That sits by his hovel fire as oft, But hears on his old bare roof aloft A belfry burst in song. "The gates of heaven are lightly locked, We do not guard our gain, The heaviest hind may easily Come silently and suddenly Upon me in a lane. "And any little maid that walks In good thoughts apart, May break the guard of the Three Kings And see the dear and dreadful things I hid within my heart. "The meanest man in grey fields gone Behind the set of sun, Heareth between star and other star, Through the door of the darkness fallen ajar, The council, eldest of things that are, The talk of the Three in One. "The gates of heaven are lightly locked, We do not guard our gold, Men may uproot where worlds begin, Or read the name of the nameless sin; But if he fail or if he win To no good man is told. "The men of the East may spell the stars, And times and triumphs mark, But the men signed of the cross of Christ Go gaily in the dark. "The men of the East may search the scrolls For sure fates and fame, But the men that drink the blood of God Go singing to their shame. "The wise men know what wicked things Are written on the sky, They trim sad lamps, they touch sad strings, Hearing the heavy purple wings, Where the forgotten seraph kings Still plot how God shall die. "The wise men know all evil things Under the twisted trees, Where the perverse in pleasure pine And men are weary of green wine And sick of crimson seas. "But you and all the kind of Christ Are ignorant and brave, And you have wars you hardly win And souls you hardly save. "I tell you naught for your comfort, Yea, naught for your desire, Save that the sky grows darker yet And the sea rises higher. "Night shall be thrice night over you, And heaven an iron cope. Do you have joy without a cause, Yea, faith without a hope?" Even as she spoke she was not, Nor any word said he, He only heard, still as he stood Under the old night's nodding hood, The sea-folk breaking down the wood Like a high tide from sea. He only heard the heathen men, Whose eyes are blue and bleak, Singing about some cruel thing Done by a great and smiling king In daylight on a deck. He only heard the heathen men, Whose eyes are blue and blind, Singing what shameful things are done Between the sunlit sea and the sun When the land is left behind. BOOK II. THE GATHERING OF THE CHIEFS Up across windy wastes and up Went Alfred over the shaws, Shaken of the joy of giants, The joy without a cause. In the slopes away to the western bays, Where blows not ever a tree, He washed his soul in the west wind And his body in the sea. And he set to rhyme his ale-measures, And he sang aloud his laws, Because of the joy of the giants, The joy without a cause. The King went gathering Wessex men, As grain out of the chaff The few that were alive to die, Laughing, as littered skulls that lie After lost battles turn to the sky An everlasting laugh. The King went gathering Christian men, As wheat out of the husk; Eldred, the Franklin by the sea, And Mark, the man from Italy, And Colan of the Sacred Tree, From the old tribe on Usk. The rook croaked homeward heavily, The west was clear and warm, The smoke of evening food and ease Rose like a blue tree in the trees When he came to Eldred's farm. But Eldred's farm was fallen awry, Like an old cripple's bones, And Eldred's tools were red with rust, And on his well was a green crust, And purple thistles upward thrust, Between the kitchen stones. But smoke of some good feasting Went upwards evermore, And Eldred's doors stood wide apart For loitering foot or labouring cart, And Eldred's great and foolish heart Stood open like his door. A mighty man was Eldred, A bulk for casks to fill, His face a dreaming furnace, His body a walking hill. In the old wars of Wessex His sword had sunken deep, But all his friends, he signed and said, Were broken about Ethelred; And between the deep drink and the dead He had fallen upon sleep. "Come not to me, King Alfred, Save always for the ale: Why should my harmless hinds be slain Because the chiefs cry once again, As in all fights, that we shall gain, And in all fights we fail? "Your scalds still thunder and prophesy That crown that never comes; Friend, I will watch the certain things, Swine, and slow moons like silver rings, And the ripening of the plums." And Alfred answered, drinking, And gravely, without blame, "Nor bear I boast of scald or king, The thing I bear is a lesser thing, But comes in a better name. "Out of the mouth of the Mother of God, More than the doors of doom, I call the muster of Wessex men From grassy hamlet or ditch or den, To break and be broken, God knows when, But I have seen for whom. "Out of the mouth of the Mother of God Like a little word come I; For I go gathering Christian men From sunken paving and ford and fen, To die in a battle, God knows when, By God, but I know why. "And this is the word of Mary, The word of the world's desire 'No more of comfort shall ye get, Save that the sky grows darker yet And the sea rises higher.'" Then silence sank. And slowly Arose the sea-land lord, Like some vast beast for mystery, He filled the room and porch and sky, And from a cobwebbed nail on high Unhooked his heavy sword. Up on the shrill sea-downs and up Went Alfred all alone, Turning but once e'er the door was shut, Shouting to Eldred over his butt, That he bring all spears to the woodman's hut Hewn under Egbert's Stone. And he turned his back and broke the fern, And fought the moths of dusk, And went on his way for other friends Friends fallen of all the wide world's ends, From Rome that wrath and pardon sends And the grey tribes on Usk. He saw gigantic tracks of death And many a shape of doom, Good steadings to grey ashes gone And a monk's house white like a skeleton In the green crypt of the combe. And in many a Roman villa Earth and her ivies eat, Saw coloured pavements sink and fade In flowers, and the windy colonnade Like the spectre of a street. But the cold stars clustered Among the cold pines Ere he was half on his pilgrimage Over the western lines. And the white dawn widened Ere he came to the last pine, Where Mark, the man from Italy, Still made the Christian sign. The long farm lay on the large hill-side, Flat like a painted plan, And by the side the low white house, Where dwelt the southland man. A bronzed man, with a bird's bright eye, And a strong bird's beak and brow, His skin was brown like buried gold, And of certain of his sires was told That they came in the shining ship of old, With Caesar in the prow. His fruit trees stood like soldiers Drilled in a straight line, His strange, stiff olives did not fail, And all the kings of the earth drank ale, But he drank wine. Wide over wasted British plains Stood never an arch or dome, Only the trees to toss and reel, The tribes to bicker, the beasts to squeal; But the eyes in his head were strong like steel, And his soul remembered Rome. Then Alfred of the lonely spear Lifted his lion head; And fronted with the Italian's eye, Asking him of his whence and why, King Alfred stood and said: "I am that oft-defeated King Whose failure fills the land, Who fled before the Danes of old, Who chaffered with the Danes with gold, Who now upon the Wessex wold Hardly has feet to stand. "But out of the mouth of the Mother of God I have seen the truth like fire, This--that the sky grows darker yet And the sea rises higher." Long looked the Roman on the land; The trees as golden crowns Blazed, drenched with dawn and dew-empearled While faintlier coloured, freshlier curled, The clouds from underneath the world Stood up over the downs. "These vines be ropes that drag me hard," He said. "I go not far; Where would you meet? For you must hold Half Wiltshire and the White Horse wold, And the Thames bank to Owsenfold, If Wessex goes to war. "Guthrum sits strong on either bank And you must press his lines Inwards, and eastward drive him down; I doubt if you shall take the crown Till you have taken London town. For me, I have the vines." "If each man on the Judgment Day Meet God on a plain alone," Said Alfred, "I will speak for you As for myself, and call it true That you brought all fighting folk you knew Lined under Egbert's Stone. "Though I be in the dust ere then, I know where you will be." And shouldering suddenly his spear He faded like some elfin fear, Where the tall pines ran up, tier on tier Tree overtoppling tree. He shouldered his spear at morning And laughed to lay it on, But he leaned on his spear as on a staff, With might and little mood to laugh, Or ever he sighted chick or calf Of Colan of Caerleon. For the man dwelt in a lost land Of boulders and broken men, In a great grey cave far off to the south Where a thick green forest stopped the mouth, Giving darkness in his den. And the man was come like a shadow, From the shadow of Druid trees, Where Usk, with mighty murmurings, Past Caerleon of the fallen kings, Goes out to ghostly seas. Last of a race in ruin-- He spoke the speech of the Gaels; His kin were in holy Ireland, Or up in the crags of Wales. But his soul stood with his mother's folk, That were of the rain-wrapped isle, Where Patrick and Brandan westerly Looked out at last on a landless sea And the sun's last smile. His harp was carved and cunning, As the Celtic craftsman makes, Graven all over with twisting shapes Like many headless snakes. His harp was carved and cunning, His sword prompt and sharp, And he was gay when he held the sword, Sad when he held the harp. For the great Gaels of Ireland Are the men that God made mad, For all their wars are merry, And all their songs are sad. He kept the Roman order, He made the Christian sign; But his eyes grew often blind and bright, And the sea that rose in the rocks at night Rose to his head like wine. He made the sign of the cross of God, He knew the Roman prayer, But he had unreason in his heart Because of the gods that were. Even they that walked on the high cliffs, High as the clouds were then, Gods of unbearable beauty, That broke the hearts of men. And whether in seat or saddle, Whether with frown or smile, Whether at feast or fight was he, He heard the noise of a nameless sea On an undiscovered isle. Lifting the great green ivy And the great spear lowering, One said, "I am Alfred of Wessex, And I am a conquered king." And the man of the cave made answer, And his eyes were stars of scorn, "And better kings were conquered Or ever your sires were born. "What goddess was your mother, What fay your breed begot, That you should not die with Uther And Arthur and Lancelot? "But when you win you brag and blow, And when you lose you rail, Army of eastland yokels Not strong enough to fail." "I bring not boast or railing," Spake Alfred not in ire, "I bring of Our Lady a lesson set, This--that the sky grows darker yet And the sea rises higher." Then Colan of the Sacred Tree Tossed his black mane on high, And cried, as rigidly he rose, "And if the sea and sky be foes, We will tame the sea and sky." Smiled Alfred, "Seek ye a fable More dizzy and more dread Than all your mad barbarian tales Where the sky stands on its head? "A tale where a man looks down on the sky That has long looked down on him; A tale where a man can swallow a sea That might swallow the seraphim. "Bring to the hut by Egbert's Stone All bills and bows ye have." And Alfred strode off rapidly, And Colan of the Sacred Tree Went slowly to his cave. BOOK III. THE HARP OF ALFRED In a tree that yawned and twisted The King's few goods were flung, A mass-book mildewed, line by line, And weapons and a skin of wine, And an old harp unstrung. By the yawning tree in the twilight The King unbound his sword, Severed the harp of all his goods, And there in the cool and soundless woods Sounded a single chord. Then laughed; and watched the finches flash, The sullen flies in swarm, And went unarmed over the hills, With the harp upon his arm, Until he came to the White Horse Vale And saw across the plains, In the twilight high and far and fell, Like the fiery terraces of hell, The camp fires of the Danes-- The fires of the Great Army That was made of iron men, Whose lights of sacrilege and scorn Ran around England red as morn, Fires over Glastonbury Thorn-- Fires out on Ely Fen. And as he went by White Horse Vale He saw lie wan and wide The old horse graven, God knows when, By gods or beasts or what things then Walked a new world instead of men And scrawled on the hill-side. And when he came to White Horse Down The great White Horse was grey, For it was ill scoured of the weed, And lichen and thorn could crawl and feed, Since the foes of settled house and creed Had swept old works away. King Alfred gazed all sorrowful At thistle and mosses grey, Till a rally of Danes with shield and bill Rolled drunk over the dome of the hill, And, hearing of his harp and skill, They dragged him to their play. And as they went through the high green grass They roared like the great green sea; But when they came to the red camp fire They were silent suddenly. And as they went up the wastes away They went reeling to and fro; But when they came to the red camp fire They stood all in a row. For golden in the firelight, With a smile carved on his lips, And a beard curled right cunningly, Was Guthrum of the Northern Sea, The emperor of the ships-- With three great earls King Guthrum Went the rounds from fire to fire, With Harold, nephew of the King, And Ogier of the Stone and Sling, And Elf, whose gold lute had a string That sighed like all desire. The Earls of the Great Army That no men born could tire, Whose flames anear him or aloof Took hold of towers or walls of proof, Fire over Glastonbury roof And out on Ely, fire. And Guthrum heard the soldiers' tale And bade the stranger play; Not harshly, but as one on high, On a marble pillar in the sky, Who sees all folk that live and die-- Pigmy and far away. And Alfred, King of Wessex, Looked on his conqueror-- And his hands hardened; but he played, And leaving all later hates unsaid, He sang of some old British raid On the wild west march of yore. He sang of war in the warm wet shires, Where rain nor fruitage fails, Where England of the motley states Deepens like a garden to the gates In the purple walls of Wales. He sang of the seas of savage heads And the seas and seas of spears, Boiling all over Offa's Dyke, What time a Wessex club could strike The kings of the mountaineers. Till Harold laughed and snatched the harp, The kinsman of the King, A big youth, beardless like a child, Whom the new wine of war sent wild, Smote, and began to sing-- And he cried of the ships as eagles That circle fiercely and fly, And sweep the seas and strike the towns From Cyprus round to Skye. How swiftly and with peril They gather all good things, The high horns of the forest beasts, Or the secret stones of kings. "For Rome was given to rule the world, And gat of it little joy-- But we, but we shall enjoy the world, The whole huge world a toy. "Great wine like blood from Burgundy, Cloaks like the clouds from Tyre, And marble like solid moonlight, And gold like frozen fire. "Smells that a man might swill in a cup, Stones that a man might eat, And the great smooth women like ivory That the Turks sell in the street." He sang the song of the thief of the world, And the gods that love the thief; And he yelled aloud at the cloister-yards, Where men go gathering grief. "Well have you sung, O stranger, Of death on the dyke in Wales, Your chief was a bracelet-giver; But the red unbroken river Of a race runs not for ever, But suddenly it fails. "Doubtless your sires were sword-swingers When they waded fresh from foam, Before they were turned to women By the god of the nails from Rome; "But since you bent to the shaven men, Who neither lust nor smite, Thunder of Thor, we hunt you A hare on the mountain height." King Guthrum smiled a little, And said, "It is enough, Nephew, let Elf retune the string; A boy must needs like bellowing, But the old ears of a careful king Are glad of songs less rough." Blue-eyed was Elf the minstrel, With womanish hair and ring, Yet heavy was his hand on sword, Though light upon the string. And as he stirred the strings of the harp To notes but four or five, The heart of each man moved in him Like a babe buried alive. And they felt the land of the folk-songs Spread southward of the Dane, And they heard the good Rhine flowing In the heart of all Allemagne. They felt the land of the folk-songs, Where the gifts hang on the tree, Where the girls give ale at morning And the tears come easily. The mighty people, womanlike, That have pleasure in their pain As he sang of Balder beautiful, Whom the heavens loved in vain. As he sang of Balder beautiful, Whom the heavens could not save, Till the world was like a sea of tears And every soul a wave. "There is always a thing forgotten When all the world goes well; A thing forgotten, as long ago, When the gods forgot the mistletoe, And soundless as an arrow of snow The arrow of anguish fell. "The thing on the blind side of the heart, On the wrong side of the door, The green plant groweth, menacing Almighty lovers in the spring; There is always a forgotten thing, And love is not secure." And all that sat by the fire were sad, Save Ogier, who was stern, And his eyes hardened, even to stones, As he took the harp in turn; Earl Ogier of the Stone and Sling Was odd to ear and sight, Old he was, but his locks were red, And jests were all the words he said Yet he was sad at board and bed And savage in the fight. "You sing of the young gods easily In the days when you are young; But I go smelling yew and sods, And I know there are gods behind the gods, Gods that are best unsung. "And a man grows ugly for women, And a man grows dull with ale, Well if he find in his soul at last Fury, that does not fail. "The wrath of the gods behind the gods Who would rend all gods and men, Well if the old man's heart hath still Wheels sped of rage and roaring will, Like cataracts to break down and kill, Well for the old man then-- "While there is one tall shrine to shake, Or one live man to rend; For the wrath of the gods behind the gods Who are weary to make an end. "There lives one moment for a man When the door at his shoulder shakes, When the taut rope parts under the pull, And the barest branch is beautiful One moment, while it breaks. "So rides my soul upon the sea That drinks the howling ships, Though in black jest it bows and nods Under the moons with silver rods, I know it is roaring at the gods, Waiting the last eclipse. "And in the last eclipse the sea Shall stand up like a tower, Above all moons made dark and riven, Hold up its foaming head in heaven, And laugh, knowing its hour. "And the high ones in the happy town Propped of the planets seven, Shall know a new light in the mind, A noise about them and behind, Shall hear an awful voice, and find Foam in the courts of heaven. "And you that sit by the fire are young, And true love waits for you; But the king and I grow old, grow old, And hate alone is true." And Guthrum shook his head but smiled, For he was a mighty clerk, And had read lines in the Latin books When all the north was dark. He said, "I am older than you, Ogier; Not all things would I rend, For whether life be bad or good It is best to abide the end." He took the great harp wearily, Even Guthrum of the Danes, With wide eyes bright as the one long day On the long polar plains. For he sang of a wheel returning, And the mire trod back to mire, And how red hells and golden heavens Are castles in the fire. "It is good to sit where the good tales go, To sit as our fathers sat; But the hour shall come after his youth, When a man shall know not tales but truth, And his heart fail thereat. "When he shall read what is written So plain in clouds and clods, When he shall hunger without hope Even for evil gods. "For this is a heavy matter, And the truth is cold to tell; Do we not know, have we not heard, The soul is like a lost bird, The body a broken shell. "And a man hopes, being ignorant, Till in white woods apart He finds at last the lost bird dead: And a man may still lift up his head But never more his heart. "There comes no noise but weeping Out of the ancient sky, And a tear is in the tiniest flower Because the gods must die. "The little brooks are very sweet, Like a girl's ribbons curled, But the great sea is bitter That washes all the world. "Strong are the Roman roses, Or the free flowers of the heath, But every flower, like a flower of the sea, Smelleth with the salt of death. "And the heart of the locked battle Is the happiest place for men; When shrieking souls as shafts go by And many have died and all may die; Though this word be a mystery, Death is most distant then. "Death blazes bright above the cup, And clear above the crown; But in that dream of battle We seem to tread it down. "Wherefore I am a great king, And waste the world in vain, Because man hath not other power, Save that in dealing death for dower, He may forget it for an hour To remember it again." And slowly his hands and thoughtfully Fell from the lifted lyre, And the owls moaned from the mighty trees Till Alfred caught it to his knees And smote it as in ire. He heaved the head of the harp on high And swept the framework barred, And his stroke had all the rattle and spark Of horses flying hard. "When God put man in a garden He girt him with a sword, And sent him forth a free knight That might betray his lord; "He brake Him and betrayed Him, And fast and far he fell, Till you and I may stretch our necks And burn our beards in hell. "But though I lie on the floor of the world, With the seven sins for rods, I would rather fall with Adam Than rise with all your gods. "What have the strong gods given? Where have the glad gods led? When Guthrum sits on a hero's throne And asks if he is dead? "Sirs, I am but a nameless man, A rhymester without home, Yet since I come of the Wessex clay And carry the cross of Rome, "I will even answer the mighty earl That asked of Wessex men Why they be meek and monkish folk, And bow to the White Lord's broken yoke; What sign have we save blood and smoke? Here is my answer then. "That on you is fallen the shadow, And not upon the Name; That though we scatter and though we fly, And you hang over us like the sky, You are more tired of victory, Than we are tired of shame. "That though you hunt the Christian man Like a hare on the hill-side, The hare has still more heart to run Than you have heart to ride. "That though all lances split on you, All swords be heaved in vain, We have more lust again to lose Than you to win again. "Your lord sits high in the saddle, A broken-hearted king, But our king Alfred, lost from fame, Fallen among foes or bonds of shame, In I know not what mean trade or name, Has still some song to sing; "Our monks go robed in rain and snow, But the heart of flame therein, But you go clothed in feasts and flames, When all is ice within; "Nor shall all iron dooms make dumb Men wondering ceaselessly, If it be not better to fast for joy Than feast for misery. "Nor monkish order only Slides down, as field to fen, All things achieved and chosen pass, As the White Horse fades in the grass, No work of Christian men. "Ere the sad gods that made your gods Saw their sad sunrise pass, The White Horse of the White Horse Vale, That you have left to darken and fail, Was cut out of the grass. "Therefore your end is on you, Is on you and your kings, Not for a fire in Ely fen, Not that your gods are nine or ten, But because it is only Christian men Guard even heathen things. "For our God hath blessed creation, Calling it good. I know What spirit with whom you blindly band Hath blessed destruction with his hand; Yet by God's death the stars shall stand And the small apples grow." And the King, with harp on shoulder, Stood up and ceased his song; And the owls moaned from the mighty trees, And the Danes laughed loud and long. BOOK IV. THE WOMAN IN THE FOREST Thick thunder of the snorting swine, Enormous in the gloam, Rending among all roots that cling, And the wild horses whinnying, Were the night's noises when the King Shouldering his harp, went home. With eyes of owl and feet of fox, Full of all thoughts he went; He marked the tilt of the pagan camp, The paling of pine, the sentries' tramp, And the one great stolen altar-lamp Over Guthrum in his tent. By scrub and thorn in Ethandune That night the foe had lain; Whence ran across the heather grey The old stones of a Roman way; And in a wood not far away The pale road split in twain. He marked the wood and the cloven ways With an old captain's eyes, And he thought how many a time had he Sought to see Doom he could not see; How ruin had come and victory, And both were a surprise. Even so he had watched and wondered Under Ashdown from the plains; With Ethelred praying in his tent, Till the white hawthorn swung and bent, As Alfred rushed his spears and rent The shield-wall of the Danes. Even so he had watched and wondered, Knowing neither less nor more, Till all his lords lay dying, And axes on axes plying, Flung him, and drove him flying Like a pirate to the shore. Wise he had been before defeat, And wise before success; Wise in both hours and ignorant, Knowing neither more nor less. As he went down to the river-hut He knew a night-shade scent, Owls did as evil cherubs rise, With little wings and lantern eyes, As though he sank through the under-skies; But down and down he went. As he went down to the river-hut He went as one that fell; Seeing the high forest domes and spars. Dim green or torn with golden scars, As the proud look up at the evil stars, In the red heavens of hell. For he must meet by the river-hut Them he had bidden to arm, Mark from the towers of Italy, And Colan of the Sacred Tree, And Eldred who beside the sea Held heavily his farm. The roof leaned gaping to the grass, As a monstrous mushroom lies; Echoing and empty seemed the place; But opened in a little space A great grey woman with scarred face And strong and humbled eyes. King Alfred was but a meagre man, Bright eyed, but lean and pale: And swordless, with his harp and rags, He seemed a beggar, such as lags Looking for crusts and ale. And the woman, with a woman's eyes Of pity at once and ire, Said, when that she had glared a span, "There is a cake for any man If he will watch the fire." And Alfred, bowing heavily, Sat down the fire to stir, And even as the woman pitied him So did he pity her. Saying, "O great heart in the night, O best cast forth for worst, Twilight shall melt and morning stir, And no kind thing shall come to her, Till God shall turn the world over And all the last are first. "And well may God with the serving-folk Cast in His dreadful lot; Is not He too a servant, And is not He forgot? "For was not God my gardener And silent like a slave; That opened oaks on the uplands Or thicket in graveyard gave? "And was not God my armourer, All patient and unpaid, That sealed my skull as a helmet, And ribs for hauberk made? "Did not a great grey servant Of all my sires and me, Build this pavilion of the pines, And herd the fowls and fill the vines, And labour and pass and leave no signs Save mercy and mystery? "For God is a great servant, And rose before the day, From some primordial slumber torn; But all we living later born Sleep on, and rise after the morn, And the Lord has gone away. "On things half sprung from sleeping, All sleepy suns have shone, They stretch stiff arms, the yawning trees, The beasts blink upon hands and knees, Man is awake and does and sees-- But Heaven has done and gone. "For who shall guess the good riddle Or speak of the Holiest, Save in faint figures and failing words, Who loves, yet laughs among the swords, Labours, and is at rest? "But some see God like Guthrum, Crowned, with a great beard curled, But I see God like a good giant, That, labouring, lifts the world. "Wherefore was God in Golgotha, Slain as a serf is slain; And hate He had of prince and peer, And love He had and made good cheer, Of them that, like this woman here, Go powerfully in pain. "But in this grey morn of man's life, Cometh sometime to the mind A little light that leaps and flies, Like a star blown on the wind. "A star of nowhere, a nameless star, A light that spins and swirls, And cries that even in hedge and hill, Even on earth, it may go ill At last with the evil earls. "A dancing sparkle, a doubtful star, On the waste wind whirled and driven; But it seems to sing of a wilder worth, A time discrowned of doom and birth, And the kingdom of the poor on earth Come, as it is in heaven. "But even though such days endure, How shall it profit her? Who shall go groaning to the grave, With many a meek and mighty slave, Field-breaker and fisher on the wave, And woodman and waggoner. "Bake ye the big world all again A cake with kinder leaven; Yet these are sorry evermore-- Unless there be a little door, A little door in heaven." And as he wept for the woman He let her business be, And like his royal oath and rash The good food fell upon the ash And blackened instantly. Screaming, the woman caught a cake Yet burning from the bar, And struck him suddenly on the face, Leaving a scarlet scar. King Alfred stood up wordless, A man dead with surprise, And torture stood and the evil things That are in the childish hearts of kings An instant in his eyes. And even as he stood and stared Drew round him in the dusk Those friends creeping from far-off farms, Marcus with all his slaves in arms, And the strange spears hung with ancient charms Of Colan of the Usk. With one whole farm marching afoot The trampled road resounds, Farm-hands and farm-beasts blundering by And jars of mead and stores of rye, Where Eldred strode above his high And thunder-throated hounds. And grey cattle and silver lowed Against the unlifted morn, And straw clung to the spear-shafts tall. And a boy went before them all Blowing a ram's horn. As mocking such rude revelry, The dim clan of the Gael Came like a bad king's burial-end, With dismal robes that drop and rend And demon pipes that wail-- In long, outlandish garments, Torn, though of antique worth, With Druid beards and Druid spears, As a resurrected race appears Out of an elder earth. And though the King had called them forth And knew them for his own, So still each eye stood like a gem, So spectral hung each broidered hem, Grey carven men he fancied them, Hewn in an age of stone. And the two wild peoples of the north Stood fronting in the gloam, And heard and knew each in its mind The third great thunder on the wind, The living walls that hedge mankind, The walking walls of Rome. Mark's were the mixed tribes of the west, Of many a hue and strain, Gurth, with rank hair like yellow grass, And the Cornish fisher, Gorlias, And Halmer, come from his first mass, Lately baptized, a Dane. But like one man in armour Those hundreds trod the field, From red Arabia to the Tyne The earth had heard that marching-line, Since the cry on the hill Capitoline, And the fall of the golden shield. And the earth shook and the King stood still Under the greenwood bough, And the smoking cake lay at his feet And the blow was on his brow. Then Alfred laughed out suddenly, Like thunder in the spring, Till shook aloud the lintel-beams, And the squirrels stirred in dusty dreams, And the startled birds went up in streams, For the laughter of the King. And the beasts of the earth and the birds looked down, In a wild solemnity, On a stranger sight than a sylph or elf, On one man laughing at himself Under the greenwood tree-- The giant laughter of Christian men That roars through a thousand tales, Where greed is an ape and pride is an ass, And Jack's away with his master's lass, And the miser is banged with all his brass, The farmer with all his flails; Tales that tumble and tales that trick, Yet end not all in scorning-- Of kings and clowns in a merry plight, And the clock gone wrong and the world gone right, That the mummers sing upon Christmas night And Christmas Day in the morning. "Now here is a good warrant," Cried Alfred, "by my sword; For he that is struck for an ill servant Should be a kind lord. "He that has been a servant Knows more than priests and kings, But he that has been an ill servant, He knows all earthly things. "Pride flings frail palaces at the sky, As a man flings up sand, But the firm feet of humility Take hold of heavy land. "Pride juggles with her toppling towers, They strike the sun and cease, But the firm feet of humility They grip the ground like trees. "He that hath failed in a little thing Hath a sign upon the brow; And the Earls of the Great Army Have no such seal to show. "The red print on my forehead, Small flame for a red star, In the van of the violent marching, then When the sky is torn of the trumpets ten, And the hands of the happy howling men Fling wide the gates of war. "This blow that I return not Ten times will I return On kings and earls of all degree, And armies wide as empires be Shall slide like landslips to the sea If the red star burn. "One man shall drive a hundred, As the dead kings drave; Before me rocking hosts be riven, And battering cohorts backwards driven, For I am the first king known of Heaven That has been struck like a slave. "Up on the old white road, brothers, Up on the Roman walls! For this is the night of the drawing of swords, And the tainted tower of the heathen hordes Leans to our hammers, fires and cords, Leans a little and falls. "Follow the star that lives and leaps, Follow the sword that sings, For we go gathering heathen men, A terrible harvest, ten by ten, As the wrath of the last red autumn--then When Christ reaps down the kings. "Follow a light that leaps and spins, Follow the fire unfurled! For riseth up against realm and rod, A thing forgotten, a thing downtrod, The last lost giant, even God, Is risen against the world." Roaring they went o'er the Roman wall, And roaring up the lane, Their torches tossed a ladder of fire, Higher their hymn was heard and higher, More sweet for hate and for heart's desire, And up in the northern scrub and brier, They fell upon the Dane. BOOK V. ETHANDUNE: THE FIRST STROKE King Guthrum was a dread king, Like death out of the north; Shrines without name or number He rent and rolled as lumber, From Chester to the Humber He drove his foemen forth. The Roman villas heard him In the valley of the Thames, Come over the hills roaring Above their roofs, and pouring On spire and stair and flooring Brimstone and pitch and flames. Sheer o'er the great chalk uplands And the hill of the Horse went he, Till high on Hampshire beacons He saw the southern sea. High on the heights of Wessex He saw the southern brine, And turned him to a conquered land, And where the northern thornwoods stand, And the road parts on either hand, There came to him a sign. King Guthrum was a war-chief, A wise man in the field, And though he prospered well, and knew How Alfred's folk were sad and few, Not less with weighty care he drew Long lines for pike and shield. King Guthrum lay on the upper land, On a single road at gaze, And his foe must come with lean array, Up the left arm of the cloven way, To the meeting of the ways. And long ere the noise of armour, An hour ere the break of light, The woods awoke with crash and cry, And the birds sprang clamouring harsh and high, And the rabbits ran like an elves' army Ere Alfred came in sight. The live wood came at Guthrum, On foot and claw and wing, The nests were noisy overhead, For Alfred and the star of red, All life went forth, and the forest fled Before the face of the King. But halted in the woodways Christ's few were grim and grey, And each with a small, far, bird-like sight Saw the high folly of the fight; And though strange joys had grown in the night, Despair grew with the day. And when white dawn crawled through the wood, Like cold foam of a flood, Then weakened every warrior's mood, In hope, though not in hardihood; And each man sorrowed as he stood In the fashion of his blood. For the Saxon Franklin sorrowed For the things that had been fair; For the dear dead woman, crimson-clad, And the great feasts and the friends he had; But the Celtic prince's soul was sad For the things that never were. In the eyes Italian all things But a black laughter died; And Alfred flung his shield to earth And smote his breast and cried-- "I wronged a man to his slaying, And a woman to her shame, And once I looked on a sworn maid That was wed to the Holy Name. "And once I took my neighbour's wife, That was bound to an eastland man, In the starkness of my evil youth, Before my griefs began. "People, if you have any prayers, Say prayers for me: And lay me under a Christian stone In that lost land I thought my own, To wait till the holy horn is blown, And all poor men are free." Then Eldred of the idle farm Leaned on his ancient sword, As fell his heavy words and few; And his eyes were of such alien blue As gleams where the Northman saileth new Into an unknown fiord. "I was a fool and wasted ale-- My slaves found it sweet; I was a fool and wasted bread, And the birds had bread to eat. "The kings go up and the kings go down, And who knows who shall rule; Next night a king may starve or sleep, But men and birds and beasts shall weep At the burial of a fool. "O, drunkards in my cellar, Boys in my apple tree, The world grows stern and strange and new, And wise men shall govern you, And you shall weep for me. "But yoke me my own oxen, Down to my own farm; My own dog will whine for me, My own friends will bend the knee, And the foes I slew openly Have never wished me harm." And all were moved a little, But Colan stood apart, Having first pity, and after Hearing, like rat in rafter, That little worm of laughter That eats the Irish heart. And his grey-green eyes were cruel, And the smile of his mouth waxed hard, And he said, "And when did Britain Become your burying-yard? "Before the Romans lit the land, When schools and monks were none, We reared such stones to the sun-god As might put out the sun. "The tall trees of Britain We worshipped and were wise, But you shall raid the whole land through And never a tree shall talk to you, Though every leaf is a tongue taught true And the forest is full of eyes. "On one round hill to the seaward The trees grow tall and grey And the trees talk together When all men are away. "O'er a few round hills forgotten The trees grow tall in rings, And the trees talk together Of many pagan things. "Yet I could lie and listen With a cross upon my clay, And hear unhurt for ever What the trees of Britain say." A proud man was the Roman, His speech a single one, But his eyes were like an eagle's eyes That is staring at the sun. "Dig for me where I die," he said, "If first or last I fall-- Dead on the fell at the first charge, Or dead by Wantage wall; "Lift not my head from bloody ground, Bear not my body home, For all the earth is Roman earth And I shall die in Rome." Then Alfred, King of England, Bade blow the horns of war, And fling the Golden Dragon out, With crackle and acclaim and shout, Scrolled and aflame and far. And under the Golden Dragon Went Wessex all along, Past the sharp point of the cloven ways, Out from the black wood into the blaze Of sun and steel and song. And when they came to the open land They wheeled, deployed and stood; Midmost were Marcus and the King, And Eldred on the right-hand wing, And leftwards Colan darkling, In the last shade of the wood. But the Earls of the Great Army Lay like a long half moon, Ten poles before their palisades, With wide-winged helms and runic blades Red giants of an age of raids, In the thornland of Ethandune. Midmost the saddles rose and swayed, And a stir of horses' manes, Where Guthrum and a few rode high On horses seized in victory; But Ogier went on foot to die, In the old way of the Danes. Far to the King's left Elf the bard Led on the eastern wing With songs and spells that change the blood; And on the King's right Harold stood, The kinsman of the King. Young Harold, coarse, with colours gay, Smoking with oil and musk, And the pleasant violence of the young, Pushed through his people, giving tongue Foewards, where, grey as cobwebs hung, The banners of the Usk. But as he came before his line A little space along, His beardless face broke into mirth, And he cried: "What broken bits of earth Are here? For what their clothes are worth I would sell them for a song." For Colan was hung with raiment Tattered like autumn leaves, And his men were all as thin as saints, And all as poor as thieves. No bows nor slings nor bolts they bore, But bills and pikes ill-made; And none but Colan bore a sword, And rusty was its blade. And Colan's eyes with mystery And iron laughter stirred, And he spoke aloud, but lightly Not labouring to be heard. "Oh, truly we be broken hearts, For that cause, it is said, We light our candles to that Lord That broke Himself for bread. "But though we hold but bitterly What land the Saxon leaves, Though Ireland be but a land of saints, And Wales a land of thieves, "I say you yet shall weary Of the working of your word, That stricken spirits never strike Nor lean hands hold a sword. "And if ever ye ride in Ireland, The jest may yet be said, There is the land of broken hearts, And the land of broken heads." Not less barbarian laughter Choked Harold like a flood, "And shall I fight with scarecrows That am of Guthrum's blood? "Meeting may be of war-men, Where the best war-man wins; But all this carrion a man shoots Before the fight begins." And stopping in his onward strides, He snatched a bow in scorn From some mean slave, and bent it on Colan, whose doom grew dark; and shone Stars evil over Caerleon, In the place where he was born. For Colan had not bow nor sling, On a lonely sword leaned he, Like Arthur on Excalibur In the battle by the sea. To his great gold ear-ring Harold Tugged back the feathered tail, And swift had sprung the arrow, But swifter sprang the Gael. Whirling the one sword round his head, A great wheel in the sun, He sent it splendid through the sky, Flying before the shaft could fly-- It smote Earl Harold over the eye, And blood began to run. Colan stood bare and weaponless, Earl Harold, as in pain, Strove for a smile, put hand to head, Stumbled and suddenly fell dead; And the small white daisies all waxed red With blood out of his brain. And all at that marvel of the sword, Cast like a stone to slay, Cried out. Said Alfred: "Who would see Signs, must give all things. Verily Man shall not taste of victory Till he throws his sword away." Then Alfred, prince of England, And all the Christian earls, Unhooked their swords and held them up, Each offered to Colan, like a cup Of chrysolite and pearls. And the King said, "Do thou take my sword Who have done this deed of fire, For this is the manner of Christian men, Whether of steel or priestly pen, That they cast their hearts out of their ken To get their heart's desire. "And whether ye swear a hive of monks, Or one fair wife to friend, This is the manner of Christian men, That their oath endures the end. "For love, our Lord, at the end of the world, Sits a red horse like a throne, With a brazen helm and an iron bow, But one arrow alone. "Love with the shield of the Broken Heart Ever his bow doth bend, With a single shaft for a single prize, And the ultimate bolt that parts and flies Comes with a thunder of split skies, And a sound of souls that rend. "So shall you earn a king's sword, Who cast your sword away." And the King took, with a random eye, A rude axe from a hind hard by And turned him to the fray. For the swords of the Earls of Daneland Flamed round the fallen lord. The first blood woke the trumpet-tune, As in monk's rhyme or wizard's rune, Beginneth the battle of Ethandune With the throwing of the sword. BOOK VI. ETHANDUNE: THE SLAYING OF THE CHIEFS As the sea flooding the flat sands Flew on the sea-born horde, The two hosts shocked with dust and din, Left of the Latian paladin, Clanged all Prince Harold's howling kin On Colan and the sword. Crashed in the midst on Marcus, Ogier with Guthrum by, And eastward of such central stir, Far to the right and faintlier, The house of Elf the harp-player, Struck Eldred's with a cry. The centre swat for weariness, Stemming the screaming horde, And wearily went Colan's hands That swung King Alfred's sword. But like a cloud of morning To eastward easily, Tall Eldred broke the sea of spears As a tall ship breaks the sea. His face like a sanguine sunset, His shoulder a Wessex down, His hand like a windy hammer-stroke; Men could not count the crests he broke, So fast the crests went down. As the tall white devil of the Plague Moves out of Asian skies, With his foot on a waste of cities And his head in a cloud of flies; Or purple and peacock skies grow dark With a moving locust-tower; Or tawny sand-winds tall and dry, Like hell's red banners beat and fly, When death comes out of Araby, Was Eldred in his hour. But while he moved like a massacre He murmured as in sleep, And his words were all of low hedges And little fields and sheep. Even as he strode like a pestilence, That strides from Rhine to Rome, He thought how tall his beans might be If ever he went home. Spoke some stiff piece of childish prayer, Dull as the distant chimes, That thanked our God for good eating And corn and quiet times-- Till on the helm of a high chief Fell shatteringly his brand, And the helm broke and the bone broke And the sword broke in his hand. Then from the yelling Northmen Driven splintering on him ran Full seven spears, and the seventh Was never made by man. Seven spears, and the seventh Was wrought as the faerie blades, And given to Elf the minstrel By the monstrous water-maids; By them that dwell where luridly Lost waters of the Rhine Move among roots of nations, Being sunken for a sign. Under all graves they murmur, They murmur and rebel, Down to the buried kingdoms creep, And like a lost rain roar and weep O'er the red heavens of hell. Thrice drowned was Elf the minstrel, And washed as dead on sand; And the third time men found him The spear was in his hand. Seven spears went about Eldred, Like stays about a mast; But there was sorrow by the sea For the driving of the last. Six spears thrust upon Eldred Were splintered while he laughed; One spear thrust into Eldred, Three feet of blade and shaft. And from the great heart grievously Came forth the shaft and blade, And he stood with the face of a dead man, Stood a little, and swayed-- Then fell, as falls a battle-tower, On smashed and struggling spears. Cast down from some unconquered town That, rushing earthward, carries down Loads of live men of all renown-- Archers and engineers. And a great clamour of Christian men Went up in agony, Crying, "Fallen is the tower of Wessex That stood beside the sea." Centre and right the Wessex guard Grew pale for doubt and fear, And the flank failed at the advance, For the death-light on the wizard lance-- The star of the evil spear. "Stand like an oak," cried Marcus, "Stand like a Roman wall! Eldred the Good is fallen-- Are you too good to fall? "When we were wan and bloodless He gave you ale enow; The pirates deal with him as dung, God! are you bloodless now?" "Grip, Wulf and Gorlias, grip the ash! Slaves, and I make you free! Stamp, Hildred hard in English land, Stand Gurth, stand Gorlias, Gawen stand! Hold, Halfgar, with the other hand, Halmer, hold up on knee! "The lamps are dying in your homes, The fruits upon your bough; Even now your old thatch smoulders, Gurth, Now is the judgment of the earth, Now is the death-grip, now!" For thunder of the captain, Not less the Wessex line, Leaned back and reeled a space to rear As Elf charged with the Rhine maids' spear, And roaring like the Rhine. For the men were borne by the waving walls Of woods and clouds that pass, By dizzy plains and drifting sea, And they mixed God with glamoury, God with the gods of the burning tree And the wizard's tower and glass. But Mark was come of the glittering towns Where hot white details show, Where men can number and expound, And his faith grew in a hard ground Of doubt and reason and falsehood found, Where no faith else could grow. Belief that grew of all beliefs One moment back was blown And belief that stood on unbelief Stood up iron and alone. The Wessex crescent backwards Crushed, as with bloody spear Went Elf roaring and routing, And Mark against Elf yet shouting, Shocked, in his mid-career. Right on the Roman shield and sword Did spear of the Rhine maids run; But the shield shifted never, The sword rang down to sever, The great Rhine sang for ever, And the songs of Elf were done. And a great thunder of Christian men Went up against the sky, Saying, "God hath broken the evil spear Ere the good man's blood was dry." "Spears at the charge!" yelled Mark amain. "Death on the gods of death! Over the thrones of doom and blood Goeth God that is a craftsman good, And gold and iron, earth and wood, Loveth and laboureth. "The fruits leap up in all your farms, The lamps in each abode; God of all good things done on earth, All wheels or webs of any worth, The God that makes the roof, Gurth, The God that makes the road. "The God that heweth kings in oak Writeth songs on vellum, God of gold and flaming glass, Confregit potentias Acrcuum, scutum, Gorlias, Gladium et bellum." Steel and lightning broke about him, Battle-bays and palm, All the sea-kings swayed among Woods of the Wessex arms upflung, The trumpet of the Roman tongue, The thunder of the psalm. And midmost of that rolling field Ran Ogier ragingly, Lashing at Mark, who turned his blow, And brake the helm about his brow, And broke him to his knee. Then Ogier heaved over his head His huge round shield of proof; But Mark set one foot on the shield, One on some sundered rock upheeled, And towered above the tossing field, A statue on a roof. Dealing far blows about the fight, Like thunder-bolts a-roam, Like birds about the battle-field, While Ogier writhed under his shield Like a tortoise in his dome. But hate in the buried Ogier Was strong as pain in hell, With bare brute hand from the inside He burst the shield of brass and hide, And a death-stroke to the Roman's side Sent suddenly and well. Then the great statue on the shield Looked his last look around With level and imperial eye; And Mark, the man from Italy, Fell in the sea of agony, And died without a sound. And Ogier, leaping up alive, Hurled his huge shield away Flying, as when a juggler flings A whizzing plate in play. And held two arms up rigidly, And roared to all the Danes: "Fallen is Rome, yea, fallen The city of the plains! "Shall no man born remember, That breaketh wood or weald, How long she stood on the roof of the world As he stood on my shield. "The new wild world forgetteth her As foam fades on the sea, How long she stood with her foot on Man As he with his foot on me. "No more shall the brown men of the south Move like the ants in lines, To quiet men with olives Or madden men with vines. "No more shall the white towns of the south, Where Tiber and Nilus run, Sitting around a secret sea Worship a secret sun. "The blind gods roar for Rome fallen, And forum and garland gone, For the ice of the north is broken, And the sea of the north comes on. "The blind gods roar and rave and dream Of all cities under the sea, For the heart of the north is broken, And the blood of the north is free. "Down from the dome of the world we come, Rivers on rivers down, Under us swirl the sects and hordes And the high dooms we drown. "Down from the dome of the world and down, Struck flying as a skiff On a river in spate is spun and swirled Until we come to the end of the world That breaks short, like a cliff. "And when we come to the end of the world For me, I count it fit To take the leap like a good river, Shot shrieking over it. "But whatso hap at the end of the world, Where Nothing is struck and sounds, It is not, by Thor, these monkish men These humbled Wessex hounds-- "Not this pale line of Christian hinds, This one white string of men, Shall keep us back from the end of the world, And the things that happen then. "It is not Alfred's dwarfish sword, Nor Egbert's pigmy crown, Shall stay us now that descend in thunder, Rending the realms and the realms thereunder, Down through the world and down." There was that in the wild men back of him, There was that in his own wild song, A dizzy throbbing, a drunkard smoke, That dazed to death all Wessex folk, And swept their spears along. Vainly the sword of Colan And the axe of Alfred plied-- The Danes poured in like a brainless plague, And knew not when they died. Prince Colan slew a score of them, And was stricken to his knee; King Alfred slew a score and seven And was borne back on a tree. Back to the black gate of the woods, Back up the single way, Back by the place of the parting ways Christ's knights were whirled away. And when they came to the parting ways Doom's heaviest hammer fell, For the King was beaten, blind, at bay, Down the right lane with his array, But Colan swept the other way, Where he smote great strokes and fell. The thorn-woods over Ethandune Stand sharp and thick as spears, By night and furze and forest-harms Far sundered were the friends in arms; The loud lost blows, the last alarms, Came not to Alfred's ears. The thorn-woods over Ethandune Stand stiff as spikes in mail; As to the Haut King came at morn Dead Roland on a doubtful horn, Seemed unto Alfred lightly borne The last cry of the Gael. BOOK VII. ETHANDUNE: THE LAST CHARGE Away in the waste of White Horse Down An idle child alone Played some small game through hours that pass, And patiently would pluck the grass, Patiently push the stone. On the lean, green edge for ever, Where the blank chalk touched the turf, The child played on, alone, divine, As a child plays on the last line That sunders sand and surf. For he dwelleth in high divisions Too simple to understand, Seeing on what morn of mystery The Uncreated rent the sea With roarings, from the land. Through the long infant hours like days He built one tower in vain-- Piled up small stones to make a town, And evermore the stones fell down, And he piled them up again. And crimson kings on battle-towers, And saints on Gothic spires, And hermits on their peaks of snow, And heroes on their pyres, And patriots riding royally, That rush the rocking town, Stretch hands, and hunger and aspire, Seeking to mount where high and higher, The child whom Time can never tire, Sings over White Horse Down. And this was the might of Alfred, At the ending of the way; That of such smiters, wise or wild, He was least distant from the child, Piling the stones all day. For Eldred fought like a frank hunter That killeth and goeth home; And Mark had fought because all arms Rang like the name of Rome. And Colan fought with a double mind, Moody and madly gay; But Alfred fought as gravely As a good child at play. He saw wheels break and work run back And all things as they were; And his heart was orbed like victory And simple like despair. Therefore is Mark forgotten, That was wise with his tongue and brave; And the cairn over Colan crumbled, And the cross on Eldred's grave. Their great souls went on a wind away, And they have not tale or tomb; And Alfred born in Wantage Rules England till the doom. Because in the forest of all fears Like a strange fresh gust from sea, Struck him that ancient innocence That is more than mastery. And as a child whose bricks fall down Re-piles them o'er and o'er, Came ruin and the rain that burns, Returning as a wheel returns, And crouching in the furze and ferns He began his life once more. He took his ivory horn unslung And smiled, but not in scorn: "Endeth the Battle of Ethandune With the blowing of a horn." On a dark horse at the double way He saw great Guthrum ride, Heard roar of brass and ring of steel, The laughter and the trumpet peal, The pagan in his pride. And Ogier's red and hated head Moved in some talk or task; But the men seemed scattered in the brier, And some of them had lit a fire, And one had broached a cask. And waggons one or two stood up, Like tall ships in sight, As if an outpost were encamped At the cloven ways for night. And joyous of the sudden stay Of Alfred's routed few, Sat one upon a stone to sigh, And some slipped up the road to fly, Till Alfred in the fern hard by Set horn to mouth and blew. And they all abode like statues-- One sitting on the stone, One half-way through the thorn hedge tall, One with a leg across a wall, And one looked backwards, very small, Far up the road, alone. Grey twilight and a yellow star Hung over thorn and hill; Two spears and a cloven war-shield lay Loose on the road as cast away, The horn died faint in the forest grey, And the fleeing men stood still. "Brothers at arms," said Alfred, "On this side lies the foe; Are slavery and starvation flowers, That you should pluck them so? "For whether is it better To be prodded with Danish poles, Having hewn a chamber in a ditch, And hounded like a howling witch, Or smoked to death in holes? "Or that before the red cock crow All we, a thousand strong, Go down the dark road to God's house, Singing a Wessex song? "To sweat a slave to a race of slaves, To drink up infamy? No, brothers, by your leave, I think Death is a better ale to drink, And by all the stars of Christ that sink, The Danes shall drink with me. "To grow old cowed in a conquered land, With the sun itself discrowned, To see trees crouch and cattle slink-- Death is a better ale to drink, And by high Death on the fell brink That flagon shall go round. "Though dead are all the paladins Whom glory had in ken, Though all your thunder-sworded thanes With proud hearts died among the Danes, While a man remains, great war remains: Now is a war of men. "The men that tear the furrows, The men that fell the trees, When all their lords be lost and dead The bondsmen of the earth shall tread The tyrants of the seas. "The wheel of the roaring stillness Of all labours under the sun, Speed the wild work as well at least As the whole world's work is done. "Let Hildred hack the shield-wall Clean as he hacks the hedge; Let Gurth the fowler stand as cool As he stands on the chasm's edge; "Let Gorlias ride the sea-kings As Gorlias rides the sea, Then let all hell and Denmark drive, Yelling to all its fiends alive, And not a rag care we." When Alfred's word was ended Stood firm that feeble line, Each in his place with club or spear, And fury deeper than deep fear, And smiles as sour as brine. And the King held up the horn and said, "See ye my father's horn, That Egbert blew in his empery, Once, when he rode out commonly, Twice when he rode for venery, And thrice on the battle-morn. "But heavier fates have fallen The horn of the Wessex kings, And I blew once, the riding sign, To call you to the fighting line And glory and all good things. "And now two blasts, the hunting sign, Because we turn to bay; But I will not blow the three blasts, Till we be lost or they. "And now I blow the hunting sign, Charge some by rule and rod; But when I blow the battle sign, Charge all and go to God." Wild stared the Danes at the double ways Where they loitered, all at large, As that dark line for the last time Doubled the knee to charge-- And caught their weapons clumsily, And marvelled how and why-- In such degree, by rule and rod, The people of the peace of God Went roaring down to die. And when the last arrow Was fitted and was flown, When the broken shield hung on the breast, And the hopeless lance was laid in rest, And the hopeless horn blown, The King looked up, and what he saw Was a great light like death, For Our Lady stood on the standards rent, As lonely and as innocent As when between white walls she went And the lilies of Nazareth. One instant in a still light He saw Our Lady then, Her dress was soft as western sky, And she was a queen most womanly-- But she was a queen of men. Over the iron forest He saw Our Lady stand, Her eyes were sad withouten art, And seven swords were in her heart-- But one was in her hand. Then the last charge went blindly, And all too lost for fear: The Danes closed round, a roaring ring, And twenty clubs rose o'er the King, Four Danes hewed at him, halloing, And Ogier of the Stone and Sling Drove at him with a spear. But the Danes were wild with laughter, And the great spear swung wide, The point stuck to a straggling tree, And either host cried suddenly, As Alfred leapt aside. Short time had shaggy Ogier To pull his lance in line-- He knew King Alfred's axe on high, He heard it rushing through the sky, He cowered beneath it with a cry-- It split him to the spine: And Alfred sprang over him dead, And blew the battle sign. Then bursting all and blasting Came Christendom like death, Kicked of such catapults of will, The staves shiver, the barrels spill, The waggons waver and crash and kill The waggoners beneath. Barriers go backwards, banners rend, Great shields groan like a gong-- Horses like horns of nightmare Neigh horribly and long. Horses ramp high and rock and boil And break their golden reins, And slide on carnage clamorously, Down where the bitter blood doth lie, Where Ogier went on foot to die, In the old way of the Danes. "The high tide!" King Alfred cried. "The high tide and the turn! As a tide turns on the tall grey seas, See how they waver in the trees, How stray their spears, how knock their knees, How wild their watchfires burn! "The Mother of God goes over them, Walking on wind and flame, And the storm-cloud drifts from city and dale, And the White Horse stamps in the White Horse Vale, And we all shall yet drink Christian ale In the village of our name. "The Mother of God goes over them, On dreadful cherubs borne; And the psalm is roaring above the rune, And the Cross goes over the sun and moon, Endeth the battle of Ethandune With the blowing of a horn." For back indeed disorderly The Danes went clamouring, Too worn to take anew the tale, Or dazed with insolence and ale, Or stunned of heaven, or stricken pale Before the face of the King. For dire was Alfred in his hour The pale scribe witnesseth, More mighty in defeat was he Than all men else in victory, And behind, his men came murderously, Dry-throated, drinking death. And Edgar of the Golden Ship He slew with his own hand, Took Ludwig from his lady's bower, And smote down Harmar in his hour, And vain and lonely stood the tower-- The tower in Guelderland. And Torr out of his tiny boat, Whose eyes beheld the Nile, Wulf with his war-cry on his lips, And Harco born in the eclipse, Who blocked the Seine with battleships Round Paris on the Isle. And Hacon of the Harvest-Song, And Dirck from the Elbe he slew, And Cnut that melted Durham bell And Fulk and fiery Oscar fell, And Goderic and Sigael, And Uriel of the Yew. And highest sang the slaughter, And fastest fell the slain, When from the wood-road's blackening throat A crowning and crashing wonder smote The rear-guard of the Dane. For the dregs of Colan's company-- Lost down the other road-- Had gathered and grown and heard the din, And with wild yells came pouring in, Naked as their old British kin, And bright with blood for woad. And bare and bloody and aloft They bore before their band The body of the mighty lord, Colan of Caerleon and its horde, That bore King Alfred's battle-sword Broken in his left hand. And a strange music went with him, Loud and yet strangely far; The wild pipes of the western land, Too keen for the ear to understand, Sang high and deathly on each hand When the dead man went to war. Blocked between ghost and buccaneer, Brave men have dropped and died; And the wild sea-lords well might quail As the ghastly war-pipes of the Gael Called to the horns of White Horse Vale, And all the horns replied. And Hildred the poor hedger Cut down four captains dead, And Halmar laid three others low, And the great earls wavered to and fro For the living and the dead. And Gorlias grasped the great flag, The Raven of Odin, torn; And the eyes of Guthrum altered, For the first time since morn. As a turn of the wheel of tempest Tilts up the whole sky tall, And cliffs of wan cloud luminous Lean out like great walls over us, As if the heavens might fall. As such a tall and tilted sky Sends certain snow or light, So did the eyes of Guthrum change, And the turn was more certain and more strange Than a thousand men in flight. For not till the floor of the skies is split, And hell-fire shines through the sea, Or the stars look up through the rent earth's knees, Cometh such rending of certainties, As when one wise man truly sees What is more wise than he. He set his horse in the battle-breech Even Guthrum of the Dane, And as ever had fallen fell his brand, A falling tower o'er many a land, But Gurth the fowler laid one hand Upon this bridle rein. King Guthrum was a great lord, And higher than his gods-- He put the popes to laughter, He chid the saints with rods, He took this hollow world of ours For a cup to hold his wine; In the parting of the woodways There came to him a sign. In Wessex in the forest, In the breaking of the spears, We set a sign on Guthrum To blaze a thousand years. Where the high saddles jostle And the horse-tails toss, There rose to the birds flying A roar of dead and dying; In deafness and strong crying We signed him with the cross. Far out to the winding river The blood ran down for days, When we put the cross on Guthrum In the parting of the ways. BOOK VIII. THE SCOURING OF THE HORSE In the years of the peace of Wessex, When the good King sat at home; Years following on that bloody boon When she that stands above the moon Stood above death at Ethandune And saw his kingdom come-- When the pagan people of the sea Fled to their palisades, Nailed there with javelins to cling And wonder smote the pirate king, And brought him to his christening And the end of all his raids. (For not till the night's blue slate is wiped Of its last star utterly, And fierce new signs writ there to read, Shall eyes with such amazement heed, As when a great man knows indeed A greater thing than he.) And there came to his chrism-loosing Lords of all lands afar, And a line was drawn north-westerly That set King Egbert's empire free, Giving all lands by the northern sea To the sons of the northern star. In the days of the rest of Alfred, When all these things were done, And Wessex lay in a patch of peace, Like a dog in a patch of sun-- The King sat in his orchard, Among apples green and red, With the little book in his bosom And the sunshine on his head. And he gathered the songs of simple men That swing with helm and hod, And the alms he gave as a Christian Like a river alive with fishes ran; And he made gifts to a beggar man As to a wandering god. And he gat good laws of the ancient kings, Like treasure out of the tombs; And many a thief in thorny nook, Or noble in sea-stained turret shook, For the opening of his iron book, And the gathering of the dooms. Then men would come from the ends of the earth, Whom the King sat welcoming, And men would go to the ends of the earth Because of the word of the King. For folk came in to Alfred's face Whose javelins had been hurled On monsters that make boil the sea, Crakens and coils of mystery. Or thrust in ancient snows that be The white hair of the world. And some had knocked at the northern gates Of the ultimate icy floor, Where the fish freeze and the foam turns black, And the wide world narrows to a track, And the other sea at the world's back Cries through a closed door. And men went forth from Alfred's face, Even great gift-bearing lords, Not to Rome only, but more bold, Out to the high hot courts of old, Of negroes clad in cloth of gold, Silence, and crooked swords, Scrawled screens and secret gardens And insect-laden skies-- Where fiery plains stretch on and on To the purple country of Prester John And the walls of Paradise. And he knew the might of the Terre Majeure, Where kings began to reign; Where in a night-rout, without name, Of gloomy Goths and Gauls there came White, above candles all aflame, Like a vision, Charlemagne. And men, seeing such embassies, Spake with the King and said: "The steel that sang so sweet a tune On Ashdown and on Ethandune, Why hangs it scabbarded so soon, All heavily like lead? "Why dwell the Danes in North England, And up to the river ride? Three more such marches like thine own Would end them; and the Pict should own Our sway; and our feet climb the throne In the mountains of Strathclyde." And Alfred in the orchard, Among apples green and red, With the little book in his bosom, Looked at green leaves and said: "When all philosophies shall fail, This word alone shall fit; That a sage feels too small for life, And a fool too large for it. "Asia and all imperial plains Are too little for a fool; But for one man whose eyes can see The little island of Athelney Is too large a land to rule. "Haply it had been better When I built my fortress there, Out in the reedy waters wide, I had stood on my mud wall and cried: 'Take England all, from tide to tide-- Be Athelney my share.' "Those madmen of the throne-scramble-- Oppressors and oppressed-- Had lined the banks by Athelney, And waved and wailed unceasingly, Where the river turned to the broad sea, By an island of the blest. "An island like a little book Full of a hundred tales, Like the gilt page the good monks pen, That is all smaller than a wren, Yet hath high towns, meteors, and men, And suns and spouting whales; "A land having a light on it In the river dark and fast, An isle with utter clearness lit, Because a saint had stood in it; Where flowers are flowers indeed and fit, And trees are trees at last. "So were the island of a saint; But I am a common king, And I will make my fences tough From Wantage Town to Plymouth Bluff, Because I am not wise enough To rule so small a thing." And it fell in the days of Alfred, In the days of his repose, That as old customs in his sight Were a straight road and a steady light, He bade them keep the White Horse white As the first plume of the snows. And right to the red torchlight, From the trouble of morning grey, They stripped the White Horse of the grass As they strip it to this day. And under the red torchlight He went dreaming as though dull, Of his old companions slain like kings, And the rich irrevocable things Of a heart that hath not openings, But is shut fast, being full. And the torchlight touched the pale hair Where silver clouded gold, And the frame of his face was made of cords, And a young lord turned among the lords And said: "The King is old." And even as he said it A post ran in amain, Crying: "Arm, Lord King, the hamlets arm, In the horror and the shade of harm, They have burnt Brand of Aynger's farm-- The Danes are come again! "Danes drive the white East Angles In six fights on the plains, Danes waste the world about the Thames, Danes to the eastward--Danes!" And as he stumbled on one knee, The thanes broke out in ire, Crying: "Ill the watchmen watch, and ill The sheriffs keep the shire." But the young earl said: "Ill the saints, The saints of England, guard The land wherein we pledge them gold; The dykes decay, the King grows old, And surely this is hard, "That we be never quit of them; That when his head is hoar He cannot say to them he smote, And spared with a hand hard at the throat, 'Go, and return no more.'" Then Alfred smiled. And the smile of him Was like the sun for power. But he only pointed: bade them heed Those peasants of the Berkshire breed, Who plucked the old Horse of the weed As they pluck it to this hour. "Will ye part with the weeds for ever? Or show daisies to the door? Or will you bid the bold grass Go, and return no more? "So ceaseless and so secret Thrive terror and theft set free; Treason and shame shall come to pass While one weed flowers in a morass; And like the stillness of stiff grass The stillness of tyranny. "Over our white souls also Wild heresies and high Wave prouder than the plumes of grass, And sadder than their sigh. "And I go riding against the raid, And ye know not where I am; But ye shall know in a day or year, When one green star of grass grows here; Chaos has charged you, charger and spear, Battle-axe and battering-ram. "And though skies alter and empires melt, This word shall still be true: If we would have the horse of old, Scour ye the horse anew. "One time I followed a dancing star That seemed to sing and nod, And ring upon earth all evil's knell; But now I wot if ye scour not well Red rust shall grow on God's great bell And grass in the streets of God." Ceased Alfred; and above his head The grand green domes, the Downs, Showed the first legions of the press, Marching in haste and bitterness For Christ's sake and the crown's. Beyond the cavern of Colan, Past Eldred's by the sea, Rose men that owned King Alfred's rod, From the windy wastes of Exe untrod, Or where the thorn of the grave of God Burns over Glastonbury. Far northward and far westward The distant tribes drew nigh, Plains beyond plains, fell beyond fell, That a man at sunset sees so well, And the tiny coloured towns that dwell In the corners of the sky. But dark and thick as thronged the host, With drum and torch and blade, The still-eyed King sat pondering, As one that watches a live thing, The scoured chalk; and he said, "Though I give this land to Our Lady, That helped me in Athelney, Though lordlier trees and lustier sod And happier hills hath no flesh trod Than the garden of the Mother of God Between Thames side and the sea, "I know that weeds shall grow in it Faster than men can burn; And though they scatter now and go, In some far century, sad and slow, I have a vision, and I know The heathen shall return. "They shall not come with warships, They shall not waste with brands, But books be all their eating, And ink be on their hands. "Not with the humour of hunters Or savage skill in war, But ordering all things with dead words, Strings shall they make of beasts and birds, And wheels of wind and star. "They shall come mild as monkish clerks, With many a scroll and pen; And backward shall ye turn and gaze, Desiring one of Alfred's days, When pagans still were men. "The dear sun dwarfed of dreadful suns, Like fiercer flowers on stalk, Earth lost and little like a pea In high heaven's towering forestry, --These be the small weeds ye shall see Crawl, covering the chalk. "But though they bridge St. Mary's sea, Or steal St. Michael's wing-- Though they rear marvels over us, Greater than great Vergilius Wrought for the Roman king; "By this sign you shall know them, The breaking of the sword, And man no more a free knight, That loves or hates his lord. "Yea, this shall be the sign of them, The sign of the dying fire; And Man made like a half-wit, That knows not of his sire. "What though they come with scroll and pen, And grave as a shaven clerk, By this sign you shall know them, That they ruin and make dark; "By all men bond to Nothing, Being slaves without a lord, By one blind idiot world obeyed, Too blind to be abhorred; "By terror and the cruel tales Of curse in bone and kin, By weird and weakness winning, Accursed from the beginning, By detail of the sinning, And denial of the sin; "By thought a crawling ruin, By life a leaping mire, By a broken heart in the breast of the world, And the end of the world's desire; "By God and man dishonoured, By death and life made vain, Know ye the old barbarian, The barbarian come again-- "When is great talk of trend and tide, And wisdom and destiny, Hail that undying heathen That is sadder than the sea. "In what wise men shall smite him, Or the Cross stand up again, Or charity or chivalry, My vision saith not; and I see No more; but now ride doubtfully To the battle of the plain." And the grass-edge of the great down Was cut clean as a lawn, While the levies thronged from near and far, From the warm woods of the western star, And the King went out to his last war On a tall grey horse at dawn. And news of his far-off fighting Came slowly and brokenly From the land of the East Saxons, From the sunrise and the sea. From the plains of the white sunrise, And sad St. Edmund's crown, Where the pools of Essex pale and gleam Out beyond London Town-- In mighty and doubtful fragments, Like faint or fabled wars, Climbed the old hills of his renown, Where the bald brow of White Horse Down Is close to the cold stars. But away in the eastern places The wind of death walked high, And a raid was driven athwart the raid, The sky reddened and the smoke swayed, And the tall grey horse went by. The gates of the great river Were breached as with a barge, The walls sank crowded, say the scribes, And high towers populous with tribes Seemed leaning from the charge. Smoke like rebellious heavens rolled Curled over coloured flames, Mirrored in monstrous purple dreams In the mighty pools of Thames. Loud was the war on London wall, And loud in London gates, And loud the sea-kings in the cloud Broke through their dreaming gods, and loud Cried on their dreadful Fates. And all the while on White Horse Hill The horse lay long and wan, The turf crawled and the fungus crept, And the little sorrel, while all men slept, Unwrought the work of man. With velvet finger, velvet foot, The fierce soft mosses then Crept on the large white commonweal All folk had striven to strip and peel, And the grass, like a great green witch's wheel, Unwound the toils of men. And clover and silent thistle throve, And buds burst silently, With little care for the Thames Valley Or what things there might be-- That away on the widening river, In the eastern plains for crown Stood up in the pale purple sky One turret of smoke like ivory; And the smoke changed and the wind went by, And the King took London Town. 
58	----	PARADISE REGAINED by John Milton THE FIRST BOOK I, WHO erewhile the happy Garden sung By one man's disobedience lost, now sing Recovered Paradise to all mankind, By one man's firm obedience fully tried Through all temptation, and the Tempter foiled In all his wiles, defeated and repulsed, And Eden raised in the waste Wilderness. Thou Spirit, who led'st this glorious Eremite Into the desert, his victorious field Against the spiritual foe, and brought'st him thence 10 By proof the undoubted Son of God, inspire, As thou art wont, my prompted song, else mute, And bear through highth or depth of Nature's bounds, With prosperous wing full summed, to tell of deeds Above heroic, though in secret done, And unrecorded left through many an age: Worthy to have not remained so long unsung. Now had the great Proclaimer, with a voice More awful than the sound of trumpet, cried Repentance, and Heaven's kingdom nigh at hand 20 To all baptized. To his great baptism flocked With awe the regions round, and with them came From Nazareth the son of Joseph deemed To the flood Jordan--came as then obscure, Unmarked, unknown. But him the Baptist soon Descried, divinely warned, and witness bore As to his worthier, and would have resigned To him his heavenly office. Nor was long His witness unconfirmed: on him baptized Heaven opened, and in likeness of a Dove 30 The Spirit descended, while the Father's voice From Heaven pronounced him his beloved Son. That heard the Adversary, who, roving still About the world, at that assembly famed Would not be last, and, with the voice divine Nigh thunder-struck, the exalted man to whom Such high attest was given a while surveyed With wonder; then, with envy fraught and rage, Flies to his place, nor rests, but in mid air To council summons all his mighty Peers, 40 Within thick clouds and dark tenfold involved, A gloomy consistory; and them amidst, With looks aghast and sad, he thus bespake:-- "O ancient Powers of Air and this wide World (For much more willingly I mention Air, This our old conquest, than remember Hell, Our hated habitation), well ye know How many ages, as the years of men, This Universe we have possessed, and ruled In manner at our will the affairs of Earth, 50 Since Adam and his facile consort Eve Lost Paradise, deceived by me, though since With dread attending when that fatal wound Shall be inflicted by the seed of Eve Upon my head. Long the decrees of Heaven Delay, for longest time to Him is short; And now, too soon for us, the circling hours This dreaded time have compassed, wherein we Must bide the stroke of that long-threatened wound (At least, if so we can, and by the head 60 Broken be not intended all our power To be infringed, our freedom and our being In this fair empire won of Earth and Air)-- For this ill news I bring: The Woman's Seed, Destined to this, is late of woman born. His birth to our just fear gave no small cause; But his growth now to youth's full flower, displaying All virtue, grace and wisdom to achieve Things highest, greatest, multiplies my fear. Before him a great Prophet, to proclaim 70 His coming, is sent harbinger, who all Invites, and in the consecrated stream Pretends to wash off sin, and fit them so Purified to receive him pure, or rather To do him honour as their King. All come, And he himself among them was baptized-- Not thence to be more pure, but to receive The testimony of Heaven, that who he is Thenceforth the nations may not doubt. I saw The Prophet do him reverence; on him, rising 80 Out of the water, Heaven above the clouds Unfold her crystal doors; thence on his head A perfet Dove descend (whate'er it meant); And out of Heaven the sovraign voice I heard, 'This is my Son beloved,--in him am pleased.' His mother, than, is mortal, but his Sire He who obtains the monarchy of Heaven; And what will He not do to advance his Son? His first-begot we know, and sore have felt, When his fierce thunder drove us to the Deep; 90 Who this is we must learn, for Man he seems In all his lineaments, though in his face The glimpses of his Father's glory shine. Ye see our danger on the utmost edge Of hazard, which admits no long debate, But must with something sudden be opposed (Not force, but well-couched fraud, well-woven snares), Ere in the head of nations he appear, Their king, their leader, and supreme on Earth. I, when no other durst, sole undertook 100 The dismal expedition to find out And ruin Adam, and the exploit performed Successfully: a calmer voyage now Will waft me; and the way found prosperous once Induces best to hope of like success." He ended, and his words impression left Of much amazement to the infernal crew, Distracted and surprised with deep dismay At these sad tidings. But no time was then For long indulgence to their fears or grief: 110 Unanimous they all commit the care And management of this man enterprise To him, their great Dictator, whose attempt At first against mankind so well had thrived In Adam's overthrow, and led their march From Hell's deep-vaulted den to dwell in light, Regents, and potentates, and kings, yea gods, Of many a pleasant realm and province wide. So to the coast of Jordan he directs His easy steps, girded with snaky wiles, 120 Where he might likeliest find this new-declared, This man of men, attested Son of God, Temptation and all guile on him to try-- So to subvert whom he suspected raised To end his reign on Earth so long enjoyed: But, contrary, unweeting he fulfilled The purposed counsel, pre-ordained and fixed, Of the Most High, who, in full frequence bright Of Angels, thus to Gabriel smiling spake:-- "Gabriel, this day, by proof, thou shalt behold, 130 Thou and all Angels conversant on Earth With Man or men's affairs, how I begin To verify that solemn message late, On which I sent thee to the Virgin pure In Galilee, that she should bear a son, Great in renown, and called the Son of God. Then told'st her, doubting how these things could be To her a virgin, that on her should come The Holy Ghost, and the power of the Highest O'ershadow her. This Man, born and now upgrown, 140 To shew him worthy of his birth divine And high prediction, henceforth I expose To Satan; let him tempt, and now assay His utmost subtlety, because he boasts And vaunts of his great cunning to the throng Of his Apostasy. He might have learnt Less overweening, since he failed in Job, Whose constant perseverance overcame Whate'er his cruel malice could invent. He now shall know I can produce a man, 150 Of female seed, far abler to resist All his solicitations, and at length All his vast force, and drive him back to Hell-- Winning by conquest what the first man lost By fallacy surprised. But first I mean To exercise him in the Wilderness; There he shall first lay down the rudiments Of his great warfare, ere I send him forth To conquer Sin and Death, the two grand foes. By humiliation and strong sufferance 160 His weakness shall o'ercome Satanic strength, And all the world, and mass of sinful flesh; That all the Angels and aethereal Powers-- They now, and men hereafter--may discern From what consummate virtue I have chose This perfet man, by merit called my Son, To earn salvation for the sons of men." So spake the Eternal Father, and all Heaven Admiring stood a space; then into hymns Burst forth, and in celestial measures moved, 170 Circling the throne and singing, while the hand Sung with the voice, and this the argument:-- "Victory and triumph to the Son of God, Now entering his great duel, not of arms, But to vanquish by wisdom hellish wiles! The Father knows the Son; therefore secure Ventures his filial virtue, though untried, Against whate'er may tempt, whate'er seduce, Allure, or terrify, or undermine. Be frustrate, all ye stratagems of Hell, 180 And, devilish machinations, come to nought!" So they in Heaven their odes and vigils tuned. Meanwhile the Son of God, who yet some days Lodged in Bethabara, where John baptized, Musing and much revolving in his breast How best the mighty work he might begin Of Saviour to mankind, and which way first Publish his godlike office now mature, One day forth walked alone, the Spirit leading And his deep thoughts, the better to converse 190 With solitude, till, far from track of men, Thought following thought, and step by step led on, He entered now the bordering Desert wild, And, with dark shades and rocks environed round, His holy meditations thus pursued:-- "O what a multitude of thoughts at once Awakened in me swarm, while I consider What from within I feel myself, and hear What from without comes often to my ears, Ill sorting with my present state compared! 200 When I was yet a child, no childish play To me was pleasing; all my mind was set Serious to learn and know, and thence to do, What might be public good; myself I thought Born to that end, born to promote all truth, All righteous things. Therefore, above my years, The Law of God I read, and found it sweet; Made it my whole delight, and in it grew To such perfection that, ere yet my age Had measured twice six years, at our great Feast 210 I went into the Temple, there to hear The teachers of our Law, and to propose What might improve my knowledge or their own, And was admired by all. Yet this not all To which my spirit aspired. Victorious deeds Flamed in my heart, heroic acts--one while To rescue Israel from the Roman yoke; Then to subdue and quell, o'er all the earth, Brute violence and proud tyrannic power, Till truth were freed, and equity restored: 220 Yet held it more humane, more heavenly, first By winning words to conquer willing hearts, And make persuasion do the work of fear; At least to try, and teach the erring soul, Not wilfully misdoing, but unware Misled; the stubborn only to subdue. These growing thoughts my mother soon perceiving, By words at times cast forth, inly rejoiced, And said to me apart, 'High are thy thoughts, O Son! but nourish them, and let them soar 230 To what highth sacred virtue and true worth Can raise them, though above example high; By matchless deeds express thy matchless Sire. For know, thou art no son of mortal man; Though men esteem thee low of parentage, Thy Father is the Eternal King who rules All Heaven and Earth, Angels and sons of men. A messenger from God foretold thy birth Conceived in me a virgin; he foretold Thou shouldst be great, and sit on David's throne, 240 And of thy kingdom there should be no end. At thy nativity a glorious quire Of Angels, in the fields of Bethlehem, sung To shepherds, watching at their folds by night, And told them the Messiah now was born, Where they might see him; and to thee they came, Directed to the manger where thou lay'st; For in the inn was left no better room. A Star, not seen before, in heaven appearing, Guided the Wise Men thither from the East, 250 To honour thee with incense, myrrh, and gold; By whose bright course led on they found the place, Affirming it thy star, new-graven in heaven, By which they knew thee King of Israel born. Just Simeon and prophetic Anna, warned By vision, found thee in the Temple, and spake, Before the altar and the vested priest, Like things of thee to all that present stood.' This having heart, straight I again revolved The Law and Prophets, searching what was writ 260 Concerning the Messiah, to our scribes Known partly, and soon found of whom they spake I am--this chiefly, that my way must lie Through many a hard assay, even to the death, Ere I the promised kingdom can attain, Or work redemption for mankind, whose sins' Full weight must be transferred upon my head. Yet, neither thus disheartened or dismayed, The time prefixed I waited; when behold The Baptist (of whose birth I oft had heard, 270 Not knew by sight) now come, who was to come Before Messiah, and his way prepare! I, as all others, to his baptism came, Which I believed was from above; but he Straight knew me, and with loudest voice proclaimed Me him (for it was shewn him so from Heaven)-- Me him whose harbinger he was; and first Refused on me his baptism to confer, As much his greater, and was hardly won. But, as I rose out of the laving stream, 280 Heaven opened her eternal doors, from whence The Spirit descended on me like a Dove; And last, the sum of all, my Father's voice, Audibly heard from Heaven, pronounced me his, Me his beloved Son, in whom alone He was well pleased: by which I knew the time Now full, that I no more should live obscure, But openly begin, as best becomes The authority which I derived from Heaven. And now by some strong motion I am led 290 Into this wilderness; to what intent I learn not yet. Perhaps I need not know; For what concerns my knowledge God reveals." So spake our Morning Star, then in his rise, And, looking round, on every side beheld A pathless desert, dusk with horrid shades. The way he came, not having marked return, Was difficult, by human steps untrod; And he still on was led, but with such thoughts Accompanied of things past and to come 300 Lodged in his breast as well might recommend Such solitude before choicest society. Full forty days he passed--whether on hill Sometimes, anon in shady vale, each night Under the covert of some ancient oak Or cedar to defend him from the dew, Or harboured in one cave, is not revealed; Nor tasted human food, nor hunger felt, Till those days ended; hungered then at last Among wild beasts. They at his sight grew mild, 310 Nor sleeping him nor waking harmed; his walk The fiery serpent fled and noxious worm; The lion and fierce tiger glared aloof. But now an aged man in rural weeds, Following, as seemed, the quest of some stray eye, Or withered sticks to gather, which might serve Against a winter's day, when winds blow keen, To warm him wet returned from field at eve, He saw approach; who first with curious eye Perused him, then with words thus uttered spake:-- 320 "Sir, what ill chance hath brought thee to this place, So far from path or road of men, who pass In troop or caravan? for single none Durst ever, who returned, and dropt not here His carcass, pined with hunger and with droughth. I ask the rather, and the more admire, For that to me thou seem'st the man whom late Our new baptizing Prophet at the ford Of Jordan honoured so, and called thee Son Of God. I saw and heard, for we sometimes 330 Who dwell this wild, constrained by want, come forth To town or village nigh (nighest is far), Where aught we hear, and curious are to hear, What happens new; fame also finds us out." To whom the Son of God:--"Who brought me hither Will bring me hence; no other guide I seek." "By miracle he may," replied the swain; "What other way I see not; for we here Live on tough roots and stubs, to thirst inured More than the camel, and to drink go far-- 340 Men to much misery and hardship born. But, if thou be the Son of God, command That out of these hard stones be made thee bread; So shalt thou save thyself, and us relieve With food, whereof we wretched seldom taste." He ended, and the Son of God replied:-- "Think'st thou such force in bread? Is it not written (For I discern thee other than thou seem'st), Man lives not by bread only, but each word Proceeding from the mouth of God, who fed 350 Our fathers here with manna? In the Mount Moses was forty days, nor eat nor drank; And forty days Eliah without food Wandered this barren waste; the same I now. Why dost thou, then, suggest to me distrust Knowing who I am, as I know who thou art?" Whom thus answered the Arch-Fiend, now undisguised:-- "'Tis true, I am that Spirit unfortunate Who, leagued with millions more in rash revolt, Kept not my happy station, but was driven 360 With them from bliss to the bottomless Deep-- Yet to that hideous place not so confined By rigour unconniving but that oft, Leaving my dolorous prison, I enjoy Large liberty to round this globe of Earth, Or range in the Air; nor from the Heaven of Heavens Hath he excluded my resort sometimes. I came, among the Sons of God, when he Gave up into my hands Uzzean Job, To prove him, and illustrate his high worth; 370 And, when to all his Angels he proposed To draw the proud king Ahab into fraud, That he might fall in Ramoth, they demurring, I undertook that office, and the tongues Of all his flattering prophets glibbed with lies To his destruction, as I had in charge: For what he bids I do. Though I have lost Much lustre of my native brightness, lost To be beloved of God, I have not lost To love, at least contemplate and admire, 380 What I see excellent in good, or fair, Or virtuous; I should so have lost all sense. What can be then less in me than desire To see thee and approach thee, whom I know Declared the Son of God, to hear attent Thy wisdom, and behold thy godlike deeds? Men generally think me much a foe To all mankind. Why should I? they to me Never did wrong or violence. By them I lost not what I lost; rather by them 390 I gained what I have gained, and with them dwell Copartner in these regions of the World, If not disposer--lend them oft my aid, Oft my advice by presages and signs, And answers, oracles, portents, and dreams, Whereby they may direct their future life. Envy, they say, excites me, thus to gain Companions of my misery and woe! At first it may be; but, long since with woe Nearer acquainted, now I feel by proof 400 That fellowship in pain divides not smart, Nor lightens aught each man's peculiar load; Small consolation, then, were Man adjoined. This wounds me most (what can it less?) that Man, Man fallen, shall be restored, I never more." To whom our Saviour sternly thus replied:-- "Deservedly thou griev'st, composed of lies From the beginning, and in lies wilt end, Who boast'st release from Hell, and leave to come Into the Heaven of Heavens. Thou com'st, indeed, 410 As a poor miserable captive thrall Comes to the place where he before had sat Among the prime in splendour, now deposed, Ejected, emptied, gazed, unpitied, shunned, A spectacle of ruin, or of scorn, To all the host of Heaven. The happy place Imparts to thee no happiness, no joy-- Rather inflames thy torment, representing Lost bliss, to thee no more communicable; So never more in Hell than when in Heaven. 420 But thou art serviceable to Heaven's King! Wilt thou impute to obedience what thy fear Extorts, or pleasure to do ill excites? What but thy malice moved thee to misdeem Of righteous Job, then cruelly to afflict him With all inflictions? but his patience won. The other service was thy chosen task, To be a liar in four hundred mouths; For lying is thy sustenance, thy food. Yet thou pretend'st to truth! all oracles 430 By thee are given, and what confessed more true Among the nations? That hath been thy craft, By mixing somewhat true to vent more lies. But what have been thy answers? what but dark, Ambiguous, and with double sense deluding, Which they who asked have seldom understood, And, not well understood, as good not known? Who ever, by consulting at thy shrine, Returned the wiser, or the more instruct To fly or follow what concerned him most, 440 And run not sooner to his fatal snare? For God hath justly given the nations up To thy delusions; justly, since they fell Idolatrous. But, when his purpose is Among them to declare his providence, To thee not known, whence hast thou then thy truth, But from him, or his Angels president In every province, who, themselves disdaining To approach thy temples, give thee in command What, to the smallest tittle, thou shalt say 450 To thy adorers? Thou, with trembling fear, Or like a fawning parasite, obey'st; Then to thyself ascrib'st the truth foretold. But this thy glory shall be soon retrenched; No more shalt thou by oracling abuse The Gentiles; henceforth oracles are ceased, And thou no more with pomp and sacrifice Shalt be enquired at Delphos or elsewhere-- At least in vain, for they shall find thee mute. God hath now sent his living Oracle 460 Into the world to teach his final will, And sends his Spirit of Truth henceforth to dwell In pious hearts, an inward oracle To all truth requisite for men to know." So spake our Saviour; but the subtle Fiend, Though inly stung with anger and disdain, Dissembled, and this answer smooth returned:-- "Sharply thou hast insisted on rebuke, And urged me hard with doings which not will, But misery, hath wrested from me. Where 470 Easily canst thou find one miserable, And not inforced oft-times to part from truth, If it may stand him more in stead to lie, Say and unsay, feign, flatter, or abjure? But thou art placed above me; thou art Lord; From thee I can, and must, submiss, endure Cheek or reproof, and glad to scape so quit. Hard are the ways of truth, and rough to walk, Smooth on the tongue discoursed, pleasing to the ear, And tunable as sylvan pipe or song; 480 What wonder, then, if I delight to hear Her dictates from thy mouth? most men admire Virtue who follow not her lore. Permit me To hear thee when I come (since no man comes), And talk at least, though I despair to attain. Thy Father, who is holy, wise, and pure, Suffers the hypocrite or atheous priest To tread his sacred courts, and minister About his altar, handling holy things, Praying or vowing, and voutsafed his voice 490 To Balaam reprobate, a prophet yet Inspired: disdain not such access to me." To whom our Saviour, with unaltered brow:-- "Thy coming hither, though I know thy scope, I bid not, or forbid. Do as thou find'st Permission from above; thou canst not more." He added not; and Satan, bowling low His gray dissimulation, disappeared, Into thin air diffused: for now began Night with her sullen wing to double-shade 500 The desert; fowls in their clay nests were couched; And now wild beasts came forth the woods to roam. THE SECOND BOOK MEANWHILE the new-baptized, who yet remained At Jordan with the Baptist, and had seen Him whom they heard so late expressly called Jesus Messiah, Son of God, declared, And on that high authority had believed, And with him talked, and with him lodged--I mean Andrew and Simon, famous after known, With others, though in Holy Writ not named-- Now missing him, their joy so lately found, So lately found and so abruptly gone, 10 Began to doubt, and doubted many days, And, as the days increased, increased their doubt. Sometimes they thought he might be only shewn, And for a time caught up to God, as once Moses was in the Mount and missing long, And the great Thisbite, who on fiery wheels Rode up to Heaven, yet once again to come. Therefore, as those young prophets then with care Sought lost Eliah, so in each place these Nigh to Bethabara--in Jericho 20 The city of palms, AEnon, and Salem old, Machaerus, and each town or city walled On this side the broad lake Genezaret, Or in Peraea--but returned in vain. Then on the bank of Jordan, by a creek, Where winds with reeds and osiers whispering play, Plain fishermen (no greater men them call), Close in a cottage low together got, Their unexpected loss and plaints outbreathed:-- "Alas, from what high hope to what relapse 30 Unlooked for are we fallen! Our eyes beheld Messiah certainly now come, so long Expected of our fathers; we have heard His words, his wisdom full of grace and truth. 'Now, now, for sure, deliverance is at hand; The kingdom shall to Israel be restored:' Thus we rejoiced, but soon our joy is turned Into perplexity and new amaze. For whither is he gone? what accident Hath rapt him from us? will he now retire 40 After appearance, and again prolong Our expectation? God of Israel, Send thy Messiah forth; the time is come. Behold the kings of the earth, how they oppress Thy Chosen, to what highth their power unjust They have exalted, and behind them cast All fear of Thee; arise, and vindicate Thy glory; free thy people from their yoke! But let us wait; thus far He hath performed-- Sent his Anointed, and to us revealed him 50 By his great Prophet pointed at and shown In public, and with him we have conversed. Let us be glad of this, and all our fears Lay on his providence; He will not fail, Nor will withdraw him now, nor will recall-- Mock us with his blest sight, then snatch him hence: Soon we shall see our hope, our joy, return." Thus they out of their plaints new hope resume To find whom at the first they found unsought. But to his mother Mary, when she saw 60 Others returned from baptism, not her Son, Nor left at Jordan tidings of him none, Within her breast though calm, her breast though pure, Motherly cares and fears got head, and raised Some troubled thoughts, which she in sighs thus clad:-- "Oh, what avails me now that honour high, To have conceived of God, or that salute, 'Hail, highly favoured, among women blest!' While I to sorrows am no less advanced, And fears as eminent above the lot 70 Of other women, by the birth I bore: In such a season born, when scarce a shed Could be obtained to shelter him or me From the bleak air? A stable was our warmth, A manger his; yet soon enforced to fly Thence into Egypt, till the murderous king Were dead, who sought his life, and, missing, filled With infant blood the streets of Bethlehem. From Egypt home returned, in Nazareth Hath been our dwelling many years; his life 80 Private, unactive, calm, contemplative, Little suspicious to any king. But now, Full grown to man, acknowledged, as I hear, By John the Baptist, and in public shewn, Son owned from Heaven by his Father's voice, I looked for some great change. To honour? no; But trouble, as old Simeon plain foretold, That to the fall and rising he should be Of many in Israel, and to a sign Spoken against--that through my very soul 90 A sword shall pierce. This is my favoured lot, My exaltation to afflictions high! Afflicted I may be, it seems, and blest! I will not argue that, nor will repine. But where delays he now? Some great intent Conceals him. When twelve years he scarce had seen, I lost him, but so found as well I saw He could not lose himself, but went about His Father's business. What he meant I mused-- Since understand; much more his absence now 100 Thus long to some great purpose he obscures. But I to wait with patience am inured; My heart hath been a storehouse long of things And sayings laid up, pretending strange events." Thus Mary, pondering oft, and oft to mind Recalling what remarkably had passed Since first her Salutation heard, with thoughts Meekly composed awaited the fulfilling: The while her Son, tracing the desert wild, Sole, but with holiest meditations fed, 110 Into himself descended, and at once All his great work to come before him set-- How to begin, how to accomplish best His end of being on Earth, and mission high. For Satan, with sly preface to return, Had left him vacant, and with speed was gone Up to the middle region of thick air, Where all his Potentates in council sate. There, without sign of boast, or sign of joy, Solicitous and blank, he thus began:-- 120 "Princes, Heaven's ancient Sons, AEthereal Thrones-- Daemonian Spirits now, from the element Each of his reign allotted, rightlier called Powers of Fire, Air, Water, and Earth beneath (So may we hold our place and these mild seats Without new trouble!)--such an enemy Is risen to invade us, who no less Threatens than our expulsion down to Hell. I, as I undertook, and with the vote Consenting in full frequence was impowered, 130 Have found him, viewed him, tasted him; but find Far other labour to be undergone Than when I dealt with Adam, first of men, Though Adam by his wife's allurement fell, However to this Man inferior far-- If he be Man by mother's side, at least With more than human gifts from Heaven adorned, Perfections absolute, graces divine, And amplitude of mind to greatest deeds. Therefore I am returned, lest confidence 140 Of my success with Eve in Paradise Deceive ye to persuasion over-sure Of like succeeding here. I summon all Rather to be in readiness with hand Or counsel to assist, lest I, who erst Thought none my equal, now be overmatched." So spake the old Serpent, doubting, and from all With clamour was assured their utmost aid At his command; when from amidst them rose Belial, the dissolutest Spirit that fell, 150 The sensualest, and, after Asmodai, The fleshliest Incubus, and thus advised:-- "Set women in his eye and in his walk, Among daughters of men the fairest found. Many are in each region passing fair As the noon sky, more like to goddesses Than mortal creatures, graceful and discreet, Expert in amorous arts, enchanting tongues Persuasive, virgin majesty with mild And sweet allayed, yet terrible to approach, 160 Skilled to retire, and in retiring draw Hearts after them tangled in amorous nets. Such object hath the power to soften and tame Severest temper, smooth the rugged'st brow, Enerve, and with voluptuous hope dissolve, Draw out with credulous desire, and lead At will the manliest, resolutest breast, As the magnetic hardest iron draws. Women, when nothing else, beguiled the heart Of wisest Solomon, and made him build, 170 And made him bow, to the gods of his wives." To whom quick answer Satan thus returned:-- "Belial, in much uneven scale thou weigh'st All others by thyself. Because of old Thou thyself doat'st on womankind, admiring Their shape, their colour, and attractive grace, None are, thou think'st, but taken with such toys. Before the Flood, thou, with thy lusty crew, False titled Sons of God, roaming the Earth, Cast wanton eyes on the daughters of men, 180 And coupled with them, and begot a race. Have we not seen, or by relation heard, In courts and regal chambers how thou lurk'st, In wood or grove, by mossy fountain-side, In valley or green meadow, to waylay Some beauty rare, Calisto, Clymene, Daphne, or Semele, Antiopa, Or Amymone, Syrinx, many more Too long--then lay'st thy scapes on names adored, Apollo, Neptune, Jupiter, or Pan, 190 Satyr, or Faun, or Silvan? But these haunts Delight not all. Among the sons of men How many have with a smile made small account Of beauty and her lures, easily scorned All her assaults, on worthier things intent! Remember that Pellean conqueror, A youth, how all the beauties of the East He slightly viewed, and slightly overpassed; How he surnamed of Africa dismissed, In his prime youth, the fair Iberian maid. 200 For Solomon, he lived at ease, and, full Of honour, wealth, high fare, aimed not beyond Higher design than to enjoy his state; Thence to the bait of women lay exposed. But he whom we attempt is wiser far Than Solomon, of more exalted mind, Made and set wholly on the accomplishment Of greatest things. What woman will you find, Though of this age the wonder and the fame, On whom his leisure will voutsafe an eye 210 Of fond desire? Or should she, confident, As sitting queen adored on Beauty's throne, Descend with all her winning charms begirt To enamour, as the zone of Venus once Wrought that effect on Jove (so fables tell), How would one look from his majestic brow, Seated as on the top of Virtue's hill, Discountenance her despised, and put to rout All her array, her female pride deject, Or turn to reverent awe! For Beauty stands 220 In the admiration only of weak minds Led captive; cease to admire, and all her plumes Fall flat, and shrink into a trivial toy, At every sudden slighting quite abashed. Therefore with manlier objects we must try His constancy--with such as have more shew Of worth, of honour, glory, and popular praise (Rocks whereon greatest men have oftest wrecked); Or that which only seems to satisfy Lawful desires of nature, not beyond. 230 And now I know he hungers, where no food Is to be found, in the wide Wilderness: The rest commit to me; I shall let pass No advantage, and his strength as oft assay." He ceased, and heard their grant in loud acclaim; Then forthwith to him takes a chosen band Of Spirits likest to himself in guile, To be at hand and at his beck appear, If cause were to unfold some active scene Of various persons, each to know his part; 240 Then to the desert takes with these his flight, Where still, from shade to shade, the Son of God, After forty days' fasting, had remained, Now hungering first, and to himself thus said:-- "Where will this end? Four times ten days I have passed Wandering this woody maze, and human food Nor tasted, nor had appetite. That fast To virtue I impute not, or count part Of what I suffer here. If nature need not, Or God support nature without repast, 250 Though needing, what praise is it to endure? But now I feel I hunger; which declares Nature hath need of what she asks. Yet God Can satisfy that need some other way, Though hunger still remain. So it remain Without this body's wasting, I content me, And from the sting of famine fear no harm; Nor mind it, fed with better thoughts, that feed Me hungering more to do my Father's will." It was the hour of night, when thus the Son 260 Communed in silent walk, then laid him down Under the hospitable covert nigh Of trees thick interwoven. There he slept, And dreamed, as appetite is wont to dream, Of meats and drinks, nature's refreshment sweet. Him thought he by the brook of Cherith stood, And saw the ravens with their horny beaks Food to Elijah bringing even and morn-- Though ravenous, taught to abstain from what they brought; He saw the Prophet also, how he fled 270 Into the desert, and how there he slept Under a juniper--then how, awaked, He found his supper on the coals prepared, And by the Angel was bid rise and eat, And eat the second time after repose, The strength whereof sufficed him forty days: Sometimes that with Elijah he partook, Or as a guest with Daniel at his pulse. Thus wore out night; and now the harald Lark Left his ground-nest, high towering to descry 280 The Morn's approach, and greet her with his song. As lightly from his grassy couch up rose Our Saviour, and found all was but a dream; Fasting he went to sleep, and fasting waked. Up to a hill anon his steps he reared, From whose high top to ken the prospect round, If cottage were in view, sheep-cote, or herd; But cottage, herd, or sheep-cote, none he saw-- Only in a bottom saw a pleasant grove, With chaunt of tuneful birds resounding loud. 290 Thither he bent his way, determined there To rest at noon, and entered soon the shade High-roofed, and walks beneath, and alleys brown, That opened in the midst a woody scene; Nature's own work it seemed (Nature taught Art), And, to a superstitious eye, the haunt Of wood-gods and wood-nymphs. He viewed it round; When suddenly a man before him stood, Not rustic as before, but seemlier clad, As one in city or court or palace bred, 300 And with fair speech these words to him addressed:-- "With granted leave officious I return, But much more wonder that the Son of God In this wild solitude so long should bide, Of all things destitute, and, well I know, Not without hunger. Others of some note, As story tells, have trod this wilderness: The fugitive Bond-woman, with her son, Outcast Nebaioth, yet found here relief By a providing Angel; all the race 310 Of Israel here had famished, had not God Rained from heaven manna; and that Prophet bold, Native of Thebez, wandering here, was fed Twice by a voice inviting him to eat. Of thee those forty days none hath regard, Forty and more deserted here indeed." To whom thus Jesus:--"What conclud'st thou hence? They all had need; I, as thou seest, have none." "How hast thou hunger then?" Satan replied. "Tell me, if food were now before thee set, 320 Wouldst thou not eat?" "Thereafter as I like the giver," answered Jesus. "Why should that Cause thy refusal?" said the subtle Fiend. "Hast thou not right to all created things? Owe not all creatures, by just right, to thee Duty and service, nor to stay till bid, But tender all their power? Nor mention I Meats by the law unclean, or offered first To idols--those young Daniel could refuse; Nor proffered by an enemy--though who 330 Would scruple that, with want oppressed? Behold, Nature ashamed, or, better to express, Troubled, that thou shouldst hunger, hath purveyed From all the elements her choicest store, To treat thee as beseems, and as her Lord With honour. Only deign to sit and eat." He spake no dream; for, as his words had end, Our Saviour, lifting up his eyes, beheld, In ample space under the broadest shade, A table richly spread in regal mode, 340 With dishes piled and meats of noblest sort And savour--beasts of chase, or fowl of game, In pastry built, or from the spit, or boiled, Grisamber-steamed; all fish, from sea or shore, Freshet or purling brook, of shell or fin, And exquisitest name, for which was drained Pontus, and Lucrine bay, and Afric coast. Alas! how simple, to these cates compared, Was that crude Apple that diverted Eve! And at a stately sideboard, by the wine, 350 That fragrant smell diffused, in order stood Tall stripling youths rich-clad, of fairer hue Than Ganymed or Hylas; distant more, Under the trees now tripped, now solemn stood, Nymphs of Diana's train, and Naiades With fruits and flowers from Amalthea's horn, And ladies of the Hesperides, that seemed Fairer than feigned of old, or fabled since Of faery damsels met in forest wide By knights of Logres, or of Lyones, 360 Lancelot, or Pelleas, or Pellenore. And all the while harmonious airs were heard Of chiming strings or charming pipes; and winds Of gentlest gale Arabian odours fanned From their soft wings, and Flora's earliest smells. Such was the splendour; and the Tempter now His invitation earnestly renewed:-- "What doubts the Son of God to sit and eat? These are not fruits forbidden; no interdict Defends the touching of these viands pure; 370 Their taste no knowledge works, at least of evil, But life preserves, destroys life's enemy, Hunger, with sweet restorative delight. All these are Spirits of air, and woods, and springs, Thy gentle ministers, who come to pay Thee homage, and acknowledge thee their Lord. What doubt'st thou, Son of God? Sit down and eat." To whom thus Jesus temperately replied:-- "Said'st thou not that to all things I had right? And who withholds my power that right to use? 380 Shall I receive by gift what of my own, When and where likes me best, I can command? I can at will, doubt not, as soon as thou, Command a table in this wilderness, And call swift flights of Angels ministrant, Arrayed in glory, on my cup to attend: Why shouldst thou, then, obtrude this diligence In vain, where no acceptance it can find? And with my hunger what hast thou to do? Thy pompous delicacies I contemn, 390 And count thy specious gifts no gifts, but guiles." To whom thus answered Satan, male-content:-- "That I have also power to give thou seest; If of that power I bring thee voluntary What I might have bestowed on whom I pleased, And rather opportunely in this place Chose to impart to thy apparent need, Why shouldst thou not accept it? But I see What I can do or offer is suspect. Of these things others quickly will dispose, 400 Whose pains have earned the far-fet spoil." With that Both table and provision vanished quite, With sound of harpies' wings and talons heard; Only the importune Tempter still remained, And with these words his temptation pursued:-- "By hunger, that each other creature tames, Thou art not to be harmed, therefore not moved; Thy temperance, invincible besides, For no allurement yields to appetite; And all thy heart is set on high designs, 410 High actions. But wherewith to be achieved? Great acts require great means of enterprise; Thou art unknown, unfriended, low of birth, A carpenter thy father known, thyself Bred up in poverty and straits at home, Lost in a desert here and hunger-bit. Which way, or from what hope, dost thou aspire To greatness? whence authority deriv'st? What followers, what retinue canst thou gain, Or at thy heels the dizzy multitude, 420 Longer than thou canst feed them on thy cost? Money brings honour, friends, conquest, and realms. What raised Antipater the Edomite, And his son Herod placed on Juda's throne, Thy throne, but gold, that got him puissant friends? Therefore, if at great things thou wouldst arrive, Get riches first, get wealth, and treasure heap-- Not difficult, if thou hearken to me. Riches are mine, fortune is in my hand; They whom I favour thrive in wealth amain, 430 While virtue, valour, wisdom, sit in want." To whom thus Jesus patiently replied:-- "Yet wealth without these three is impotent To gain dominion, or to keep it gained-- Witness those ancient empires of the earth, In highth of all their flowing wealth dissolved; But men endued with these have oft attained, In lowest poverty, to highest deeds-- Gideon, and Jephtha, and the shepherd lad Whose offspring on the throne of Juda sate 440 So many ages, and shall yet regain That seat, and reign in Israel without end. Among the Heathen (for throughout the world To me is not unknown what hath been done Worthy of memorial) canst thou not remember Quintius, Fabricius, Curius, Regulus? For I esteem those names of men so poor, Who could do mighty things, and could contemn Riches, though offered from the hand of kings. And what in me seems wanting but that I 450 May also in this poverty as soon Accomplish what they did, perhaps and more? Extol not riches, then, the toil of fools, The wise man's cumbrance, if not snare; more apt To slacken virtue and abate her edge Than prompt her to do aught may merit praise. What if with like aversion I reject Riches and realms! Yet not for that a crown, Golden in shew, is but a wreath of thorns, Brings dangers, troubles, cares, and sleepless nights, 460 To him who wears the regal diadem, When on his shoulders each man's burden lies; For therein stands the office of a king, His honour, virtue, merit, and chief praise, That for the public all this weight he bears. Yet he who reigns within himself, and rules Passions, desires, and fears, is more a king-- Which every wise and virtuous man attains; And who attains not, ill aspires to rule Cities of men, or headstrong multitudes, 470 Subject himself to anarchy within, Or lawless passions in him, which he serves. But to guide nations in the way of truth By saving doctrine, and from error lead To know, and, knowing, worship God aright, Is yet more kingly. This attracts the soul, Governs the inner man, the nobler part; That other o'er the body only reigns, And oft by force--which to a generous mind So reigning can be no sincere delight. 480 Besides, to give a kingdom hath been thought Greater and nobler done, and to lay down Far more magnanimous, than to assume. Riches are needless, then, both for themselves, And for thy reason why they should be sought-- To gain a sceptre, oftest better missed." THE THIRD BOOK SO spake the Son of God; and Satan stood A while as mute, confounded what to say, What to reply, confuted and convinced Of his weak arguing and fallacious drift; At length, collecting all his serpent wiles, With soothing words renewed, him thus accosts:-- "I see thou know'st what is of use to know, What best to say canst say, to do canst do; Thy actions to thy words accord; thy words To thy large heart give utterance due; thy heart 10 Contains of good, wise, just, the perfet shape. Should kings and nations from thy mouth consult, Thy counsel would be as the oracle Urim and Thummim, those oraculous gems On Aaron's breast, or tongue of Seers old Infallible; or, wert thou sought to deeds That might require the array of war, thy skill Of conduct would be such that all the world Could not sustain thy prowess, or subsist In battle, though against thy few in arms. 20 These godlike virtues wherefore dost thou hide? Affecting private life, or more obscure In savage wilderness, wherefore deprive All Earth her wonder at thy acts, thyself The fame and glory--glory, the reward That sole excites to high attempts the flame Of most erected spirits, most tempered pure AEthereal, who all pleasures else despise, All treasures and all gain esteem as dross, And dignities and powers, all but the highest? 30 Thy years are ripe, and over-ripe. The son Of Macedonian Philip had ere these Won Asia, and the throne of Cyrus held At his dispose; young Scipio had brought down The Carthaginian pride; young Pompey quelled The Pontic king, and in triumph had rode. Yet years, and to ripe years judgment mature, Quench not the thirst of glory, but augment. Great Julius, whom now all the world admires, The more he grew in years, the more inflamed 40 With glory, wept that he had lived so long Ingloroious. But thou yet art not too late." To whom our Saviour calmly thus replied:-- "Thou neither dost persuade me to seek wealth For empire's sake, nor empire to affect For glory's sake, by all thy argument. For what is glory but the blaze of fame, The people's praise, if always praise unmixed? And what the people but a herd confused, A miscellaneous rabble, who extol 50 Things vulgar, and, well weighed, scarce worth the praise? They praise and they admire they know not what, And know not whom, but as one leads the other; And what delight to be by such extolled, To live upon their tongues, and be their talk? Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise-- His lot who dares be singularly good. The intelligent among them and the wise Are few, and glory scarce of few is raised. This is true glory and renown--when God, 60 Looking on the Earth, with approbation marks The just man, and divulges him through Heaven To all his Angels, who with true applause Recount his praises. Thus he did to Job, When, to extend his fame through Heaven and Earth, As thou to thy reproach may'st well remember, He asked thee, 'Hast thou seen my servant Job?' Famous he was in Heaven; on Earth less known, Where glory is false glory, attributed To things not glorious, men not worthy of fame. 70 They err who count it glorious to subdue By conquest far and wide, to overrun Large countries, and in field great battles win, Great cities by assault. What do these worthies But rob and spoil, burn, slaughter, and enslave Peaceable nations, neighbouring or remote, Made captive, yet deserving freedom more Than those their conquerors, who leave behind Nothing but ruin wheresoe'er they rove, And all the flourishing works of peace destroy; 80 Then swell with pride, and must be titled Gods, Great benefactors of mankind, Deliverers, Worshipped with temple, priest, and sacrifice? One is the son of Jove, of Mars the other; Till conqueror Death discover them scarce men, Rowling in brutish vices, and deformed, Violent or shameful death their due reward. But, if there be in glory aught of good; It may be means far different be attained, Without ambition, war, or violence-- 90 By deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent, By patience, temperance. I mention still Him whom thy wrongs, with saintly patience borne, Made famous in a land and times obscure; Who names not now with honour patient Job? Poor Socrates, (who next more memorable?) By what he taught and suffered for so doing, For truth's sake suffering death unjust, lives now Equal in fame to proudest conquerors. Yet, if for fame and glory aught be done, 100 Aught suffered--if young African for fame His wasted country freed from Punic rage-- The deed becomes unpraised, the man at least, And loses, though but verbal, his reward. Shall I seek glory, then, as vain men seek, Oft not deserved? I seek not mine, but His Who sent me, and thereby witness whence I am." To whom the Tempter, murmuring, thus replied:-- "Think not so slight of glory, therein least Resembling thy great Father. He seeks glory, 110 And for his glory all things made, all things Orders and governs; nor content in Heaven, By all his Angels glorified, requires Glory from men, from all men, good or bad, Wise or unwise, no difference, no exemption. Above all sacrifice, or hallowed gift, Glory he requires, and glory he receives, Promiscuous from all nations, Jew, or Greek, Or Barbarous, nor exception hath declared; From us, his foes pronounced, glory he exacts." 120 To whom our Saviour fervently replied: "And reason; since his Word all things produced, Though chiefly not for glory as prime end, But to shew forth his goodness, and impart His good communicable to every soul Freely; of whom what could He less expect Than glory and benediction--that is, thanks-- The slightest, easiest, readiest recompense From them who could return him nothing else, And, not returning that, would likeliest render 130 Contempt instead, dishonour, obloquy? Hard recompense, unsuitable return For so much good, so much beneficience! But why should man seek glory, who of his own Hath nothing, and to whom nothing belongs But condemnation, ignominy, and shame-- Who, for so many benefits received, Turned recreant to God, ingrate and false, And so of all true good himself despoiled; Yet, sacrilegious, to himself would take 140 That which to God alone of right belongs? Yet so much bounty is in God, such grace, That who advances his glory, not their own, Them he himself to glory will advance." So spake the Son of God; and here again Satan had not to answer, but stood struck With guilt of his own sin--for he himself, Insatiable of glory, had lost all; Yet of another plea bethought him soon:-- "Of glory, as thou wilt," said he, "so deem; 150 Worth or not worth the seeking, let it pass. But to a Kingdom thou art born--ordained To sit upon thy father David's throne, By mother's side thy father, though thy right Be now in powerful hands, that will not part Easily from possession won with arms. Judaea now and all the Promised Land, Reduced a province under Roman yoke, Obeys Tiberius, nor is always ruled With temperate sway: oft have they violated 160 The Temple, oft the Law, with foul affronts, Abominations rather, as did once Antiochus. And think'st thou to regain Thy right by sitting still, or thus retiring? So did not Machabeus. He indeed Retired unto the Desert, but with arms; And o'er a mighty king so oft prevailed That by strong hand his family obtained, Though priests, the crown, and David's throne usurped, With Modin and her suburbs once content. 170 If kingdom move thee not, let move thee zeal And duty--zeal and duty are not slow, But on Occasion's forelock watchful wait: They themselves rather are occasion best-- Zeal of thy Father's house, duty to free Thy country from her heathen servitude. So shalt thou best fulfil, best verify, The Prophets old, who sung thy endless reign-- The happier reign the sooner it begins. Rein then; what canst thou better do the while?" 180 To whom our Saviour answer thus returned:-- "All things are best fulfilled in their due time; And time there is for all things, Truth hath said. If of my reign Prophetic Writ hath told That it shall never end, so, when begin The Father in his purpose hath decreed-- He in whose hand all times and seasons rowl. What if he hath decreed that I shall first Be tried in humble state, and things adverse, By tribulations, injuries, insults, 190 Contempts, and scorns, and snares, and violence, Suffering, abstaining, quietly expecting Without distrust or doubt, that He may know What I can suffer, how obey? Who best Can suffer best can do, best reign who first Well hath obeyed--just trial ere I merit My exaltation without change or end. But what concerns it thee when I begin My everlasting Kingdom? Why art thou Solicitous? What moves thy inquisition? 200 Know'st thou not that my rising is thy fall, And my promotion will be thy destruction?" To whom the Tempter, inly racked, replied:-- "Let that come when it comes. All hope is lost Of my reception into grace; what worse? For where no hope is left is left no fear. If there be worse, the expectation more Of worse torments me than the feeling can. I would be at the worst; worst is my port, My harbour, and my ultimate repose, 210 The end I would attain, my final good. My error was my error, and my crime My crime; whatever, for itself condemned, And will alike be punished, whether thou Reign or reign not--though to that gentle brow Willingly I could fly, and hope thy reign, From that placid aspect and meek regard, Rather than aggravate my evil state, Would stand between me and thy Father's ire (Whose ire I dread more than the fire of Hell) 220 A shelter and a kind of shading cool Interposition, as a summer's cloud. If I, then, to the worst that can be haste, Why move thy feet so slow to what is best? Happiest, both to thyself and all the world, That thou, who worthiest art, shouldst be their King! Perhaps thou linger'st in deep thoughts detained Of the enterprise so hazardous and high! No wonder; for, though in thee be united What of perfection can in Man be found, 230 Or human nature can receive, consider Thy life hath yet been private, most part spent At home, scarce viewed the Galilean towns, And once a year Jerusalem, few days' Short sojourn; and what thence couldst thou observe? The world thou hast not seen, much less her glory, Empires, and monarchs, and their radiant courts-- Best school of best experience, quickest in sight In all things that to greatest actions lead. The wisest, unexperienced, will be ever 240 Timorous, and loth, with novice modesty (As he who, seeking asses, found a kingdom) Irresolute, unhardy, unadventrous. But I will bring thee where thou soon shalt quit Those rudiments, and see before thine eyes The monarchies of the Earth, their pomp and state-- Sufficient introduction to inform Thee, of thyself so apt, in regal arts, And regal mysteries; that thou may'st know How best their opposition to withstand." 250 With that (such power was given him then), he took The Son of God up to a mountain high. It was a mountain at whose verdant feet A spacious plain outstretched in circuit wide Lay pleasant; from his side two rivers flowed, The one winding, the other straight, and left between Fair champaign, with less rivers interveined, Then meeting joined their tribute to the sea. Fertil of corn the glebe, of oil, and wine; With herds the pasture thronged, with flocks the hills; 260 Huge cities and high-towered, that well might seem The seats of mightiest monarchs; and so large The prospect was that here and there was room For barren desert, fountainless and dry. To this high mountain-top the Tempter brought Our Saviour, and new train of words began:-- "Well have we speeded, and o'er hill and dale, Forest, and field, and flood, temples and towers, Cut shorter many a league. Here thou behold'st Assyria, and her empire's ancient bounds, 270 Araxes and the Caspian lake; thence on As far as Indus east, Euphrates west, And oft beyond; to south the Persian bay, And, inaccessible, the Arabian drouth: Here, Nineveh, of length within her wall Several days' journey, built by Ninus old, Of that first golden monarchy the seat, And seat of Salmanassar, whose success Israel in long captivity still mourns; There Babylon, the wonder of all tongues, 280 As ancient, but rebuilt by him who twice Judah and all thy father David's house Led captive, and Jerusalem laid waste, Till Cyrus set them free; Persepolis, His city, there thou seest, and Bactra there; Ecbatana her structure vast there shews, And Hecatompylos her hunderd gates; There Susa by Choaspes, amber stream, The drink of none but kings; of later fame, Built by Emathian or by Parthian hands, 290 The great Seleucia, Nisibis, and there Artaxata, Teredon, Ctesiphon, Turning with easy eye, thou may'st behold. All these the Parthian (now some ages past By great Arsaces led, who founded first That empire) under his dominion holds, From the luxurious kings of Antioch won. And just in time thou com'st to have a view Of his great power; for now the Parthian king In Ctesiphon hath gathered all his host 300 Against the Scythian, whose incursions wild Have wasted Sogdiana; to her aid He marches now in haste. See, though from far, His thousands, in what martial equipage They issue forth, steel bows and shafts their arms, Of equal dread in flight or in pursuit-- All horsemen, in which fight they most excel; See how in warlike muster they appear, In rhombs, and wedges, and half-moons, and wings." He looked, and saw what numbers numberless 310 The city gates outpoured, light-armed troops In coats of mail and military pride. In mail their horses clad, yet fleet and strong, Prauncing their riders bore, the flower and choice Of many provinces from bound to bound-- From Arachosia, from Candaor east, And Margiana, to the Hyrcanian cliffs Of Caucasus, and dark Iberian dales; From Atropatia, and the neighbouring plains Of Adiabene, Media, and the south 320 Of Susiana, to Balsara's haven. He saw them in their forms of battle ranged, How quick they wheeled, and flying behind them shot Sharp sleet of arrowy showers against the face Of their pursuers, and overcame by flight; The field all iron cast a gleaming brown. Nor wanted clouds of foot, nor, on each horn, Cuirassiers all in steel for standing fight, Chariots, or elephants indorsed with towers Of archers; nor of labouring pioners 330 A multitude, with spades and axes armed, To lay hills plain, fell woods, or valleys fill, Or where plain was raise hill, or overlay With bridges rivers proud, as with a yoke: Mules after these, camels and dromedaries, And waggons fraught with utensils of war. Such forces met not, nor so wide a camp, When Agrican, with all his northern powers, Besieged Albracea, as romances tell, The city of Gallaphrone, from thence to win 340 The fairest of her sex, Angelica, His daughter, sought by many prowest knights, Both Paynim and the peers of Charlemane. Such and so numerous was their chivalry; At sight whereof the Fiend yet more presumed, And to our Saviour thus his words renewed:-- "That thou may'st know I seek not to engage Thy virtue, and not every way secure On no slight grounds thy safety, hear and mark To what end I have brought thee hither, and shew 350 All this fair sight. Thy kingdom, though foretold By Prophet or by Angel, unless thou Endeavour, as thy father David did, Thou never shalt obtain: prediction still In all things, and all men, supposes means; Without means used, what it predicts revokes. But say thou wert possessed of David's throne By free consent of all, none opposite, Samaritan or Jew; how couldst thou hope Long to enjoy it quiet and secure 360 Between two such enclosing enemies, Roman and Parthian? Therefore one of these Thou must make sure thy own: the Parthian first, By my advice, as nearer, and of late Found able by invasion to annoy Thy country, and captive lead away her kings, Antigonus and old Hyrcanus, bound, Maugre the Roman. It shall be my task To render thee the Parthian at dispose, Choose which thou wilt, by conquest or by league. 370 By him thou shalt regain, without him not, That which alone can truly reinstall thee In David's royal seat, his true successor-- Deliverance of thy brethren, those Ten Tribes Whose offspring in his territory yet serve In Habor, and among the Medes dispersed: The sons of Jacob, two of Joseph, lost Thus long from Israel, serving, as of old Their fathers in the land of Egypt served, This offer sets before thee to deliver. 380 These if from servitude thou shalt restore To their inheritance, then, nor till then, Thou on the throne of David in full glory, From Egypt to Euphrates and beyond, Shalt reign, and Rome or Caesar not need fear." To whom our Saviour answered thus, unmoved:-- "Much ostentation vain of fleshly arm And fragile arms, much instrument of war, Long in preparing, soon to nothing brought, Before mine eyes thou hast set, and in my ear 390 Vented much policy, and projects deep Of enemies, of aids, battles, and leagues, Plausible to the world, to me worth naught. Means I must use, thou say'st; prediction else Will unpredict, and fail me of the throne! My time, I told thee (and that time for thee Were better farthest off), is not yet come. When that comes, think not thou to find me slack On my part aught endeavouring, or to need Thy politic maxims, or that cumbersome 400 Luggage of war there shewn me--argument Of human weakness rather than of strength. My brethren, as thou call'st them, those Ten Tribes, I must deliver, if I mean to reign David's true heir, and his full sceptre sway To just extent over all Israel's sons! But whence to thee this zeal? Where was it then For Israel, or for David, or his throne, When thou stood'st up his tempter to the pride Of numbering Israel--which cost the lives 410 of threescore and ten thousand Israelites By three days' pestilence? Such was thy zeal To Israel then, the same that now to me. As for those captive tribes, themselves were they Who wrought their own captivity, fell off From God to worship calves, the deities Of Egypt, Baal next and Ashtaroth, And all the idolatries of heathen round, Besides their other worse than heathenish crimes; Nor in the land of their captivity 420 Humbled themselves, or penitent besought The God of their forefathers, but so died Impenitent, and left a race behind Like to themselves, distinguishable scarce From Gentiles, but by circumcision vain, And God with idols in their worship joined. Should I of these the liberty regard, Who, freed, as to their ancient patrimony, Unhumbled, unrepentant, unreformed, Headlong would follow, and to their gods perhaps 430 Of Bethel and of Dan? No; let them serve Their enemies who serve idols with God. Yet He at length, time to himself best known, Remembering Abraham, by some wondrous call May bring them back, repentant and sincere, And at their passing cleave the Assyrian flood, While to their native land with joy they haste, As the Red Sea and Jordan once he cleft, When to the Promised Land their fathers passed. To his due time and providence I leave them." 440 So spake Israel's true King, and to the Fiend Made answer meet, that made void all his wiles. So fares it when with truth falsehood contends. THE FOURTH BOOK Perplexed and troubled at his bad success The Tempter stood, nor had what to reply, Discovered in his fraud, thrown from his hope So oft, and the persuasive rhetoric That sleeked his tongue, and won so much on Eve, So little here, nay lost. But Eve was Eve; This far his over-match, who, self-deceived And rash, beforehand had no better weighed The strength he was to cope with, or his own. But--as a man who had been matchless held 10 In cunning, over-reached where least he thought, To salve his credit, and for very spite, Still will be tempting him who foils him still, And never cease, though to his shame the more; Or as a swarm of flies in vintage-time, About the wine-press where sweet must is poured, Beat off, returns as oft with humming sound; Or surging waves against a solid rock, Though all to shivers dashed, the assault renew, (Vain battery!) and in froth or bubbles end-- 20 So Satan, whom repulse upon repulse Met ever, and to shameful silence brought, Yet gives not o'er, though desperate of success, And his vain importunity pursues. He brought our Saviour to the western side Of that high mountain, whence he might behold Another plain, long, but in breadth not wide, Washed by the southern sea, and on the north To equal length backed with a ridge of hills That screened the fruits of the earth and seats of men 30 From cold Septentrion blasts; thence in the midst Divided by a river, off whose banks On each side an Imperial City stood, With towers and temples proudly elevate On seven small hills, with palaces adorned, Porches and theatres, baths, aqueducts, Statues and trophies, and triumphal arcs, Gardens and groves, presented to his eyes Above the highth of mountains interposed-- By what strange parallax, or optic skill 40 Of vision, multiplied through air, or glass Of telescope, were curious to enquire. And now the Tempter thus his silence broke:-- "The city which thou seest no other deem Than great and glorious Rome, Queen of the Earth So far renowned, and with the spoils enriched Of nations. There the Capitol thou seest, Above the rest lifting his stately head On the Tarpeian rock, her citadel Impregnable; and there Mount Palatine, 50 The imperial palace, compass huge, and high The structure, skill of noblest architects, With gilded battlements, conspicuous far, Turrets, and terraces, and glittering spires. Many a fair edifice besides, more like Houses of gods--so well I have disposed My aerie microscope--thou may'st behold, Outside and inside both, pillars and roofs Carved work, the hand of famed artificers In cedar, marble, ivory, or gold. 60 Thence to the gates cast round thine eye, and see What conflux issuing forth, or entering in: Praetors, proconsuls to their provinces Hasting, or on return, in robes of state; Lictors and rods, the ensigns of their power; Legions and cohorts, turms of horse and wings; Or embassies from regions far remote, In various habits, on the Appian road, Or on the AEmilian--some from farthest south, Syene, and where the shadow both way falls, 70 Meroe, Nilotic isle, and, more to west, The realm of Bocchus to the Blackmoor sea; From the Asian kings (and Parthian among these), From India and the Golden Chersoness, And utmost Indian isle Taprobane, Dusk faces with white silken turbants wreathed; From Gallia, Gades, and the British west; Germans, and Scythians, and Sarmatians north Beyond Danubius to the Tauric pool. All nations now to Rome obedience pay-- 80 To Rome's great Emperor, whose wide domain, In ample territory, wealth and power, Civility of manners, arts and arms, And long renown, thou justly may'st prefer Before the Parthian. These two thrones except, The rest are barbarous, and scarce worth the sight, Shared among petty kings too far removed; These having shewn thee, I have shewn thee all The kingdoms of the world, and all their glory. This Emperor hath no son, and now is old, 90 Old and lascivious, and from Rome retired To Capreae, an island small but strong On the Campanian shore, with purpose there His horrid lusts in private to enjoy; Committing to a wicked favourite All public cares, and yet of him suspicious; Hated of all, and hating. With what ease, Endued with regal virtues as thou art, Appearing, and beginning noble deeds, Might'st thou expel this monster from his throne, 100 Now made a sty, and, in his place ascending, A victor-people free from servile yoke! And with my help thou may'st; to me the power Is given, and by that right I give it thee. Aim, therefore, at no less than all the world; Aim at the highest; without the highest attained, Will be for thee no sitting, or not long, On David's throne, be prophesied what will." To whom the Son of God, unmoved, replied:-- "Nor doth this grandeur and majestic shew 110 Of luxury, though called magnificence, More than of arms before, allure mine eye, Much less my mind; though thou should'st add to tell Their sumptuous gluttonies, and gorgeous feasts On citron tables or Atlantic stone (For I have also heard, perhaps have read), Their wines of Setia, Cales, and Falerne, Chios and Crete, and how they quaff in gold, Crystal, and myrrhine cups, imbossed with gems And studs of pearl--to me should'st tell, who thirst 120 And hunger still. Then embassies thou shew'st From nations far and nigh! What honour that, But tedious waste of time, to sit and hear So many hollow compliments and lies, Outlandish flatteries? Then proceed'st to talk Of the Emperor, how easily subdued, How gloriously. I shall, thou say'st, expel A brutish monster: what if I withal Expel a Devil who first made him such? Let his tormentor, Conscience, find him out; 130 For him I was not sent, nor yet to free That people, victor once, now vile and base, Deservedly made vassal--who, once just, Frugal, and mild, and temperate, conquered well, But govern ill the nations under yoke, Peeling their provinces, exhausted all By lust and rapine; first ambitious grown Of triumph, that insulting vanity; Then cruel, by their sports to blood inured Of fighting beasts, and men to beasts exposed; 140 Luxurious by their wealth, and greedier still, And from the daily Scene effeminate. What wise and valiant man would seek to free These, thus degenerate, by themselves enslaved, Or could of inward slaves make outward free? Know, therefore, when my season comes to sit On David's throne, it shall be like a tree Spreading and overshadowing all the earth, Or as a stone that shall to pieces dash All monarchies besides throughout the world; 150 And of my Kingdom there shall be no end. Means there shall be to this; but what the means Is not for thee to know, nor me to tell." To whom the Tempter, impudent, replied:-- "I see all offers made by me how slight Thou valuest, because offered, and reject'st. Nothing will please the difficult and nice, Or nothing more than still to contradict. On the other side know also thou that I On what I offer set as high esteem, 160 Nor what I part with mean to give for naught, All these, which in a moment thou behold'st, The kingdoms of the world, to thee I give (For, given to me, I give to whom I please), No trifle; yet with this reserve, not else-- On this condition, if thou wilt fall down, And worship me as thy superior Lord (Easily done), and hold them all of me; For what can less so great a gift deserve?" Whom thus our Saviour answered with disdain:-- 170 "I never liked thy talk, thy offers less; Now both abhor, since thou hast dared to utter The abominable terms, impious condition. But I endure the time, till which expired Thou hast permission on me. It is written, The first of all commandments, 'Thou shalt worship The Lord thy God, and only Him shalt serve.' And dar'st thou to the Son of God propound To worship thee, accursed? now more accursed For this attempt, bolder than that on Eve, 180 And more blasphemous; which expect to rue. The kingdoms of the world to thee were given! Permitted rather, and by thee usurped; Other donation none thou canst produce. If given, by whom but by the King of kings, God over all supreme? If given to thee, By thee how fairly is the Giver now Repaid! But gratitude in thee is lost Long since. Wert thou so void of fear or shame As offer them to me, the Son of God-- 190 To me my own, on such abhorred pact, That I fall down and worship thee as God? Get thee behind me! Plain thou now appear'st That Evil One, Satan for ever damned." To whom the Fiend, with fear abashed, replied:-- "Be not so sore offended, Son of God-- Though Sons of God both Angels are and Men-- If I, to try whether in higher sort Than these thou bear'st that title, have proposed What both from Men and Angels I receive, 200 Tetrarchs of Fire, Air, Flood, and on the Earth Nations besides from all the quartered winds-- God of this World invoked, and World beneath. Who then thou art, whose coming is foretold To me most fatal, me it most concerns. The trial hath indamaged thee no way, Rather more honour left and more esteem; Me naught advantaged, missing what I aimed. Therefore let pass, as they are transitory, The kingdoms of this world; I shall no more 210 Advise thee; gain them as thou canst, or not. And thou thyself seem'st otherwise inclined Than to a worldly crown, addicted more To contemplation and profound dispute; As by that early action may be judged, When, slipping from thy mother's eye, thou went'st Alone into the Temple, there wast found Among the gravest Rabbies, disputant On points and questions fitting Moses' chair, Teaching, not taught. The childhood shews the man, 220 As morning shews the day. Be famous, then, By wisdom; as thy empire must extend, So let extend thy mind o'er all the world In knowledge; all things in it comprehend. All knowledge is not couched in Moses' law, The Pentateuch, or what the Prophets wrote; The Gentiles also know, and write, and teach To admiration, led by Nature's light; And with the Gentiles much thou must converse, Ruling them by persuasion, as thou mean'st. 230 Without their learning, how wilt thou with them, Or they with thee, hold conversation meet? How wilt thou reason with them, how refute Their idolisms, traditions, paradoxes? Error by his own arms is best evinced. Look once more, ere we leave this specular mount, Westward, much nearer by south-west; behold Where on the AEgean shore a city stands, Built nobly, pure the air and light the soil-- Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts 240 And Eloquence, native to famous wits Or hospitable, in her sweet recess, City or suburban, studious walks and shades. See there the olive-grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long; There, flowery hill, Hymettus, with the sound Of bees' industrious murmur, oft invites To studious musing; there Ilissus rowls His whispering stream. Within the walls then view 250 The schools of ancient sages--his who bred Great Alexander to subdue the world, Lyceum there; and painted Stoa next. There thou shalt hear and learn the secret power Of harmony, in tones and numbers hit By voice or hand, and various-measured verse, AEolian charms and Dorian lyric odes, And his who gave them breath, but higher sung, Blind Melesigenes, thence Homer called, Whose poem Phoebus challenged for his own. 260 Thence what the lofty grave Tragedians taught In chorus or iambic, teachers best Of moral prudence, with delight received In brief sententious precepts, while they treat Of fate, and chance, and change in human life, High actions and high passions best describing. Thence to the famous Orators repair, Those ancient whose resistless eloquence Wielded at will that fierce democraty, Shook the Arsenal, and fulmined over Greece 270 To Macedon and Artaxerxes' throne. To sage Philosophy next lend thine ear, From heaven descended to the low-roofed house Of Socrates--see there his tenement-- Whom, well inspired, the Oracle pronounced Wisest of men; from whose mouth issued forth Mellifluous streams, that watered all the schools Of Academics old and new, with those Surnamed Peripatetics, and the sect Epicurean, and the Stoic severe. 280 These here revolve, or, as thou likest, at home, Till time mature thee to a kingdom's weight; These rules will render thee a king complete Within thyself, much more with empire joined." To whom our Saviour sagely thus replied:-- "Think not but that I know these things; or, think I know them not, not therefore am I short Of knowing what I ought. He who receives Light from above, from the Fountain of Light, No other doctrine needs, though granted true; 290 But these are false, or little else but dreams, Conjectures, fancies, built on nothing firm. The first and wisest of them all professed To know this only, that he nothing knew; The next to fabling fell and smooth conceits; A third sort doubted all things, though plain sense; Others in virtue placed felicity, But virtue joined with riches and long life; In corporal pleasure he, and careless ease; The Stoic last in philosophic pride, 300 By him called virtue, and his virtuous man, Wise, perfect in himself, and all possessing, Equal to God, oft shames not to prefer, As fearing God nor man, contemning all Wealth, pleasure, pain or torment, death and life-- Which, when he lists, he leaves, or boasts he can; For all his tedious talk is but vain boast, Or subtle shifts conviction to evade. Alas! what can they teach, and not mislead, Ignorant of themselves, of God much more, 310 And how the World began, and how Man fell, Degraded by himself, on grace depending? Much of the Soul they talk, but all awry; And in themselves seek virtue; and to themselves All glory arrogate, to God give none; Rather accuse him under usual names, Fortune and Fate, as one regardless quite Of mortal things. Who, therefore, seeks in these True wisdom finds her not, or, by delusion Far worse, her false resemblance only meets, 320 An empty cloud. However, many books, Wise men have said, are wearisome; who reads Incessantly, and to his reading brings not A spirit and judgment equal or superior, (And what he brings what needs he elsewhere seek?) Uncertain and unsettled still remains, Deep-versed in books and shallow in himself, Crude or intoxicate, collecting toys And trifles for choice matters, worth a sponge, As children gathering pebbles on the shore. 330 Or, if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace? All our Law and Story strewed With hymns, our Psalms with artful terms inscribed, Our Hebrew songs and harps, in Babylon That pleased so well our victor's ear, declare That rather Greece from us these arts derived-- Ill imitated while they loudest sing The vices of their deities, and their own, 340 In fable, hymn, or song, so personating Their gods ridiculous, and themselves past shame. Remove their swelling epithetes, thick-laid As varnish on a harlot's cheek, the rest, Thin-sown with aught of profit or delight, Will far be found unworthy to compare With Sion's songs, to all true tastes excelling, Where God is praised aright and godlike men, The Holiest of Holies and his Saints (Such are from God inspired, not such from thee); 350 Unless where moral virtue is expressed By light of Nature, not in all quite lost. Their orators thou then extoll'st as those The top of eloquence--statists indeed, And lovers of their country, as may seem; But herein to our Prophets far beneath, As men divinely taught, and better teaching The solid rules of civil government, In their majestic, unaffected style, Than all the oratory of Greece and Rome. 360 In them is plainest taught, and easiest learnt, What makes a nation happy, and keeps it so, What ruins kingdoms, and lays cities flat; These only, with our Law, best form a king." So spake the Son of God; but Satan, now Quite at a loss (for all his darts were spent), Thus to our Saviour, with stern brow, replied:-- "Since neither wealth nor honour, arms nor arts, Kingdom nor empire, pleases thee, nor aught By me proposed in life contemplative 370 Or active, tended on by glory or fame, What dost thou in this world? The Wilderness For thee is fittest place: I found thee there, And thither will return thee. Yet remember What I foretell thee; soon thou shalt have cause To wish thou never hadst rejected, thus Nicely or cautiously, my offered aid, Which would have set thee in short time with ease On David's throne, or throne of all the world, Now at full age, fulness of time, thy season, 380 When prophecies of thee are best fulfilled. Now, contrary--if I read aught in heaven, Or heaven write aught of fate--by what the stars Voluminous, or single characters In their conjunction met, give me to spell, Sorrows and labours, opposition, hate, Attends thee; scorns, reproaches, injuries, Violence and stripes, and, lastly, cruel death. A kingdom they portend thee, but what kingdom, Real or allegoric, I discern not; 390 Nor when: eternal sure--as without end, Without beginning; for no date prefixed Directs me in the starry rubric set." So saying, he took (for still he knew his power Not yet expired), and to the Wilderness Brought back, the Son of God, and left him there, Feigning to disappear. Darkness now rose, As daylight sunk, and brought in louring Night, Her shadowy offspring, unsubstantial both, Privation mere of light and absent day. 400 Our Saviour, meek, and with untroubled mind After hisaerie jaunt, though hurried sore, Hungry and cold, betook him to his rest, Wherever, under some concourse of shades, Whose branching arms thick intertwined might shield From dews and damps of night his sheltered head; But, sheltered, slept in vain; for at his head The Tempter watched, and soon with ugly dreams Disturbed his sleep. And either tropic now 'Gan thunder, and both ends of heaven; the clouds 410 From many a horrid rift abortive poured Fierce rain with lightning mixed, water with fire, In ruin reconciled; nor slept the winds Within their stony caves, but rushed abroad From the four hinges of the world, and fell On the vexed wilderness, whose tallest pines, Though rooted deep as high, and sturdiest oaks, Bowed their stiff necks, loaden with stormy blasts, Or torn up sheer. Ill wast thou shrouded then, O patient Son of God, yet only stood'st 420 Unshaken! Nor yet staid the terror there: Infernal ghosts and hellish furies round Environed thee; some howled, some yelled, some shrieked, Some bent at thee their fiery darts, while thou Sat'st unappalled in calm and sinless peace. Thus passed the night so foul, till Morning fair Came forth with pilgrim steps, in amice grey, Who with her radiant finger stilled the roar Of thunder, chased the clouds, and laid the winds, And griesly spectres, which the Fiend had raised 430 To tempt the Son of God with terrors dire. And now the sun with more effectual beams Had cheered the face of earth, and dried the wet From drooping plant, or dropping tree; the birds, Who all things now behold more fresh and green, After a night of storm so ruinous, Cleared up their choicest notes in bush and spray, To gratulate the sweet return of morn. Nor yet, amidst this joy and brightest morn, Was absent, after all his mischief done, 440 The Prince of Darkness; glad would also seem Of this fair change, and to our Saviour came; Yet with no new device (they all were spent), Rather by this his last affront resolved, Desperate of better course, to vent his rage And mad despite to be so oft repelled. Him walking on a sunny hill he found, Backed on the north and west by a thick wood; Out of the wood he starts in wonted shape, And in a careless mood thus to him said:-- 450 "Fair morning yet betides thee, Son of God, After a dismal night. I heard the wrack, As earth and sky would mingle; but myself Was distant; and these flaws, though mortals fear them, As dangerous to the pillared frame of Heaven, Or to the Earth's dark basis underneath, Are to the main as inconsiderable And harmless, if not wholesome, as a sneeze To man's less universe, and soon are gone. Yet, as being ofttimes noxious where they light 460 On man, beast, plant, wasteful and turbulent, Like turbulencies in the affairs of men, Over whose heads they roar, and seem to point, They oft fore-signify and threaten ill. This tempest at this desert most was bent; Of men at thee, for only thou here dwell'st. Did I not tell thee, if thou didst reject The perfect season offered with my aid To win thy destined seat, but wilt prolong All to the push of fate, pursue thy way 470 Of gaining David's throne no man knows when (For both the when and how is nowhere told), Thou shalt be what thou art ordained, no doubt; For Angels have proclaimed it, but concealing The time and means? Each act is rightliest done Not when it must, but when it may be best. If thou observe not this, be sure to find What I foretold thee--many a hard assay Of dangers, and adversities, and pains, Ere thou of Israel's sceptre get fast hold; 480 Whereof this ominous night that closed thee round, So many terrors, voices, prodigies, May warn thee, as a sure foregoing sign." So talked he, while the Son of God went on, And staid not, but in brief him answered thus:-- "Me worse than wet thou find'st not; other harm Those terrors which thou speak'st of did me none. I never feared they could, though noising loud And threatening nigh: what they can do as signs Betokening or ill-boding I contemn 490 As false portents, not sent from God, but thee; Who, knowing I shall reign past thy preventing, Obtrud'st thy offered aid, that I, accepting, At least might seem to hold all power of thee, Ambitious Spirit! and would'st be thought my God; And storm'st, refused, thinking to terrify Me to thy will! Desist (thou art discerned, And toil'st in vain), nor me in vain molest." To whom the Fiend, now swoln with rage, replied:-- "Then hear, O Son of David, virgin-born! 500 For Son of God to me is yet in doubt. Of the Messiah I have heard foretold By all the Prophets; of thy birth, at length Announced by Gabriel, with the first I knew, And of the angelic song in Bethlehem field, On thy birth-night, that sung thee Saviour born. From that time seldom have I ceased to eye Thy infancy, thy childhood, and thy youth, Thy manhood last, though yet in private bred; Till, at the ford of Jordan, whither all 510 Flocked to the Baptist, I among the rest (Though not to be baptized), by voice from Heaven Heard thee pronounced the Son of God beloved. Thenceforth I thought thee worth my nearer view And narrower scrutiny, that I might learn In what degree or meaning thou art called The Son of God, which bears no single sense. The Son of God I also am, or was; And, if I was, I am; relation stands: All men are Sons of God; yet thee I thought 520 In some respect far higher so declared. Therefore I watched thy footsteps from that hour, And followed thee still on to this waste wild, Where, by all best conjectures, I collect Thou art to be my fatal enemy. Good reason, then, if I beforehand seek To understand my adversary, who And what he is; his wisdom, power, intent; By parle or composition, truce or league, To win him, or win from him what I can. 530 And opportunity I here have had To try thee, sift thee, and confess have found thee Proof against all temptation, as a rock Of adamant and as a centre, firm To the utmost of mere man both wise and good, Not more; for honours, riches, kingdoms, glory, Have been before contemned, and may again. Therefore, to know what more thou art than man, Worth naming the Son of God by voice from Heaven, Another method I must now begin." 540 So saying, he caught him up, and, without wing Of hippogrif, bore through the air sublime, Over the wilderness and o'er the plain, Till underneath them fair Jerusalem, The Holy City, lifted high her towers, And higher yet the glorious Temple reared Her pile, far off appearing like a mount Of alablaster, topt with golden spires: There, on the highest pinnacle, he set The Son of God, and added thus in scorn:-- 550 "There stand, if thou wilt stand; to stand upright Will ask thee skill. I to thy Father's house Have brought thee, and highest placed: highest is best. Now shew thy progeny; if not to stand, Cast thyself down. Safely, if Son of God; For it is written, 'He will give command Concerning thee to his Angels; in their hands They shall uplift thee, lest at any time Thou chance to dash thy foot against a stone.'" To whom thus Jesus: "Also it is written, 560 'Tempt not the Lord thy God.'" He said, and stood; But Satan, smitten with amazement, fell. As when Earth's son, Antaeus (to compare Small things with greatest), in Irassa strove With Jove's Alcides, and, oft foiled, still rose, Receiving from his mother Earth new strength, Fresh from his fall, and fiercer grapple joined, Throttled at length in the air expired and fell, So, after many a foil, the Tempter proud, Renewing fresh assaults, amidst his pride 570 Fell whence he stood to see his victor fall; And, as that Theban monster that proposed Her riddle, and him who solved it not devoured, That once found out and solved, for grief and spite Cast herself headlong from the Ismenian steep, So, strook with dread and anguish, fell the Fiend, And to his crew, that sat consulting, brought Joyless triumphals of his hoped success, Ruin, and desperation, and dismay, Who durst so proudly tempt the Son of God. 580 So Satan fell; and straight a fiery globe Of Angels on full sail of wing flew nigh, Who on their plumy vans received Him soft From his uneasy station, and upbore, As on a floating couch, through the blithe air; Then, in a flowery valley, set him down On a green bank, and set before him spread A table of celestial food, divine Ambrosial fruits fetched from the Tree of Life, And from the Fount of Life ambrosial drink, 590 That soon refreshed him wearied, and repaired What hunger, if aught hunger, had impaired, Or thirst; and, as he fed, Angelic quires Sung heavenly anthems of his victory Over temptation and the Tempter proud:-- "True Image of the Father, whether throned In the bosom of bliss, and light of light Conceiving, or, remote from Heaven, enshrined In fleshly tabernacle and human form, Wandering the wilderness--whatever place, 600 Habit, or state, or motion, still expressing The Son of God, with Godlike force endued Against the attempter of thy Father's throne And thief of Paradise! Him long of old Thou didst debel, and down from Heaven cast With all his army; now thou hast avenged Supplanted Adam, and, by vanquishing Temptation, hast regained lost Paradise, And frustrated the conquest fraudulent. He never more henceforth will dare set foot 610 In paradise to tempt; his snares are broke. For, though that seat of earthly bliss be failed, A fairer Paradise is founded now For Adam and his chosen sons, whom thou, A Saviour, art come down to reinstall; Where they shall dwell secure, when time shall be, Of tempter and temptation without fear. But thou, Infernal Serpent! shalt not long Rule in the clouds. Like an autumnal star, Or lightning, thou shalt fall from Heaven, trod down 620 Under his feet. For proof, ere this thou feel'st Thy wound (yet not thy last and deadliest wound) By this repulse received, and hold'st in Hell No triumph; in all her gates Abaddon rues Thy bold attempt. Hereafter learn with awe To dread the Son of God. He, all unarmed, Shall chase thee, with the terror of his voice, From thy demoniac holds, possession foul-- Thee and thy legions; yelling they shall fly, And beg to hide them in a herd of swine, 630 Lest he command them down into the Deep, Bound, and to torment sent before their time. Hail, Son of the Most High, heir of both Worlds, Queller of Satan! On thy glorious work Now enter, and begin to save Mankind." Thus they the Son of God, our Saviour meek, Sung victor, and, from heavenly feast refreshed, Brought on his way with joy. He, unobserved, Home to his mother's house private returned. 
17445	----	Copyright (C) 2005 by Arthur Cropley. BEARSLAYER by Andrejs Pumpurs (1841-1902) A free translation from the unrhymed Latvian into English heroic verse by Arthur Cropley University of Hamburg Copyright (C) 2005 by Arthur Cropley TABLE OF CONTENTS Foreword Technical Notes Summary Canto 1: The Revelation of the Bearslayer Canto II: Bearslayer Begins His Life as a Hero Canto III: Bearslayer and Laimdota Are Betrayed Canto IV: The Latvians Suffer Many Hardships Canto V: The Journey to the Homeland Canto VI: The Struggle against the Invaders Glossary of Personal and Place Names FOREWORD Most societies seem to have epic heroes and events that define them as they like to see themselves: Even a young society such as Australia has Ned Kelly, Eureka Stockade, and ANZAC. Others have their Robin Hood, Siegfried, Roland, or Davy Crockett. Lacplesis (Bearslayer) is such a work. Bearslayer is patriotic, brave, strong, tough, loyal, wise, fair, and virtuous, and he loves nature. He embodies the strengths and virtues of the Latvian folk in a legendary age of greatness, before they were subjugated and corrupted by "Strangers". The poem was important in the growth of Latvian self-awareness As Jazeps Rudzitis, the eminent Latvian folklorist and literary scholar, put it, "There is no other work in Latvian literature whose story has penetrated mass consciousness as deeply or resounded as richly in literature and art as Bearslayer." Thus, it seemed worthwhile to me to make the poem available to people who wish to read it in English, and this volume is the result. It contains the fruits of two years' labour. In writing Lacplesis Andrejs Pumpurs made an enormous contribution to Latvian literature. Thus, it may seem presumptuous that I have given myself equal prominence with him on the title page. After all, he is the author of the original poem, of which the present text is merely a translation. However, the task of translating a poem is much more than that of taking the words of the source language and replacing them with equivalent words from the target language. In Latvian, in addition to tulkot (to translate), there is a second verb atdzejot, which means approximately "re-versify". As I explain in the Technical Notes (p. iii), I have transformed Pumpurs's original Latvian work into an English poem in heroic verse: The result is an atdzejojums, not "merely" a translation. The moral support I received from a number of people during the two years I worked on the translation was particularly important to me. I am especially indebted to Edgars Kariks of the Baltic Office of the Association for the Advancement of Baltic Studies, who gave constant encouragement and concrete support, and Ojars Kalnin� of the Latvian Institute in Riga, who was extremely positive and supportive from an early stage in the project. These two gave me the courage to keep going. Among others, Rita Berzin� read an early fragment and encouraged me to believe I was on the right track, and Jana Felder (née Martinson) responded enthusiastically to a presentation at a conference. Valters Nollendorfs encouraged me to trust my own feeling of what sounded right, and Guntis Smidchens showed interest in the translation from the point of view of a university teacher. I am greatly indebted to my Latvian teacher in Adelaide, Ilze Ostrovska. Without her I would never have learned enough Latvian to read the original poem. Mirdza Kate Baltais edited the first version of the manuscript and helped me eliminate a very large number of errors, as well as making numerous suggestions for improvements. It is definitely not her fault that there are still errors in the text-quite apart from certain liberties that I have allowed myself (see p.iii). My colleague in Riga, Kaspars Klavin�, read the entire manuscript and made a number of sensitive and insightful suggestions for corrections and improvements, for which I am grateful. My son, Andrew Cropley, discussed the project with me many times, and suggested the addition of a Glossary (see p.164). He also built the Bearslayer website, with which some readers will be familiar (http//:web.aanet.com.au/Bearslayer). My wife, Alison, was patient and encouraging throughout, as well as providing artwork for the cover. Adelaide, January 2006 Arthur Cropley TECHNICAL NOTES This is a free translation into English heroic verse of Lacplesis (Bearslayer) by Andrejs Pumpurs, first published in Latvian in 1888. The translation here is a corrected version of the original, which was published in 2005. Lacplesis has been translated into Estonian, Lithuanian, Polish and at least three times into Russian, as well as into Japanese! An English translation was published by Rita Berzin� in 1988. This used poetic language, but the text was unrhymed and its metre irregular. It is also very difficult to obtain. Various prose translations of fragments also exist. The present translation is in rhyme and has a strict metre. As far as I know, it is the only existing translation of the entire poem into English verse. In the interests of telling a good story in an easily understandable way I have omitted or shifted to a slightly different location an occasional line in Pumpurs's text, perhaps a dozen lines in the entire poem. I have also occasionally inserted lines that were not in the original text, again perhaps a dozen in the entire poem. My translation is also very loose in some places-an important priority for me was a poem that flowed well-and I have allowed myself some liberties. I apologize to those who are offended. I have, however, followed the sequence of events exactly as Pumpurs told them, and have retained virtually all Pumpurs's metaphors and similar poetic devices, such as the moon's rays being described as bars of silver, or mist as dripping like blood. I have tried to recapture in the English the moods suggested to me by the original Latvian: rustic joy, horror, tenderness, or despair. The translation is also free because I wanted to maintain a strict metre as well as to achieve the effect of an English epic poem. The latter goal involved using archaic-sounding words as much as possible, although I preferred words that would be familiar to educated native-speakers of contemporary English, rather than genuinely archaic words. I also employed devices such as inversion of the word order (e.g., "a hero bold") or using adjectives in the place of adverbs (e.g., "the sun set slow"). However, I avoided forms that no longer exist, such as "thou," "thy," or "doth" and the like: I believe that these now sound too artificial to modern readers' ears. Despite the liberties just described, the organization of the work follows Pumpurs's original division into six cantos of widely differing lengths. However, as aids to following the story I have given the cantos titles, divided them into "scenes", each scene beginning on a new page, and inserted intermediate headings. The scenes and headings are entirely my own invention and, to make it clear that they do not come from Pumpurs, I have put my headings into italics. Pumpurs used various stanza structures, ranging from four lines to passages of 250 or more lines without interruption. Where Pumpurs used four-, six- or eight-line stanzas, I have done the same. Later, where Pumpurs used very long stanzas, I have returned to an eight-line or four-line format, largely depending on the number of syllables in a line. I have also sometimes inserted four-line stanzas into sections otherwise consisting of eight-line stanzas, in order to mark a turning point in the action. Pumpurs also used differing metrical forms, the number of syllables in a line ranging from six to eighteen. In my translation I have used the iambus as the basic metrical unit throughout the entire poem. The most common metrical form in my translation is iambic pentameter. However, where Pumpurs used eight-syllable lines I have done the same. In such cases I have also often switched to four-line stanzas, in order to increase the "staccato" effect of the shorter lines. The original Latvian is largely unrhymed. I have translated into rhyming verse, mainly using the rhyme scheme a, b, a, b, c, d, c, d. In the six-line stanzas the rhyme scheme is a, b, a, b, a, b; in the four-line stanzas a, b, a, b. LATVIAN PROPER NOUNS With few exceptions, most noticeably Bearslayer's name (Latvian: Lacplesis) and those of the Black Knight (Latvian: Tum�ais bruninieks) and the Father of Destiny (Latvian: Liktena tevs), I have not translated personal and place names, such as "Perkons" or "Kegums", but have maintained the Latvian spelling. Thus, Laimdota remains Laimdota, not "Laima's Gift", and Koknesis is not translated into "Tree Bearer" or "Wood Carrier". This is because the original Latvian names have a heroic ring about them, whereas English translations run the risk of sounding ridiculous. Since the Latvian gods and spirits will be unfamiliar to most English speakers I have often inserted into the poem explanations of who they are (e.g., "The God of Thunder, Perkons"). NOTES ON PRONUNCIATION The poem, as I have translated it, is meant to be read aloud, although this is not essential. Because of the strict iambic metre of the translation, every second syllable must be stressed. In most places I have found English words for which this is compatible with everyday pronunciation, at least in the Australian dialect that I speak. However, it raises some problems for the pronunciation of Latvian geographical and personal names. In this poem, all such words start with a stressed syllable, as is usual in spoken Latvian. However, stressing every second syllable may offend against some readers' understanding of correct Latvian usage, I ask for forgiveness in advance. The work is, however, a poem in the English language, and the pronunciation suggested here and in the Glossary is essential for preserving the iambic metre of the English poetry. The notes on pronunciation that follow are solely for the purposes of reading this poem, and are not meant as a general guide to pronunciation of the Latvian language. The syllable represented phonetically as "-a" should be pronounced as in "bad",and "-ah" as a very long "bad". The syllable represented as "-e" should be pronounced as in "bed", "-o" as in "hot", "-oh" as in "throw", "oo" as in "zoo", "ow" as in "bough", "-u" as in "hut" and "uh" as in "book". Syllables in boldface should be stressed. (a) All untranslated proper nouns, such as personal or place names, start with a stressed syllable (e.g., Liga = Lee-gu). Where a name has more than two syllables, the first and third are stressed in order to maintain the iambic metre (e.g., Spidala = Spee-du-lu). (b) The letter "o" is a diphthong ("oo-oh" or "oh-u"). However, as a rule I have adopted a shortened diphthong, to avoid giving the single letter "o" two syllables. Thus, it is usually pronounced "wo". For example, the name of the Messenger of the Gods, "Vaidelots", is pronounced "Vy-du-lwots", "Perkons" is pronounced "Pah-kwons", and so on. Despite what has just been said, Laimdota is pronounced "Laim-dwo-tu", and "Koknesis" is pronounced "Kwok-ness-is", whereas Spidala is always pronounced "Spee-du-lu". (c) The letter combination "ie" is also a diphthong, and is pronounced "ee e". Thus, the letters "liel" (as in "Lielvarde") are pronounced "Lee-ell". (d) A final "e" is pronounced. Thus, for instance, "Lielvarde" is pronounced "Lee-ell-var-de". (e) Although it does not involve pronouncing Latvian words, "Latvia" is prononced "Lat'vya", "Latvian(s)" "Lat'vyan(s)", and "Destiny" Dest'ny". Many three-syllable words are pronounced similarly: e.g., "Daug'va" "trav'ler", etc. GLOSSARY To assist readers who are not familiar with Latvian geography and mythology, I have prepared a brief glossary of names and places (see p. 164). This includes guidance on how to pronounce the names for the purposes of the present work. SUMMARY It is the turn of the 13th century, 800 years ago in Latvia. The Baltic gods have gathered to consult the Father of Destiny about their own fate and that of the Latvian people. Both are under threat from invading German knights, who have been sent by the Pope to christianize the Baltic region, under the command of Bishop Albert. Perkons, the God of Thunder, calls on all the gods to guard and nurture the Latvians, and they promise to do so, each in his or her own way. As the council is breaking up the Goddess Staburadze reveals that she has rescued a young man from the River Daugava, where he was cast down by two witches. She has taken him to her Crystal Palace beneath the river in the whirlpool of Staburags, from which no human can emerge alive. Perkons reveals that this youth is Bearslayer, who will become a noble warrior under the protection of Perkons, and will strive mightily against the forces of evil. At the beginning of Canto II the action goes back in time to the Castle of Lielvarde, shortly before the Council of the Gods described in the previous canto. The son of the Lord of Lielvarde reveals mighty strength, killing a bear with his bare hands. This first heroic deed wins him the name "Bearslayer." (This young man is the hero that Perkons revealed to the other gods in Canto I.) The youth is not the true son of the Lord of Lielvarde, but a foundling suckled by a female bear in the forest. (Although it is not directly explained until almost the end of the poem, it is important to know that Bearslayer has bear's ears, and that if these are cut off he will lose his bearlike strength.) Bearslayer was brought to Lielvarde as a baby by Vaidelots, a Messenger of the Gods, to be raised until he reached manhood. After killing the bear he is sent to study for seven years in the Castle of Burtnieks, in order to learn the ancient wisdom of the Latvian race. Accompanied by the good advice of his foster father, he sets off. On the way to Burtnieks's Castle, Bearslayer visits the castle of the Latvian Lord Aizkrauklis, where he is stunned by the beauty of Aizkrauklis's daughter, Spidala. However, he watches her and discovers that she is a witch. He follows her by hiding in a hollow log on which she flies to the Devil's Pit, and witnesses evil rites, as well as seeing the false holy man, Kangars, promise to serve the Devil by working against the ancient gods and supporting Christianity, because Christians are easier prey for the Devil. On the journey back to Aizkraukle Bearslayer is cast down into the whirlpool of Staburags in the River Daugava by Spidala and another witch. From here he is rescued by Staburadze, as we already know from Canto I, and taken to her Crystal Palace beneath the whirlpool. With the help of the beautiful and virtuous maiden, Laimdota, Staburadze nurses Bearslayer back to health. She reveals to him that he has been chosen by the gods to fight against evil, especially Spidala and Kangars, who are plotting in secret. Staburadze gives him a talisman, a magic mirror, and Laimdota gives him a ribbon decorated with an oak-leaf pattern. He leaves the Crystal Palace and is duly turned to stone, as are all mortals, but is restored to life by Perkons. He performs a second heroic deed, saving a boat that is sinking in the raging River Perse by rowing with his bare hands, and is befriended by a powerful youth, Koknesis. Together they ride to Burtnieks, accompanied by the curses of Spidala. Canto III opens with Spidala hurrying to the hut of Kangars to warn him that Bearslayer was present in the Devil's Pit and saw the shameful deeds. To prevent Bearslayer revealing that he and Spidala are in league with the Devil, Kangars decides to lure the young hero into a trap by provoking a war against the Estonian Giant, Kalapuisis, certain that Bearslayer will rush into battle against the invincible foeman and be killed. As Kangars explains this plot to Spidala a terrible storm arises, and Spidala is unable to return home. The storm was sent by Perkons to destroy a ship just arriving at the mouth of the River Daugava from Germany, in order to kill the German missionaries it is carrying. Led by the priest, Dietrich, they have come with the intention of forcing the Baltic people to accept Christianity. However, the Livian fisher-folk of the Daugava estuary rescue the passengers from the ship. Thus, they thwart the will of Perkons, who had planned to drown the newcomers, and save the very people who will eventually become their conquerors. The morning after the storm, a fisherman brings Dietrich to Kangars, and an alliance is forged, since both want to introduce Christianity, although for differing reasons. Years pass. Bearslayer and Koknesis study hard in the Castle of Burtnieks. Bearslayer has a special reason to seek perfection: Laimdota is the daughter of Burtnieks and has returned home to the castle from Staburadze's Crystal Palace, where she and Bearslayer met. They fall in love, but just as Bearslayer is about to ask for her hand news arrives that Kalapuisis has entered Latvia and is killing and laying waste. Burtnieks offers Laimdota's hand to any warrior who can rid them of Kalapuisis, and Bearslayer rides out to face him: The plot seems to be succeeding! Bearslayer faces Kalapuisis in single combat, and defeats him. However, just as Bearslayer is about to kill him, Kalapuisis reveals a prophecy told him by his mother that a bear cub from the Daugava, who is of noble rank and equal to Kalapuisis as a warrior, will come and save the Latvians from their conquerors. The two warriors realize that Bearslayer is this bear cub, and that they have a common enemy-the Germans-and make peace, so that they can work together against the invaders. Successful in the Estonian war, Bearslayer returns to Burtnieks's Castle with the other Latvian warriors, and they are greeted in song by the local maidens. Laimdota places an oak-leaf wreath on Bearslayer's head and sings of his might, promising to make him a true and virtuous wife. Bearslayer replies in song that he will live and die for Laimdota. Amid great joy and feelings of brotherhood the warriors toast Bearslayer, and conclude that the gods personally intervened on his behalf. This divine intervention gives Bearslayer legendary status so that, instead of destroying him, the plot added to his fame. Once again, time passes while Bearslayer studies at the Castle of Burtnieks. One night he notices in the fortress's undercroft a trapdoor, left half-open to reveal a stone staircase leading below. He goes down and follows a tunnel until he enters a large chamber that he judges to be beneath the centre of the lake. He is in the Sunken Castle that Laimdota had told him about. He discovers Laimdota reading an ancient book. She explains to him that if a mortal remains in the Sunken Castle overnight and survives until morning, the castle will rise once more into the light of day. Bearslayer resolves to carry out this heroic task and Laimdota leaves him. Midnight passes and the Sunken Castle grows cold. Bearslayer lights a fire from broken wood lying around. Suddenly seven evil spirits enter the room carrying an open coffin, in which an old man with huge sharp teeth and long nails is lying. He begins to groan horribly and complain that he is cold. Bearslayer cannot bear the sound and hauls the man from the coffin to the fire, but the old man tries to bite off Bearslayer's ears, knowing that without them Bearslayer is weak. Bearslayer fights back and holds the old man in the fire, saying that he will only let him go if the Sunken Castle is raised to the surface. At this, a whirlwind springs up and the seven evil spirits return, led by Spidala. They attack Bearslayer and he is about to be defeated when he remembers the mirror that Staburadze gave him. He pulls it out and holds it in Spidala's face. A howling fills the air and all the evil spirits turn to dust and are whirled round the room in the whirlwind. The spirit of Viduveds, a wise man of ancient times, appears in human form and greets Bearslayer, saying that the young hero will save the Latvian people. Viduveds's handmaidens make a bed for Bearslayer, and he falls into a deep sleep. Next morning the people are amazed to see a castle standing on an island in the middle of the lake. Laimdota tells Burtnieks that Bearslayer has spent the night in the castle, and the old man realizes at once that Bearslayer has broken the magic spell and saved the Sunken Castle. Laimdota and Burtnieks enter the castle and wake Bearslayer. He claims Laimdota as his bride, and Burtnieks gives his blessing, saying that the union of the two clans (Burtnieks and Lielvarde) will save the Latvians. One evening, later, Laimdota reads to Bearslayer from the ancient books found in the Sunken Castle. She reads how the ancient Latvians were led to the Baltic Sea from a land far to the east by Perkons. With the favour of the gods, they settled in a valley, built a castle, and established a golden age on Earth. However, this made the Devil jealous, and he commanded a whirlwind to suck up a lake and deposit it in the valley. This was done and the valley, including the castle, was drowned. The people would have died too, but Liga, the Goddess of Song, saved them by using the music of her kokle to open up under the lake a tunnel that led them to safety. The castle is the one Bearslayer raised, and the tunnel the one he used to enter the castle. On another occasion, Laimdota reads to Bearslayer the story of the creation. In eternal space there was once nothing except a celestial light. In it lived God and a second mighty spirit-the Devil. At that time the Devil still obeyed God, although he was already growing rebellious. God decided to create the Earth and sent the Devil to fetch a handful of slime. The Devil was curious and kept a second handful for himself, hiding it in his mouth. When he brought the slime to God, God commanded the slime to form the Earth, throwing it down. The slime began to grow, and formed the level plains of the Earth. However, the slime in the Devil's mouth also obeyed God and grew until the Devil could no longer hold it in his mouth. He spat it out and it fell to the newly created Earth, forming the mountains. From His own substance God created the Sun and Moon. He was so pleased with the Earth and Sun He had just created that He also created the first living creatures: the Sons of the Gods and the Daughters of the Sun. The Moon took a gigantic Daughter of the Sun as his wife, and the stars are their thousands of children. The Sons of the Gods divided up the Earth among themselves. The Devil grew more rebellious and began to defy God. A great rivalry grew up between them, and the Devil tried in vain to outdo God, who, however, always had the upper hand. Eventually, God created humans and made them capable only of good, but the Devil interfered and gave them the power to be evil as well as good. God grew furiously angry at seeing His creation ruined, and banished the Devil to Hell. There the Devil created evil demons and with them rose up from Hell and fought against God and all good spirits. Eventually, the Devil was defeated and driven back to Hell, after Perkons intervened in the fight Later Laimdota reads from the teachings of the guardian of the Latvian race, in which he listed the tasks of worthy human beings: to seek perfection of the human race, to fight against evil by obeying the ancient teachings, to make just laws and drive out bad rulers, and to love nature. All Souls' Eve comes. The people of Burtnieks's Castle celebrate this in the traditional Latvian way. Next morning, however, Laimdota and Koknesis have vanished, and Bearslayer sets off to find them, vowing never to return unless he is successful. Meanwhile, a German ship has arrived at the mouth of the Daugava, and Dietrich and Kangars persuade the the local Latvian Lord, Kaupa, to return in it to Rome with Dietrich. Kangars stays behind, but knows that the Germans' friendship is only a trick to gain control of Latvia. The ship sails. Just then Bearslayer rides up. He knows full well that Kangars and Spidala have kidnapped Laimdota, and demands that they give her back. Spidala tells him that she is on the ship just vanishing over the horizon. Kangars says that she and Koknesis are lovers. Bearslayer does not believe this lie, although he experiences some doubts, and rides off in deep despair. Spidala gloats over his sorrow. She has her revenge, and Bearslayer's life is worse than death. Bearslayer returns to Lielvarde, his home. He is greeted warmly, but his father sees that something is wrong. Bearslayer tells him all, and his father consoles him with wise words of hope: Perhaps Laimdota loves him still and will yet be saved. Bearslayer spends his days roaming the cliffs above the Daugava brooding, and longing to go with the waters down to the sea to fight against the North Wind and meet the North Wind's Daughter. One day he vanishes, and no-one knows where he has gone. Canto IV opens with Kaupa in Rome. He is seduced by the wealth and power he sees, doubts the old gods, and decides to embrace Christianity and convert the Latvians. Back in Latvia, the people labour long building a walled city for the Germans, who are now present in large numbers-Riga. Once they have their fortress the Germans begin to plunder everything they can get their hands on, to pillage and to destroy. Full of bitterness, the Latvians realize that they have been tricked. Meanwhile, in Germany Laimdota is being held captive in a convent. Spidala had tricked her into leaving her father's castle back in Latvia by pretending to be her mother. Laimdota was then seized by Spidala's minions, brought to Riga, and placed on the ship to Germany as a prisoner. During the journey Dietrich tries to calm her and tells her that she will soon be the Bride of Christ. Laimdota replies that she loves Bearslayer, will not be forced to become anyone else's bride and is, in any case, a mortal and not fit to become the bride of Christ. Although hardened and without pangs of conscience, Dietrich blushes at her virtuous answer, and leaves her. Kaupa refuses to help her on the grounds that it is the will of Destiny that she go to Germany. Soon both Dietrich and Kaupa forget about her. The convent prioress tries to persuade Laimdota to accept Christianity and threatens to allow her to be seized by a local count and used as a concubine. To escape this fate Laimdota pretends to accept Christianity but, despite this, one night armed men break into the convent and seize her. As they are about to carry her off an unknown warrior appears and fights all the kidnappers on his own. He kills all except one, and rescues Laimdota. She recognizes him as Koknesis and they flee into the mountains. Along the way Koknesis explains how he too was tricked into going on the ship to Germany. Once in Germany, he heard that a Baltic woman was being held in the convent and decided to rescue her, without knowing that it was Laimdota. The action turns to the Northern Sea, where Bearslayer is wandering in a ship, lost on the way to Germany to seek Laimdota. The North Wind's Daughter hears the sailors calling upon her in song, and she comes to them in her own ship. She says that it would be best if they came to her island to rest, before continuing their journey, and Bearslayer agrees. They avoid the Castle of the North Wind, where he is sleeping, perhaps for another month. Once he is awake, the winter will set in and they will not be able to escape because of the ice and storms. The island is warmed by fires from the centre of the Earth, and the sailors enjoy a pleasant stay. Eventually the North Wind's Daughter tells them that her father is about to wake up and that they must leave. She warns them not to return by the route that they came by, because Bearslayer's enemies now know that he is using that route and may be too strong for him. She describes an alternative route, but warns of its great dangers, including the land of the dog-snout ogres, the Kingdom of Dreams, the Hill of Diamonds, and the Enchanted Isle. The sailors set off in the nick of time: The North Wind has woken up and they are involved in a fearsome storm, from which they barely escape. They reach the island of the Dog-Snout Ogres, where they tie up. Bearslayer goes ashore with a party of men to cut up and share the meat of some deer he has already killed. They are at work when suddenly the Dog-Snouts pour out of a cave and attack them. They tear the men apart with their teeth and even Bearslayer is scarcely able to save himself. He is wounded and seems doomed, until he notices that no more Dog-Snouts are coming out of their cave. He slips in to the cave and is able to defend himself with his spear in its narrow opening. The Dog-Snouts then bring up large boulders and block the entrance, trapping Bearslayer inside. Back at the ship the sailors wait in vain for their comrades. Their orders forbid them to go ashore and search for them. At the last moment Bearslayer appears and tells them to disembark at once. They do so, and escape the Land of the Dog-Snouts. At sea Bearslayer explains what happened. He got out of the cave by digging a hole at the rear with his spear. This took several days, but he found some raw meat in the cave, and lived on that. The Dog-Snouts were busy watching the front of the cave, and thus did not see Bearslayer as he escaped at the rear. They sail away, and reach the Kingdom of Dreams. This is where Heaven and Earth come together, the gates of Paradise standing alongside the entrance to Hell. This land is the location of the Gardens of the Sun, where the Sun returns at dusk and rests at night before setting off each morning. Under the protection of the Sons of the Gods and the Daughters of the Sun they stay in the pleasant Kingdom of Dreams for some time, but eventually set off again. They travel in pitch darkness at first, but later see a tiny glint of light, towards which they sail. They come closer and sight the Hill of Diamonds, its peak glowing brilliantly. The ship docks and the sailors rush on shore. Despite Bearslayer's warning, a sailor climbs to the peak and vanishes. A second does the same. A third ties himself to a rope and is pulled back by his comrades as he is vanishing. He is saved, but never speaks again. They sail away and encounter fair winds and weather. Fog obscures the course and they suddenly emerge close to a beautiful island. Bearslayer realizes that this is the Enchanted Isle the North Wind's Daughter warned against, from which no ship can escape. They try to sail away but are drawn to the island until the ship runs up on its shore. Canto V continues on the Enchanted Isle. There is no sign of life, except for a track leading from the forest to a bridge and, at the seaward end of the bridge, a beautiful palace. Inside is a sumptuous meal, and in a second room soft beds for all. The sailors fall upon the food and then all go to bed. Bearslayer arms himself and stands guard at the end of the bridge. At midnight a rider comes out of the forest. It is the Three-Headed Demon. He speaks aloud, revealing that he hates Bearslayer, but believes that his enemy is far away, trapped on the Northern Sea. At this Bearslayer roars that he is there. The demon challenges Bearslayer to fight and show his strength. They ride into the thick forest where the demon blows down the trees, so that they will have a clearing in which to fight: One breath clears an area three miles across! They fight and the demon's blows drive Bearslayer into the ground up to his knees. None the less, Bearslayer prevails. He then returns to the palace at the bridge and lies down to sleep. Nothing further disturbs their rest that night. The next night Bearslayer again stands guard. Again, at midnight a rider comes out of the forest. This time it is the Six-Headed Demon, who also hates Bearslayer and believes that he is lost on the Northern Sea. Again Bearslayer challenges the demon, who clears the forest by blowing down trees, this time six miles around. They fight and Bearslayer is driven into the ground to his hips, but still wins with some difficulty. The third night, before going on guard, Bearslayer tells the others that he may need their help. He places Staburadze's mirror on a table alongside a bowl of water, and tells them that if, during the night, the water turns to blood, they must bring the mirror to his aid. At midnight the Nine-Headed Demon appears at the bridge. Bearslayer and the demon fight in a clearing nine miles across, and Bearslayer is driven into the ground to his armpits. He looks in vain for help from his shipmates, and is about to be defeated. Desperate, he throws his club three miles through the window of the palace where the others are sleeping. This wakes them, they see that the water has turned to blood, and they hasten to bring Bearslayer the mirror. In the nick of time he shows the demon the mirror, and it falls down frozen. Bearslayer climbs out of the ground and kills it. To be sure that the island is safe they search it, and discover a beautiful valley in which is a well of clear water, alongside it a leafy apple tree with magnificent fruit. The men want to drink, but first Bearslayer thrusts his sword into the water, marking a triangle. There are screams and the water turns to blood, but soon clears and they drink in safety. After this, the men want to eat apples, but Bearslayer grows angry, saying that they are not there to pick fruit. He threatens to cut down the tree with his sword, but suddenly a voice from the tree begs for mercy. Bearslayer steps back in surprise and the tree turns into a beautiful young woman. To Bearslayer's horror, it is Spidala. Spidala throws herself at his feet and begs for mercy. She swears to make good all her wicked deeds, and never to do evil again. Bearslayer grants her her life - he fights demons and giants, not women! Spidala tells him that Laimdota and Koknesis are loyal and pure, and reveals how she and Kangars tricked them into going to Germany. She also reveals how the Old Witch cast a spell on the island to draw in ships. Once trapped on the island's shore the ships' crews sink into a deep sleep. This is the spell that drew Bearslayer's ship to the island, where the witch intended to trap him. The three demons were her sons. On hearing of their death the Old Witch set a trap by changing herself into the well and Spidala into the apple tree. However, when Bearslayer plunged his sword into the well he killed the witch, and thus broke the spell on Spidala. Spidala reminds Bearslayer that it is his duty to return to Latvia and drive out the marauding Germans. She yearns to help, but is trapped in a pact with the Devil. Bearslayer realizes that she is truly repentant and wants to help her. Suddenly he remembers the little package that he brought with him as a souvenir of the Devil's Pit, and orders some sailors to fetch it and give it to her. When Spidala sees it she is overjoyed: It is her contract with the Devil, and she is now free! They go to the beach, where Spidala releases the ships and sailors trapped on the shore. Suddenly, among the people released, Bearslayer sees Koknesis and Laimdota! Koknesis and Laimdota tell the story of their escape from Germany. They too were drawn on shore on the Enchanted Isle by the Old Witch, and put into a long sleep. Spidala hangs back, but Bearslayer tells the others that it was she who broke the spell on them: They thank her, and the four swear eternal friendship. Spidala shows them around the island, which she knows well, and some of the awakened people decide to live there for good. Eventually, however Bearslayer, Koknesis, Laimdota and Spidala decide to leave. The evening before they depart, Koknesis wanders back to the well in the valley. He sees Spidala burn her pact with the Devil. She asks him to keep this a secret. He agrees, but in turn tells her his secret: He loves her and wants her to marry him. She eventually agrees. The four set off back to Latvia on Bearslayer's ship, and on the way Koknesis and Spidala tell Bearslayer and Laimdota about their love. These two are overjoyed. After a long journey they sight Latvian shores, and eventually sail into the mouth of the Daugava. Canto VI opens with Midsummer's Eve in Latvia. The people are called together by the Midsummer Priests. They bring offerings for the gods and gifts for each other, and gather around fires on the Azure Mountain. They pray for blessings for the coming year, and pay respect to the spirits of their ancestors. The oldest priest calls on them to live together in harmony, and many grudges are settled with a handshake. The young men and women begin to dance together. While the young people celebrate, the Clan Chieftains meet in council on the Azure Mountain. They are concerned because the prophetic writings kept in the Sacred Grove on the mountainside predict calamity. Lielvardis arrives and reveals that the German knights have captured a number of Latvian stockades and built their own stone castles, and are imposing Christianity at the point of the sword. His own fortress, Lielvarde, has been seized. Bishop Albert is bringing more knights from Germany to take over all Latvia. At this moment Bearslayer appears, together with Koknesis, Laimdota and Spidala. Bearslayer is elected leader of the Latvian warriors. All pledge themselves to fight to free their land, and return to their homes to prepare for war. Bearslayer and Laimdota, as well as Koknesis and Spidala, are married at the Castle of Burtnieks, Laimdota's home. There is a great wedding celebration, but this is cut short by Burtnieks, who tells them that they will soon be at war. The new couples have little time for wedded bliss before the men have to set off to fight the German invaders, and Laimdota and Spidala, refusing to be separated so soon from their new hus- bands, set off with them. The Latvian host gathers and marches on Turaida. On the way, they eliminate German infestation whenever they encounter it. Alarmed by the Latvian uprising, many Germans have fled to Turaida and taken refuge in the stone castle built there by the Germans. The Latvians lay siege to the castle, and eventually are able to scale the walls at night and fight on the ramparts. A fearful battle ensues, with heavy losses on both sides. Bearslayer kills many Germans and, realizing that he is too strong for them, the Germans surrender. Among those captured is Dietrich, who is handed over to the locals for punishment. However, he tricks them into setting him free. They now march on Lielvarde, Bearslayer's home, where the German knight, Daniel, has built a stone castle. Just before they arrive, Daniel invites the chieftains of some Latvian clans that had fled into the forest to a parley. However, once he has them in a great pavilion he locks them in and sets fire to it. The elders cry for help as Daniel and his men watch in glee from the castle walls. In the nick of time Bearslayer arrives with his army. He rescues the chieftains and attacks the German castle. The Germans fight hard but are defeated, and all except Daniel are slaughtered. He is handed to the local people for punishment, and they throw him into the Daugava tied to a plank. Bearslayer re-establishes himself at Lielvarde Meanwhile, Albert has returned to Germany to recruit more knights. He leaves Kaupa in charge in Riga, to where most Germans have now retreated. All seems well for the Latvians, and Bearslayer and Laimdota settle down to married life together. The others too return to their homes, thinking to live out their lives in peace. Springtime comes, and the Latvians have little thought of war. Even Kangars is working in his garden. His life is bitter: He receives no honour from any one, any more. He knows that death will bring him the torments of Hell, while his remaining days of life are wracked with the knowledge of his own wickedness. One day Dietrich comes to him and asks him to communicate with evil spirits to discover the source of Bearslayer's strength. Kangars says that it is no concern of his that Bearslayer is killing Germans, but that he has his own reasons for wanting to destroy the young man. He wrestles with demons for three days and nights without sleep, and they reveal to him the secret of Bearslayer's strength-his bear's ears. Among the new knights brought back from Germany by Albert is the Black Knight. He is already experienced in doing wicked deeds in Germany. He claims to be the son of a witch and immune to harm from wounds. One day Kaupa takes a party of knights, including the Black Knight, to Lielvarde, and asks for admission, saying that he wishes to make peace between the Latvians and Albert. Bearslayer wants peace and the Germans are admitted. They are treated well, and Bearslayer organizes a tournament to entertain them. In the tournament, both Bearslayer and the Black Knight defeat their opponents, and the Black Knight suggests that they fight each other. Bearslayer refuses, although he does not want to insult the Black Knight. The Black Knight then says that it would hardly be a test of his strength to fight Bearslayer, any way, despite all Bearslayer's boasting. Stung by this, Bearslayer seizes his sword and the two fight. At first Bearslayer thinks that it is mere sport, but the Black Knight fights with great vigour, and suddenly cuts off one of Bearslayer's ears. Enraged, Bearslayer now attacks in earnest, and with a terrible blow of his sword splits open the Black Knight's armour and wounds him. However, his sword breaks. Seeing this, the Black Knight attacks again, and cuts off Bearslayer's other ear. Terribly angry, Bearslayer seizes the Black Knight and they wrestle together. In their fight they stumble to the very edge of the high cliffs above the River Daugava. Bearslayer's men look on, grown pale with apprehension and rooted to the spot with fear. Three times Bearslayer lifts up the Black Knight, but each time the German kicks free. Finally, Bearslayer throws him over the cliff into the river's depths, but the Black Knight drags Bearslayer with him. Weighed down by the knight's heavy armour, they sink to the bottom. At this moment the waves roar and an island rises up in the river. In the castle, Laimdota, who had had a premonition of disaster, shrieks and ends her own life. Soon, the Latvian heroes are defeated one by one by the Germans, for whom they are no match without Bearslayer. The Germans establish themselves as harsh masters, and the Latvian people are plunged into centuries of slavery. However, for them Bearslayer is not dead, but sleeps beneath the island in a golden bed. Even today, sometimes at midnight boatmen on the Daugava see two shadowy figures locked in struggle on the cliffs above the river, while in the ruins of the old castle of Lielvarde a little flame burns. The figures struggling on the cliff top are Bearslayer and the Black Knight, and the flame in the castle is Laimdota. Each time they fight the two warriors plunge together into the river. There is a terrible scream in the castle, and the flame goes out. However, the day will come when Bearslayer will defeat the Black Knight and cast him down alone into the river to drown. On that day, the Latvians will be free! BEARSLAYER CANTO I THE REVELATION OF BEARSLAYER Scene 1: The Council of the Baltic gods The gods gather In azure vaults of heaven soaring bright, In lofty castles filled with endless joy, The God of Thunder, Perkons, dwells in light, And pleasure knows whose sweetness cannot cloy. The Baltic gods in council gathered there, Of Destiny's Father tidings to debate. His will decides the hues-both dark and fair- And sets the fickle course of mortal fate. The steeds of Perkons saddled in the court, With trappings glowing waited in the morn; The sun's first rays a dazzling glitter brought, As polished harness glinted in the dawn. And Patrimps, God of Plenty, held in yokes His beeswax-yellow steeds with flowing manes; Of golden stalks his wingèd chariot's spokes- Its course ensures the timely suns and rains. Dread Pakols, God of Death, had horses black, Yoked closely to his sledge of human bones; Of ribs the runners, driver's seat and back, Shinbones as shafts, arrayed in sombre tones. While Antrimps, of the Sea, had steeds all scaled, And chariot swift of reeds of ocean green. Of shells whose beauty yet was still unpaled Its supple seat was formed, as could be seen. And Liga fair, the Goddess of sweet Song, In flower-decked chariot seated high in state, By swiftest horses queen-like drawn along, With Pu�kaitis passed through the Rainbow Gate. The Gods' proud Sons, all mounted brave and bold, On fiery steeds into the courtyard rode. Their saddles shone, their bridles gleamed with gold, With diamond bits their snorting horses glowed. Soon Austra, Morning Goddess, came in haste, And Laima too, the greatest Goddess there, While Tikla, Virtue's Goddess stern and chaste, Thence travelled fast, bedecked with roses fair. Last, drawn by prancing stallions swift and strong, Up came the beauteous Daughters of the Sun. Firm holding golden reins they dashed along; A flower-strewn course their chariots thence had run. And Destiny's Father, grizzled deathless might, Was seated high upon the Diamond Throne, With Perkons there and Patrimps on the right, While Pakols stern and Antrimps stood alone. Close, Pu�kaitis and Liga both were near, Then of the Gods the Sons, arrayed as one. With Austra, Laima, Tikla standing clear, And last, the beauteous Daughters of the Sun. Behind, a host of lesser godlings stood, Who to the Council with the rest had come, Because all Baltic spirits fair and good With earnest presence added to the sum. The grim tidings Then Destiny's Father, grizzled deathless might, Arose up lordly from his sacred throne- In godly throng yet still a noble sight, This warning message spoke in sombre tone: "To life a new eternal light was born! On Earth there walked a wondrous form sublime. A mighty spirit now was come to warn, And bless the Earth in His appointed time." "Both wise and holy, fitly men He taught That mortal folk the gods all honour owe. To seek to live like gods themselves they ought, And virtue pure with seemly goodness show. The evil ones, who deeply feared His strength, Rose up against Him in a demon pack. But Hell itself though fighting fierce at length, Yet could not stop His march nor hold Him back." "This hero rose from death upon the cross, He lived again and found surpassing fame. His fate well known will live and know no loss; In human parlance 'Christ' now is His name. Now, many peoples living on the Earth Accept His word but see not what portends; For humankind in shame denies His worth, His message twists to serve unworthy ends." "The Baltic too has reached the fateful hour When Strangers bring the faith once taught by Him- But ancient gods possess the boundless power To bend the mortal mind to suit their whim." The pledges of the gods Now Perkons rose, his strength at last to wield, And spoke: "Immortal and almighty both, Yet still the gods to Destiny's will must yield. But none the less I offer here this oath: In my strong care the Latvian folk I hold, And all good teachings here permit to stand. Though good, Christ's message clearly yet is old, For from the East these teachings reach our land." "But those who bear His message to our shores Have come to us to serve a different view. To conquer Baltic regions is their cause, To make our people slaves their purpose new. I will oppose their plan against our folk, And, surely as I split this mighty rock Or shake asunder trees of stoutest oak, This goal the Baltic folk will safely mock." "With passing time, its passage soon or late, My bolts of lightning on the foe will rain, On all who seek as slaves my people's fate And strive to crush our spirits for their gain.- But when the springtime comes with climate fair, To Latvia's folk sweet showers I will send, By day will give them clean refreshing air, And to the darkness sparks of light will lend." "To them in nature I will stay close by; My voice of thunder in the sky will ring. Of Perkons strong the name will never die; The Latvian folk will ever of it sing. I wish here now you other gods, apace, Will follow close upon my guiding will, And each one swear, at proper time and place, For humankind a promise to fulfil." Now Patrimps, speaking, rose and left his seat: "The Baltic is a fruitful, fertile land; I give its people golden ears of wheat, That, richly growing, ripen where they stand. The Latvians here from fecund Baltic fields Will gather in a harvest full and rich.- But foreign ploughs and sickles seeking yields Their blades will break upon the rock-strewn ditch." Then Antrimps spoke and gave this message sage: "The Baltic waters boil and heaving swirl, The winter winds in endless anger rage, And round great rocks the currents lashing whirl, And ships of foreign foes dash on the crag. The Baltic Sea will smash them as I please, Until the Baltic people's noble flag Throughout the world will wave upon all seas." Then, adding more, grim Pakols sternly spoke: "Brave Baltic souls will soar to Heaven's space, A joyous home for Latvia's gallant folk. But Hell for Strangers is the proper place- Beneath the Northern Lights, though fighting still, Their craven hearts will tremble with my fear. But I will show accordance with your will, And bless the souls of Latvia's children dear." Liga's gift of song Soon all the gods, in proper order each, Had sworn an oath to Perkons in his might. Now Liga rose, to all her view to teach, And spoke as follows in the Council's sight: "I truly count myself as near the least, Among the gods who love the Baltic race. But in my name the Latvian people feast, For Destiny gives to me a favoured place." "In Latvians all through long eternal time, Will never die the spirit of sweet song; They will endure in every age and clime, Their spirits sing through joy and sorrow long. Of Liga here the name will stay alive, Eternal in the people's joyous rhyme. The ancient gods will surely still survive, Who otherwise would fade with passing time." "You Perkons, Laima too, and all the rest, Will live on, known forever in your fame. The Baltic people will at my behest Sing songs heroic that preserve your name. Throughout the future, song will bring them cheer, And give them lightened spirit that, once more, They take up arms to serve their homeland dear, And for the cause of freedom go to war." Scene 2: Bearslayer's destiny is revealed by Perkons Staburadze tells of a wonder These vows the Council brought now to its close- Their homeward paths the gods departing sought. When Staburadze last of all arose, And with these words portentous tidings brought: "I came this day straight from my palace home, With eager news of what my eyes there saw. It happened in the seething waters' foam, The raging vortex of the maelstrom's maw." "I sat aloft and spun the mists of night, On Staburags's crag enthroned on high. The shuttle filled and in the morning's light, At cock's first crow the blushing dawn was nigh. Then came two witches riding in the air, Lit by the sun they flew in dawn's pale gleam; On oaken branches twisted, gnarled and bare, Across the Daugava sped above the stream." "And down into the pool a staff they cast, One of the two they through the heavens rode. Then on the other homeward sped off fast, To seek again their dread and drear abode.- To learn the reason for this secret deed, To look into the whirlpool's depths and see, I flew down straight, and took of all good heed, And drew the whirling branch secure to me." "Then what strange sight before my eyes took form! A handsome youth revealed in morning's grey, Who lay within the log, his skin still warm, Though swooning in a deathly faint he lay. Forth from the log I drew the gasping lad, And bore him to my home beneath the swells, Within its crystal halls now warmly clad, I laid him down upon a bed of shells." "When signs of life with surging joy I saw, To tell of this I hastened hence to you; To learn great God of Thunder of your law, To know your will and seek your further view. For humankind within the maelstrom's jaws Must lie for ever, turned to lifeless stone. Our Staburags, augmented without pause, Has by such plunder ever vaster grown." "This youngster now I do desire to take To dwell with me inside my castle gate. For if he venture from the sacred lake, To turn at once to stone will be his fate. But in my Crystal Palace he can bide, In human form the bloom of youth to see, There, raised to safety from the river's tide, To live his life in harmony with me." Stern Tikla chaste, with strict words ever rife, Spoke thus, fair Staburadze to berate: "Perhaps to have eternal godly life Our sister now does judge a tedious fate. She does not wish so long alone to mourn And wash the cliff with flood of bitter tears. She wants the youth of human parents born, And with him yearns to spend the passing years." Though Staburadze blushed at Tikla's word, She did not yield nor shrink back from the blow. "You err, stern Tikla, make a charge absurd. The circumstances clear and plainly show, The youth is not a normal mortal man. I want to keep this lad with me alive, That, chosen by the gods, his life's whole span He will against the powers of darkness strive." Perkons reveals his purpose At last wise Laima uttered up her view: "To me its plan the future must reveal. Thus, I will look to see what it will do: His lot from me the fates may not conceal." "Women, enough! Yield place! Be silent all," The Thunder God in raging anger cried. "This youth is chosen not to heed your call, But serves the goals of my surpassing pride. The witches down into the whirlpool cast Bearslayer, son of Lielvarde's Lord; You, Staburadze, wisely hastened fast; You rescued him and this must all applaud!" "Depart at once back to your Crystal Throne, And take him in and give him seemly care, That this fair lad may not be turned to stone, But mend apace and flourish with you there. You Laima too will care for this young man, And guide him rightly, so that soon or late, His life will follow and fulfil my plan, To serve the gods and meet a hero's fate." To close the Council now the time was right; The Baltic gods in pomp departed all. Will Destiny's father, grizzled, deathless might, Again such sacred wisdom ever call? CANTO II BEARSLAYER BEGINS HIS LIFE AS A HERO Scene 1: The first heroic deed The slaying of the bear Since ancient times, in fruitful Baltic lands, Where flows the Daugava in its winding bed, And in the fields the barley ripening stands, A life of joy the Latvians all have led.- Upon the bank once stood by Kegums town, Of Lielvarde's Lord the famous halls. There yet today a cataract pours down, And through the cliffs into the river falls. Where springtime's spirit kind on nature smiled, A wonder came on its appointed day: The land was waking fast from winter mild, And cheerful folk their labours deemed but play, While tones of youths and maidens blushing coy Mixed with the song of birds to greet the morn. All felt within them nature's perfect joy, In ancient times to blissful freedom born. The Lielvarde Lord strolled in the field, Together with his son, a lad full fair; But eighteen youthful summers was the yield, The span of time that graced the Lord's young heir. The old man ever sought his son to show In nature how the Godhead close by stands, And in its rhythms mighty powers flow, In heavens, waters, forests, and the lands. Conversing thus, unmarked their path they found Into the shadows at the forest's verge; The old man sat to rest upon the ground, Beneath the oaks where woods and meadow merge. When all at once, with angry gnashing jaws, A savage bear from out the forest ran. To save himself the old man had no pause- His life's last breath due in a moment's span. The young man turned in haste with swiftness rare; He seized the creature by its gaping jaw, With mighty strength he tore apart the bear- A baby goat had troubled him no more. When thus his son revealed such godlike power, The old man trembling uttered up this view: "You are the chosen hero, shown this hour, As prophesied in ancient times for you." Bearslayer's origins are revealed "Full eighteen years ago, this very day, A little boat ran up upon the land, And from it stepped a sage both old and grey, Who held secure an infant in his hand. Though agéd, still with youthful step he strode, My task in Fate's great purpose soon laid bare:- To take this sturdy boy to my abode, And raise him, teach and train him as my heir." "This sage was Vaidelots, sent by the gods, To tell how, deep within the forest wild, A human babe was found against all odds, And that a she-bear's milk sustained the child.- For him, as told, it is the gods' firm will, To be a hero and to strive for right; His name with fear the wicked heart will fill, And evil-doers, trembling, put to flight." "'There in the West,' his further wisdom said, 'Against the God of Thunder risen stands A fearsome herd of raging monsters dread, Whose cross-shaped horns rip at the eastern lands. The gods will fight, and they will live on all, But from our people freedom will be lost. Our famous heroes struggling brave will fall, Against the foreign foe will pay the cost.'" "'I Vaidelots a lengthy life have had, In Romove's sacred grove of oak; A thousand joyful messages, or sad, I brought to chieftains or to lesser folk. This is the worst, this news I bring, Make known to you, oh Lielvarde's Lord, More difficult for me no other thing, That is a part within my life's rich hoard.'" "'Yet do not grieve, oh countryman, but know: Remembering the deeds of men of yore, As ages pass the people's strength will grow, And battles won will free our race once more. Though Destiny now not even lets me see, How long the yoke that on our people falls.- Behold, the fading sunlight summons me, The golden Baltic sun my farewell calls!'" "Wise Vaidelots now ceased, his message brought, And in his boat he hastened to depart. Upon the bank I stood in deepest thought, The herald's passage marked with heavy heart. The Daugava now, in Kegums rapids' spray, Tossed hard the little boat upon the stream. A fading light came from the sun's last ray, The herald's boat fast faded in its gleam."- "The years since then are gone in time's long span, While Destiny's will I solemnly bore through. The gift of Vaidelots is grown to man, You are that sturdy boy; the child was you! From this day forth, in honour of your deed, 'Bearslayer' is your name, most surely meet. You saved your father in the hour of need; The world has seen your first heroic feat." Scene 2: Bearslayer is sent out into the world He is given the task of learning "I give you now a colt with saddle fine, Trim steed and sword of heavy metal true, A spear, a shield and silver spurs once mine, And headdress trimmed with fur of martens too. Upon the morrow you will haste away To Burtnieks's famous castle gate, Where dwells my friend of happy boyhood day- In Burtnieks's Castle lies your fate." "Both greet and hail, and tell him you aspire To learn in famous Burtnieks's school, Sent by your father knowledge to acquire, Where virtue true and cunning wisdom rule. Old Burtnieks will take you as a friend, And in his ancient castle clear will show The chests where sacred tomes the ages spend, That secrets deep of Destiny's purpose know." "These sacred books our lofty morals teach, And tell about the history of our land, Explain the gods, and faith and duty preach, And sing about the Latvian hero band. Of all this sacred knowledge, and much more, There learn as seven seasons passing go; How heroes bold acquit themselves in war, When they in battle strive against the foe." He departs from Lielvarde Next morning, fitted richly as a lord, Bearslayer stood at Lielvarde's gate. He buckled on his massive trusty sword, Took up his spear and shield and felt their weight. He placed his fur-trimmed cap upon his head And, standing there before his father dear, Made sad farewell, although no tear was shed.- Though brief and stern, the parting was sincere. The old man spoke of Lielvarde's fame: "Our ancient clan throughout the folk is known; No shameful stain attaches to our name, Our fathers past their heroes' worth have shown. And you, my son Bearslayer, at your birth, By Destiny's will were marked for honour too; If you pursue his plan and show your worth, The gods will guard you well and cherish you." "The world's seductions young men's minds soon reach, While youths, unwitting, oft themselves deceive, So hasten not to do what others teach, But let them seek your counsel to receive. To recognize the truth is passing rare, To speak it plain unvarnished harder still; In life who learns true witness brave to bear Becomes attuned to virtue's righteous will." "Maintain in struggles stout your people's way, Your grandsires' teachings always give respect; And never heed what hypocrites may say, Who urge you freedom's spirit to neglect. Such people for themselves good fortune seek, In finding victims God's name oft employ, But later with the Devil's poison reek; They serve but evil and-at length-destroy." "The Latvian people on their own fair shore Do not bow down to lords high-born as sage; They choose themselves their chiefs in time of war- The magistrates in older, peaceful age. The people know of those who earned great fame By toiling hard in mighty labours long; To these come lasting praise and honoured name, As heroes known they live in endless song." With earnest soul Bearslayer heard his lord, The heartfelt words of life's wise teachings large. Into his breast an urgent feeling poured, The wish that he fulfil his father's charge. And so he promised to observe all that, Embraced his father, pressed his hand so stout, Then leaped into his saddle, doffed his hat, And, raising shield and lance, rode boldly out. Scene 3: Bearslayer meets Spidala at Aizkraukle He arrives at the castle Within the castle, watching from his chair, Sat old Aizkrauklis wrapped in thought profound. His only daughter, Spidala the fair, Sat at the pane with beads and rings decked round. Her face possessed a haunting beauty rare, But yet her eyes showed wildness without bound. And so that tender spell she did not weave, That gently draws and steals the young man's heart; Her ardent eyes too swiftly could deceive- To gaze into them risked a burning dart. "Oh, Spidala," her father sought her leave, And slowly raised his head in thoughtful art: "I wish to know an answer still this morn: Whence come those finest jewels that, preening vain, You wear your neck and hands thus to adorn?"- That Spidala then started he saw plain, The question shocked her that his voice had borne, Yet in a trice her answer came again: "Godmother gave to me these jewels to own, When last into our village she came here; In golden caskets more I have been shown." The old man spoke: "Alas my daughter dear, Such gifts to take I cannot more condone, And in the future must forbid, I fear." "She is a witch, and in the people's view, A fearsome dragon shelters in her care; She feeds it on the flesh of humans too. The dragon brings her jewels and objects rare, Dark evil things, and so I say to you, A pious girl her gifts should never wear." Now Spidala, to hide her blushing face, Looked out into the courtyard, near too late, And spoke as though his words she gave no grace: "A visitor is hither come in state. Look where a youthful knight has reached this place, And down below will pass in through the gate!"- The Castle of Aizkraukle lonely stands, Far distant from the Daugava's verdant bounds, And in the forest roam wild bears in bands, While in the night the howl of wolves loud sounds. Uncertain paths lead through these risky lands, And strangers seldom reach the castle's grounds. Thus Spidala with wonder took good heed, To see what rider thence the path had brought, Who rode into the castle on his steed.- Aizkrauklis too from out the window sought To test of him his measure and his breed, As young Bearslayer reined within the court. He bowed towards the window, then, polite, He said his path to Burtnieks must run, His neighbour's care he sought thus for the night.- Aizkrauklis hurried out, his friendship won, And warmly told his pleasure at the sight Of famous Lielvarde's mighty son. Bearslayer falls under Spidala's spell The handsome youth dismounted lithely then; A stable lad swift to his stirrup ran. He pressed the old man's hand once and again, And entered straight the castle's lofty span.- But soon as Spidala approached the men, Within his bones a shivering cold began. Such beauty in his life had had no peer!- The deep, dark eyes of Spidala grew wide, And in their depths enchanted flame burned clear. With outstretched hand a greeting warm she cried: "A stately knight so bold is welcome here. A future hero's presence swells our pride." His tongue struck dumb, Bearslayer found no word.- Of jewelled beauty fit to conquer men, In his short life he had not seen nor heard.- No answer came, so Spidala turned then, With gliding litheness serpentlike she stirred, And deeply gazed into his eyes again. Her body moved with strangely supple grace, So lithe it made the young man's senses swim. But then Aizkrauklis sent the girl apace To make at once and serve a feast for him.- So soon her sensuous beauty left the place, Bearslayer's mind returned to matters grim. When later fitting words he found at last, Then Spidala made answer in fair guise; The frightful swooning moment now was past.- The young man, heeding wisdom's counsel wise, Firm armed himself, though piercing looks flew fast, That burning shot from Spidala's dark eyes. The night drew on; the fleeting time soon went, And Spidala, uneasy at the hour, Soon said she felt within her limbs the bent Before the midnight's chime to seek her bower. And if Bearslayer too were weary spent, To bed she would direct him, in the tower. The young man went, by Spidala struck deep, But by Aizkrauklis with "Rest well," consoled. She led the youth across the castle's keep, Into a jewelled bedroom hung with gold. "This night in godlike comfort you will sleep," She smiling said, "Bearslayer, hero bold." Bearslayer gazed with wonder at the sight: As soft and fine as drifted snow the bed, With purple covers decked, and sheets of white, And trimmed all round with ribbons of blood red. Sweet-smelling breezes wafted through the night, And like enchantments circled round his head. He stared at Spidala's lush beauty rare, Bewitching charms that drew his yearning praise. Forgetting straight all caution's wisdom there, The young man dared his arms to her to raise. At once a shadow dark flew through the air, And Spidala straight vanished from his gaze.- The midnight sky a host of stars had brought; From heaven shone the moonlight's ghostly glow, That in the valley bars of silver wrought. Within his room the youth, with spirit low, Threw back his shutter, gazed out on the court, And heavy air breathed sadly, deep and slow. Once more it seemed to him that in the air Dark shadows high across the moon flew hence. Perhaps foul witches from the Devil's lair To blackest work flew out, he knew not whence. At once Bearslayer firm resolved to dare, And seek how Spidala had gone from thence. Spidala is revealed as a witch Next morning soon the youth made this request: It pleased him in the castle there so well, He wished to stay a few short days as guest, There in his neighbour's pleasant halls to dwell. Aizkrauklis straight agreed that he should rest, With pleasure felt his heart begin to swell. As night there deepened, Spidala soon said: "Our guest the castle's passages now knows, And when he wants can go alone to bed." She left the room and wished them sweet repose! To follow her Bearslayer then was led, And full of purpose from the table rose. But afterwards he crept back down below, Outside within the courtyard dark to wait, From whence his watching eyes could clearly show Who through the doorway passed in darkness late.- At midnight hour the portal opened slow, And Spidala came out with silent gait. Her body clad in clothing deepest black; Her feet with golden shoes were firmly bound; Her hair hung loosened free around her back; Her eyebrows arched, her gaze was to the ground. Her eyes he saw, where burning did not lack, Her hand gripped tight a magic staff around. A twisted log lay at the courtyard's rim, And Spidala climbed up upon it high. She spoke a spell and three times struck the limb, Firm with her staff she smote its surface dry. And, answering the hissing witch's whim, At once the log rose up into the sky. Long stood Bearslayer at the courtyard's verge, For Spidala's return he looked in vain; To seek her out he felt a mighty urge, To see the Devil with the witch in train. But such a task beyond his strength would surge, And so he went back to his room again. By morning's light within the courtyard still, He saw the log back in its former place; And looking close he saw with firming will, Within the log an empty hollow space, A space a man could crawl in and not fill.- At once a purpose formed for him apace. Next evening Spidala set off to bed. Bearslayer swiftly hastened to his room; He put his cap of marten on his head, With sword in hand sought out the courtyard's gloom, And, watching out for Spidala's light tread, Concealed himself within the log's dark womb. Again at midnight hour she left her cell, And in her garments black her body dressed. Astride the log she spoke a magic spell, Struck with her staff, and then at her behest, The branch bore both to where he could not tell, Above Aizkraukle's forests on her quest. Scene 4: In the Devil's Pit The Devil digs the pit At time's beginning, so is often told, To birds and beasts gave Perkons stern commands, To dig the Daugava, come from nature's fold, To gnaw, to scratch, to peck in toiling bands. Alone the peacock sat and did not work.- The Devil, passing by, then asked the bird: "Where is the place the other creatures lurk?" "They dig for Perkons," answer then he heard. "But why," he asked, "do you not labour too?" "To save my yellow feet," the peacock said! Then to the river bird and Devil flew, And dug a chasm in the torrent's bed, Which down into this pit poured straight away.- From fear all creatures lost the power of speech; They all commenced to run and jump and bray, And each one found a voice with which to screech. The bears roared fierce, the wolves and dogs all howled, The pigs made grunts, the oxen lowed unmuted, The horses neighed, the strident cats all yowled, The blackbirds shrieked, the owls all harshly hooted. The cuckoos called, the hornets made a hum, The little birds sang loudly all around!- The noise rose up, a riot of such sum, That, high in Heaven, Perkons heard the sound. He soon grew angry with the Devil's wit, Cast lightning down and blocked the water's track; A hill with high steep slopes enclosed the pit- Since then the peacock's golden feet are black! Today the people all avoid this place. Should travellers in the night risk passing still, Their eyes behold foul spirits in the space, That now is called the "Devil's Dark Pit Hill." They enter the pit Straight Spidala swooped down to this dread place, Across the starlit sky flown swiftly thence. Bearslayer crouched within the log's dark space, And struggled for his breath with swooning sense. Fierce fork-tailed dragons coiled around them there, With gold and treasure flying through the night, And breathed their fiery sparks into the air, While other witches joined them in the height. If but a movement caught the witches' view, To save his life no mercy would be found.- Down to the Devil's Pit the witches flew, And planted each her staff into the ground. A dozen staffs stood upright by the hill, Twelve witches entered in the Devil's Pit. Soon bold Bearslayer had regained his will, And entered too the cavern through a slit. Within the pit a thick deep darkness reigned, And round his head bats fluttered in the gloom; Until at length a glimpse of light he gained, And, going further, saw a lofty room. All kinds of things inside were found in store, Too many far the name for each to learn: With skulls and bones, and teeth and pelt and claw, With mounted heads and antlers all in turn. Round ladles, cauldrons, wooden bowls and pots, And dippers, wicker baskets, mortars, urns, Great hammers, pitchforks, rakes, in heaping lots, Cartwheels, old whetstones, broomsticks scorched with burns, Black books and parchments that all good defiled. A corner dim held plants and dried-up grass; On shelves stood boxes next to baskets piled, With herbs and potions stored in jars of glass. Upon the hearth a sullen fire dull burned, And in its light the walls unpleasant glowed; Hung from a crooked hook a cauldron churned. The fire's pale gleams foul toads and black cats showed, While in the corners snakes writhed round the room, And through the smoke flew bats and jet-black owls.- Bearslayer started, hidden in the gloom, When all at once the creatures all made howls! They hissed, and croaked, they whistled, such a roar! And soon a crone, a witch all old and bowed, Into the chamber entered through a door, Who, since the room seemed empty, called aloud: "What foul ill wind has brought base spirits here? When clear is known that all who tread this place A broken neck and dreadful fate must fear!" These words the creatures silenced in a trace. The witch then took a ladle in her hand, And going to the cauldron thrust it in: "The time has come to supper to command. The meat is cooked. The meal can now begin." And thrice upon the cauldron's side she beat. The twelve came in, a place for each reserved, Their portion was a sausage and some meat.- Bearslayer thought that suckling pig was served. A door into a second chamber led; This room held but a chopping block alone. The walls and ceilings like the floor were red, And on the block a blood-red axe was thrown. The room was starkly empty but for this. And further yet there led another door.- Into this open chamber, without miss, The witches went with bowls of meat, he saw. Horrors are revealed Bearslayer followed silently behind, And through the door he saw a chamber bright, With pallid chairs and tables it was lined, And all the walls were of a colour light. Two stoves of like pale colour at one side, One glowed with coals, and one held beans of white. The witches at their meal he here espied; Who ate in deathly silence every bite. Again, a door a lofty room clear showed, Where vaulted ceilings stood on pillars tall, And all the room with golden colour glowed; Inside the room he saw twelve beds in all.- The sated witches each removed her dish, Cleared up the table, swept the bones from view. "Into the kitchen," was the old one's wish, "And sharpened sight my spells will give to you." "Your suitors soon will come hence to this place, And all the brides should thus themselves prepare." On hearing this, the youth went back apace, Hid in the kitchen, in the corner there.- The old one took a pot of powder then, And brushed it in their eyes with touches light. Then afterwards they all went out again; Their eyes, enchanted, now were glowing bright. Bearslayer sought for Spidala at last, But still her form he could not recognize. The pot of powder he had noted fast, And with its contents smeared himself his eyes.- It was as though a veil fell from his sight, And now he saw unblinded, without whims: Still in the cauldron, from the meal that night, There lay the scraps of little children's limbs! And where he thought a sausage to have seen, Were foul black snakes, boiled squirming in their gore. In that red chamber, where he first had been, Of copper pure were ceiling, walls and floor. And on the block the axe was copper too, Although its use he did not understand.- Of silver pure the second room on view, Both chairs and tables, lanterns, all at hand. What seemed like stoves were silver chests, he saw, In one gold jewels, the other precious pearls. Still further, gazing through the final door, He saw the ceiling glittered gold in swirls, Of gold the beds between the pillars tall.- Back in the silver room the robes they bore, As in a bath-house, down each witch let fall; Just golden slippers on their feet they wore. From cupboards now the old one gave the girls Bejewelled broaches, bracelets for their arms, And dressed their hair with softly shining pearls. A wonder to the youth, for with her charms Now Spidala among the witches too, Revealed herself in all her beauty there. Fair were the witches: To his wondering view, They all possessed a devilish beauty rare. Thus fine adorned they took their robes in hand And to the copper chamber hastened fast, Where round the log they gathered in a band, While Spidala her robe upon it cast. Then, taking up the axe she struck it there, And spoke these words aloud in hissing tone: "Today as first I strike the block full square- Tomorrow to this deed I will not own." Forth from the log a demon's form was led, Clad as a lord, whom Spidala took hence, They sought the golden room, and chose a bed. The others did the same, and soon from thence With lovers to the other room were gone. Each lordling wore a coat of velvet black, Three-cornered hat and boots that brightly shone, But from their ears small horns grew in the back. Kangars promises to serve the Devil The old one struck the log, now left alone, And boldly said: "Today I strike as last- Tomorrow to this deed I will not own." At this, with howling, Lucifer came fast. The greatest chief of witch and devil too, A cap of human fingernails he wore. "Is all prepared?" he sought the old one's view. "All ready, Lord," the crone then answered sure. Then Lucifer struck hard with action bold, And in a trice the chamber filled with flame That turned the log into a carriage gold, The axe a dragon harnessed to the same. The two then rode together through the door, And sought the golden chamber, in which spot The dragon lay and rested on the floor, And from its mouth both smoke and flame forth shot. The younger witches, summoned by the sound, All greeted Lucifer in prancing pack; They entered then the kitchen at a bound, Seized pitchforks in their hands, and hastened back, The pitchforks heated in the dragon's throat, And then all made a ring around the coach. The old witch stood and with her staff firm smote And cried "Come forth!" in tones of sour reproach. At this, at once a wall burst open wide, And hairy demons forth a man now brought, Who, deathly pale, was led in at their side; The witches formed a ring to seek their sport.- On seeing him, Bearslayer too knew fear; It was the famous holy man and good, As Kangars known, a hermit who lived near, Up on the hills, within a mighty wood. With monstrous voice foul Lucifer then swore: "Oh sinner, know your course is run this day; Your wage receive now in the dragon's maw- The pitchforks of the witches show the way." But Kangars, prone, made pleadings to implore: "Prolong, oh Lord, my life a tiny span, And I will truly serve your will once more."- A moment's thought and Lucifer began: "In vain your begging, but my urgent plight Could save your life and further time ensure: The faith of Perkons yields a harvest light, A daunting task, their souls to us to lure." "A gift of fortune that to Baltic lands A foreign force is coming from the west, That seeks to seize the Baltic in its hands. To plant an alien faith-this is their quest. I too desire to see that faith sown free, Because its growth will yield a harvest sure, For many priests already cleave to me, The bearers of the faith, whom all think pure." "This task I give you: Help that faith to come, And spread it wide upon the Baltic shore. Of years I give you three times nine in sum! So swear, oh traitor, on this dragon's maw, The faith of Perkons wholly to eschew, And be a traitor, with the folk at odds. You must destroy the heroes tried and true, And bring in priests who serve strange foreign gods." "Go urge the people Strangers to obey, And burn and slaughter all who would oppose. Your final goal: That slavery hold sway. Do thus, and live until the day I chose." False Kangars echoed all with solemn vow: To Lucifer he gave his yielding praise, And made an oath unbreakable, and now All looked at Kangars with a kindly gaze. Here Lucifer announced the night at end. Together with the witches he strode sure, Into the copper room his way to wend. The ancient witch the black-clad lovers bore Out to the field, then sank into the ground. Down to the earth the bowing witches bent; In surging sulphur flames forth at a bound, Vile Lucifer with thunderous roaring went. Bearslayer is discovered Bearslayer left his hiding place to go, And, passing through the rooms, he took with him A document he saw, as proof to show His presence there to witness evil grim. Although his fear grew less in starlit light, Regret and bitter feelings seized his heart.- Within the log once more he hid from sight, While Spidala to journey home made start. And as they flew, the crone her news revealed: "Bearslayer saw our feast this night," she said, "And watched your lovers, in the room concealed."- Straight Spidala grew pale and then turned red. In her impassioned heart love's traces died, And wicked hatred in her breast hard smote. "Why did you not say sooner? Then his pride Had ended in the dragon's fiery throat!" "Our master chose not thus to interfere, Because Bearslayer's life will soon be done. He hopes your log will bring him home from here- Instead your course to Staburags will run, With Sereniete thence flying fast. Through magic's spell then on her log escape, Your own into the whirlpool downward cast, From whence comes forth no-one of human shape." Scene 5: Bearslayer in Staburadze's Palace Bearslayer meets Laimdota Divinely worshipped Staburadze fair, With jewelled adornments on her robes decked round But with a weight of sorrow and deep care, From Destiny's Council home her path had found. Upon the Daugava's bank she bitter weeps, For Latvia mourns, the land she loves so well, That Staburags's might eternal sleeps, And lonely she with mortal folk must dwell. When future ages come, will she still weep And mourn the Baltic people's bitter lot, When from the very people she loves deep Their ancient fame has passed and been forgot?- But where our grandsires' faith still holds firm sway, She plays a part in life that never stops: On freezing morn she melts the frost away, And saves from harm the ploughman's tender crops. She warns the boatmen at the midnight moon, Lest they should fall into the whirlpool's grip. To shepherds and to travellers at the noon, She gives from bubbling springs a cooling sip. Since time began, one task she loves of all: She seeks chaste maids born on propitious days, And gives them shelter in her palace hall. She guards their virtue with her wisdom's ways, And teaches them, gives gifts, and clothes to wear.- Good fortune stands upon the mother's side, Into whose hearth there comes, surpassing fair, From "Staburadze's maidens" now a bride. Bearslayer's senses woke apace: He lay in Staburadze's bed, And gazed in wonder round the place, And pondered whence his path had led. To him the bed seemed soft to sway, As though it rocked on gentle tides. The crystal walls revealed the day, As blue-tinged light passed through their sides. The room was rich with objects rare, A host of gold and silver bright; In pristine state each treasure there. Their beauty was a wondrous sight. Remembering, Bearslayer lay, And thought how with a witch he flew; When through the opening door's display A beauteous damsel came in view. Her face and form were sweet to sight, That at a glance was plain to see. Like silver moonbeams in the night, Adorned with poppies, thus was she. Her dark blue eyes at his first look, Seemed gentle as the dawn's soft light; But when a closer glance he took, Their whirling depths now met his sight. Her clothing's folds of pale sky-blue, Close to her body brushing clung. Her glowing hair fell freely too; Down to her knees in locks it hung. On seeing her, Bearslayer thought A goddess now was in the room. To stand and greet her straight he sought, To thank his saviour from the tomb. But this the maid would not allow, And said his strength was sure to lack. So harsh his fate had been, and now His body's strength was not yet back. "Oh heavenly being, tell me true: What place is this? Where am I now? I beg you, tell me, who are you? To pay you honour, this I vow" "Of 'Staburadze's maidens' I, Her Crystal Palace home this here; Cast in the whirlpool down to die, She rescued you and brought you clear." Bearslayer knew a joy profound That seemed to fill his breast and mind: The maiden's charm now knew no bound, For she was born of humankind. She brought in food for him to eat: She gave to him both milk and bread, A fitting meal with honey sweet, Then from the room departing sped. Bearslayer recovers and leaves Staburags Time passed until one day, again, He woke and donned his clothes aright. The door soon opened wide and then, Fair Staburadze came in sight. Politely then she bade him tell, If rest had brought his strength of yore. Bearslayer bowed and thanked her well, And then a fervent wish he swore: He yearned to stay within her court There with the goddess long to dwell. A secret look her eyes then brought, On hearing what he had to tell. "We will, perhaps, meet as you ask; Eternity were not then long. But first you have the gods' stern task, A lifetime charge to right the wrong." "To strive in virtue's noble cause, To serve your homeland and your folk, To seek for fame without a pause, To free their breast from sorrow's yoke." With joy Bearslayer's eyes then glowed. He spoke with youthful courage grand: "I thank the gods for having showed This way to serve my Fatherland." "New strength I have, all to perform, Since I have seen now, face to face, The heavenly Staburadze's form, Most beautiful of female race." "Unswerving goals to me impart, And guide my aim as targets near." "I grant you both with all my heart," Said Staburadze smiling clear. "Heroic youth, harsh is your lot: To fight these foes of false renown. The hidden ones dark secrets plot: Strike Spidala and Kangars down." "This little mirror with you take, To keep and hold, a sign of me. When evil ones grave danger make, Quick hold it up for them to see." "Their power will fail at your behest, When they the face of Perkons view!" And Staburadze, from a chest, As gift for him a mirror drew. She gave it, but a warning brought, To keep it and to guard it true. Bearslayer thanked her, but more sought: A keepsake from the maiden too. The maiden blushed and then her hand A ribbon loosened from her hair, His cap adorned then with this band, And, glancing shyly, spoke out fair: "Although of gifts I have no store, My talisman I grant this day; In kinship now I greet you sure, And wish good fortune on your way." Bearslayer, touched, no words could find To thank the maiden with full truth. Then Staburadze spoke her mind: "Now hasten forth, heroic youth." "The cliff-top path I now will show, Out through the Crystal Palace gate. This maiden as Laimdota know, To meet again will be your fate." "With acorn pattern in its weave, She gave a ribbon from her hair, Perhaps to that more wonders cleave, Than to my mirror that you bear." Bearslayer at the door turned slow, Regarding then Laimdota keen. It seemed that in her eyes' deep glow, Unbidden tears were plainly seen.- For further thought it was too late, His consciousness from him had flown. He fell down at the castle gate, And on the ground lay turned to stone. Scene 6: Bearslayer is returned to the world Perkons restores Bearslayer to life The sun's first light already glowed; Upon the Daugava's banks it lay. The sky was clear and plainly showed Fair weather for the coming day. But yet one cloud now took its course, That higher climbed above the land; And at its front, upon a horse, An old man rode, with whip in hand. He let run loose the prancing grey, To Staburags's cliff it dashed; His whip he cracked and straight away Great bolts of lightning brightly flashed. Vast thunderclaps in deep tones rumbled, And Staburags shook to its core, Along the cliff the boulders crumbled:- Bearslayer stood, alive once more! He found it hard, clear to recall, And real the memories did not seem. One thing he knew, despite the pall: It had not happened in a dream. Two lessons in his mind were there That left in him a knowledge sure: The trap of evil woman's snare, And noble woman's virtue pure. Henceforth he swore his back to turn Against the first and passion's chains, The second's deep respect to earn, Through noble tasks and endless pains. Bearslayer performs another mighty feat Now climbing down, where through the banks The Perse flows, a crowd he spied, A group of people from whose ranks A boat was lowered in the tide. They wished to cross, but none was fit With strength enough to pull the oar. If room there were for him to sit, Alone to row Bearslayer swore.- They boarded fast, the boat was full, Hard rowed the young man then for shore: But after just the first stroke's pull, He found he held a broken oar. Without control the ferry tossed, Downriver drove the torrent's swirl. The people knew that all was lost, With death before their eyes awhirl. Bearslayer did not pause to scheme, But straight away rowed with his hand; And, thrusting strong against the stream, Their course directed to the land. Across the Daugava's waves they fought And reached the other side at length!- The people were by wonder caught, And praised Bearslayer's mighty strength. A young man on the bank paid heed, Who from the forest hauled a tree. He saw Bearslayer's mighty deed And to the hero thus spoke free: "Here as 'Koknesis' I am known, 'The mighty youth' is how I'm called, For from the woods, I have alone Great logs upon my shoulder hauled." "To build a fortress here we work, Where Perse in the Daugava flows; A refuge strong when dangers lurk, To save us from our many foes." Bearslayer made a friendly bow And told the youth his own great name, To Aizkraukle that he went now, And what the purpose why he came. They soon were friends and made a rule, With him Koknesis too would ride; The two in Burtnieks's school Would learn great wisdom side by side. Spidala swears revenge, but they reach Burtnieks When Spidala the next day saw Bearslayer healthy in full view Approaching close her castle's door, It can be thought what fear she knew. She asked her father that alone The coming guests he would receive, And since her heart was heavy grown, To her own chamber she would cleave. Bearslayer too had no more use To meet false Spidala once more, And so he made a good excuse, When Aizkrauklis threw wide the door: His journey hence had known delay, And to depart was now his whim; The forests had concealed his way, Until Koknesis rescued him. Old Aizkrauklis had different views: Bearslayer was a welcome sight. His wish had been to send forth news To Lielvarde of his plight. And so disturbed he stared back hard, But brought out, at the youth's behest, His saddled colt into the yard, And sent him forth upon his quest. False Spidala watched with a glare And in her eyes a madness grew: "Ride to the east," she threatened there, "And my revenge will follow you!"- Next evening they arrived at dusk In Burtnieks's learnèd court, Where he received them asking brusque, From whence they came and what they sought. The young men told him of their need, His father's words Bearslayer passed; With friendship Burtnieks agreed- They were his pupils now at last! CANTO III BEARSLAYER AND LAIMDOTA ARE BETRAYED Scene 1: Kangars and Spidala combine against Bearslayer Kangars learns that Bearslayer was in the Devil's Pit Upon the hills the forests gloomy soughed, In mountain passes swamp mists blocked the light, Dread serpents writhed and savage beasts roared loud, While frightened owls called lonely in the night: For travellers this was a fear-filled ground.- Beside a narrow path, that marked the way, And past the swamps and hills its passage found, The house of falsely pious Kangars lay. The day's last penitent sought grace to earn, And soon received an absolution sure From sins of every kind and sufferings stern, Then Kangars lit his lamp and closed his door. He put the people's offerings with his hoard, Piled in a chamber other things to join; A room in which, in chests and boxes stored, Lay finest hides and gold and silver coin. He muttered as he bent at these to peer: "How truly evil if the Fiend that night ...! But have I now perhaps bought life too dear? The burdens of Hell's service are not light! But evil deeds the witches close protect, And from the folk great honour I command. In ignorance the people show respect, That gives me greater strength than wealth or land!" "I have no mind to join that hero band That suffers hunger, need and hardships great, While striving for the folk and Fatherland." Thus speaking, Kangars went in through his gate.- That night, he heard a whirlwind raging round, While distant evening thunder rumbled dour. Upon his door then came a knocking sound; He opened it, while wondering at the hour. Then Spidala came in, all finely dressed, Not like a witch but in a lady's state. "Good evening, uncle," greetings she expressed, "No visitor is usual here so late?"- "None was expected," Kangars answered sure. "The greater then the pleasure I can show, To greet my beauteous neighbour at my door. Does all go well? The answer I would know." "All is not well," false Spidala replied, "Some mighty force opposes firm our will. To ask your help I've come," the witch then cried, "Yet can our powers combined our goals fulfil!" She then told Kangars that Bear Slayer saw, And in the pit observed the work they wrought, But though cast down in Staburags's maw, Was yet alive, and Burtnieks now sought. Close Kangars listened then, and felt great fear, And anger too that witness there had been, Whose words to ill-repute could bring him near: Bearslayer must not tell what he had seen! Now Kangars spoke: "Oh Spidala, you tell Of young Bearslayer in the pit, and show The gods protect him now and guard him well; This makes him even stronger as our foe." "For his defeat we need a different scheme, To let this rash young man himself betray, And seek out death, pursuing fame's sweet dream; Example I will show you of the way. For years upon our hills our foes no more The giant, Kalapuisis, employ. Word we will send to Peipus Lake's far shore, The time is ripe, in Latvia to destroy." "The Latvians I will urge to go to war.- I know Bearslayer bold will not delay, But in a fearless mood will go once more, With Burtnieks to struggle in the fray, Although they know that death will follow sure, If Kalapuisis they meet and fight. On Latvian soil no warrior can endure Against the dread Estonian giant's might." Perkons sends a storm to kill the Germans, but they are rescued Then Spidala would thank him, but all round The whole room glowed with fire, and thunder crashed. It rocked the house and shook the trembling ground; A storm broke out and rainstorms downward slashed. The wild bears roared, the wolves all howled in fright, And from the swamps they heard the night birds call. In all of nature terror reigned that night, When lightning sent by Perkons lashed the squall. Both pale as corpses witch and warlock shook. Their fear was greater than the forest kind's, Because they knew that Perkons would not brook, Nor bear the vice of evildoers' minds. Then Kangars spoke: "You cannot go tonight! Until the storm subsides, here must you bide." He closed the windows and put out the light, Into the darkness drew the witch inside. They covered up their heads, crept into bed, And hoped the storm would end, but feared profound, For clap on clap of thunder still it bred, And on the hills smashed oak trees to the ground. In truth, the Baltic gods fought hard that night. The lightning sent by Perkons split the sky, And Antrimps threw up waves of mountain's height- To meet the clouds he made the waters fly! Meanwhile, nearby the storm had seized a ship That mastless drove before the wind and rain, And soon with all beneath the waves would slip: The people cried for help, but all in vain. Decreed by Perkons, death was close at hand.- But Fate to human will free choice affords; The Livian folk who dwelt upon the land Rash saved the Strangers, soon to be their lords! To end this night the morning sun rose red. On rising, Kangars saw his guest slept on: "So wild a storm I have not seen," he said, "A frightful night! How good that it is gone. To kill the Devil Perkons now would please!" Outside, the roof lay torn off on the ground, While in the yard criss-crossed lay broken trees, As filled with wonder Kangars gazed around. Then on the narrow path two men came near; He watched them quickly walking to the gate. One was a Riga fisherman was clear, With him a stranger pale, in weary state, Who wore long robes, a cross around his neck.- The fisherman told Kangars of the night, And how they saved the people from the wreck; Among them was this man all garbed in white. The stranger wished to speak now with their lord, And thus the man to Kangars he had brought, Who better knew than he what to afford.- Within the Stranger's eyes now Kangars sought, And see, their souls communed across the seas! The people's tongue the Stranger could employ: "By 'Dietrich' called, as priest my God I please, Who sent His Son to bring the world great joy." "To trade we travelled to the Baltic shores, Although the wreck has made this goal in vain -Our God we thank, whose mercy is our cause- And here my people helpless must remain, Until a German ship the way is shown. Thus, with a leader now I wish to meet." In welcome Kangars spoke: "Your goal is known. Fear not-your God's new presence here I greet." "Although we do not trust each other's mind, In mighty Kaupa's castle, that lies near, Your welcome message fertile soil will find! But rest today with me, cast off your fear, Although the Baltic gods are mighty too!"- Here Spidala rose up and joined the round; They talked at length of many topics new, Until the way to friendship deep was found. Scene 2: The Estonian War Bearslayer goes to war against Kalapuisis The years passed by in peaceful Baltic lands: Great changes came and much Bearslayer learned. From Burtnieks he heard of warriors' fame, And with Koknesis knightly wisdom earned. Bearslayer read the ancient books with greed.- They opened up deep knowledge well-springs clear, That told of worldly life and human need; Rest at the end, eternal spirits near. The talisman that on his hat he wore Stayed by him and surprising fortune brought, When "Staburadze's maid" he met once more, The fair Laimdota, daughter of the court. For noble goals, in her he reason found, For toiling too for Burtnieks the lord. And in his heart love flared beyond all bound, While in Laimdota too her spirit soared. They often met, and in the evenings' glow Together walked upon the lakeside shore. She told him of a castle sunk below, And tales about the Burtnieks of yore.- To win the maiden's hand Bearslayer sought, But from the hills the message came in haste, That Kalapuisis great havoc wrought, By striking down the folk and laying waste. Fear seized them all, for none could hope to stand, Who in the hills should face the giant's might. Old Burtnieks sent news across the land: The hero who could save them from this plight Might claim as bounty any wish he made, Laimdota's hand, if even that he chose. Bearslayer then from Burtnieks leave prayed, And with Koknesis sought to face the foes. Old Burtnieks refused their wish at length, Moved by the danger they would surely face, But, knowing well the measure of their strength, At last he gave his blessing with good grace.- Soon, riding dashing colts, with sword in hand, Into the hills they went to right the wrong; Sent forth as saviours in the field to stand, By youths and maidens and the sound of song. Halfway they met swift riders seeking aid; To Burtnieks a message grim they brought: Estonian foes had made a border raid, And burned and killed, and thus his help they sought. They asked for aid from Burtnieks's Lord, And knew that his agreement would be found; If they should fight against Estonia's horde, To send his men he was by honour bound. What best to do the youths had to decide.- They settled soon, since time was not to lose, That one of them to Burtnieks would ride, And with the hasting riders bring the news. This task Koknesis took now, saying plain: "Alone, Bearslayer, triumph realize, And so Laimdota's hand in marriage gain. I know your love, and will not seek the prize." Bearslayer defeats Kalapuisis and befriends him Beside his wood-framed hut, high on the hill, Sat Kalapuisis and ate a calf, Then with a suckling pig consumed his fill. Beside him lay his club, a mighty staff, A tree trunk with a millstone on it bound.- On seeing bold Bearslayer riding past, He seized his club and swung the weapon round, So fast it caused a whirlwind's swirling blast. The giant laughed, asked if his mother dear Knew he had come, untimely death to face. Bearslayer answered that the hour was near, When giants in the world would have no place; To Pakols, therefore, he would show the course! In answer then his club the giant cast, And sent Bearslayer tumbling, while his horse Into the swamp with tangled club fled fast. Bearslayer sprang up safe, swift at a bound, Then drew his sword, and struck a mighty blow, That brought the giant tumbling to the ground. The giant grasped a pine in falling low, With branch and roots the tree trunk loose he tore, Which falling pinned him down across his chest!- Bearslayer did not let him rise once more, But made to strike his head off from his breast. "Heroic youngster wait," the giant cried, "Before I die allow me moments more To speak some words that may assuage your pride. Were you the babe a savage she-bear bore? My mother told: When, from the Daugava's bank A bear-cub comes, sent here to fight with me, A fit opponent with a worthy rank, The Baltic tribes will soon once more be free." "The sea will bring dread monsters to our shore, In iron clad, and full of boundless greed; All living creatures, crops, and soil and more, They will devour to sate their endless need!- It is not wise in such a circumstance To strive in war, and in the monsters' hands Thus give our folk. This promise I advance: An endless peace shall reign between our lands." "Forth I will go and both our shores guard fast, That, while I live, unwanted from the west, The strangers will not come. And at the last, When life is done, in Zunda I will rest." Bearslayer quickly offered him his hand, That Kalapuisis might gain his feet, And said: "Henceforth let peace between us stand! Though on the plain in war our peoples meet." "But we will now ensure their rage is spent; Between our lands this war shall be the last." They bound his wound, then to the valley went, And soon the cruel Estonian war was past.- But where the giant fell and wounded bled Remains impressed a pit into the hill, That yet today is called the "Giant's Bed", And buried in the swamp his club lies still. Bearslayer and Laimdota plight their troth in song All sweetly singing, forth Laimdota came With other maidens through the castle gate, To greet the heroes and to mark their fame, When Burtnieks's men were saved by Fate, And homeward rode, safe from Estonia's war. With oak-leaf crowns the maidens decked each brow- Alone, Laimdota's wreath Bearslayer bore, And with this song she made a solemn vow: "The oaks still grow on Latvia's ground, With sturdy branch and jagged leaf. Still in our folk are heroes found, Who guard our land with strong belief; We deck their brows with oak-leaves round, And sing their praise and show no grief." "Sing of Bearslayer in our lore, The giant fell at his strong stroke. There in the hills the youth struck sure, To save us from Estonia's yoke. The foe destroys our land no more, No village burns nor daunts the folk." "Our brethren safe their fields will till, And brew their beer at autumn-tide. To newly-weds with joy we will In song and dance success and pride. Bearslayer's quest I shall fulfil, And be his virtuous, upright bride." With joyous heart Bearslayer heard these lines, They filled his soul with feelings deep and grave. He sought to show the maiden his designs, And with this song his answer pure he gave: "Where stout oaks grow the linden thrives- Where heroes dwell are damsels pure; The Latvian warrior proudly strives, That in our land fair maids endure. And willingly men give their lives, The Fatherland defending sure." "In guarding Latvia's maidens fair, They earn their oak-leaf crowns anew, The foemen's strokes unyielding bear. Then Laima brings their bride to view.- Oh fair Laimdota, beauty rare, I pledge to live and die for you." Moved by the youthful people's greeting song, Soon Burtnieks himself to sing began.- In warrior hearts the joyous mood was strong, And brotherhood stirred deep in every man. All bade Laimdota enter through the door, A meal awaited there the heroes bold; At Burtnieks's order there was more, For mead was served to greet them to the fold. When then Laimdota served them the drink she brought, Bearslayer found that all there pleased him dear. For in their toasts his future joy they sought, And with their words his destiny's path made clear:- The evil plot to kill the gallant boy Was by the will of all the gods made vain, And turned from grief into a larger joy, From which Bearslayer endless fame would gain. Scene 3: Bearslayer rescues the Sunken Castle Bearslayer finds his way into the Sunken Castle Time passed: One evening down Bearslayer went Into the stronghold's massive crypt alone, Where learnèd volumes safe the ages spent.- He saw, half open in the floor of stone, A trapdoor that he had not seen before. He took a lantern, wanting now to know, And looked inside where, dropping from the door, A narrow flight of steps led down below. He took the stair into a cavern deep; Within the earth he strode a tunnel through, Until he reached an ancient castle's keep, Which, from the distance he had walked, he knew Beneath the middle of the lake must lie. Within the rooms were many things on show -Old scattered weapons caught Bearslayer's eye- And in one chamber shone a lantern's glow. He slowly entered in, where chests he saw And shelves with ancient volumes heavy grown, And wooden tablets carved with words of yore.- There in the centre, on a slab of stone, A lantern dimly burned, and by its light He saw a woman, parchment in her hand, Who did not mark Bearslayer come in sight, As, deep in thought, the document she scanned. But as he neared, by chance she turned her head. "Laimdota!" then Bearslayer joyful cried. "Forgive that I disturb your thoughts," he said, "For me to meet you here gives greater pride Than some fair goddess in a wondrous place. Within the vault I found the secret door, And passing through into the cavern's space, Thus entered this enchanted castle's core." "Allow me but a moment here to stay, To look into these parchments and their spell; Is this the place of which you spoke that day?" "It is," she said.-"But yet I cannot tell How I forgot to close the door, for none Without my father's word in here belongs. Still, stay! -Your entry to the castle now is done- And we will read the texts and learn their songs." Bearslayer spoke: "To stay I were content, My whole life here with you and with these books!" "Haste not, Bearslayer, such a wish to vent," Then swift Laimdota said with warning looks, "Your words may rise up to the gods' stern ears, Who oft fulfil our wish in unsought ways.- Above all here, where in the coming years Will lie for me the joy of future days." "I, Burtnieks's youngest daughter, yearn- Can but a hero stay here through one night, Within this castle rest, yet still return, And join the living folk at morning light, The castle then will break the magic spell, And in the morning, at the hero's side, Will rise and greet the sun it once knew well!"- Bearslayer took her hand and ardent cried: "Of Burtnieks the youngest daughter fair, Within the castle of your sires I ask, If you will love old Lielvarde's heir, And make him strong to carry out this task, To break the spell within these halls to lie?" To this Laimdota earnest answer made: "Together we shall live and striving die, That to the folk our service will be paid!" Bearslayer drew her close. She pressed her face Against his chest. Two mighty spirits there In lofty virtue soared to heaven's space Like rising stars-such moments pure are rare! Upon the lake the waves broke white with spume, In moonlight glow the castle's rooftops shone; Light shadow spirits flitted through the room, Smiled down upon the lovers-then were gone. The youthful pair but of themselves took note; The happy moment's joy they would not share. And soon they knew how when first lovers dote, True love's sweet bliss can conquer worldly care. Oh, blissful joy-filled moments, soon you go, So like a dream, a sweetly fading tune. Oh, paradise on earth we briefly know, Why drive you forth your favoured ones so soon, Your pleasures but a fleeting moment show? Why give them bitter sorrow as your boon? But does not briefest joy pain overthrow, And blunt of life the sharpest anguish keen? Be sure it does! If once true love we know, Life's further joys or sorrows nothing mean- Love only is remembered as we go, Though we a lifetime naught but grief have seen. While both the lovers felt a joy divine, An evil presence in the lake close by Looked in the window with a will malign, A water snake-false Spidala's grim eye! Soon marked Laimdota that the time was late, She had to leave because the time had flown. Bearslayer through the night resolved to wait; Since he stood firm she took the path alone. Bearslayer conquers demons and raises the Sunken Castle Past midnight hour the castle grew so dank, Bearslayer only warmed himself somehow, By lighting in the hearth a broken plank. He waited then for what would happen now. In all the rooms a sudden whirlwind ran, And seven demon fiends rushed through the door. They bore a coffin with an ancient man, Like scythes his teeth, like knives the nails he bore. Although at first it seemed that he was dead, He moved himself and uttered ghastly groans, With opened eyes, "How cold I am!" he said.- An unwished shudder gripped Bearslayer's bones. He scarce could bear a voice so fearsome grim. He banked the fire, then from the coffin's bounds, Drew forth the man and said these words to him: "Grow warm, you hell-hound, only-cease these sounds!" But now the old man snarled, and tried to seize And tear Bearslayer's ears with his sharp tooth.- It seemed he knew Bearslayer's strength would ease, So he could fight and overpower the youth. Bearslayer struggling held him in the fire; His hair was burning, but despite this plight, Bearslayer swore: "No rescue from the pyre, Until the castle rises to the light." A noise was heard, and through the open door Rushed Spidala the witch, and with her came The seven demons who had come before, With pitchforks armed, reflecting red the flame. They fell upon Bearslayer one and all, And with their forks they made to stab at him: There at the fore-they answered to her call- Came Spidala, her eyes aglitter grim. Bearslayer was hard-pressed to face such odds, Until of Staburadze's gift he thought -The mirror that she gave him from the gods- And from his clothes her magic glass he brought. He held it out in Spidala's wild face, And horrid wailing sounded in the gloom, While all the demons shrank down in their place, And spun like motes of dust about the room. The dust cloud ebbed, the spinning whirlwind died, A cool breeze cleaned the air and light now shone.- A sage old man emerged and greetings cried: "Our people's founder in the days bygone, I Viduveds now guard the Latvian folk! That you, my son, these demons here could slay Has saved this castle from the dark world's yoke.- Tomorrow it will see the light of day." "Light to the people too the things will bring Their ancient sires collected in this cell, Among them laws, which from the Godhead spring; Remember these and you will prosper well!- I warmly thank you that you won this fight; Rest now with gods in Burtnieks's keep. Your task is done and peaceful through this night, My maidens fair will lull you into sleep." The old man vanished in the glow once more. And afterwards three beauteous maids came by; Reed pillows, sheets and blankets warm they bore, And for Bearslayer made a bed to lie. Full weary grown he lay down for the night, Sweet heavenly songs then sounded in his ear.- With easy breath, his drowsy eyes closed tight, He slept at peace, freed for the night from fear. Next morning-light into the air to take- Bearslayer, chests and documents were raised. But with them rose the castle from the lake! Of Burtnieks the folk were sore amazed;- A castle stood upon an island bold, Bathed in the centre of the lake in light. Her father, straight Laimdota quickly told, Bearslayer in the castle spent the night. At once he knew that broken was the spell, Rejoiced to see the ancient castle saved, Thence with Laimdota went, pleased well, And found the youth asleep, all dangers braved. Laimdota gently roused him, and he saw That golden sunlight through the pane shone free. He jumped up quickly and embraced her sure, Said, kissing her, "You now belong to me. The shackles broken that kept us apart!"- "Praise to the gods, praise to the spirit band," Said Burtnieks. "The maid gives you her heart; I give you blessings from her father's hand." "This covenant our two great clans will lead, To take the task of saving Latvia's folk!"- From then the pair the ancient books could read, And of their teachings oft together spoke. With wonder then Bearslayer clearly saw, That of the books Laimdota took good heed, And well could talk about the gods' high law, Of human virtue and of hero's deed. Laimdota tells Bearslayer how the Devil sank the castle One evening, in the castle sat the two, And thus Laimdota deep the youth amazed: "Now from a parchment I will read to you About our Sunken Castle that you raised." "Far to the east, past seven kingdoms grand, Rose up a cloud, shaped like a saddled colt, Upon which Perkons sat with whip in hand. Each whip crack smashed great rocks with lightning bolt, Made humans tremble, hill and valley quake. Then Perkons spoke and all the earth took heed: 'Who keeps my laws with me the path may take, And to a new land westward will I lead!'" "But, fearful of the god, stood silent all, Until the tribe of Burtnieks bold grew. Its legendary fighters strong and tall, Then said: 'Great Perkons, we will come with you, As pious subjects we will heed your mind, If you but lead us to the fair new land!' With Perkons at the head, the tribe behind, They walked far to the west, a sturdy band." "By savage creatures harried on the track, Foul fiends and giants, dragons fed their fears. All fell on them, but Perkons drove them back, And Burtnieks's men fought with their spears. At length they won through to the western bound:- The place they settled called the 'Baltic Sea'. A fruitful valley in this land they found, And chose the site where future life would be." "They built a castle there and cleared the plains, Sowed barley fields that Perkons fertile made. From Patrimps and Saulite came ripe grains, From Uzin� autumn honey in the glade; The Gods' Sons made from it a heady brew. The brides were fair, the tribe grew greater still. Both springtime's spirit came, and Liga too; Her golden kokle's songs filled vale and hill." "Upon the Earth this was the Golden Age!- The Devil, who such fortune could not bear, Commanded that a mighty whirlwind rage, And suck a massive lake into the air, Then in the valley down its water pour. The whirlwind blew until, to calm its lust, An old man, who a three-pronged pitchfork bore, Prepared the fork into its midst to thrust." "Another, seeing this, cried: 'Wait, until I say a water spell. Within the gale Is water seeking place, that down will spill And fill our valley should the wind now fail.' Not understanding this, the first thrust through. The lake poured roaring down, the valley filled, And Burtnieks's castle sank from view.- All seemed then lost, but Liga different willed." "Beneath the flood she played the kokle long, So beautiful the rocks grew soft and broke; A tunnel opened, and with Liga's song, Into the light came out the rescued folk." Scene 4: The story of the creation The Earth is formed Another time, Laimdota read anew:- "In the beginning nothing was. But plain There shone an endless light, from which all grew. No start or ending marked God's perfect reign. He was the world's pure soul, good spirits' kin. The Devil still obeyed his God in all, Beside him stood and knew not stain of sin, Although his mind was close before the fall." "To make the world, God asked of him one thing: To fly deep down, primordial ooze to view, To find there slime, a handful back to bring.- The Devil found the slime when down he flew, But wondered why God had for it a plan. To copy God he thought some slime to save, A handful placed inside his mouth's broad span. The other handful then to God he gave." "'Earth, form!' God cried, and down the slime He threw, And from this handful formed the level plain. Within the Devil's mouth the other too, Became so large he spat it out again, Where from the ground it raised the hills up soon!- From His own substance God a handful chose, And shaped it saying: 'Form now, Sun and Moon!' To light the Earth their gold and silver rose." "Such was the beauty of the Sun and Earth, God loved them both and gave the Gods' Sons life, And to the Daughters of the Sun gave birth. The largest one the Moon took as his wife: The many thousand stars their children are.- The Gods' first Sons were godlike heroes all, And Earth's broad lands divided near and far, Among themselves they took them in their thrall." "The sons of Perkons -five stout youths all told- Then built the spirits' beautiful abode. He fashioned for the Sun fine steeds of gold, Which through the sky from dawn to dusk it rode, Then in a boat returned to morning shore; Sailed through the night, and in the dawning rose, The while the sea its horses swimming bore -Which Antrimps as his dwelling-place now chose." The Devil rebels against God "Soon Patrimps gave the Earth its verdant loam, And springtime's spirit added flowers and grains; The way paved Pakols to the soul's last home.- But many things changed through the Devil's pains, And were not as they had been at the start.- All stones were soft and God gave firm commands To shun them while He gave them form apart, And shaped them all at once from shifting sands." "But here the Devil sought his Lord to mock, To find out through what means God would condemn, If he should tread upon the yielding rock. He sought great stones and firmly stepped on them, And in that moment all the rocks grew hard!- Upon the Daugava's bank yet stands a stone, That still today the folk can clear regard, And as the 'Devil's Footprint' now is known." "In ancient times, on trees no branches lay, With only trunks, straight standing they were made. The Devil had a scythe for reaping hay, While Perkons' sons forged God a chisel blade. God took this scythe one day-the Devil slept- And with it hay in masses in He brought.- Not knowing God had scythed, with tool inept To use a chisel too the Devil sought." "The grass still stood.-Unfit as reaping hook, The chisel was in anger cast away. The blade then struck a tree and hold firm took. Since then strong branches all the trees display." "The Devil had fine cattle but unhorned, With rounded solid hooves and bluish hair. God built himself a byre; the Devil scorned: 'What use a byre when yet no cows are there?' God answered then that cows he would provide! Next night he took them from the Devil's lair, And gave them all sharp horns, and coloured hide, And cloven hooves-the Devil's pen was bare." "The Devil went and God's new byre soon found. The cows were there, but strange he found the sight Of cloven hooves, bent horns, and all around Were spotted cows and beasts with faces white!" "God wanted then a dog, and to the Devil said: 'Up to the mountaintop this stout staff bear; From clay a creature shape with snout and head, Two eyes, two ears, four legs, a tail and hair; And three times strike it with this staff, cry bold: 'God made you!' and the thing will straightway live." The Devil struck three times as he was told, The dog sprang up, its homage God to give." "The Devil now himself desired a pet, But bigger far than God's, with darker pelt. Hairs of his own above its eyes he set, Cried out, as with the staff a blow he dealt: 'The Devil made you!' But it lacked life's zest. When 'God has made you!' were the words he said, The creature lived, and nuzzled to his breast. 'Hail, wolf,' he cried as to the woods it fled." At last God chose to make the human race; To do this from the Earth He took pure clay. One eye and ear alone possessed the face, Though arms and legs the body could display. 'No evil see, nor hear, nor do,' He praised, 'And walk a righteous path avoiding strife, True virtue show, from endless Godhead raised.'- With His own breath then breathed it into life." "The human being slept while breathing light: 'Here wait for morning,' God contented spoke. 'The rising sun will wake you from the night.'- The morning sun into the world awoke Of all creations yet, the one most fine; With freedom's spirit filled and with free will, So noble that it strives to grow divine, To seek the good, and highest goals fulfil." "But now the Fiend God's creature would enslave, And in the night another eye and ear, Another nostril too the human gave, And of his essence breathed in-hate and fear. Then said: 'Now evil you can see and speak, And henceforth not just lofty good will know, But stumbling helpless, blind the path will seek, And good and evil, both directions go.'" "God saw the human, dangerous and wild, In treachery that falls on other folk, And kills, destroying all the good and mild, And in His heart a mighty anger broke. He could not bear the Devil in his sight, And drove him forth to Hell's forbidding shore. He cursed the Devil to an endless blight, And banished him from Heaven evermore." "The Devil gave foul fiends and dragons life, And on the good a bitter war he waged. All gods and Gods' Sons faced him in the strife, And fighting too, both Earth and Heaven raged.- From Perkons thunder roared, vast whirlwinds blew, And, spitting lightning, down the mountains sank. The rising sea up to the heavens grew, And soon engulfed the mountain's lofty flank." "Though, beaten, to the boundless pit now run, Still man's corruption seeks the demon pack, Trapped in the web of evil they have spun.- But Perkons sees them, strikes and drives them back." The tasks of humankind One evening, thus Laimdota spoke in turn: "Bearslayer, now the Guardian's words well heed, He wrote them that we understand and learn; These ancient wisdom's teachings I will read." Aloud Laimdota read to him this view: "Time is eternal. Thus it brings no peace To seek beyond, and endless life pursue. Time comes, time goes, and rolls on without cease." "This satisfies the gods, the Earth, the Sun, But sates not us, who fleeting moments live.- Yet human life will through the ages run, For who its count of years the day can give, Since first upon the world gazed human eyes, And who can know when last these eyes will close? Our kind survives though each of us soon dies, And will so long the Earth existence knows." "To help the great undying human race To prosper and a perfect state achieve; To live and die to give it lofty place, This is our task, ere worldly life we leave. And like each person, too, our human kind To godlike wisdom's state itself can raise.- But then to ancient gods it soon grows blind, Who made the Earth for it in bygone days." "With higher gods, new faith the old amends, The old alone as heresy holds sway. This is the mighty task for mankinds' friends, To stand and guard the folk from evil's way, Which, fair disguised, will freedom's spirit break.- But from the gods derives the people's mind. Inspired by this, their laws themselves they make, And for these laws their chiefs and rulers find." "But should these laws the leaders not fulfil, For their own gain the people sore oppress, Like all bad servants here the people's will Can drive the rulers out and end distress. For freedom's lovers clear the task at hand: To make just laws that goods and life protect, On lofty human morals firmly stand, And nature's deathless wisdom give respect." "Then in the folk all hate will fade at length, If they acknowledge nature's perfect law, And recognize its hidden wondrous strength. This is the task for those whose gifts are pure: With glowing ardour strive with spirit vast, Respect great nature, love the countryside, Part wide the misty curtain of the past, New form themselves and build the future's pride." "Who striving seek the highest good, each one Will earn great fame and honour with the best. Their mourning friends, when once their course is run, Will weeping lay them to their final rest. And, cradled safe in Mother Nature's womb, From people's hearts their names will never fade. In realms of light they soar above the tomb, Whom Gods' bold Sons eternal life once gave." Then, silently, Laimdota closed the tome, And placed it in a chest with others too, And said: "These chests to more are dusty home, A task for many years to read them through. Perhaps in later age some humans bold Will bring them to the sunlight, in them pore, And teach the folk the wisdom that they hold, About the past, its knowledge and its lore." Scene 5: The Latvians are deceived by the Christians Laimdota is stolen by the Germans On All Souls' Day a feast was made complete. Much strove Laimdota, for upon this night Old Burtnieks departed souls would greet, And dear ones' spirits lost to death requite. Bearslayer worked as did Koknesis too: They cleaned the barn, the drying rack made sound, Raked smooth the yards and cleaned the oven's flue, Pine needles strewed with sand upon the ground. The barn for spirits is the favoured place: Behind the fireplace household gods safe dwell, Within live dwarves, while on the roof's broad space, There stands a dragon, neighbours' spite to quell. In wintertime when threshing work is done, In empty barns at midnight goblins roam. But on this night the barn such spirits shun, To yield to honoured souls their rightful home. The two young men had cleaned and decked the space, Put back the chairs, brought tables to the shed, Where now Laimdota set a cloth in place, Laid on it honey, milk and new-made bread, And plates of soft-boiled barley with dried pork. Then Burtnieks the windows opened wide, And placed on both smooth wooden planks to walk, To help departed souls to come inside. Together came the family to relax, And with Laimdota came a maiden throng, Put baskets filled with finely carded flax Beneath the tables, while they sang this song: "From up above, from down below, Tread in a basket fit, Tread in the yarn, before you go, And in the reed chair sit!" "Into the barn, Mother of Souls, Go in my father's door. Go in so light, no mark unrolls Upon the white-sand floor." "Mother of Souls, I ask you true, Enjoy the feast we share. Enjoy the feast we offer you, And still my body spare." "Oh, spare my body, stand me by, Preserve me while life runs. Preserve me safely so that I Can give our people sons." As darkness came they lit both torch and brand. They stayed together up to midnight's stroke, When Burtnieks pronounced: "Young people, stand, Go silent to your beds, no noise evoke. Allow to me to stay here quite alone, With shadows of each dear departed one!" All went away in silence on their own, The sacred night's deep peace disturbed by none. Next morning Burtnieks, in pensive mood- Expecting thence Laimdota soon to bring From in the barn the souls' uneaten food- In solemn tone Bearslayer told this thing: "My son, last night the spirits showed portent: For you and your Laimdota saddest fate. -May Perkons and the gods such times prevent!- But where is now Laimdota? Why so late?" Bearslayer sought her at her chamber's door; He called and knocked but answer there was none. Returning then he sought to reassure: Perhaps her work outside she had begun. Throughout the castle now the maid they sought, But none had seen her though they hunted well. They went into her room, which nothing brought- She had not slept there, that was plain to tell. Both felt concern: They ran out now to view Both castle grounds and all surrounding space. But all was vain. Worse was, Koknesis too Was missing from the castle-void his place. Shocked, Burtnieks returned home full of fear. "It pleased the gods," he said, "to strike us hard. We must take action, since to me is clear, That evil hands now close Laimdota guard." "We must act fast," he said, "Call forth my men. Pursue the traitors, yet they may be caught." "Too slow that way," Bearslayer answered then: "By me alone the foe is better sought. I swear to find Laimdota, bring her back, Or else Bearslayer no more will be seen." Saluting then he set out on the track, And left the place where happiness had been. Kaupa sets out for Rome In Turaida, within a castle hall, Of three men talking voices could be heard. False Kangars shared with Dietrich priesthood's call, The chieftain, Kaupa, was of them the third. The German priest a way perfidious found, The fiery chieftain in his web to snare: He told what things in German life abound, Of heroes of the folk, and culture rare, And of the faith that man and God unites.- Of Rome's High Father too the plan unfurled, Together with the brotherhood of knights, To spread the sacred faith across the world. Here Kangars aided Dietrich in his work -Though Kaupa's mind so much he had in grip, His fathers' gods the chieftain soon would shirk.- From Germany had come a mighty ship, And all the merchants wished now to remain, A city at the river's mouth to build, Which for the Baltic folk would bring much gain, If only mighty Kaupa all this willed. He read a letter from the Pope's great home, Who Kaupa sent good words and blessings fair, And wished the chieftain's presence there in Rome. Moreover, Dietrich said that Kaupa there With his own eyes the German land would see, And through the Holy Father earn much fame.- In Kaupa surged the wish in Rome to be, He felt the Pope gave honour to his name. He swore a German city to condone, Resolved next day within their ship to sail, With Dietrich leading to the Holy Throne.- On their return vowed Kangars not to fail. At Daugava's mouth soon after All Souls' Eve, Slow on the tide a German vessel swayed. A throng looked on while, casting loose to leave, Last goods in haste were dealt in final trade, And for their castle men the Germans hired.- To go on board, soon Kaupa there appeared, And Dietrich too into the ship retired. With greetings warm the watching folk all cheered. From high upon the ship now Kaupa spoke: "My countrymen, of wonders I am told, Of famous German lands and wealthy folk. A friendship thus with them we will unfold, And let them build a castle on our soil, Through which for us new springs of trade will flow, Our riches will increase, reward for toil, Our land will thrive, the wealth of all will grow." "To German shores to seek this out I go: But first my promise firm to you I give, To tell what we must do, so soon I know. Until that day with them in friendship live." The people cheered, their caps rejoicing threw: "If they with good intention friendship hail, Long live then Kaupa, and the Strangers too!"- Then with fair winds the mighty ship set sail. But Kangars of their friendship knew the cause, And understood full well the Germans' heart. With Spidala he stood upon the shores, And, spiteful smiling, watched the ship depart. Bearslayer is consumed by sorrow, and disappears Just then was heard: "Bearslayer now is here, Who brought the giant low." The crowd spread wide, As from his weary horse he sprang down clear.- He knew that Kangars had an evil side, And raging at the priest he loudly roared: "Reveal now, traitor, what Laimdota's lot, Or else your bones will feel my hacking sword. Her disappearance is your evil plot." In place of Kangars Spidala words found, As on the far horizon sailed the ship: "Look, there, where she to Germany is bound."- Bearslayer cried: "We are in murder's grip! Such wicked deeds the people will not stand, But will strike back, for open I will say, That you and Kangars magic means command, And for yourselves the people's faith betray!" "Oh people, do not trust the Strangers' guile, If love for freedom and our faith you feel!"- As all the people heard his deeds so vile, False Kangars summoned strength the breach to heal, Lest in this moment fame and power he lose. These words he spoke: "Young hero, for this shame Like you, the wrath of Perkons I would choose, Did I not know you wrongly give me blame." "Soon Kaupa's eyes in German lands will see, How far to trust the friendship they have shown. Your second charge too gives no blame to me: Laimdota did not wish to go alone.- Since Kaupa planned to take some youths from here, To gain the wisdom Germany entails, Your friend, Koknesis, rushed to volunteer; As lover of Laimdota now he sails." "Last night was opportune from you to part, To go with Kaupa to the German shores.- Be sure, young hero, in the maiden's heart, Though praising all your deeds, she was not yours. To make you sad she did not have the will, Through unrequited love. Her heart's behest She yet knew well, and was resolved to fill: She knows now joy, with true love in her breast." If Perkons of a sudden walked abroad, Bearslayer's mind had not been more amazed. Both pale and shocked he lowered then his sword, That set to strike at Kangars had been raised. Deep in his heart struck pain that knew no end, Like stabbing knives his soul felt jealousy. Could thus Koknesis prove so false, his friend? And chaste Laimdota too? How could this be? Though naught he shared with Kangars of this view, Another reason plain was not to find, Why both Koknesis and Laimdota too, In secret left the castle gates behind. But thoughts like these Bearslayer gave no place.- Through Kaupa's voyage to the German shore, For him all things now had a different face; Of Kaupa's motives he had doubts no more. "Your innocence," he cried, "my thoughts refuse, But I will wait while Kaupa sails the sea, Or for a ship from Germany with news; But warning take, if you have lied to me!" Regarding them no more, he rode away.- Then Spidala rejoiced with devilish glee; The longed-for moment now had come this day; Bearslayer's fate was worse than death could be! In sadness deep, Bearslayer homeward rode.- With joy old Lielvardis saw him come, But marked at once his sorrow's heavy load. When asked, Bearslayer told his care's full sum. Then Lielvardis said: "Do not despair, Do not lose hope. Strange ways can Fate fulfil. Perhaps, though things against it witness bear, A blameless maid, Laimdota loves you still." Calmed by his father's soothing heartfelt view, Bearslayer sent to Burtnieks to tell, Of fair Laimdota's fate all that he knew. In Lielvarde's halls he chose to dwell, Though mourning sorrow occupied his days.- Alone he walked the cliffs where Daugava flows, The water's white-capped waves drew then his gaze, He bitter raged at Destiny's cruel blows. He yearned to roll like waves down to the sea, That with the North Wind's icy blasts wild fights, To gaze upon the North Wind's Daughter free, With her to bide, beneath the Northern Lights. The young man deeply longed to calm his breast, And cool his fevered brow, and felt compelled No more to be in Lielvarde guest.- And soon none knew the place the hero dwelled. CANTO IV THE LATVIANS SUFFER MANY HARDSHIPS Scene 1: Kaupa is seduced by wealth and power Kaupa accepts Christianity In mighty, ancient Rome, The Pope's eternal See, He called from Peter's dome, The Holy Land to free. The Baltic he decreed To be the Holy Land. All knights from sin he freed Committed by their hand, If in the Baltic's bounds, They fought the pagan foe, Built castles in strong grounds, That priests might safely go. His call to arms soon raised A fortune-seeking band, Who loud the venture praised- They sought estates and land. Such men their fate pursue And sail to foreign shores. They seek a homeland new, And follow no man's laws. In Peter's Church one day The Pope absolved their sin, A bishop gave, to pray, And leaders from his kin. At last, to those he turned, Come from the Baltic shore; His blessings Dietrich earned, To Kaupa he gave more. They were allowed with grace To kiss his slippered feet; With Kaupa, face to face, The Pope then deigned to meet. He asked of Baltic tribes If Christ's true faith they sought, The faith now sent with scribes, To them as brothers brought. Theirs were, as brothers, too The benefits and more, That round them stood in view, Or on the way they saw. Yet all of that was slight, Against the endless price That is believers' right, When death brings paradise! Now Kaupa thought of home, The wealth could not deny, In Peter's Church in Rome Arrayed before his eye. His ancient sires seemed weak, Their gods could not thus bless. He vowed the God to seek, Who gave such happiness. He would resist no more, Such opulence evade, On reaching home, he swore, His people to persuade. As Kaupa now bowed down, The Holy Father's grace Conferred a knight's rich crown With seven stars in place. Such gifts, both fine and rare, For him alone to own, To knights and bishops there Made Kaupa's favour known. Since to the knightly throng Now Kaupa numbered too, He soon the blessing strong Of Rome's great Father knew. Back in the Baltic land His will he would assert, With weapons in his hand, The Baltic to convert. In monasteries remained The youths thence Kaupa bore. Great knowledge there they gained- From monks to learn they swore. Among them in that place One's later fame has grown; Although of Latvian race, As Henry he is known. Riga becomes the centre of German influence The springtime had returned; In green it clothed the days. New life all nature earned, And sang the maker's praise.- But Strangers saw no worth, To raise their eyes and see Who made the bounteous Earth, And nature caused to be. They had a different goal: An idle life to crave, And drunkenness extol, But others to enslave. On Daugava's bank, the folk In hundreds hewed and filled, Forged iron, hammered oak, A city toiled to build. With ramparts fortified, Arch, passage, columns tall. A church stood safe inside, Within its lofty wall. Named "Riga", on the banks It stood, on Daugava's side. Within its church's ranks Ruled Bishop Albert's pride. His priests with news he sent, The message of our Lord, But to their preaching lent The power of the sword. They went throughout the land, To teach and preach of Him, But plundered out of hand, And murdered at their whim.- The Daugava along, They cast a deadly pall, And soon the fear was strong, These monsters would take all. All Germans who now came, In Riga place received.- The folk cursed Riga's name, And knew they were deceived. "Oh, Riga, much have you Poured out our brothers' blood! Oh, Riga, much have, too, Caused bitter tears to flood!" "Oh, Riga, much you spurned, Laid waste the fields of grain! Oh, Riga, much you burned- Scarce homes and barns remain!" "Oh, Riga, you have seized, Like wolves our humble food! Oh, Riga, you have pleased To swill the beer we brewed!" "Oh, Riga, you have torn Our plundered things away! Oh, Riga, you have sworn With freedom we will pay!" "Oh, Riga, can you find, Yet things that we hold dear? Oh Riga, what behind, Is left for looting here? Scene 2: Laimdota and Koknesis in Germany Laimdota's abduction While all of this took place, Where down the Daugava falls, In Germany's far space, Behind a cloister's walls, A weeping maiden lay, To dear ones no recourse, From them false lured away, And carried off by force. Laimdota was the maid, And Spidala's base lies Deception's guile displayed.- Clad in her mother's guise, She lured the girl outside, Where helpers in her pay Forth made Laimdota ride, From Burtnieks away. A prisoner in their might To Turaida they brought, And further in the night The Daugava they sought. Ignoring tears and pleas, Their mercy to implore, They put her on the seas, To sail to German shore. On board was Dietrich too, Who came to seek her ear, Proposed a calming view, And claimed she need not fear. Since countrymen she knew On board were at her call, Of Kaupa servants true, No evil could befall. To study life they went Among the German race, Enlightened with the bent The faith of Christ to face. God's mercy deep and wide, Christ soon to her would show, Selected as His bride, Through Him true God to know! Laimdota listened grave, Contempt burned in her eye, Then answer briefly gave, A dignified reply: "Though Christ from God above, Takes brides against their will, I cannot give my love, A promise binds me still." "I love a hero bold, Have pledged to him my hand, My father's leave we hold, Our hearts united stand. So therefore let me go, And tempt me not in vain, Or retribution know, And suffer for my pain." "But more: My mother's child, Of humans I am one, My mortal flesh defiled, Not fit for God's true Son." Though evil to the core, No conscience to feel shame, Yet Dietrich flushed once more, As though he felt the blame. Struck by the maid's lament, Of further words bereft, In silence hence he went, Alone Laimdota left. Her lot did not improve, Though liberty she sought; False Kaupa did not move To help her as he ought. He said it was Fate's plan, And so she must remain, Until its course Fate ran, And took her home again. And thus he saw no crime, If Dietrich fitting found, To put her for some time Within a cloister's bound. The ferment was so great, On board that was his lot, The maid Laimdota's fate, Enthralled, he soon forgot. Soon heartless Dietrich too Ceased thinking of the girl, Because full well he knew, A rich and precious pearl A cloister had received. The grateful prioress, About his goals deceived, Was sure his scheme to bless. The prioress deferred, Laimdota showed respect, But still to preach preferred; Advice did not neglect To leave old gods behind, The faith of Christ to take, And when the maid declined, Harsh threats began to make. She threatened to condone, Support a knight's design, Laimdota as his own, To make a concubine. Laimdota heard this view And felt a surging fear, Fore all, because she knew, An earl's son had been near. Kin to the prioress, He had the maiden seen; Her beauty to possess His fervent wish had been. He urged the nuns anew, The girl to him to give. The earl was of the view, Those who unchristian live No rights had in that land. To take the maid, his whim, To do with by his hand What deed perchance pleased him. So time Laimdota sought, To plan how she could cope, But time no counsel brought, In vain her rescue hope. Soon came the fateful day, So she the prioress told, Her gods were laid away: All teachings of the old, The things that she had learned, Through Burtnieks embraced.- In truth, Christ's faith she spurned, And death had rather faced! Laimdota is rescued by Koknesis One evening, having strayed With tears into her bed, To spirits good she prayed, That help to her be led. Then tumult loud began, Spread through the cloister's bounds, The people rushed and ran, And prayed with frightened sounds. At length the shouting died, Her room loud footsteps neared, Her door was opened wide, And in it there appeared Men all in armour clad, With weapons in their hand; The guards and monks were glad, There at their side to stand. One monk with glutton's face Spoke to the armoured ranks: "The pagan take apace- We give her up with thanks. For long enough has she This sacred place defiled; Take her and ride out free, And cleanse our cloister mild." The monks she loud implored, The prioress to call, Protection to afford, That nothing should befall. But they refused as one- The reason was well known, For with each other nun The prioress had flown. Of plunderers in fear, Their church the nuns sought fast, And forth would not appear, Until all risk was past.- Then iron-clad hands with force Laimdota dragged outside; They flung her on a horse, And made away to ride. But blocking them their place, A single man they saw. He held an iron mace, And shook it with a roar: "Release this blameless girl, Surrender now and leave, Or with this club I whirl My arm your skulls will cleave!" Surprised to hear this call, At first they heeded well, But then as one they all Upon the stranger fell.- At this the man revealed Strength others cannot show; With skill he used his shield, And parried every blow. He swung his club with hate Against each armoured head; The men who felt its weight With cloven helmet bled.- He struck the one with force, Whose steed Laimdota bore; The man fell from his horse, And loose his helmet tore. The earl's son all espied, Who lay before their eyes. "You dog," the stranger cried, "You cur in Christian guise! Know that this free-born girl Is to such honour heir, Unworthy any earl, For her her cup to bear!" "In virtue without lapse, In woman's form and face, In Germany, perhaps, No equal has your race!" "Go! To your comrades run; Tell them, in Baltic land Each free-born woman's son Will crush them by his hand, As I tonight did here! Your life this day I spare- But if our lands you near, Then face me if you dare!" Laimdota's senses cleared, As this the man declared; His face at last appeared, Beneath his helmet bared.- A cry of joy began, Within the moonlight grew; Laimdota saw the man, And straight Koknesis knew! Koknesis took her hand, This greeting to proclaim: "To Gods and spirits grand Give thanks in time I came! Together we must flee, We cannot here delay. Hence you must ride with me, My fate learn on the way." Into the saddle straight Both leaped on horses' backs, Rode out and did not wait, On rutted forest tracks. A distant mountain hut Gave shelter for the night- The folk who firewood cut Helped strangers in their plight. They rested for some days, Then rode a further stage. Laimdota found good ways Disguised to be a page; Koknesis was her knight.- They from a seaport planned By ship to make their flight To reach their Fatherland. Koknesis on the way Told her his story grim.- One night in bed he lay, When Kangars came to him, Said Kaupa at the dawn To Germany would go; Dispatches must be borne For Burtnieks to know. Since Burtnieks, alone, Kept watch on All Souls' Eve, Koknesis, to him known, The message should receive.- No harm Koknesis saw To Turaida to go, Where waited on the shore Young men that he would know. With Kaupa soon to sail Upon the German trip, With pleasure they would hail Koknesis on the ship.- Koknesis gave assent When Kangars told his plight: He had no document, Until the morning light. Aboard, they broke their fast, And Kangars gave them wine, A gift from Dietrich passed.- Since none would thirst confine, But drank deep at a stroke, They all were soon asleep, And when Koknesis woke, The ship rocked on the deep! Just landless sea and sky He saw now all around. His heavy head asked why, And shame within him found. His thirst had so prevailed, With appetite so hot, That with them he had sailed, If this he willed or not. The others swift condoled, That not all bad would be, And with the thought consoled, Soon Germany to see. To Germany now sent, With monks to live and learn, Koknesis seemed content, New wisdom thus to earn. But visits soon he paid And time spent with an earl, There to the knights displayed His strength in jousting's whirl. All there his skill admired, His agile arm's strong weight.- But news was not acquired About Laimdota's fate. But later, there he heard, That in a cloister's court, A woman was interred, Thence from the Baltic brought. The earl desired the maid, To seize her deemed it right The cloister's grounds to raid, And steal her in the night.- Her fate Koknesis knew, Thus earnest vow he gave, The unknown maiden true, From such a fate to save. When at the cloister gate, Laimdota's face he saw, He felt an endless hate, And caution was no more! And thus the slaughter grew, No mercy would he show; The earl's son, humbled, too For misdeeds pain must know. Scene 3: In the Realm of the North Wind The boatmen's song summons the North Wind's Daughter Long parted from the quay, Thus sang the sailor folk, Upon the Northern Sea, Good fortune to invoke: "Oh father, build a ship, Oh mother, weave the sail, We seek straight from the slip, The North Wind's Daughter pale."- "We travel night and day, No North Wind's Daughter find, And reach a northern bay, Where snow three giants grind." "'Our greetings, grinders three, Comes North Wind's Daughter forth?'- 'Thanks travellers on the sea, No, sail on further north!'" "We travel night and day, The Daughter seeking twice- And reach a northern bay, Where giants forge pure ice." "'Our greeting icesmiths three, Comes North Wind's Daughter forth?'- 'Thanks travellers on the sea. No, sail on further north!'" Thus sang the sailor folk Upon the Northern Sea, Until the helmsman spoke: Their way no more was free! Bearslayer in this boat, Sailed on the Northern Sea, To Germany afloat, To set Laimdota free. But battered by the force Of wind and storm that blew, And lost, far from the course, The way no more they knew. It seemed that evil powers, Sea ghosts, were ever near, In day and night-time hours, They filled the crew with fear. Dank mists and deepest gloom The light blocked as they swirled; While hail and snow-filled spume Were by the North Wind hurled. Then, where the sky's edge gleamed, A brilliant glow forth surged, And, from the glow, what seemed To be a sail emerged. Across the dark sea wave, Its course approached them near, Close up assurance gave: It was a ship was clear. And at the helmsman's side, A woman they could view, Who, nearing, sweetly cried In greeting to the crew: "Your song to my ears came, Called me across the sea. You called aloud my name; Say what you want from me!" The sailors were amazed, And stood as turned to stone. In wonder they all gazed, The North Wind's Daughter shown. Her face was peach and cream; Reflected in the glare, Eyes blue as Heaven's gleam Shone in the north's pure air. Her hair was long and gold, And to her shoulders hung. She wore, they could behold, A rainbow robe that clung. And on her form flowed down A snow-white woollen shawl.- Upon her head no crown, Instead, a helmet tall. And weapons she had too, Within the ship there seen: Bow, spear, and shield on view, Stout forged from copper green. Thus was the Daughter's form, About which legends tell.- That she provokes the storm, All sailors know full well. With terrors she can soar Into the northern height, Lead souls of men to war, All formed up for the fight. And when each lets his spear In warlike manner fly, On earth the people fear, Say: "War and plague are nigh!" In the domain of the North Wind's Daughter As first, Bearslayer stirred, The North Wind's Daughter told, That, lost, they were interred Within the northern cold. But their desire was clear, The homeward course to find: The North Wind's Daughter here, To help might be inclined. The Maiden now explained That this was hard to do: Few crews the course obtained- A very seldom few. To trap them in this deep, Great storms the North Wind sent, Her father, who his sleep In ice-bound caverns spent. Yet longer he would rest, Perhaps a month in all; For them to stay were best, Safe in her island hall. Then later, firm she swore, To strive hard for their sake.- No course Bearslayer saw, But her advice to take. The North Wind's Daughter steered, Her ship sailed further on, To where bright had appeared The glow that earlier shone. And at an island's shore, Its hills in icy grip, Her craft she docked once more, Here led Bearslayer's ship. She took him with his crew Far inland from the shore; Where they, with wondering view, A splendid castle saw. Its towers, roof and walls Of ice were frozen hard.- They stayed outside its halls, The North Wind's sleep to guard. Across broad fields of snow, Rose smoke clouds from the land. Her guests she told to go, And gestured with her hand.- Some way they went apace; The air soon ceased to freeze, And snow drifts now gave place To fields and groves of trees. Within a garden fair, Was, deep as Hell, a pit, Whence flames shot in the air, From fires eternal lit. As they at Earth's core burned, Their endless flames rose hot, This icy island turned Into a verdant plot. Dense foliage, full of fruit, Hung there upon each tree, With babbling brooks to suit- All creatures lived carefree. Wild birds and beasts of prey, But farmyard creatures too, Could flourish here and play, In meadows sweet with dew. The North Wind's Daughter's spear Upon her shield struck thrice- This made small folk appear From all sides in a trice. At Earth's far edge they dwelled, And served the Maid's behest; These folk she now compelled To welcome every guest. A pavilion they observed Where tables full were laid, Delicious food was served, And all was ready made. The North Wind's Daughter bade, Her guests should there appear; And while they ate was glad, To serve to each sweet beer. Another tent again Had beds all warm prepared, That rest might dull the pain Of hardships they had shared.- No sun could come or go, They knew not day or night, Yet still the pit's bright glow Gave forth sufficient light. The time passed full of ease, Of pleasures they were sure; Each day as much could please, As had the one before. They stayed a goodly spell, Could all their needs fulfil, It pleased them there so well, To leave none had the will. Scene 4: The journey back They leave the Northern Land At last Bearslayer stirred: The Maiden he implored, To show the course preferred, And let them go on board. The North Wind's Daughter gave Her vow all to fulfil, But sought their lives to save, With better counsel still. For he should not retrace The path he took before, Because he there would face His enemies of yore, Who now might well succeed To smash him with their force. Therefore, he should proceed Along a better course. This path was long to go, And full of risks severe, But known not to the foe, Whose envy he must fear. The course would lead him past The Land of Ogres, then, Along the coast at last, To reach his home again. Like people with dog's jaw; Thus was the ogres' form. They ate their meat while raw, And drank fresh blood still warm. No mercy could distract Their hunt for humankind. On foot their prey they tracked, Killed all that they could find! Still, men could foil their hunt, By wearing footwear turned, The heel towards the front, So none their path discerned.- Still further was a land Where lived in caves deep set, Of little folk a band, Who helped all those they met. Within their lands were found The Gardens of the Sun. So when it from the ground Rose up, its course to run, It hung close to your hand.- Which meant, at dawn of day, In caves they had to stand, Or burn up in its ray. Here shelves nobody knew, Nor cups on hooks hung loose; Behind the clouds they threw Their spoons straight after use. To get the washing clean, The maids boiled what they wear; Then clouds of steam were seen, And storms formed in the air. On leaving from this land, No more they would see sky, But in the darkness stand, And endless sea pass by. At length their eyes would sight A Hill of Diamonds rare, That sparkles giving light.- Yet none to land should dare! Bright shining is the peak, It glistens without stop- But let no sailor seek, To climb up to the top! Still further on their way, The sky would lighten, then The night would yield to day, And they would see again. A verdant island near Its beauty plain would show.- But let them all know fear, And never closer go! This island to it draws All vessels from the sea, And once upon its shores, They never more come free. If cunning he revealed, Through all these troubles passed, The Northern Sea would yield And bring him home at last. Heartfelt Bearslayer then His earnest thanks could say; Together called his men To set out on their way. But quickly they all scorned Their life of ease to break.- The North Wind's Daughter warned, Her father soon would wake. Then all would be in vain, Their homes they would not reach.- They hurried back again And rushed down to the beach. Their ship they found safe there, As it had been before. It needed no repair, To leave this northern shore. But ice-flows formed up fast And ringed them all around. They felt earth tremors vast, That shook the island's ground. The North Wind's Daughter's cries Were, "Save yourselves and go, My father soon will rise, And winter storms will blow!" Then all knew that they must At once raise up the sail, And, with the wind's first gust, They tried to flee the gale. They scarcely were at sea, When, with a tempest's roar, The snow-capped waves rose free- The North Wind slept no more! In fear of death the crew Exerted all their strength; Before the wind they flew, And got to sea at length. The Land of the Dog-Snout Ogres Long hours in waves they heaved Until, about to drown, Their troubles were relieved, Land found, the anchor down.- They seemed from death here saved, But new risks were at hand: Blown by the storm just braved Into the Ogres' Land! The storm its course had run, The sea could gently rock. The sailors had begun To take of things good stock. The ship survived the storm, Which showed that it was strong. Repairs they would perform, Their voyage then prolong. As far as eye could sight, It was an empty shore. The crew thus thought it right, To go on land once more. Upon a mossy rise, Some doe were grazing near. Bearslayer, for supplies, Went out to hunt the deer. A hope formed from this scene: These parts could well be clear, No Dog-Snouts might have been; Perhaps they need not fear. Bearslayer with some men Approached the mossy hill; Already deer for them He had contrived to kill. And now with dagger blows This meat they would share round.- Then from the hill arose A horrid shrieking sound. And from a cave now poured The Dog-Faced Monsters out.- Surrounded by this horde The men yet battled stout. But doglike teeth soon ripped To shreds men fighting here. Bearslayer firmly gripped, And faced them with his spear. He stabbed the howling gangs, But still could not prevent That with their vicious fangs His hip and side they rent. He had not found the strength To hold them long alone, If not a thought at length Had saving counsel shown. No monsters any more Were pouring from the cave, So he rushed to its door, Therein himself to save. Now, standing in this way, He could, with sturdy limb, Drive off or quickly slay All those that ran at him. A howl the monsters gave, When first they saw this trick, Then rolled before the cave Great boulders broad and thick. They heaped the stones until The entrance they secured. Bearslayer waited, still, Within the cave immured. The sailors could not wait, Until the hunters came; But orders did not state To seek them, all the same. They worked on board until All readied was to sail; Their comrades, missing still, They sought to no avail. They felt a special care About Bearslayer too; Without his presence there, They knew not what to do. But then the helmsman cried: "Bearslayer comes, see now!" And soon with hurried stride He reached the ship's sharp prow. He did not wish to wait, But sailed without delay; Then told the hunters' fate, And how he got away:- Low in the cave's dark rear An opening small he found, That with his heavy spear He widened all around. Within the cave there lay Some half-raw scraps of meat, Of that on every day, A portion he could eat. And after some days more, He fled from in the cave.- The Dog-Snouts to the door, Their full attention gave, And so they had no chance- He gave them all the slip. Without a backward glance, He set off to the ship. They travelled far once more, Across the distant sea, Until they reached the shore, A land where they were free. The Kingdom of Dreams The East, of legend place, Where dreams their kingdom find, First bore the human race, The cradle of our kind! Here sky and ground both merge, Do not exist apart; The gates at Heaven's verge Near Hell's domain here start. Here is the home, behold, The sons of Perkons won, Where bright they forge their gold, In Gardens of the Sun. Its Daughters care devote, Grow golden apples bright. Safe in a diamond boat, Here sleeps the Sun each night. Each morning new, its steeds Swim in the ocean's tide, With golden reins it leads Them from a mountainside. The people living here Enjoy a happy lot; Like children nothing fear, Of evil know no jot. The Gods' Sons them protect, From what foul spirits do. Their destiny close direct The Sun's fair Daughters too. Bearslayer stayed here long, And with his men lived through Of happy days a throng; Saw many wonders too. The people of the land Protected them from harm, And sought to show the band The country's special charm. The Gardens of the Sun Alone they did not show; To live mankind must shun The splendour of their glow. The Hill of Diamonds Bearslayer once again To set off homeward chose.- The happy day came when, Before the Sun arose And crossed through Heaven's dome, The sails were raised up high. The ship set out for home, Beyond the land and sky. The darkness was as thick As in the depths of Hell. The sailors could not pick, One from the other tell. But somewhere far away, A glimmer caught their glance; They steered the ship that way To seize this happy chance. When suddenly, quite near, They reached the Diamond Hill. Although in mists unclear, The peak bright sparkled still. The golden glow they neared, Whose rays like diamonds pour.. To land the helmsman steered- The crewmen rushed ashore. All felt now strong the will The Diamond Hill to seek; Bearslayer warned, but still One clambered to the peak. Up on the hilltop's height, With all to him revealed, Cried: "God, how fair a sight!" But then his fate was sealed. As though on wind's wings borne, From off the hill he flew, Into the air was drawn, And vanished from their view. A second climbed up high, To where the diamonds shone: "Oh God, how fair!" his cry, And then-he too was gone! To miss this fate, a third, Tied to a rope, climbed too. The same words all then heard- He also slipped from view! But others seized the line, And could him backwards draw. Though he would always pine, And never word spoke more. Bearslayer left this hill, And long they sailed around, Their voyage blind until The light of day they found. The Enchanted Isle There was no more delay Upon the journey there; The weather every day Like all the winds was fair. The vessel soon sailed free, And hope in all was born, To find the Baltic Sea.- Then came a fateful dawn: At first by fog concealed, An island came in sight, Whose beauty when revealed Filled all with great delight. Upon Bearslayer dawned, That this the coast must be, Of which the Maiden warned, That draws ships from the sea.- In vain to flee they sought; The coast neared more and more, Until, by magic caught, They grounded on the shore! CANTO V THE JOURNEY TO THE HOMELAND Scene 1: Bearslayer is victorious on the Enchanted Isle They go ashore on the Enchanted Isle Though Spidala revenge had gained And borne Bearslayer's love away, Within her heart deep hate remained; More evil yet she sought to pay! So with the crone she northward flew, Set storms and tempests bursting free, To plague Bearslayer and his crew Upon the unknown Northern Sea. That every man had died is sure, Had North Wind's Daughter not shown guile.- Now further trials they would endure, Upon the strange Enchanted Isle. Recovered from their early fear, A host of captured ships they saw, All drawn in there throughout the year, Upon the island's lonely shore. The ships all lay as though pinned fast, The sea waves crashing all around; Their crewmen frozen round the mast, Stood still as stones and made no sound. Of signs of life the isle was free, Although a path led from a wood, Across a bridge into the sea, And at its end a palace stood. Bearslayer and his crew of men, Crossed on the bridge, went through the door; But even there no sign again Of any living creature saw. That someone lived there, this they knew: On tables food and drink were spread, And in another room in view Stood ready made for each a bed.- Not long the sailors chose to wait, But soon the feasting was begun. They later did not hesitate Into his bed then climbed each one. Bearslayer warned, it was not good, And they would risk their lives this way, Unless someone as sentry stood, To keep them safe until the day. At this, Bearslayer they beseeched Himself that night to stand on guard, Their weariness the point had reached, To watch all night would be too hard. Bearslayer fights the many-headed demons He armed himself and went outside, Upon the bridge the watch to stand, But for a time no-one he spied, A deathly silence filled the land. Then as time's passage midnight brought, A rider came along the track, But at the bridge his horse stopped short; It baulked and tried to gallop back. At this, the rider's anger grew. He shouted in the horse's ear: "What groundless fear is troubling you? No enemy awaits us here. Bearslayer bold, my greatest foe, Is lost upon the Northern Sea. He is too young the course to know, Or come so far to challenge me." On hearing this Bearslayer swore: "You err, you hell-hound, doubt my power; I have indeed come to this shore, And stand before you at this hour!"- A frightful demon with three heads, The rider answered full of spite: "If truly here a hero treads, Then prove your strength and with me fight!" Along the track they rode ahead, Until thick forest blocked the way. "Blow down some trees," the demon said, "To make a clearing for the fray!" "You have three mouths," Bearslayer cried, "That is a task more fit for you!" And, in a circle three miles wide, The trees fell, when the demon blew. The way now freed from blocking trees, So hard the demon struck his foe, Bearslayer sank near to his knees Into the island's ground below. But just as quickly back he fought; His heavy sword flashed in a trice, Its slashing blow the fiend's neck caught, Lopped off one head clean at a slice. Although the demon struggled hard, Bearslayer hacked its shield to shreds, And with his sword forced down its guard, Then struck off both the other heads. He took the body and the horse, Deep in the forest both he led, Back to the building traced his course, His armour loosed, and went to bed. Within the building, sleeping yet, Safe at the bridge's end secure, The sailors faced no further threat, From evil forces guarded sure. The whole next day they did the same, In celebration drank and ate; But asked Bearslayer when night came, To stand once more and guard the gate. He armed himself and went out then, Lest on the bridge a guard should lack. And, see, at midnight once again, A demon rode along the track. And half aloud the rider thought: "Where can my missing brother be? No chance that he Bearslayer fought; The youth still roams the Northern Sea." On hearing this Bearslayer swore: "You err, you hell-hound, doubt my power; That I am here you can be sure. Your brother fell at midnight hour!" This demon fiend, with six-fold head, Then answered him in angry tones: "If you have struck my brother dead, Then I will hack and crush your bones. Blow down some trees," it further cried, "To make a clearing for our fight!" "You have six mouths," the youth replied, "That you should do this task is right!" The demon blew and, six miles round, No tree could stand, the blast defy. It struck Bearslayer to the ground, So hard he sank in to the thigh. But just as quick the youth now fought: His heavy sword flashed in a trice, Its slashing blows the demon caught And two heads fell, lopped at a slice. In single combat long they strove, Until Bearslayer could prevail. He slew the fiend; its horse he drove Deep in the forest's densest trail. Exhausted by the savage fight, Back to the building he returned. He deeply slept throughout the night, Into the day took rest well-earned. The third night came: Bearslayer then The others cautioned watch to keep. The palace he would guard again, But they were not allowed to sleep. If he should need it, help they owed, Within the night, to give him aid.- The mirror that to them he showed, Into his grasp then must be laid. A bowl Bearslayer took in hand, And filled it up with water clear; Upon a table it would stand, By Staburadze's mirror near. If in the night-he told them all- The water in the dish stayed clean, Then they could stay within the hall; No help was needed, this would mean. But if they saw that in the night The water sweet to blood had turned, They all should rush to join the fight- This loyalty his deeds had earned. Bearslayer armour donned again, And stood upon the bridge as guard: At midnight, see, a demon then With nine fierce heads came riding hard. Upon the bridge its horse then propped, It baulked and would no further go. The rider asked why it had stopped: "What do you fear? There is no foe! If to Bearslayer had been shown The way to reach this secret place, Then both my brothers would have known, And would have fought him, face-to-face." Bearslayer roared: "Yes, I am here! I killed your brother yesterday, And at this bridge stand, free of fear, That with your life the price you pay!" Bearslayer's words held meaning plain, And caused the monster long to stare. "If you have both my brothers slain, Your flesh alive to eat I swear!" "Blow down some trees," the demon cried, "To make a clearing for the fray!" "You have nine mouths!" the youth replied, "Why should not you blow trees away?" The demon raised a storm all round, That nine miles wide all trees displaced, Then struck Bearslayer to the ground, So hard he sank in to the waist. But yet Bearslayer was not slow, Three demon heads their blood let spill, But he received a second blow, That drove him downward, deeper still. Again he fought, and struck back strong, Three further heads were tumbling sent. They fought together for so long Both were exhausted, nearly spent. The fiend, who now had but one head, Had sunk Bearslayer armpit deep, Who now supposed the crew he led, Their word to give him aid would keep. But of his men not even one Could help him in the battle hot. All slept already, watching done- His orders they had soon forgot. So, hard his club Bearslayer threw, And three miles even, far away, Straight through their window in it flew, And in the room caused disarray. By such a noise disturbed from sleep, The sailors sprang up to their feet, Thought of the watch that they should keep- With blood the bowl was filled complete! To help the youth all courage found, And ran to save him from distress.- To drive him down below the ground, The fiend stood close before success.- They passed him Staburadze's glass; The demon looked and quickly froze, And helpless lay upon the grass, While with their help Bearslayer rose. From out the hole he clambered free, And cut off quick the final head, Then let his men his anger see: They had not kept good watch, he said. Although he thought the island now Was safe and under their control, The only thing he would allow Was on all sides to make patrol! Perhaps the demon brothers' men Might still be there, he could not tell.- He rested several days and then, Bearslayer searched the island well. SCENE 2: Bearslayer meets Spidala again Bearslayer captures Spidala Once through the forest's gloomy bound They reached a pleasant valley's floor, A cooling well within it found, Near which a tree sweet apples bore. The sailors hastened without thought, There at the well to slake their thirst, But stern Bearslayer caution taught, Forbidding them to drink at first. Deep in the water with his sword, Triangular, a mark he slashed.- Where just before clear water poured, Not water now but blood there splashed! At first, loud wailing cries were heard, But soon again deep silence reigned, And in the water nothing stirred; As clear as amber it remained. At this, he said they might drink free, No harm would suffer, this he knew. They drank, then hurried to the tree, Where near the well the apples grew. They sought as one the fruit to eat, But loud Bearslayer gave a yell- To seek here apples was not meet- And raised his sword, the tree to fell. Just at this moment from the tree A frightened voice begged: "Harm me not!" Alarmed Bearslayer jumped back free, And in that moment, on the spot, The tree became a maiden fair. He looked at her, was sore amazed, With feelings he could scarcely bear- At Spidala his eyes now gazed! Before his feet, herself she threw, And for her life began to plead: She would reveal great secrets true, And make good every wicked deed, No evil more do all her days.- Bearslayer gave to her her life: Foul fiends and giant foes he slays, But with weak women seeks no strife. Then Spidala confessed to him Her every evil deed and ploy, Through which, with Kangars plotting grim, Bearslayer bold they would destroy; How forth Laimdota they could lure, And tricked his friend, Koknesis, too, And that both friend and sweetheart pure In faithfulness to him were true! The ancient witch, whom once before He saw within the Devil's Pit, Upon the pleasant island's shore A spell had placed, her plans to fit. And all the ships this spell there drew Upon the beach were helpless thrown; She then bewitched the sailors too, And every one was turned to stone. The fiends Bearslayer there had killed Were her three sons, foul demon beasts.- The palace at the bridge she filled With sumptuous meals to give them feasts. But as time passed they wished to taste The flesh of human beings sweet; Stone sailors she revived in haste, And gave them to her sons to eat. Her sons' defeat she could not brook; A fearsome anger now burst free, Then of the well the form she took, Made Spidala the apple tree. If they had drunk deep from the well, Before Bearslayer thrust his sword, She would have cast a deadly spell, That painful death would all afford. His slashing sword blows deep inside Had killed the witch-they heard her groan- As Spidala would too have died, Had not Bearslayer mercy shown. In rapturous voice these words she cried: "Success is yours, and Heaven's Sons, With Perkons too, stand at your side, Against all fiends and evil ones." "But further deeds will be the cost, Once to our Fatherland returned.- While on far oceans you were tossed, Our fathers' halls the Strangers burned! Make haste, return home to our land, On these oppressors vengeance wreak! How happy with you I would stand, Like chaste Laimdota virtue seek." "I long salvation sure to win. But who the Devil's grip can shake, Escape a pact conceived in sin, An oath in blood, once signed, can break?" Spidala is freed from her pact with the Devil Now Spidala concealed her face, And bitter tears wept without end. Bearslayer could not doubt the case: She wished her evil ways to mend. From nowhere came a sudden thought: The little package which, that night, From out the Devil's Pit he brought, To keep in mind the evil sight. He bade some men the package bring; To Spidala he gave it then. The moment that she saw the thing, With heartfelt joy she cried again, In gratitude fell to her knee. Before Bearslayer's feet she lay: "Your grateful servant I will be, Bearslayer, now and every day!" "This package is the pact I signed, When evil deeds to do I swore. With this I now can freedom find, And break the Devil's grip once more. For now I can dissolve the pact, Can do good deeds, while yet alive, And seek as much for good to act, As once I would for evil strive!" The magic staff forth now she brought, With which the crone the sailors woke, When human flesh her sons had sought, Went to the beach to save the folk.- She entered every ship and boat, That lay pinned fast upon the shore, And with the staff each sleeper smote, And all rose up, alive once more. To them it seemed a single night That they had slept, and nothing more, And so their sprightly step was light, That took them round the island's shore. Bearslayer stood and watched them long, Then suddenly surprise he knew, For with Koknesis in the throng There stood Laimdota clear in view! SCENE 3: The return to the Fatherland Bearslayer, Koknesis and Laimdota are reunited Escaped from in the convent's bound Laimdota travelled with her knight Through journeys long a seaport found, And there a ship to give them flight.- To foreign ports the sailors sought To bring their goods and make their trade, And on the Daugava's bank they thought To see the castle newly made. Of this Laimdota nothing knew, Nor knew Koknesis, of this fort, And of their loved ones nothing too, Since far away they had been brought. And thus it was their fervent will To seek out soon the Fatherland.- Though Destiny's wish all would fulfil, The course proved longer than they planned! As with Bearslayer, now the crone Sent storms so that their way they lost, And soon, from off their course far blown, Upon an unknown sea they tossed. They wandered blind a lengthy while, Until one day the lookout hailed On sighting clear a pleasant isle, To which with gratitude they sailed. Come near the isle, the ship raced fast, As though a storm wind drove its quest, Until, unstoppable, at last It ran on shore among the rest. Upon the isle a sage old man Across the bridge now led them all That to the palace entrance ran; A sumptuous meal stood in its hall. Then, after all had had their fill, On their own ship they deeply drowsed, And slept away the time until, By Spidala disturbed, they roused.- About their feelings who can tell, Here with Bearslayer now to stand? Upon his neck Laimdota fell, Koknesis firmly pressed his hand. How many words there now flowed free, When each unchecked could full relate Adventures faced on land and sea, Of tribulations and harsh fate? Bearslayer full believed his love; Doubts disappeared-his trust was sure. Again they swore by powers above Their faithfulness for evermore. Alone and separate from the band, No contact Spidala now sought, Until Bearslayer took her hand, Her to the others gently brought. He told them how, now free again, Brave Spidala helped break the spell. With gratitude Laimdota then, Koknesis too, both thanked her well. They asked her to become their friend. And Spidala her friendship swore, And vowed that she would help defend Against all trials the future bore. Well Spidala the island knew, And so the other folk apace She guided all its comforts through.- It proved to be a fruitful place. So fair it was some made a vow To settle there, and thought it well, Because the island's master now Bearslayer was, who broke the spell, That he should stay some weeks or more, Until these folk a chieftain chose.- Across the bridge now lived the four, Within the palace of their foes. This building Spidala knew too: She showed her friends a wondrous hoard, Preserved in chambers there to view, Where many things to eat were stored. Our countrymen here happy grew, Had been content upon this shore, But for the longing that they knew, Their fathers' land to see once more. They longed to serve the Fatherland, To fight and make its troubles cease.- But Destiny's will had not thus planned A life for them of joy and peace. Then came the day they chose, again To journey back where they were born, And so Bearslayer spoke out plain, The people how to live would warn. Koknesis confesses his love for Spidala Koknesis, walking sunk in thought, The island crossed with solemn stride, The pleasant valley pensive sought, Where, in the well, the witch had died. Far off, a flame soon caught his gaze, And near the well, his searching view Showed Spidala beside the blaze, With magic staff and package too. Enchanted words aloud she spoke, As both into the fire she cast: "Into thin air, like dust or smoke, Now vanish: Make me free at last!" At this there reared up from the pyre, And hung a moment in the air, A writhing dragon made of fire, That crackling vanished soon from there. The earth devoured the fire away, And twilight cloaked the valley floor. Then Spidala fell down and lay, While from her eyes flowed tears once more. Touched now, Koknesis took her part, And gently spoke and helped her rise: "Why, little one, so sick at heart, That tears flow from your comely eyes?" Then Spidala felt rising shame, Her answer spoke with voice so small: "These tears I weep in joy's sweet name, And for the future's hope they fall." "I yearn to start my life once more, The evil of the past put by.- Forget whatever here you saw, And let my secret with you lie. Though soon our paths will separate stand, Your memory long my heart will keep." At this Koknesis took her hand, And answered her with feelings deep: "Oh, Spidala, your secret dark For all my life will stay well hid. Already but the half you mark Of wicked things that once you did; Then why should I remember them? But I a secret now must tell, Which, if your heart does not contemn, Will link our paths together well." "Fair Spidala, I love you true. Come, travel now with me life's quest!"- When Spidala his heart's love knew, She paled and asked with heaving breast: "Have you not yet, Koknesis, learned, Whom you as bride seek to persuade? Beside this well just now I burned A compact with the Devil made!" "I know," then said Koknesis stern, "But that it vanished also saw! I know too what respect those earn Who fall and yet rise up once more. More surely to their feet they rise Than those who never fall have known." When Spidala, stunned by surprise, Still hesitated, this his tone: If his first love her could not reach, Then it had been a better fate To stay as stone upon the beach.- At this she did not hesitate: "If love so strong is felt by you, I cannot seek another man; So take me, I will be as true, As in this world a woman can!" With joy Koknesis held her tight, And kissed her tears away complete.- A warm breeze wafted through the night; It was Great Laima's blessing sweet. They return home safely Then came the day they homeward sailed, Their ship set forth upon the sea. The island's magic power had failed, And from the spell the ship was free.- His friends Koknesis told his love, Bearslayer and Laimdota too. Both now rejoiced, since from above Such happiness is sent to few. All sorrows now they soon forgot, That they had suffered in the past. Their strong desire to leave this spot, Back to their land of birth at last.- No more delays to block them seemed; The North Wind sent no raging storm, As though the great Sea Mother deemed Their journey worthy to perform. The far horizon showed them clear, Thick forests that they joyful hailed, The shore rose up, drew ever near.- Into the Daugava's mouth they sailed. CANTO VI THE STRUGGLE AGAINST THE INVADERS Scene 1: The Midsummer's Eve Festival The people come together and give thanks In Latvia now Midsummer came, Called forth its children with one word, The country over, all the same, Now "Ligo, Ligo," clear was heard! The nightingale with sweet refrain By every brook and streamlet trilled. Midsummer, Liga's Eve, again The carefree folk with pleasure filled. Up to the Azure Mountain borne, The logs burned bright, for fires thence hauled. The Ligusoni Priests' loud horn All to the festive evening called. And thence they came, both young and old, Both great and small, a happy throng. The men brought mead from honey gold, The wives brought cheese and bread along. The lads and lasses with them bore Soft grass and wreaths of flowers too, That on Midsummer's Eve all wore, Adorned themselves, and pleasure knew. They danced, they ate, they drank, And down their offerings put; The priests, the folk to thank, Led to the altar's foot, Poured goblets full of mead, Burned costly herbs and rare, Whose sweet aromas, freed, Rose swirling in the air. Together they all sang The famous songs and prayers, That to the goddess rang, And solace brought from cares: "With love we look to you, Ligo, Ligo, Linked here in friendship true, Ligo!" "Our humble farms now bless, Ligo, Ligo, Fill barns with your largesse, Ligo!" "Now saddle your grey horse, Ligo, Ligo! Ride round our fields your course, Ligo!" "Sow seeds of grass and grain, Ligo, Ligo, Fine barley grow again, Ligo!" "For meadow grass we pray, Ligo, Ligo, Our heifers give fine hay, Ligo!" "Let hay our heifers eat, Ligo, Ligo, Our colts feed oats grown sweet, Ligo!" "Make all the flowers grow, Ligo, Ligo, That on our hillsides blow, Ligo!" "Let maidens braid their hair, Ligo, Ligo, With wreaths of flowers fair, Ligo!" "Give young men on all sides, Ligo, Ligo, Hardworking beauteous brides, Ligo!" "To all our daughters yield, Ligo, Ligo, Strong men to till the field, Ligo!" "Come to our farmyards near, Ligo, Ligo, Your children visit here, Ligo!" "Guard us from evil's spell, Ligo, Ligo, That we may love you well, Ligo, Ligo, And of you we may tell, Ligo!" The ancestors' spirits call the people to live in harmony While rich the sound of song rose high Across the vale and woodland's tops, The shadows of their sires gone by Appeared within the sacred copse. Beneath the leafy oaks once more, To guard the people's soul they sped.- The priests these heroes passing saw, And reverent covered each his head. The eldest of the priests then spoke, The teachings of their fathers told: In harmony and peace the folk Each to the other ought to hold; To give their brethren help and aid, When they were caught in suffering's grip.- Then soon both old and young obeyed, And all joined hands in fellowship. They promised friendship through the land, And those in strife with fellow men Went to them, offered warm their hand, And lovingly sought peace again. There in the grove upon the hill, Close to the gods come face to face, The folk could settle every ill, Blessed by the spirits' saving grace. In groups there seated on the grass, The fathers and their wives agreed Within their family gifts to pass, While jugs and horns, filled up with mead, Passed all along from row to row, And each one drank a healthy pull. Then bread and cheese passed to and fro, And all was tasted to the full. They ate and drank, discussed the year: Men had with workmates much to say, And women saw, again drawn near, Clan sisters come from far away. And even greybeards friends could spy, Their childhood comrades there could find, Companions from the days gone by, The age of youth, now left behind. Midsummer's Eve best pleased the young; Their songs through wood and valley rang. The lads in crowds to love gave tongue, Hot-blooded songs of passion sang. The lasses answered, love denied- But in each maid was clear the case, The time she scarcely could abide, Until her love she would embrace. Now closer pushed the youths in rows, Close to the maidens to advance, Until each found the one he chose, And hand in hand they joined the dance. Scene 2: The struggle begins The Lord of Lielvarde brings terrible news Beneath the oak trees on the hill, That by the sacred grove near stood, The priests and chieftains talked their fill Of war and peace, things bad and good.- The runic scriptures in the grove Showed grim portents that warning gave. To know their fate the leaders strove; Their faces and their talk were grave. Old Burtnieks was plain in view With Aizkrauklis, and though delayed, The Lielvarde Lord came too, And soon a speech the old man made. He warmly uttered greetings strong, As old companions welcomed him, Then took his place before the throng, And told them there his tidings grim: "You Chieftains gathered on this hill, Do not yet know the fate that looms, The threat that all with fear must fill, And Latvia's folk to serfdom dooms.- Near Daugava's mouth, as well you know, Upon the river's bank arrayed, The Livians let the Strangers go, And settle there to work and trade." "But later they were joined by more, By men in armour iron-clad, Who with the spring came by the score, And works have done that we forbade. They now control the river lands: At Ikskile a castle-work, At Salaspils a fortress stands.- In these like beasts the plunderers lurk." "Like cunning foxes first they sought With everyone to be a friend; Like ravenous wolves then victims caught, All prey devoured, right to the end. The Livian lands are now laid waste, Each village plundered, burned in spite; The men and women slaughter faced, Who stood against the Strangers' might." "Survivors even lose their soul, Compelled a foreign faith to take. And clear we see now that their goal Is conquest of our folk to make. They seek to break the people's pride, Upon them serfdom's yoke to place, Among themselves then to divide All lands within the Baltic space." "Upon a day now passed not long, The people made report to me Of foreign soldiers armoured strong To Leilvarde riding free. Still full of hope, great haste I made, And armed my people straight away. We stood behind our palisade, Drawn up to face them in the fray." "I asked them plainly why they came. A mighty knight then forward went, And said that Daniel was his name, By Riga's Bishop he was sent To seize all Lielvarde's space. But if I wished he would allow That I might live there by his grace- In my own home a vassal now!" "His own stone castle he would build, That for himself to raise he planned, And hostages to take he willed, From every village in my land. From farms a tenth part was his now, And of their crops a share was due. The Church's Father for each plough Would take from them a levy too." "Such shamelessness I bitter spurned. It would destroy my ancient home: Possessions plundered, houses burned, The people would be slaves to Rome.- Together with a little band I fled to safety from their ranks, And came to Dabrels in his land, Found refuge on the Gauja's banks." "Some Latvian Lords who shared my plight, Came to this stronghold, where they thought With warriors bold to stand and fight, And threw up ramparts round the fort. They, with the Livs as allies, tried To stand against the Strangers' strength; All hoped that though some would have died, They would defeat the knights at length." "By Daniel warned about their stand, A troop of knights the Bishop sent, To travel to the Gauja land; Among them riding, Kaupa went.- In Turaida in open show, The Christian faith he now professed, And formed deep friendships with the foe, That all his people sore distressed." "The Gauja fort for Christ to win, With knights he soon began to seek. The mind of Dabrels doubt put in, And made our fathers' gods seem weak. He said the Bishop had come here, To hold from Riga's Castle sway, And cherish as his children dear, All those who would the Pope obey."- "High on the ramparts Rusin� spoke, Sought Kaupa's message to reject, As was the custom of his folk, His helm removed to show respect. A heavy arrow from a bow Then struck his unprotected head, And mortal wounded by the blow Down to the ground he toppled dead." "All were enraged by this base deed, Ran from the palisade pell-mell; They charged the Strangers without heed, And slaughtered them until night fell." "But reinforcements soon were sent To help the Strangers in the fray; The Latvians then withdrew and went Into their fort to wait for day." "For days and weeks sharp was the fight, Until at last the stockade fell, Defeated by the foemen's might, Like heroes though our men fought well. At length the Latvians, nearly all Found death upon the ramparts high.- And having lost this sheltering wall, Our people's lands defenceless lie." "The Bishop soon his ranks will fill; In sorrow, Lords, such news I send, But, if we do our gods' just will, Our fight will know a happy end. For still in Latvia's rolling lands Are men by whom sharp spears are made, And still a hundred hundred hands That well know how to wield a blade." "So, sound the trumpet, beat the drum, Our warriors brave to war to send, And straight they will as one man come, To fight for freedom to the end!" Bearslayer comes to lead them in the fight While, shocked, the chieftains listened well, Around them through the valley wide The songs of Liga silent fell.- But then a hundred voices cried: "Bearslayer, see, where he comes near!" Rejoicing, people called his name. Into the grove, unchecked by fear, With his companions now he came. Bearslayer, with Laimdota, and Dark Spidala their sires embraced, While firm Koknesis gave his hand. Reunion's joy all gloom displaced. A special joy the fathers knew To see their children safe that day- Now with the young folk close in view, Grave peril's threat seemed far away! With his companions close to him, Bearslayer in the council sat. To all reports he listened grim, And what had passed he learned from that. His heart felt deep and burning pain, His eyes in anger glowed with hate, When, told the story once again, He learned of Lielvarde's fate. The priests proclaimed the night at end, And prayed that all their people dear The god's salvation would defend, But urged their sons to show good cheer, And courage, if they must, to fall, For other folk to give their life.- At this, in thoughtful manner all Now homeward went, prepared for strife. The chieftains knew that soon their lot Would be to fight upon this ground, But still upon this hillside spot, The sun's first rays the council found. They sat together, talking more: As one they pledged to make a stand, Destroy the Strangers in a war, Or drive them all from out the land. Upon their spears this oath they swore, Bearslayer their commander made, The whole assembled host before, And named Koknesis to give aid, With Talvaldis as second man.- Then, once again to friendship sworn, At last the chiefs, as time fast ran, The Azure Mountain left at dawn. Bearslayer's captains, in a band, With Aizkrauklis and Spidala rode, Laimdota too was close at hand, To Burtnieks his sire's abode. The youthful couples wished, once there, To celebrate their wedding vow, And in this ancient manor fair, Take priests' and fathers' blessings now. Bearslayer's Wedding "Why does my garland sit So crooked on my brow? How could it straighter fit, Weighed down with gossip now!" "While I my garland wore, Of Laima was no heed; I wear it now no more, And, weeping, Laima need." "Oh thatch a house with reeds, Put silver pegs beneath, So that our sister, needs, Can hang her oaken wreath." "The rattling bridge astride, The groom now rides in view. My kinsmen, if you ride, Your swords will rattle too!" "Look where in warrior's state My kinsmen do great deeds, With swords attend the gate, And calm their fretful steeds!" Within the castle's palisade The relatives thus joyful call, Awaiting suitors there arrayed, Who ride up, seeking, to the wall. With many friends Bearslayer rode Beside Koknesis to the fort, According to their ancient code, Like strangers, entrance there they sought. They asked about a place to rest, For each, and also for his colt.- Within the gates now every guest Demanded answers to unbolt: From whence they came, to where they rode, If they were safe to have inside; Until Old Burtnieks forth strode, Himself the gates then opened wide. Within the hall were tables laid, With sumptuous meals for feasting fit, And in the centre, clear displayed, Chairs where the suitors had to sit. They asked to see the fairest maid; The wedding party led in some, But they rejected all displayed, Until Laimdota forth had come, With Spidala, and joined the folk. They wore rich clothes, and on their head Were decorated wreaths of oak, Bound with brocade and precious thread. The suitors rose and praised each bride, And sat them in the chairs in state, And both men stood there close beside, And now began to ask them straight If they would sell their garlands here. Such precious goods with payment high They willingly would purchase dear. To which the guests made this reply: "Not with a sack of gold or more, Can maidens such as these be bought. Through neither riches, nor through war, Can maidens such as these be caught." But after both were full agreed. And when the men had promised fast To guard them well, meet every need, The maidens gave consent at last. To marry both, the priests now came. With ivy twined round leaves of oak Their hands were joined in Laima's name; Meanwhile the priests this blessing spoke: "Just as the supple ivy curls, And round the oak itself entwines, So with the slender new-wed girls, Whom love now with their groom combines!" The grooms before them gifts now spread- With tears her wreath gave up each bride. Then on their heads were placed instead Expensive caps of marten's hide, Adorned with silver was each hat. Each new-wed bride went with her man Up to the table, where they sat.- The wedding banquet now began. All day into the night it went; Led by the songs of choirs sweet, They danced until their strength was spent. But when the pairs went to their seat, Old Burtnieks, grown stern, required That banqueting should early cease.- Much sooner, then, the guests retired Than if their land had been at peace. Scene 3: The Latvians enjoy early success The Latvian warriors gather from all sides The new-wed pairs did not have long Their joyous unions to fulfil, Nor happiness to fashion strong, For Destiny's harsh unswerving will The grooms soon called into the field, From loving arms the husbands tore, To where in armour spears men wield, And where their legs wade deep in gore. War's trumpet Burtnieks now let On every hilltop brassy sound, On every lofty mound they set At night the watch-fires burning round. And every chieftain did the same, Passed on the sign the rest to show- A signal that to all soon came, To gather and to war to go. In every village homestead then, Across the Latvian country broad, The people's sons, the younger men, Prepared for war, grasped spear and sword, And saddled up their dashing steeds. Each sister and each young man's bride Adorned their helmets, then must, needs, With tears and singing part-way ride. Now soon on every road and track -They slept at night beneath a tree- A gathering host streamed to attack, And after two full days or three, Together came upon their course. Bearslayer led thence further groups, And at the meeting-place in force "All hail! All hail!" rejoiced the troops. Old Burtnieks rode with them too, And Lielvardis-both of those Close by the fighting in full view Wished to remain until the close. No longer there Laimdota more Nor Spidala at home would stay; The two young brides forth to the war, Rode with the army on its way. There, where the River Gauja falls Through gorges to the valleys' bounds, With palisades and earthen walls, Stood many strongholds built on mounds. Beside the streams in forests dense, There lived the clans and Latvian Lords. Led by Bearslayer riding thence, Here entered now the warlike hordes. When they, in nests along the way, A German infestation found, The vermin pest was cleared that day.- They further marched and reached the ground That used to Dabrels to belong. Here they encountered German knights, Who there had built a castle strong And fortified it for their fights. Bearslayer took it back again, And many German knights there died, Who lost their lives against our men.- The host rolled on then like a tide, Far, in a surging wave, it flowed Unstoppable through vale and wood, Advanced until the soldiers rode To Turaida where Kaupa stood. Here in the Livian people's lands, They plainly saw as they passed by, Each village lay in German hands. In fields of barley and of rye The golden grain swayed full and fat; The Livians ploughed and sowed the fields, But Strangers ate their fill of that, Then sold the straw and other yields. And closely with the castles merged, Stood foreign churches, places where The priests and monks the people urged The Christian faith with them to share. But by the Strangers converts here Were held as servants in their thrall; And from the Livians every year They took a tribute from them all. A band of those not Christian turned Into the unknown forest spilled, In deepest thickets clearings burned, And chopped down trees their huts to build, There kept the ancient gods' commands.- But even here the Bishop's spies Could search them out and made demands Of tribute that to all applies. The recapture of Turaida Alarmed by this advancing horde The Strangers fled from their estates, Left monks and churches to the sword, Withdrew inside Turaida's gates. Where soon, attacking in a ring, From all around Bearslayer fought, But found it not an easy thing, To conquer them the way he sought. High on the walls were many knights Whose heavy bolts, in hundreds loosed, Drove back the Latvians from the heights. But then Bearslayer's men produced A scaffold built of wooden planks, On which, in deepest dark of night, They breached the castle wall in ranks, And to its ramparts brought the fight. The struggle filled them all with dread, And both at times had to withdraw, For both sides suffered many dead.- Bearslayer, at the very fore, Slew many knights, until at length, The armoured Germans all saw clear That not their strongest matched his strength, And seeing this the knights knew fear. So great this fear that at his sight They threw their swords and shields aside, And let Bearslayer, without fight, Choose those who lived and those who died.- Bearslayer razed the castle's stone, While monasteries and churches high In piles of ashes down were thrown, To Strangers refuge to deny. False Kaupa was not there himself, But safe in Riga's Castle walls, Where more and more he kept his wealth, And dwelled within the Bishop's halls. Among the foes who captive fell Was Dietrich too, the man of prayer. With lying tongue he sought to tell, At Kaupa's wish he had been there, Who gave to him the castle's ground. He therefore asked that as a guest All those be seen, whom there they found, And granted life and spared arrest. Bearslayer honoured Kaupa still, And so he thought to grant them this, But strong the Livs opposed his will, Since much with it they found amiss: For by this person's lying tongue A hundred times they were deceived, By word and deed they had been stung, The cruellest blows from him received. Thus, if Bearslayer would allow That Dietrich and the others live, To render justice they asked now, The ruthless priest to them to give. At this Bearslayer gave consent That Dietrich there should pay the price, And to the sacred grove they went, To give their gods a sacrifice. But if a prisoner rode a grey That, stepping thrice across a spear, With left hoof each time led the way, This was a sign that showed them clear, The gods refused this man to take. The cunning Dietrich knew this lore, And so arranged the test to make And saved himself, though death seemed sure. The Strangers-those who were not dead- Were stripped of weapons, armour too, Bare-headed all to Riga led.- Then all the captured land in view Bearslayer gave the Livians back. Behind he left Talvaldis then To guard the Gauja from attack, Together with the Livian men. Bearslayer took a second force; Swift with Koknesis forth he rode, And with his father set the course To what was once their own abode. The return to Lielvarde In Lielvarde now they saw, Like Turaida the Strangers thronged, And settled there with manner sure, As though to them it all belonged! Great anger Lielvardis felt At what his folk had had to face, For Daniel Bannerov harsh dealt, And of compassion showed no trace. There in the ancient stronghold's stead He raised a castle's walls up high, And from it launched a reign of dread, In lands that near the Daugava lie. Forth thence he sallied and returned, Destroyed and looted any day, Both villages and houses burned, Oppressed the folk in every way. Some elders then from him had fled, Who by such horrors were appalled. When to the woods their clans they led, A halt to plundering Daniel called. Swift messengers to them he sent, Who said oppression now had ceased; With them to live in peace he meant, And all invited to a feast. These elders, yet who did not know The depths of Daniel's evil mind, Believed him and resolved to go, And peace with him there thought to find. Outside the wall with them to meet, To a pavilion Daniel went, Invited them to drink and eat, And seemed to speak with good intent. But suddenly, from them concealed, While at the table they felt sure, He quickly went out in the field, And locked the stout pavilion's door- His murderous plan to start a fire! Around the building men piled straw, Then on all sides they lit the pyre, And soon they watched the hot flame soar. The heat and smoke inside burst through, And all the elders loudly screamed, While Daniel and his butcher crew Stood on the castle walls and beamed. With devilish laughter they looked back, But laughter turned to looks of fear When, riding from the forest track, Just then they saw armed men appear. With shield and heavy spear arrayed Bearslayer rode them all before. He heard the shouted cries for aid, And straight away broke down the door. Then with the help of other men, He quickly to the rescue went. The elders hailed Bearslayer then, As though by Heaven he were sent! Their gratitude was not concealed That rescue safe they had received; And then the elders plain revealed, How Daniel's lies had all deceived. On hearing of this devil's trick, Bearslayer's anger knew no bounds; He called his men together quick, And swore to take the castle's grounds. Although the knights fought hard and long, And strove the fortress to defend, They could not block Bearslayer's throng, Who took the castle in the end. Then every captured knight they slew, And only one could still survive. Just Daniel Bannerov lived through, Was taken prisoner, yet alive. The knight was given, on that day, Into the village elders' hands, Revenge to take in their own way For his base deeds within their lands. Bearslayer and Laimdota know brief peace Of Lielvarde word spread wide, It was Bearslayer's home once more! In every house on every side, To all, great joy the tidings bore. As though new-born all felt fresh life, And those, who to the forest's space Had fled from there to hide from strife, Returned and took their former place. All hurried then in joyful ranks To Lielvarde's castle gate, To greet Bearslayer and give thanks That he had saved them from harsh fate; Their mood was bright with victory's glance.- A feast gave Lielvardis there, Where all could eat and drink and dance, And booty was divided fair. The chiefs exulted, then one day, All thought of Daniel's crimes once more. They dragged him out, led him away, And took him to the Daugava's shore. "You, German dog," to him they cried, "Through you we felt the fire's scald! But power now is on our side- To you we give the water's cold!" They took a plank of wood at last, And on his back tied to the beam Placed Daniel there, with ropes made fast, And pushed it in the river's stream: "Sail to your homeland back," they mocked, "Go seek your brothers' welcoming hands! And take the foreign faith, here blocked, Away with you to other lands!" By fear they had not felt before The Strangers all were gripped when told About the mighty feats in war Performed by Latvia's hero bold. They ran away from every side And fled to Riga with one mind, In its cathedral sought to hide, In those strong walls a haven find. But even there, in this dark hour, No longer safety Albert knew- That soon in Baltic lands his power Would fade away, this was his view. And so, to get more armoured knights, He sailed the sea to German shore, Men to recruit to fight his fights, And in the spring renew the war. In Riga, ruling in his place, He left false Kaupa, who explained, He would protect by God's good grace All Christian Strangers who remained. The danger now was fully spent, Bearslayer knew, throughout the land, And so his soldiers homeward sent.- In Lielvarde, hand in hand Peace with Laimdota now found there. She worked inside all to restore, He strove the buildings to repair, And farmyard labours oversaw. Koknesis too from war returned, And Aizkrauklis, from battle spent. With Spidala, to rest well earned, To Aizkraukle all three now went. From them with love they took their leave Bearslayer and Laimdota both; In parting sought not deep to grieve, To friends' good fortune made an oath. Old Lielvardis, with his friend, To Burtnieks's castle rode. The two old men wished in the end To make together their abode. To satisfy their own deep needs Now lived Bearslayer and his bride. Although great fame came through their deeds, And honour from the people's side, There on the Daugava's pleasant shore At last they found what, all above, Their hearts throughout had missed so sore- Sweet happiness and married love! Scene 4: The death of Bearslayer and the conquest of Latvia The secret of Bearslayer's strength is revealed The springtime came and, once again, Clothed hills and valleys all in green; And wakened nature's creatures then, That frisky gambolling could be seen. Within our Fatherland it seemed That warlike times had safely passed. All stayed at home because they deemed That springtime work should start at last. They fixed the plough and beat the share, Worked hard each fence and yard to mend.- And even Kangars sought fresh air, And worked his garden beds to tend. He cut off branches, stakes drove in, To help the plants there healthy grow. His face looked sullen now, and thin, And let despairing feelings show. The seed sown in his Fatherland, As everywhere, so with him too, Had borne a bitter fruit unplanned, And disappointment now he knew. The people no more came in need, As once in droves to him they poured; The Strangers took of him no heed.- But something else within him gnawed: Bearslayer lived unharmed, and worse, Had lasting fame among the folk, And Spidala fled Satan's curse, When from his grasping claws she broke. His future now was death, he knew, And all the torments that would give; Condemned he was, his last years through, With bitter heart each day to live. And so he scarcely felt more fear, When, as the sun was growing dim, He heard a voice, his garden near, In hollow tones that greeted him. He raised his head, and at the gate, There cruel Dietrich came in view. Then Kangars spoke, these words to state: "I truly am amazed that you Should visit here, your presence show. Did growing fat on roasted meat Within stone castles tedious grow?" Then Dietrich thus could Kangars greet: "The feasts I ate there did not pall; But soon of them will be no more, Unless your powers heed my call. If you will help, reward is sure." He said it was the Bishop's will, New troops to Riga soon to lead, But all would be in vain while still Bearslayer all the Baltic freed, And stood against the German force. From Kangars aid they sought, to show Of bold Bearslayer's strength the source, So that a knight could lay him low. Then Kangars gave this answer back: Ten times he had upon the Earth Loosed giants and his demon pack, But all had been of little worth. Bearslayer killed them all in fights, And had escaped each plot in turn. If now Bearslayer scythed down knights, That were to Kangars small concern. But yet, another circumstance Led him to be the hero's foe- Though just what plan would have a chance Against the youth, he did not know. Hell's demons often served him well, Consulted, they might find a way. If in his hut were fit to dwell, Then Dietrich there some time could stay. That night then Kangars all alone Tight shut himself within his room, That Dietrich, if he heard him groan, Would not know fear within the gloom. At midnight then a whirlwind's throes Shook hard the house from all around; Where Kangars dwelled loud groaning rose, And then was heard a screeching sound. So horrible that, out of fear, On Dietrich's head stood up his hair; He crossed himself, such sounds to hear, And loud recited every prayer.- No pause to sleep by day or night, Long Kangars strove, help to invoke; The third day at the morning's light, These earnest words to Dietrich spoke: "Accursed to all will be the day Bearslayer's secret was exposed; As traitors, curses too our pay. Here through our deeds, quite unopposed, The Evil One will soon be free To do at will each wicked deed. My guilty henchman, hark to me, To what I tell you pay good heed." "A mother bear Bearslayer bore; The babe a holy hermit sired. His mother's line gave strength, but more- Through her the youth bear's ears acquired, And if opponents can prevail, And both his ears slice off with speed, His mighty power at once will fail. Enough! Go now. No thanks I need." Bearslayer and the Black Knight fight to the death The Bishop, Albert, now brought back A host of knights to fight anew. Among them was a knight in black, Who well the work of plundering knew. He claimed his mother was a witch Who guided him with magic charm, And he in devil's arts so rich, That never wound could cause him harm. This Black Knight Dietrich chose, to fight And be his weapon in the fray, To beat Bearslayer's strength and might, And best him in a cunning way. He welcomed Kaupa too once more, To help them conquer with his sword, And in the name of God he swore, In Heaven all would find reward. One day Bearslayer resting sat, Close by Laimdota in their hall, And idly talked of this and that. But over her now hung a pall; She was not happy as at first.- A time her thoughts she still concealed, Then in a trembling voice conversed, And with these words her plight revealed: "Bearslayer, my beloved, speak, What can it mean that many a day, Against my wish, my mood is bleak, And in my heart cold fear holds sway? I am so happy, but I fear That something could disturb our joy, For reasons that I do not know, And soon perhaps our life destroy." Before Bearslayer love had shown, To calm her sorrow had contrived, The keeper of the gate made known, That friendly riders had arrived, And asked if he might let them through.- On looking out the window then, Bearslayer at the gate could view, With Kaupa in their midst, strange men. Bearslayer did not hesitate- He recognized great Kaupa clear- And said to open up the gate, As guests, with honour brought them near. Now Kaupa said that they were sent By Bishop Albert to make peace, And through the land as heralds went, That friendship strong might never cease. Bearslayer never sought a war Unless the cause were justified. And so good will to Kaupa bore, And willing let him come inside. At Lielvarde they all stayed As honoured guests so long they would. And for them there Bearslayer made The best provision that he could. But still Laimdota restless grew, The Black Knight near her could not bear, Although he sought to change her view With gracious words and flattery fair. Bearslayer ordered contests held, And tournaments were staged at length. Then came a day when both had felled Opponents beaten by their strength. The Black Knight to Bearslayer spoke, And made a challenge to a fight. The youth refused him with a joke; He did not wish to give a slight. The Knight, however, angry seemed, And answered in a mocking way: No test of strength for him he deemed, To beat Bearslayer in a fray, Despite the boasting he had heard! Bearslayer did not tarry more, But at the Knight without a word Swung hard the heavy sword he bore. At first Bearslayer thought it sport, And jousted in light-hearted way; But, fighting fierce, the Black Knight brought Great strength and litheness to the fray. And suddenly in swift attack Bearslayer's ear clean off he slit. Enraged, Bearslayer struck him back; His blow the Knight's stout armour split. The Black Knight's blood began to pour, But bold Bearslayer's sword had cracked. The Knight saw this, and struck once more- The other ear his slash clear hacked! Bearslayer's anger knew no bound: He seized the Black Knight in his grasp; Their deadly struggle shook the ground, As now they fought to their last gasp. Three times Bearslayer seized him fast, And seemed the heavy Knight to beat. Three times he staggered at the last; The Knight broke free with kicking feet. The watching men stood pale with fear, As though their feet were rooted deep, While to the edge the two came near, Right to the lofty cliff-top steep. The Daugava takes Bearslayer to its bosom His foe at last Bearslayer flung Into the river's depths to drown, But round with heavy armour hung, The Black Knight dragged Bearslayer down. The waters made a cracking sound, The waves surged high and took the pair, And, in their fight together bound, Down in the depths they vanished there! Into the Daugava's surging flood Now sank the setting sun's pale glow. A thick mist rose and dripped like blood; The waves sighed mournful down below. The foaming waters parted wide, And took the hero to their breast. An island rose up in the tide, And in this place he sank to rest. Within the castle fearful screams And cries of lamentation rose, And now Laimdota-dead her dreams- To end her life that moment chose. The Latvian warriors, stricken sore, His kin and brethren, all in sum, Now, one by one, fell in the war, By stronger forces overcome. The Strangers gained the upper hand, And ruled as lords, cruel and depraved: The well-loved people of the land, For centuries were all enslaved. But still, though ages long pass by, The grieving folk his memory keeps.- For them, in death he does not lie, But in a golden palace sleeps. Below the island risen there, He lies within the Daugava's breast, With Latvia's folk their fate to share, And close to Lielvarde rest. From time to time, late in the night, The Daugava boatmen sometimes see Two men in combat on the height, In struggles that they cannot flee. While in the castle ruins, clear, A little flame there flickers bright. The fighting men the edge come near, But take no heed, so hot their fight. Until at last they cross the bounds, And deep into the depths they drop.- A scream within the castle sounds, The little flame's bright flickers stop. It is Bearslayer struggling there The Strangers to eradicate.- But long Laimdota's watching stare Upon his triumph yet must wait. But still, the day will come, is sure, When he the Black Knight will cast down: In Staburags's raging maw, His deadly foe alone will drown. Then for the folk new times will dawn; At last their freedom will be born. GLOSSARY OF PERSONAL AND PLACE NAMES The entries in this section explain personal and place names for the purposes of the poem. I am not trying to give you a history or geography lesson! The material in square brackets after each Latvian word explains how I would like you to pronounce that word. This pronunciation is necessary for the metrical structure of the English-language poem, and may differ from standard Latvian pronunciation. I apologize for any offence that this causes. The syllable represented in the square brackets as "-a" should be pronounced as in "bad", the one represented as "-ah" as a long "bad". The syllable represented as "-e" should be pronounced as in "bed", "-o" as in "hot", "-oh" as in "throw,""oo" as in "zoo", "ow" as in "bough", "-u" as in "hut" and "uh" as in "book". Syllables in boldface should be stressed. Aizkraukle [Eyes-krow-kle]: A Latvian stockade near the southern bank of the River Daugava, about 100 Km SE of Riga. Aizkrauklis [Eyes-krow-kliss]: The Lord of Aizkraukle; father of Spidala. Albert: The third Bishop of Uexküll (Latvian: Ikskile); sent by Pope Innocent III in 1199. He was the most effective in subjugating the Baltic people. He recruited the Sword Brothers (warrior monks and priests), who brought Christianity by force after diplo- macy and gifts failed. All Souls Night: A night in October when the souls of the dear departed return to visit the living; comparable with Halloween. Antrimps [Un-trimps}: The God of the Sea. Austra [Ow-stru]: The Goddess of the Morning/the Dawn. Azure Mountain: A sacred mountain where ancient writings were kept; meeting place of the folk at Midsummer. Black Knight: A German knight brought to Latvia by Bishop Albert to kill Bearslayer. Burtnieks [Buhrt-nee-eks]: A wise Latvian Lord; teacher of Bearslayer and father of Laimdota. Crystal Palace: The home of Staburadze beneath the whirl- pool of Staburags. Dabrels [Dubb-rells]: A Latvian Lord whose stockade was on the River Gauja near modern-day Sigulda. Across the river was Kaupa's stockade (Turaida). Daniel [Dunn-yell]: The German knight who occupied Lielvarde (Bearslayer's home). Daugava [Dow-g'vu]: The revered, almost sacred, principal river of Latvia. Its course lies mainly SE of Riga, but it flows into the sea to the west of Riga. Destiny's Father: A pseudomythological figure invented by Pumpurs; the arbiter of human destiny-Fate. Devil's Pit: A huge underground chamber dug under the River Daugava by the Devil. Dietrich [Dee-trich]: A German priest who came to Latvia to prepare the way for Bishop Albert. Dog-Snout Ogres: Mythological monsters in Latvian and Estonian folk tales. Enchanted Isle: An island that draws ships to its shores. It is inhabited by the demon sons of the Old Witch (see Canto II). Evil One (the): The Devil. Fiend (the) The Devil (when capitalized; otherwise a demon). Gauja [Gow-yu]: The largest river entirely within Latvia. Its course lies NE of Riga. Henry: A Latvian who was educated in Germany and became a Christian priest in Latvia. He is remembered as "Henry of Livonia" Holy Father: The Pope; Celestine III proclaimed the third Northern Crusade (the Baltic Crusade) in 1193; Innocent III succeeded Celestine, and appointed Bishop Albert in 1198. Ikskile [Eeks-chill-e]: A Livian town on the northern bank of the Daugava, SE of Riga; the Germans had already built a fort there before the arrival of Albert. Kalapuisis [Kull-u-poo-iss-iss]: A gigantic Estonian warrior; more or less the Estonian equivalent of Bearslayer. Kangars [Kun-gars]: A Latvian holy man who had secretly made a pact with the Devil. Kaupa [Cow-pu]: A great Latvian Lord whose stockade was at Turaida on the Gauja. Kingdom of Dreams: A land in the east where sky and earth meet and the gates of Heaven and Hell are found. It is the home of the Sons of the Gods and the Daughters of the Sun. Koknesis [Kwock-ness-is]: A mighty youth who lived near the River Perse; Bearslayer's close friend. kokle [kwock-le]: Traditional Latvian musical instrument - something like a zither. Kegums [Chag-ums]: A town on the Daugava about 50 Km. SE of Riga. Laima [Lye-mu]: The Goddess of Destiny/of Happiness. Laimdota [Lime-dwo-tu]: The beautiful, virtuous, learned and wise daughter of Burtnieks. Lake Peipus [Pay-puss]: A large lake along the border between Estonia and Russia Latvian Lords: Latvian chieftains or clan (family) heads who lived in stockades (castles) behind wooden palisades on higher ground along the tributaries of the major rivers. Lielvarde [Lee-ell-var-de]: A Latvian stronghold on the northern bank of the Daugava, about 55 Km. SE of Riga; home of Bearslayer and his foster father, Lielvardis. Lielvardis [Lee-ell-var-diss]: The Latvian Lord of Lielvarde; foster father of Bearslayer. Liga [Lee-gu]: The Goddess of Song. Ligo [Lee-gwu]: Sing! (midsummer songs). Ligusoni Priests [Lee-gu-swon-yee]: People selected to lead the (pagan) midsummer rites at the Azure Mountain. Livian lands: The lands of the Livs: In Western Latvia, and thus the first area occupied by the Germans. Livs: A Finnic (i.e., non-Latvian) people who lived along the shores of the Gulf of Riga and the Daugava estuary. Lucifer: The Devil. Midsummer's Eve: A traditional, extremely important, still-celebrated Latvian folk festival-Jani. Nine-Headed Demon: A son of the Old Witch. He lived on the En- chanted Isle and was killed by Bearslayer. North Wind's Daughter: The daughter of Ziemelis, the North Wind. Northern Sea: The bitterly cold, stormy sea at the top of the world. The domain of Ziemelis. Pakols [Pu-kwolls]: The God of Death. Patrimps [Pu-trimps}: The God of Fertility and Wealth. Perkons [Pah-kwons]: The God of Thunder; a strong supporter of the Latvian people. Perse [Pair-se]: A river (and waterfall) that flows into the Daugava near Aizkraukle, about 100 Km. SE of Riga. Pu�kaitis [Push-kye-tiss]: A pseudomythological figure invented by writers in the nineteenth century; often depicted as the God of Trees. Riga's Bishop: Bishop Albert Romove [Roo-oh-mwo-vu]: A town located near the site of modern-day Vilnius in Lithuania; sacred to all three Baltic peoples (Latvians, Lithuanians, Prussians). Rusin� [Roo-sinsh]: A Latvian warrior treacherously killed by a crossbow bolt at the start of the battle for Dabrels's stockade. Sacred copse: A sacred grove of trees on the Azure Mountain. Salaspils [Su-luss-pills]: A town on the Daugava where the Germans had already built a castle prior to the arrival of Albert. Saulite [Sow-lee-tu]: The Sun-Goddess, wife of the Moon. At Midsummer she wore a headdress of red blossoms and danced on the hilltops in silver shoes. To honour her, at Midsummer human women wore similar braided wreaths in their hair, and walked through the fields singing songs to her- see "Ligo". Sereniete [(Se-re-nee-e-te]: A witch, who assisted Spidala to throw Bear- slayer down into the whirlpool of Staburags. Six-Headed Demon: A son of the Old Witch. He lived on the Enchanted Isle and was killed by Bearslayer. Spidala [Spee-du-lu]: The beautiful daughter of Aizkrauklis. She was a witch who had entered into a pact with the Devil, but escaped with Bearslayer's help. Staburadze [Stu-boo-rud-zu]: A goddess who lives in a Crystal Palace beneath the whirlpool of Staburags. Staburadze's glass: A mirror given to Bearslayer by the Goddess Staburadze. Evildoers who look into it see the face of Perkons, and are frozen with terror. Staburadze's maidens: Beautiful and especially virtuous young women, who live for a time with Staburadze to be educated. Staburags [Stu-boo-rugs]: A high cliff above the River Daugava with a whirlpool at its foot. Strangers The German knights sent to christianize Latvia , especially those sent by Innocent III under the leadership of Albert. Talvaldis [Tarl-vull-diss]: A Latvian leader; second-in-command to Bearslayer (although hardly mentioned in the poem). Three-Headed Demon: A son of the Old Witch. He lived on the Enchanted Isle and was killed by Bearslayer. Tikla [Tick-lu]: The Goddess of Virtue. Turaida [Too-rye-du]: A Latvian stronghold on the River Gauja NE of Riga, where Kaupa was the Latvian Lord; across the river from Dabrels's stockade. Uzin� [Oo-zinysh]: The God ("patron saint") of Bees (and Horses). Vaidelots [Vye-de-lwots]: The Messenger of the Gods, who brings news from them (from Romove) to mortals. Viduveds [Vid-oo-vads]: A man of legendary wisdom, who lived in the sixth century; also known in Prussian legends. Witch (Old Witch): A crone who had authority over the younger witches in the Devil's Pit. She was the mother of the Three-, Six- and Nine-Headed Demons on the Enchanted Isle. Ziemelis [Zee-em-ell-is]: The North Wind; hostile to human beings. Zunda [Zuhn-da]: Narrow straits between the Estonian island of Saaremaa and the Kurzeme Peninsula (i.e., on the Estonia-Latvia border). 
14019	----	THE HARVARD CLASSICS EDITED BY CHARLES W. ELIOT LLD. EPIC AND SAGA THE SONG OF ROLAND THE DESTRUCTION OF DÁ DERGA'S HOSTEL WITH INTRODUCTIONS AND NOTES VOLUME 49 1910 THE SONG OF ROLAND TRANSLATED BY JOHN O'HAGAN _INTRODUCTORY NOTE_ _In the year 778 A.D., Charles the Great, King of the Franks, returned from a military expedition into Spain, whither he had been led by opportunities offered through dissensions among the Saracens who then dominated that country. On the 15th of August, while his army was marching through the passes of the Pyrenees, his rear-guard was attacked and annihilated by the Basque inhabitants of the mountains, in the valley of Roncesvaux About this disaster many popular songs, it is supposed, soon sprang up; and the chief hero whom they celebrated was Hrodland, Count of the Marches of Brittany. There are indications that the earliest of these songs arose among the Breton followers of Hrodland or Roland; but they spread to Maine, to Anjou, to Normandy, until the theme became national. By the latter part of the eleventh century, when the form of the "Song of Roland" which we possess was probably composed, the historical germ of the story had almost disappeared under the mass of legendary accretion. Charlemagne, who was a man of thirty-six at the time of the actual Roncesvaux incident, has become in the poem an old man with a flowing white beard, credited with endless conquests; the Basques have disappeared, and the Saracens have taken their place; the defeat is accounted for by the invention of the treachery of Ganelon; the expedition of 777-778 has become a campaign of seven years; Roland is made the nephew of Charlemagne, leader of the twelve peers, and is provided with a faithful friend Oliver, and a betrothed, Alda. The poem is the first of the great French heroic poems known as "chansons de geste." It is written in stanzas of various length, bound together by the vowel-rhyme known as assonance. It is not possible to reproduce effectively this device in English, and the author of the present translation has adopted what is perhaps the nearest equivalent--the romantic measure of Coleridge and Scott. Simple almost to bareness in style, without subtlety or high imagination, the Song of Roland is yet not without grandeur; and its patriotic ardor gives it a place as the earliest of the truly national poems of the modern world._ THE SONG OF ROLAND PART I THE TREASON OF GANELON SARAGOSSA. THE COUNCIL OF KING MARSIL I The king our Emperor Carlemaine, Hath been for seven full years in Spain. From highland to sea hath he won the land; City was none might his arm withstand; Keep and castle alike went down-- Save Saragossa, the mountain town. The King Marsilius holds the place, Who loveth not God, nor seeks His grace: He prays to Apollin, and serves Mahound; But he saved him not from the fate he found. II In Saragossa King Marsil made His council-seat in the orchard shade, On a stair of marble of azure hue. There his courtiers round him drew; While there stood, the king before, Twenty thousand men and more. Thus to his dukes and his counts he said, "Hear ye, my lords, we are sore bested. The Emperor Karl of gentle France Hither hath come for our dire mischance. Nor host to meet him in battle line, Nor power to shatter his power, is mine. Speak, my sages; your counsel lend: My doom of shame and death forefend." But of all the heathens none spake word Save Blancandrin, Val Fonde's lord. III Blancandrin was a heathen wise, Knightly and valiant of enterprise, Sage in counsel his lord to aid; And he said to the king, "Be not dismayed: Proffer to Karl, the haughty and high, Lowly friendship and fealty; Ample largess lay at his feet, Bear and lion and greyhound fleet. Seven hundred camels his tribute be, A thousand hawks that have moulted free. Let full four hundred mules be told, Laden with silver enow and gold For fifty waggons to bear away; So shall his soldiers receive their pay. Say, too long hath he warred in Spain,-- Let him turn to France--to his Aix--again. At Saint Michael's feast you will thither speed, Bend your heart to the Christian creed, And his liegeman be in duty and deed. Hostages he may demand Ten or twenty at your hand. We will send him the sons whom our wives have nursed; Were death to follow, mine own the first. Better by far that they there should die Than be driven all from our land to fly, Flung to dishonor and beggary." IV "Yea," said Blancandrin, "by this right hand, And my floating beard by the free wind fanned, Ye shall see the host of the Franks disband And hie them back into France their land; Each to his home as beseemeth well, And Karl unto Aix--to his own Chapelle. He will hold high feast on Saint Michael's day And the time of your tryst shall pass away. Tale nor tidings of us shall be; Fiery and sudden, I know, is he: He will smite off the heads of our hostages all: Better, I say, that their heads should fall Than we the fair land of Spain forego, And our lives be laden with shame and woe." "Yea," said the heathens, "it may be so." V King Marsil's council is over that day, And he called to him Clarin of Balaguet, Estramarin, and Eudropin his peer, Bade Garlon and Priamon both draw near, Machiner and his uncle Maheu--with these Joïmer and Malbien from overseas, Blancandrin for spokesman,--of all his men He hath summoned there the most felon ten. "Go ye to Carlemaine," spake their liege,-- "At Cordres city he sits in siege,-- While olive branches in hand ye press, Token of peace and of lowliness. Win him to make fair treaty with me, Silver and gold shall your guerdon be, Land and lordship in ample fee." "Nay," said the heathens, "enough have we." VI So did King Marsil his council end. "Lords," he said, "on my errand wend; While olive branches in hand ye bring, Say from me unto Karl the king, For sake of his God let him pity show; And ere ever a month shall come and go, With a thousand faithful of my race, I will follow swiftly upon his trace, Freely receive his Christian law, And his liegemen be in love and awe. Hostages asks he? it shall be done." Blancandrin answered, "Your peace is won." VII Then King Marsil bade be dight Ten fair mules of snowy white, Erst from the King of Sicily brought Their trappings with silver and gold inwrought-- Gold the bridle, and silver the selle. On these are the messengers mounted well; And they ride with olive boughs in hand, To seek the Lord of the Frankish land. Well let him watch; he shall be trepanned. AT CORDRES. CARLEMAINE'S COUNCIL VIII King Karl is jocund and gay of mood, He hath Cordres city at last subdued; Its shattered walls and turrets fell By Catapult and mangonel; Not a heathen did there remain But confessed him Christian or else was slain. The Emperor sits in an orchard wide, Roland and Olivier by his side: Samson the duke, and Anseis proud; Geoffrey of Anjou, whose arm was vowed The royal gonfalon to rear; Gerein, and his fellow in arms, Gerier; With them many a gallant lance, Full fifteen thousand of gentle France. The cavaliers sit upon carpets white, Playing at tables for their delight: The older and sager sit at the chess, The bachelors fence with a light address. Seated underneath a pine, Close beside an eglantine, Upon a throne of beaten gold, The lord of ample France behold; White his hair and beard were seen, Fair of body, and proud of mien, Who sought him needed not ask, I ween. The ten alight before his feet, And him in all observance greet. IX Blancandrin first his errand gave, And he said to the king, "May God you save, The God of glory, to whom you bend! Marsil, our king, doth his greeting send. Much hath he mused on the law of grace, Much of his wealth at your feet will place-- Bears and lions, and dogs of chase, Seven hundred camels that bend the knee, A thousand hawks that have moulted free, Four hundred mules, with silver and gold Which fifty wains might scantly hold, So shall you have of the red bezants To pay the soldiers of gentle France. Overlong have you dwelt in Spain,-- To Aix, your city, return again. The lord I serve will thither come, Accept the law of Christendom, With clasped hands your liegeman be, And hold his realm of you in fee." The Emperor raised his hands on high, Bent and bethought him silently. X The Emperor bent his head full low; Never hasty of speech I trow; Leisurely came his words, and slow, Lofty his look as he raised his head: "Thou hast spoken well," at length he said. "King Marsil was ever my deadly foe, And of all these words, so fair in show, How may I the fulfilment know?" "Hostages will you?" the heathen cried, "Ten or twenty, or more beside. I will send my son, were his death at hand, With the best and noblest of all our land; And when you sit in your palace halls, And the feast of St. Michael of Peril falls, Unto the waters will come our king, Which God commanded for you to spring; There in the laver of Christ be laved." "Yea!" said Karl, "he may yet be saved." XI Fair and bright did the evening fall: The ten white mules were stabled in stall; On the sward was a fair pavilion dressed, To give to the Saracens cheer of the best; Servitors twelve at their bidding bide, And they rest all night until morning tide. The Emperor rose with the day-dawn clear, Failed not Matins and Mass to hear, Then betook him beneath a pine, Summoned his barons by word and sign: As his Franks advise will his choice incline. XII Under a pine is the Emperor gone, And his barons to council come forth anon: Archbishop Turpin, Duke Ogier bold With his nephew Henry was Richard the old, Gascony's gallant Count Acelin, Tybalt of Rheims, and Milo his kin, Gerein and his brother in arms, Gerier, Count Roland and his faithful fere, The gentle and valiant Olivier: More than a thousand Franks of France And Ganelon came, of woful chance; By him was the deed of treason done. So was the fatal consult begun. XIII "Lords my barons," the Emperor said, "King Marsil to me hath his envoys sped. He proffers treasure surpassing bounds, Bears and lions, and leashèd hounds; Seven hundred camels that bend the knee; A thousand hawks that have moulted free; Four hundred mules with Arab gold, Which fifty wains might scantly hold. But he saith to France must I wend my way: He will follow to Aix with brief delay, Bend his heart unto Christ's belief, And hold his marches of me in fief; Yet I know not what in his heart may lie." "Beware! beware!" was the Franks' outcry. XIV Scarce his speech did the Emperor close, When in high displeasure Count Roland rose, Fronted his uncle upon the spot, And said, "This Marsil, believe him not: Seven full years have we warred in Spain; Commibles and Noples for you have I ta'en, Tudela and Sebilie, cities twain; Valtierra I won, and the land of Pine, And Balaguet fell to this arm of mine. King Marsil hath ever a traitor been: He sent of his heathens, at first fifteen. Bearing each one on olive bough, Speaking the self-same words as now. Into council with your Franks you went, Lightly they flattered your heart's intent; Two of your barons to him you sent,-- They were Basan and Basil, the brother knights: He smote off their heads on Haltoia's heights. War, I say!--end as you well began, Unto Saragossa lead on your van; Were the siege to last your lifetime through, Avenge the nobles this felon slew." XV The Emperor bent him and mused within, Twisted his beard upon lip and chin, Answered his nephew nor good nor ill; And the Franks, save Ganelon, all were still: Hastily to his feet he sprang, Haughtily his words outrang:-- "By me or others be not misled,-- Look to your own good ends," he said. "Since now King Marsil his faith assures, That, with hands together clasped in yours, He will henceforth your vassal be, Receive the Christian law as we, And hold his realm of you in fee, Whoso would treaty like this deny, Recks not, sire, by what death we die: Good never came from counsel of pride,-- List to the wise, and let madmen bide." XVI Then his form Duke Naimes upreared, White of hair and hoary of beard. Better vassal in court was none. "You have hearkened," he said, "unto Ganelon. Well hath Count Ganelon made reply; Wise are his words, if you bide thereby. King Marsil is beaten and broken in war; You have captured his castles anear and far, With your engines shattered his walls amain, His cities burned, his soldiers slain: Respite and ruth if he now implore, Sin it were to molest him more. Let his hostages vouch for the faith he plights, And send him one of your Christian knights. 'Twere time this war to an ending came." "Well saith the duke!" the Franks exclaim. XVII "Lords my barons, who then were best In Saragossa to do our hest?" "I," said Naimes, "of your royal grace, Yield me in token your glove and mace." "Nay--my sagest of men art thou: By my beard upon lip and chin I vow Thou shalt never depart so far from me: Sit thee down till I summon thee." XVIII "Lords my barons, whom send we, then, To Saragossa, the Saracen den?" "I," said Roland, "will blithely go." "Nay," said Olivier; "nay, not so. All too fiery of mood thou art; Thou wouldst play, I fear me, a perilous part. I go myself, if the king but will." "I command," said Karl, "that ye both be still. Neither shall be on this errand bound, Nor one of the twelve--my peers around; So by my blanching beard I swear." The Franks are abashed and silent there. XIX Turpin of Rheims from amid the ranks Said: "Look, my liege, on your faithful Franks: Seven full years have they held this land, With pain and peril on every hand. To me be the mace and the glove consigned; I will go this Saracen lord to find, And freely forth will I speak my mind." The Emperor answered in angry plight, "Sit thee down on that carpet white; Speak not till I thy speech invite." XX "My cavaliers," he began anew, "Choose of my marches a baron true, Before King Marsil my best to do." "Be it, then," said Roland, "my stepsire Gan, In vain ye seek for a meeter man." The Franks exclaim, "He is worth the trust, So it please the king it is right and just." Count Ganelon then was with anguish wrung, His mantle of fur from his neck he flung, Stood all stark in his silken vest, And his grey eyes gleamed with a fierce unrest Fair of body and large of limb, All in wonderment gazed on him. "Thou madman," thus he to Roland cried, "What may this rage against me betide? I am thy stepsire, as all men know, And thou doom'st me on hest like this to go; But so God my safe return bestow, I promise to work thee scathe and strife Long as thou breathest the breath of life." "Pride and folly!" said Roland, then. "Am I known to wreck of the threats of men? But this is work for the sagest head. So it please the king, I will go instead." XXI "In _my_ stead?--never, of mine accord. Thou art not my vassal nor I thy lord. Since Karl commands me his hest to fill, Unto Saragossa ride forth I will; Yet I fear me to wreak some deed of ill, Thereby to slake this passion's might." Roland listened, and laughed outright. XXII At Roland's laughter Count Ganelon's pain Was as though his bosom were cleft in twain. He turned to his stepson as one distraught: "I do not love thee," he said, "in aught; Thou hast false judgment against me wrought. O righteous Emperor, here I stand To execute your high command." XXIII "Unto Saragossa I needs must go;-- Who goeth may never return, I know;-- Yet withal, your sister is spouse of mine, And our son--no fairer of mortal line-- Baldwin bids to be goodly knight; I leave him my honors and fiefs of right. Guard him--no more shall he greet my sight" Saith Karl, "Thou art over tender of heart. Since I command it, thou shalt depart." XXIV "Fair Sir Gan," the Emperor spake, "This my message to Marsil take: He shall make confession of Christ's belief, And I yield him, full half of Spain in fief; In the other half shall Count Roland reign. If he choose not the terms I now ordain, I will march unto Saragossa's gate, Besiege and capture the city straight, Take and bind him both hands and feet, Lead him to Aix, to my royal seat, There to be tried and judged and slain, Dying a death of disgrace and pain. I have sealed the scroll of my command. Deliver it into the heathen's hand." XXV "Gan," said the Emperor, "draw thou near: Take my glove and my bâton here; On thee did the choice of thy fellows fall." "Sire, 'twas Roland who wrought it all. I shall not love him while life may last, Nor Olivier his comrade fast, Nor the peers who cherish and prize him so,-- Gage of defiance to all I throw." Saith Karl, "Thine anger hath too much sway. Since I ordain it, thou must obey." "I go, but warranty none have I That I may not like Basil and Basan die." XXVI The Emperor reached him his right-hand glove; Gan for his office had scanty love; As he bent him forward, it fell to ground: "God, what is this?" said the Franks around; "Evil will come of this quest we fear." "My lords," said Ganelon, "ye shall hear." XXVII "Sire," he said, "let me wend my way; Since go I must, what boots delay?" Said the king, "In Jesus' name and mine!" And his right hand sained him with holy sign. Then he to Ganelon's grasp did yield His royal mace and missive sealed. XXVIII Home to his hostel is Ganelon gone, His choicest of harness and arms to don; On his charger Taschebrun to mount and ride, With his good sword Murgleis girt at side. On his feet are fastened the spurs of gold, And his uncle Guinemer doth his stirrup hold. Then might ye look upon cavaliers A-many round him who spake in tears. "Sir," they said, "what a woful day! Long were you ranked in the king's array, A noble vassal as none gainsay. For him who doomed you to journey hence Carlemagne's self shall be scant defence; Foul was the thought in Count Roland's mind, When you and he are so high affined. Sir," they said, "let us with you wend." "Nay," said Ganelon, "God forefend. Liefer alone to my death I go, Than such brave bachelors perish so. Sirs, ye return into France the fair; Greeting from me to my lady bear, To my friend and peer Sir Pinabel, And to Baldwin, my son, whom ye all know well,-- Cherish him, own him your lord of right." He hath passed on his journey and left their sight. THE EMBASSY AND CRIME OF GANELON XXIX Ganelon rides under olives high, And comes the Saracen envoys nigh. Blancandrin lingers until they meet, And in cunning converse each other greet. The Saracen thus began their parle: "What a man, what a wondrous man is Karl! Apulia--Calabria--all subdued, Unto England crossed he the salt sea rude, Won for Saint Peter his tribute fee; But what in our marches maketh he?" Ganelon said, "He is great of heart, Never man shall fill so mighty a part." XXX Said Blancandrin, "Your Franks are high of fame, But your dukes and counts are sore to blame. Such counsel to their lord they give, Nor he nor others in peace may live." Ganelon answered, "I know of none, Save Roland, who thus to his shame hath done. Last morn the Emperor sat in the shade, His nephew came in his mail arrayed,-- He had plundered Carcassonne just before, And a vermeil apple in hand he bore: 'Sire,' he said, 'to your feet I bring The crown of every earthly king.' Disaster is sure such pride to blast; He setteth his life on a daily cast. Were he slain, we all should have peace at last." XXXI "Ruthless is Roland," Blancandrin spake, "Who every race would recreant make. And on all possessions of men would seize; But in whom doth he trust for feats like these?" "The Franks! the Franks!" Count Ganelon cried; "They love him, and never desert his side; For he lavisheth gifts that seldom fail, Gold and silver in countless tale, Mules and chargers, and silks and mail, The king himself may have spoil at call. From hence to the East he will conquer all." XXXII Thus Blancandrin and Ganelon rode, Till each on other his faith bestowed That Roland should be by practice slain, And so they journeyed by path and plain, Till in Saragossa they bridle drew, There alighted beneath a yew. In a pine-tree's shadow a throne was set; Alexandrian silk was the coverlet: There the monarch of Spain they found, With twenty thousand Saracens round, Yet from them came nor breath nor sound; All for the tidings they strained to hear, As they saw Blancandrin and Ganelon near. XXXIII Blancandrin stepped before Marsil's throne, Ganelon's hand was in his own. "Mahound you save," to the king he said, "And Apollin, whose holy law we dread! Fairly your errand to Karl was done; But other answer made he none, Save that his hands to Heaven he raised, Save that a space his God he praised; He sends a baron of his court, Knight of France, and of high report, Of him your tidings of peace receive." "Let him speak," said Marsil, "we yield him leave." XXXIV Gan had bethought him, and mused with art; Well was he skilled to play his part; And he said to Marsil, "May God you save, The God of glory, whose grace we crave! Thus saith the noble Carlemaine: You shall make in Christ confession plain. And he gives you in fief full half of Spain; The other half shall be Roland's share (Right haughty partner, he yields you there); And should you slight the terms I bear, He will come and gird Saragossa round, You shall be taken by force and bound, Led unto Aix, to his royal seat, There to perish by judgment meet, Dying a villainous death of shame." Over King Marsil a horror came; He grasped his javelin, plumed with gold, In act to smite, were he not controlled. XXXV King Marsil's cheek the hue hath left, And his right hand grasped his weapon's heft. When Ganelon saw it, his sword he drew Finger lengths from the scabbard two. "Sword," he said, "thou art clear and bright; I have borne thee long in my fellows' sight, Mine emperor never shall say of me, That I perished afar, in a strange countrie, Ere thou in the blood of their best wert dyed." "Dispart the mellay," the heathens cried. XXXVI The noblest Saracens thronged amain, Seated the king on his throne again, And the Algalif said, "'Twas a sorry prank, Raising your weapon to slay the Frank. It was yours to hearken in silence there." "Sir," said Gan, "I may meetly bear, But for all the wealth of your land arrayed, For all the gold that God hath made, Would I not live and leave unsaid, What Karl, the mightiest king below, Sends, through me, to his mortal foe." His mantle of fur, that was round him twined, With silk of Alexandria lined, Down at Blancandrin's feet he cast, But still he held by his good sword fast, Grasping the hilt by its golden ball. "A noble knight," say the heathens all. XXXVII Ganelon came to the king once more. "Your anger," he said, "misserves you sore. As the princely Carlemaine saith, I say, You shall the Christian law obey. And half of Spain you shall hold in fee, The other half shall Count Roland's be, (And a haughty partner 'tis yours to see). Reject the treaty I here propose, Round Saragossa his lines will close; You shall be bound in fetters strong, Led to his city of Aix along. Nor steed nor palfrey shall you bestride, Nor mule nor jennet be yours to ride; On a sorry sumpter you shall be cast, And your head by doom stricken off at last. So is the Emperor's mandate traced,"-- And the scroll in the heathen's hand he placed. XXXVIII Discolored with ire was King Marsil's hue; The seal he brake and to earth he threw, Read of the scroll the tenor clear. "So Karl the Emperor writes me here. Bids me remember his wrath and pain For sake of Basan and Basil slain, Whose necks I smote on Haltoia's hill; Yet, if my life I would ransom still, Mine uncle the Algalif must I send, Or love between us were else at end." Then outspake Jurfalez, Marsil's son: "This is but madness of Ganelon. For crime so deadly his life shall pay; Justice be mine on his head this day." Ganelon heard him, and waved his blade, While his back against a pine he stayed. XXXIX Into his orchard King Marsil stepped. His nobles round him their station kept: There was Jurfalez, his son and heir, Blancandrin of the hoary hair, The Algalif, truest of all his kin. Said Blancandrin, "Summon the Christian in; His troth he pledged me upon our side." "Go," said Marsil, "be thou his guide." Blancandrin led him, hand-in-hand, Before King Marsil's face to stand. Then was the villainous treason planned. XL "Fair Sir Ganelon," spake the king, "I did a rash and despighteous thing, Raising against thee mine arm to smite. Richly will I the wrong requite. See these sables whose worth were told At full five hundred pounds of gold: Thine shall they be ere the coming day." "I may not," said Gan, "your grace gainsay. God in His pleasure will you repay." XLI "Trust me I love thee, Sir Gan, and fain Would I hear thee discourse of Carlemaine. He is old, methinks, exceedingly old; And full two hundred years hath told; With toil his body spent and worn, So many blows on his buckler borne, So many a haughty king laid low, When will he weary of warring so?" "Such is not Carlemaine," Gan replied; "Man never knew him, nor stood beside, But will say how noble a lord is he, Princely and valiant in high degree. Never could words of mine express His honor, his bounty, his gentleness, 'Twas God who graced him with gifts so high. Ere I leave his vassalage I will die." XLII The heathen said, "I marvel sore Of Carlemaine, so old and hoar, Who counts I ween two hundred years, Hath borne such strokes of blades and spears, So many lands hath overrun, So many mighty kings undone, When will he tire of war and strife?" "Not while his nephew breathes in life Beneath the cope of heaven this day Such vassal leads not king's array. Gallant and sage is Olivier, And all the twelve, to Karl so dear, With twenty thousand Franks in van, He feareth not the face of man." XLIII "Strange," said Marsil, "seems to me, Karl, so white with eld is he, Twice a hundred years, men say, Since his birth have passed away. All his wars in many lands, All the strokes of trenchant brands, All the kings despoiled and slain,-- When will he from war refrain?" "Not till Roland breathes no more, For from hence to eastern shore, Where is chief with him may vie? Olivier his comrades by, And the peers, of Karl the pride, Twenty thousand Franks beside, Vanguard of his host, and flower: Karl may mock at mortal power." XLIV "I tell thee, Sir Gan, that a power is mine; Fairer did never in armor shine, Four hundred thousand cavaliers, With the Franks of Karl to measure spears." "Fling such folly," said Gan, "away; Sorely your heathen would rue the day. Proffer the Emperor ample prize, A sight to dazzle the Frankish eyes; Send him hostages full of score, So returns he to France once more. But his rear will tarry behind the host; There, I trow, will be Roland's post-- There will Sir Olivier remain. Hearken to me, and the counts lie slain; The pride of Karl shall be crushed that day, And his wars be ended with you for aye." XLV "Speak, then, and tell me, Sir Ganelon, How may Roland to death be done?" "Through Cizra's pass will the Emperor wind, But his rear will linger in march behind; Roland and Olivier there shall be, With twenty thousand in company. Muster your battle against them then, A hundred thousand heathen men. Till worn and spent be the Frankish bands, Though your bravest perish beneath their hands. For another battle your powers be massed, Roland will sink, overcome at last. There were a feat of arms indeed, And your life from peril thenceforth be freed." XLVI "For whoso Roland to death shall bring, From Karl his good right arm will wring, The marvellous host will melt away, No more shall he muster a like array, And the mighty land will in peace repose." King Marsil heard him to the close; Then kissed him on the neck, and bade His royal treasures be displayed. XLVII What said they more? Why tell the rest? Said Marsil, "Fastest bound is best; Come, swear me here to Roland's fall." "Your will," said Gan, "be mine in all." He swore on the relics in the hilt Of his sword Murgleis, and crowned his guilt. XLVIII A stool was there of ivory wrought. King Marsil bade a book be brought, Wherein was all the law contained Mahound and Termagaunt ordained. The Saracen hath sworn thereby, If Roland in the rear-guard lie, With all his men-at-arms to go, And combat till the count lay low. Sir Gan repeated, "Be it so." XLIX King Marsil's foster-father came, A heathen, Valdabrun by name. He spake to Gan with laughter clear. "My sword, that never found its peer,-- A thousand pieces would not buy The riches in the hilt that lie,-- To you I give in guerdon free; Your aid in Roland's fall to see, Let but the rear-guard be his place." "I trust," said Gan, "to do you grace." Then each kissed other on the face. L Next broke with jocund laughter in, Another heathen, Climorin. To Gan he said, "Accept my helm, The best and trustiest in the realm, Conditioned that your aid we claim To bring the marchman unto shame." "Be it," said Ganelon, "as you list." And then on cheek and mouth they kissed. LI Now Bramimonde, King Marsil's queen, To Ganelon came with gentle mien. "I love thee well, Sir Count," she spake, "For my lord the king and his nobles' sake. See these clasps for a lady's wrist, Of gold, and jacinth, and amethyst, That all the jewels of Rome outshine; Never your Emperor owned so fine; These by the queen to your spouse are sent." The gems within his boot he pent. LII Then did the king on his treasurer call, "My gifts for Karl, are they ready all?" "Yea, sire, seven hundred camels' load Of gold and silver well bestowed, And twenty hostages thereby, The noblest underneath the sky." LIII On Ganelon's shoulder King Marsil leant. "Thou art sage," he said, "and of gallant bent; But by all thy holiest law deems dear, Let not thy thought from our purpose veer. Ten mules' burthen I give to thee Of gold, the finest of Araby; Nor ever year henceforth shall pass But it brings thee riches in equal mass. Take the keys of my city gates, Take the treasure that Karl awaits-- Render them all; but oh, decide That Roland in the rear-guard bide; So may I find him by pass or height, As I swear to meet him in mortal fight." Cried Gan, "Meseemeth too long we stay," Sprang on his charger and rode away. LIV The Emperor homeward hath turned his face, To Gailne city he marched apace, (By Roland erst in ruins strown-- Deserted thence it lay and lone, Until a hundred years had flown). Here waits he, word of Gan to gain With tribute of the land of Spain; And here, at earliest break of day, Came Gan where the encampment lay. LV The Emperor rose with the day dawn clear, Failed not Matins and Mass to hear, Sate at his tent on the fair green sward, Roland and Olivier nigh their lord, Duke Naimes and all his peers of fame. Gan the felon, the perjured, came-- False was the treacherous tale he gave,-- And these his words, "May God you save! I bear you Saragossa's keys, Vast the treasure I bring with these, And twenty hostages; guard them well, The noble Marsil bids me tell-- Not on him shall your anger fall, If I fetch not the Algalif here withal; For mine eyes beheld, beneath their ken, Three hundred thousand armèd men, With sword and casque and coat of mail, Put forth with him on the sea to sail, All for hate of the Christian creed, Which they would neither hold nor heed. They had not floated a league but four, When a tempest down on their galleys bore Drowned they lie to be seen no more. If the Algalif were but living wight, He had stood this morn before your sight. Sire, for the Saracen king I say, Ere ever a month shall pass away, On into France he will follow free, Bend to our Christian law the knee, Homage swear for his Spanish land, And hold the realm at your command." "Now praise to God," the Emperor said, "And thanks, my Ganelon, well you sped." A thousand clarions then resound, The sumpter-mules are girt on ground, For France, for France the Franks are bound. LVI Karl the Great hath wasted Spain, Her cities sacked, her castles ta'en; But now "My wars are done," he cried, "And home to gentle France we ride." Count Roland plants his standard high Upon a peak against the sky; The Franks around encamping lie. Alas! the heathen host the while, Through valley deep and dark defile, Are riding on the Chistians' track, All armed in steel from breast to back; Their lances poised, their helmets laced, Their falchions glittering from the waist, Their bucklers from the shoulder swung, And so they ride the steeps among, Till, in a forest on the height, They rest to wait the morning light, Four hundred thousand crouching there. O God! the Franks are unaware. LVII The day declined, night darkling crept, And Karl, the mighty Emperor, slept. He dreamt a dream: he seemed to stand In Cizra's pass, with lance in hand. Count Ganelon came athwart, and lo, He wrenched the aspen spear him fro, Brandished and shook it aloft with might, Till it brake in pieces before his sight; High towards heaven the splinters flew; Karl awoke not, he dreamed anew. LVIII In his second dream he seemed to dwell In his palace of Aix, at his own Chapelle. A bear seized grimly his right arm on, And bit the flesh to the very bone. Anon a leopard from Arden wood, Fiercely flew at him where he stood. When lo! from his hall, with leap and bound, Sprang to the rescue a gallant hound. First from the bear the ear he tore, Then on the leopard his fangs he bore. The Franks exclaim, "'Tis a stirring fray, But who the victor none may say." Karl awoke not--he slept alway. LIX The night wore by, the day dawn glowed, Proudly the Emperor rose and rode, Keenly and oft his host he scanned. "Lords, my barons, survey this land, See the passes so straight and steep: To whom shall I trust the rear to keep?" "To my stepson Roland:" Count Gan replied. "Knight like him have you none beside." The Emperor heard him with moody brow. "A living demon," he said, "art thou; Some mortal rage hath thy soul possessed. To head my vanguard, who then were best?" "Ogier," he answered, "the gallant Dane, Braver baron will none remain." LX Roland, when thus the choice he saw, Spake, full knightly, by knightly law: "Sir Stepsire, well may I hold thee dear, That thou hast named me to guard the rear; Karl shall lose not, if I take heed, Charger, or palfrey, or mule or steed, Hackney or sumpter that groom may lead; The reason else our swords shall tell." "It is sooth," said Gan, "and I know it well." LXI Fiercely once more Count Roland turned To speak the scorn that in him burned. "Ha! deem'st thou, dastard, of dastard race, That I shall drop the glove in place, As in sight of Karl thou didst the mace?" LXII Then of his uncle he made demand: "Yield me the bow that you hold in hand; Never of me shall the tale be told, As of Ganelon erst, that it failed my hold." Sadly the Emperor bowed his head, With working finger his beard he spread, Tears in his own despite he shed. LXIII But soon Duke Naimes doth by him stand-- No better vassal in all his band. "You have seen and heard it all, O sire, Count Roland waxeth much in ire. On him the choice for the rear-guard fell, And where is baron could speed so well? Yield him the bow that your arm hath bent, And let good succor to him be lent." The Emperor reached it forth, and lo! He gave, and Roland received, the bow. LXIV "Fair Sir Nephew, I tell thee free. Half of my host will I leave with thee." "God be my judge," was the count's reply, "If ever I thus my race belie. But twenty thousand with me shall rest, Bravest of all your Franks and best; The mountain passes in safety tread, While I breathe in life you have nought to dread." LXV Count Roland sprang to a hill-top's height, And donned his peerless armor bright; Laced his helm, for a baron made; Girt Durindana, gold-hilted blade; Around his neck he hung the shield, With flowers emblazoned was the field; Nor steed but Veillantif will ride; And he grasped his lance with its pennon's pride. White was the pennon, with rim of gold; Low to the handle the fringes rolled. Who are his lovers men now may see; And the Franks exclaim, "We will follow thee." LXVI Roland hath mounted his charger on; Sir Olivier to his side hath gone; Gerein and his fellow in arms, Gerier; Otho the Count, and Berengier, Samson, and with him Anseis old, Gerard of Roussillon, the bold. Thither the Gascon Engelier sped; "I go," said Turpin, "I pledge my head;" "And I with thee," Count Walter said; "I am Roland's man, to his service bound." So twenty thousand knights were found. LXVII Roland beckoned Count Walter then. "Take of our Franks a thousand men; Sweep the heights and the passes clear, That the Emperor's host may have nought to fear." "I go," said Walter, "at your behest," And a thousand Franks around him pressed. They ranged the heights and passes through, Nor for evil tidings backward drew, Until seven hundred swords outflew. The Lord of Belferna's land, that day, King Almaris met him in deadly fray. LXVIII Through Roncesvalles the march began; Ogier, the baron, led the van; For them was neither doubt nor fear, Since Roland rested to guard the rear, With twenty thousand in full array: Theirs the battle--be God their stay. Gan knows all; in his felon heart Scarce hath he courage to play his part. LXIX High were the peaks, and the valleys deep, The mountains wondrous dark and steep; Sadly the Franks through the passes wound, Full fifteen leagues did their tread resound. To their own great land they are drawing nigh, And they look on the fields of Gascony. They think of their homes and their manors there, Their gentle spouses and damsels fair. Is none but for pity the tear lets fall; But the anguish of Karl is beyond them all. His sister's son at the gates of Spain Smites on his heart, and he weeps amain. LXX On the Spanish marches the twelve abide, With twice ten thousand Franks beside. Fear to die have they none, nor care: But Karl returns into France the fair; Beneath his mantle his face he hides. Naimes, the duke, at his bridle rides. "Say, sire, what grief doth your heart oppress?" "To ask," he said, "brings worse distress; I cannot but weep for heaviness. By Gan the ruin of France is wrought. In an angel's vision, last night, methought He wrested forth from my hand the spear: 'Twas he gave Roland to guard the rear. God! should I lose him, my nephew dear, Whom I left on a foreign soil behind, His peer on earth I shall never find!" LXXI Karl the Great cannot choose but weep, For him hath his host compassion deep; And for Roland, a marvellous boding dread. It was Gan, the felon, this treason bred; He hath heathen gifts of silver and gold, Costly raiment, and silken fold, Horses and camels, and mules and steeds.-- But lo! King Marsil the mandate speeds, To his dukes, his counts, and his vassals all, To each almasour and amiral. And so, before three suns had set, Four hundred thousand in muster met. Through Saragossa the tabors sound; On the loftiest turret they raise Mahound: Before him the Pagans bend and pray, Then mount and fiercely ride away, Across Cerdagna, by vale and height, Till stream the banners of France in sight, Where the peers of Carlemaine proudly stand, And the shock of battle is hard at hand. LXXII Up to King Marsil his nephew rode, With a mule for steed, and a staff for goad: Free and joyous his accents fell, "Fair Sir King, I have served you well. So let my toils and my perils tell. I have fought and vanquished for you in field. One good boon for my service yield,-- Be it mine on Roland to strike the blow; At point of lance will I lay him low; And so Mohammed to aid me deign, Free will I sweep the soil of Spain, From the gorge of Aspra to Dourestan, Till Karl grows weary such wars to plan. Then for your life have you won repose." King Marsil on him his glove bestows. LXXIII His nephew, while the glove he pressed, Proudly once more the king addressed. "Sire, you have crowned my dearest vow; Name me eleven of your barons now, In battle against the twelve to bide." Falsaron first to the call replied; Brother to Marsil, the king, was he; "Fair Sir nephew, I go with thee; In mortal combat we front, to-day, The rear-guard of the grand array. Foredoomed to die by our spears are they." LXXIV King Corsablis the next drew nigh, Miscreant Monarch of Barbary; Yet he spake like vassal staunch and bold-- Blench would he not for all God's gold. The third, Malprimis, of Brigal's breed, More fleet of foot than the fleetest steed, Before King Marsil he raised his cry, "On unto Roncesvalles I: In mine encounter shall Roland die." LXXV An Emir of Balaguet came in place, Proud of body, and fair of face; Since first he sprang on steed to ride, To wear his harness was all his pride; For feats of prowess great laud he won; Were he Christian, nobler baron none. To Marsil came he, and cried aloud, "Unto Roncesvalles mine arm is vowed; May I meet with Roland and Olivier, Or the twelve together, their doom is near. The Franks shall perish in scathe and scorn; Karl the Great, who is old and worn, Weary shall grow his hosts to lead, And the land of Spain be for ever freed." King Marsil's thanks were his gracious meed. LXXVI A Mauritanian Almasour (Breathed not in Spain such a felon Moor) Stepped unto Marsil, with braggart boast: "Unto Roncesvalles I lead my host, Full twenty thousand, with lance and shield. Let me meet with Roland upon the field, Lifelong tears for him Karl shall yield." LXXVII Turgis, Count of Tortosa came. Lord of the city, he bears its name. Scathe to the Christian to him is best, And in Marsil's presence he joined the rest. To the king he said, "Be fearless found; Peter of Rome cannot mate Mahound. If we serve him truly, we win this day; Unto Roncesvalles I ride straightway. No power shall Roland from slaughter save: See the length of my peerless glaive, That with Durindana to cross I go, And who the victor, ye then shall know. Sorrow and shame old Karl shall share, Crown on earth never more shall wear." LXXVIII Lord of Valtierra was Escremis; Saracen he, and the region his; He cried to Marsil, amid the throng, "Unto Roncesvalles I spur along, The pride of Roland in dust to tread, Nor shall he carry from thence his head; Nor Olivier who leads the band. And of all the twelve is the doom at hand. The Franks shall perish, and France be lorn, And Karl of his bravest vassals shorn." LXXIX Estorgan next to Marsil hied, With Estramarin his mate beside. Hireling traitors and felons they. Aloud cried Marsil, "My lords, away Unto Roncesvalles, the pass to gain, Of my people's captains ye shall be twain." "Sire, full welcome to us the call, On Roland and Olivier we fall. None the twelve from their death shall screen, The swords we carry are bright and keen; We will dye them red with the hot blood's vent The Franks shall perish and Karl lament. We will yield all France as your tribute meet. Come, that the vision your eyes may greet; The Emperor's self shall be at your feet." LXXX With speed came Margaris--lord was he Of the land of Sibilie to the sea; Beloved of dames for his beauty's sake, Was none but joy in his look would take, The goodliest knight of heathenesse,-- And he cried to the king over all the press, "Sire, let nothing your heart dismay; I will Roland in Roncesvalles slay, Nor thence shall Olivier scathless come, The peers await but their martyrdom. The Emir of Primis bestowed this blade; Look on its hilt, with gold inlaid: It shall crimsoned be with the red blood's trace: Death to the Franks, and to France disgrace! Karl the old, with his beard so white, Shall have pain and sorrow both day and night; France shall be ours ere a year go by; At Saint Denys' bourg shall our leaguer lie." King Marsil bent him reverently. LXXXI Chernubles is there, from the valley black, His long hair makes on the earth its track; A load, when it lists him, he bears in play, Which four mules' burthen would well outweigh. Men say, in the land where he was born Nor shineth sun, nor springeth corn, Nor falleth rain, nor droppeth dew; The very stones are of sable hue. 'Tis the home of demons, as some assert. And he cried, "My good sword have I girt, In Roncesvalles to dye it red. Let Roland but in my pathway tread, Trust ye to me that I strike him dead, His Durindana beat down with mine. The Franks shall perish and France decline." Thus were mustered King Marsil's peers, With a hundred thousand heathen spears. In haste to press to the battle on, In a pine-tree forest their arms they don. LXXXII They don their hauberks of Saracen mould, Wrought for the most with a triple fold; In Saragossa their helms were made; Steel of Vienne was each girded blade; Valentia lances and targets bright, Pennons of azure and red and white. They leave their sumpters and mules aside, Leap on their chargers and serried ride. Bright was the sunshine and fair the day; Their arms resplendent gave back the ray. Then sound a thousand clarions clear, Till the Franks the mighty clangor hear, "Sir Comrade," said Olivier, "I trow There is battle at hand with the Saracen foe." "God grant," said Roland, "it may be so. Here our post for our king we hold; For his lord the vassal bears heat and cold, Toil and peril endures for him, Risks in his service both life and limb. For mighty blows let our arms be strung, Lest songs of scorn be against us sung. With the Christian is good, with the heathen ill: No dastard part shall ye see me fill." PART II THE PRELUDE OF THE GREAT BATTLE RONCESVALLES LXXXIII Olivier clomb to a mountain height, Glanced through the valley that stretched to right; He saw advancing the Saracen men, And thus to Roland he spake agen: "What sights and sounds from the Spanish side, White gleaming hauberks and helms in pride? In deadliest wrath our Franks shall be! Ganelon wrought this perfidy; It was he who doomed us to hold the rear." "Hush," said Roland; "O Olivier, No word be said of my stepsire here." [Footnote 1: The stanzas of the translation not found in the Oxford MS., but taken from the stanzas inserted from other versions by M. Gautier, are, as regards Part II, the following: Stanzas 113, 114, 115, 118, 119, 120, 122, 123, 126, 127, 139, 143, 144, 145, 146, 163.] LXXXIV Sir Olivier to the peak hath clomb, Looks far on the realm of Spain therefrom; He sees the Saracen power arrayed,-- Helmets gleaming with gold inlaid, Shields and hauberks in serried row, Spears with pennons that from them flow. He may not reckon the mighty mass, So far their numbers his thought surpass. All in bewilderment and dismay, Down from the mountain he takes his way, Comes to the Franks the tale to say. LXXXV "I have seen the paynim," said Olivier. "Never on earth did such host appear: A hundred thousand with targets bright, With helmets laced and hauberks white, Erect and shining their lances tall; Such battle as waits you did ne'er befall. My Lords of France, be God your stay, That you be not vanquished in field to-day." "Accursed," say the Franks, "be they who fly None shall blench from the fear to die." ROLAND'S PRIDE LXXXVI "In mighty strength are the heathen crew," Olivier said, "and our Franks are few; My comrade, Roland, sound on your horn; Karl will hear and his host return." "I were mad," said Roland, "to do such deed; Lost in France were my glory's meed. My Durindana shall smite full hard, And her hilt be red to the golden guard. The heathen felons shall find their fate; Their death, I swear, in the pass they wait." LXXXVII "O Roland, sound on your ivory horn, To the ear of Karl shall the blast be borne: He will bid his legions backward bend, And all his barons their aid will lend." "Now God forbid it, for very shame, That for me my kindred were stained with blame, Or that gentle France to such vileness fell: This good sword that hath served me well, My Durindana such strokes shall deal, That with blood encrimsoned shall be the steel. By their evil star are the felons led; They shall all be numbered among the dead." LXXXVIII "Roland, Roland, yet wind one blast! Karl will hear ere the gorge be passed, And the Franks return on their path full fast." "I will not sound on mine ivory horn: It shall never be spoken of me in scorn, That for heathen felons one blast I blew; I may not dishonor my lineage true. But I will strike, ere this fight be o'er, A thousand strokes and seven hundred more, And my Durindana shall drip with gore. Our Franks will bear them like vassals brave The Saracens flock but to find a grave." LXXXIX "I deem of neither reproach nor stain. I have seen the Saracen host of Spain, Over plain and valley and mountain spread, And the regions hidden beneath their tread. Countless the swarm of the foe, and we A marvellous little company." Roland answered him, "All the more My spirit within me burns therefore. God and his angels of heaven defend That France through me from her glory bend. Death were better than fame laid low. Our Emperor loveth a downright blow." XC Roland is daring and Olivier wise, Both of marvellous high emprise; On their chargers mounted, and girt in mail, To the death in battle they will not quail. Brave are the counts, and their words are high, And the Pagans are fiercely riding nigh. "See, Roland, see them, how close they are, The Saracen foemen, and Karl how far! Thou didst disdain on thy horn to blow. Were the king but here we were spared this woe. Look up through Aspra's dread defile, Where standeth our doomed rear-guard the while; They will do their last brave feat this day, No more to mingle in mortal fray." "Hush!" said Roland, "the craven tale-- Foul fall who carries a heart so pale; Foot to foot shall we hold the place, And rain our buffets and blows apace." XCI When Roland felt that the battle came, Lion or leopard to him were tame; He shouted aloud to his Franks, and then Called to his gentle compeer agen. "My friend, my comrade, my Olivier, The Emperor left us his bravest here; Twice ten thousand he set apart, And he knew among them no dastard heart. For his lord the vassal must bear the stress Of the winter's cold and the sun's excess-- Peril his flesh and his blood thereby: Strike thou with thy good lance-point and I, With Durindana, the matchless glaive Which the king himself to my keeping gave, That he who wears it when I lie cold May say 'twas the sword of a vassal bold." XCII Archbishop Turpin, above the rest, Spurred his steed to a jutting crest. His sermon thus to the Franks he spake:-- "Lords, we are here for our monarch's sake; Hold we for him, though our death should come; Fight for the succor of Christendom. The battle approaches--ye know it well, For ye see the ranks of the infidel. Cry _mea culpa_, and lowly kneel; I will assoil you, your souls to heal. In death ye are holy martyrs crowned." The Franks alighted, and knelt on ground; In God's high name the host he blessed, And for penance gave them--to smite their best. XCIII The Franks arose from bended knee, Assoiled, and from their sins set free; The archbishop blessed them fervently: Then each one sprang on his bounding barb, Armed and laced in knightly garb, Apparelled all for the battle line. At last said Roland, "Companion mine, Too well the treason is now displayed, How Ganelon hath our band betrayed. To him the gifts and the treasures fell; But our Emperor will avenge us well. King Marsil deemeth us bought and sold; The price shall be with our good swords told." XCIV Roland rideth the passes through, On Veillantif, his charger true; Girt in his harness that shone full fair, And baron-like his lance he bare. The steel erect in the sunshine gleamed, With the snow-white pennon that from it streamed; The golden fringes beat on his hand. Joyous of visage was he, and bland, Exceeding beautiful of frame; And his warriors hailed him with glad acclaim. Proudly he looked on the heathen ranks, Humbly and sweetly upon his Franks. Courteously spake he, in words of grace-- "Ride, my barons, at gentle pace. The Saracens here to their slaughter toil: Reap we, to-day, a glorious spoil, Never fell to Monarch of France the like." At his word, the hosts are in act to strike. XCV Said Olivier, "Idle is speech, I trow; Thou didst disdain on thy horn to blow. Succor of Karl is far apart; Our strait he knows not, the noble heart: Not to him nor his host be blame; Therefore, barons, in God's good name, Press ye onward, and strike your best, Make your stand on this field to rest; Think but of blows, both to give and take, Never the watchword of Karl forsake." Then from the Franks resounded high-- "_Montjoie!_" Whoever had heard that cry Would hold remembrance of chivalry. Then ride they--how proudly, O God, they ride!-- With rowels dashed in their coursers' side. Fearless, too, are their paynim foes. Frank and Saracen, thus they close. THE MELLAY XCVI King Marsil's nephew, Aelroth his name, Vaunting in front of the battle came, Words of scorn on our Franks he cast: "Felon Franks, ye are met at last, By your chosen guardian betrayed and sold, By your king left madly the pass to hold. This day shall France of her fame be shorn, And from Karl the mighty his right arm torn." Roland heard him in wrath and pain!-- He spurred his steed, he slacked the rein, Drave at the heathen with might and main, Shattered his shield and his hauberk broke, Right to the breast-bone went the stroke; Pierced him, spine and marrow through, And the felon's soul from his body flew. A moment reeled he upon his horse, Then all heavily dropped the corse; Wrenched was his neck as on earth he fell, Yet would Roland scorn with scorn repel. "Thou dastard! never hath Karl been mad, Nor love for treason or traitors had. To guard the passes he left us here, Like a noble king and chevalier. Nor shall France this day her fame forego. Strike in, my barons; the foremost blow Dealt in the fight doth to us belong: We have the right and these dogs the wrong." XCVII A duke was there, named Falsaron, Of the land of Dathan and Abiron; Brother to Marsil, the king, was he; More miscreant felon ye might not see. Huge of forehead, his eyes between, A span of a full half-foot, I ween. Bitter sorrow was his, to mark His nephew before him lie slain and stark. Hastily came he from forth the press, Raising the war-cry of heathenesse. Braggart words from his lips were tost: "This day the honour of France is lost." Hotly Sir Olivier's anger stirs; He pricked his steed with golden spurs, Fairly dealt him a baron's blow, And hurled him dead from the saddle-bow. Buckler and mail were reft and rent, And the pennon's flaps to his heart's blood went. He saw the miscreant stretched on earth: "Caitiff, thy threats are of little worth. On, Franks! the felons before us fall; _Montjoie!_" 'Tis the Emperor's battle-call. XCVIII A king was there of a strange countrie, King Corsablis of Barbary; Before the Saracen van he cried, "Right well may we in this battle bide; Puny the host of the Franks I deem, And those that front us, of vile esteem. Not one by succor of Karl shall fly; The day hath dawned that shall see them die." Archbishop Turpin hath heard him well; No mortal hates he with hate so fell: He pricked with spurs of the fine gold wrought, And in deadly passage the heathen sought; Shield and corselet were pierced and riven, And the lance's point through his body driven; To and fro, at the mighty thrust, He reeled, and then fell stark in dust. Turpin looked on him, stretched on ground. "Loud thou liest, thou heathen hound! King Karl is ever our pride and stay; Nor one of the Franks shall blench this day, But your comrades here on the field shall lie; I bring you tidings: ye all shall die. Strike, Franks! remember your chivalry; First blows are ours, high God be praised!" Once more the cry, "_Montjoie!_" he raised. XCIX Gerein to Malprimis of Brigal sped, Whose good shield stood him no whit in stead; Its knob of crystal was cleft in twain, And one half fell on the battle plain. Right through the hauberk, and through the skin, He drave the lance to the flesh within; Prone and sudden the heathen fell, And Satan carried his soul to hell. C Anon, his comrade in arms, Gerier, Spurred at the Emir with levelled spear; Severed his shield and his mail apart,-- The lance went through them, to pierce his heart. Dead on the field at the blow he lay. Olivier said, "'Tis a stirring fray." CI At the Almasour's shield Duke Samson rode-- With blazon of flowers and gold it glowed; But nor shield nor cuirass availed to save, When through heart and lungs the lance he drave. Dead lies he, weep him who list or no. The Archbishop said, "'Tis a baron's blow." CII Anseis cast his bridle free; At Turgis, Tortosa's lord, rode he: Above the centre his shield he smote, Brake his mail with its double coat, Speeding the lance with a stroke so true, That the iron traversed his body through. So lay he lifeless, at point of spear. Said Roland, "Struck like a cavalier." CIII Engelier, Gascon of Bordeaux, On his courser's mane let the bridle flow; Smote Escremis, from Valtierra sprung, Shattered the shield from his neck that swung; On through his hauberk's vental pressed, And betwixt his shoulders pierced his breast. Forth from the saddle he cast him dead. "So shall ye perish all," he said. CIV The heathen Estorgan was Otho's aim: Right in front of his shield he came; Rent its colors of red and white, Pierced the joints of his harness bright, Flung him dead from his bridle rein. Said Otho, "Thus shall ye all be slain." CV Berengier smote Estramarin, Planting his lance his heart within, Through shivered shield and hauberk torn. The Saracen to earth was borne Amid a thousand of his train. Thus ten of the heathen twelve are slain; But two are left alive I wis-- Chernubles and Count Margaris. CVI Count Margaris was a valiant knight, Stalwart of body, and lithe and light: He spurred his steed unto Olivier, Brake his shield at the golden sphere, Pushed the lance till it touched his side; God of his grace made it harmless glide. Margaris rideth unhurt withal, Sounding his trumpet, his men to call. CVII Mingled and marvellous grows the fray, And in Roland's heart is no dismay. He fought with lance while his good lance stood; Fifteen encounters have strained its wood. At the last it brake; then he grasped in hand His Durindana, his naked brand. He smote Chernubles' helm upon, Where, in the centre, carbuncles shone: Down through his coif and his fell of hair, Betwixt his eyes came the falchion bare, Down through his plated harness fine, Down through the Saracen's chest and chine, Down through the saddle with gold inlaid, Till sank in the living horse the blade, Severed the spine where no joint was found, And horse and rider lay dead on ground. "Caitiff, thou earnest in evil hour; To save thee passeth Mohammed's power. Never to miscreants like to thee Shall come the guerdon of victory." CVIII Count Roland rideth the battle through, With Durindana, to cleave and hew; Havoc fell of the foe he made, Saracen corse upon corse was laid, The field all flowed with the bright blood shed; Roland, to corselet and arm, was red-- Red his steed to the neck and flank. Nor is Olivier niggard of blows as frank; Nor to one of the peers be blame this day, For the Franks are fiery to smite and slay. "Well fought," said Turpin, "our barons true!" And he raised the war-cry, "_Montjoie!_" anew. CIX Through the storm of battle rides Olivier, His weapon, the butt of his broken spear, Down upon Malseron's shield he beat, Where flowers and gold emblazoned meet, Dashing his eyes from forth his head: Low at his feet were the brains bespread, And the heathen lies with seven hundred dead! Estorgus and Turgin next he slew, Till the shaft he wielded in splinters flew. "Comrade!" said Roland, "what makest thou? Is it time to fight with a truncheon now? Steel and iron such strife may claim; Where is thy sword, Hauteclere by name, With its crystal pommel and golden guard?" "Of time to draw it I stood debarred, Such stress was on me of smiting hard." CX Then drew Sir Olivier forth his blade, As had his comrade Roland prayed. He proved it in knightly wise straightway, On the heathen Justin of Val Ferrée. At a stroke he severed his head in two, Cleft him body and harness through; Down through the gold-incrusted selle, To the horse's chine, the falchion fell: Dead on the sward lay man and steed. Said Roland, "My brother, henceforth, indeed! The Emperor loves us for such brave blows!" Around them the cry of "_Montjoie!_" arose. CXI Gerein his Sorel rides; Gerier Is mounted on his own Pass-deer: The reins they slacken, and prick full well Against the Saracen Timozel. One smites his cuirass, and one his shield, Break in his body the spears they wield; They cast him dead on the fallow mould. I know not, nor yet to mine ear was told. Which of the twain was more swift and bold. Then Espreveris, Borel's son, By Engelier unto death was done. Archbishop Turpin slew Siglorel, The wizard, who erst had been in hell, By Jupiter thither in magic led. "Well have we 'scaped," the archbishop said: "Crushed is the caitiff," Count Roland replies, "Olivier, brother, such strokes I prize!" CXII Furious waxeth the fight, and strange; Frank and heathen their blows exchange; While these defend, and those assail, And their lances broken and bloody fail. Ensign and pennon are rent and cleft, And the Franks of their fairest youth bereft, Who will look on mother or spouse no more, Or the host that waiteth the gorge before. Karl the Mighty may weep and wail; What skilleth sorrow, if succour fail? An evil service was Gan's that day, When to Saragossa he bent his way, His faith and kindred to betray. But a doom thereafter awaited him-- Amerced in Aix, of life and limb, With thirty of his kin beside, To whom was hope of grace denied. CXIII King Almaris with his band, the while, Wound through a marvellous strait defile, Where doth Count Walter the heights maintain And the passes that lie at the gates of Spain. "Gan, the traitor, hath made of us," Said Walter, "a bargain full dolorous." CXIV King Almaris to the mount hath clomb, With sixty thousand of heathendom. In deadly wrath on the Franks they fall, And with furious onset smite them all: Routed, scattered, or slain they lie. Then rose the wrath of Count Walter high; His sword he drew, his helm he laced, Slowly in front of the line he paced, And with evil greeting his foeman faced. CXV Right on his foemen doth Walter ride, And the heathen assail him on every side; Broken down was his shield of might, Bruised and pierced was his hauberk white; Four lances at once did his body wound: No longer bore he--four times he swooned; He turned perforce from the field aside, Slowly adown the mount he hied, And aloud to Roland for succour cried. CXVI Wild and fierce is the battle still: Roland and Olivier fight their fill; The Archbishop dealeth a thousand blows Nor knoweth one of the peers repose; The Franks are fighting commingled all, And the foe in hundreds and thousands fall; Choice have they none but to flee or die, Leaving their lives despighteously. Yet the Franks are reft of their chivalry, Who will see nor parent nor kindred fond, Nor Karl who waits them the pass beyond. CXVII Now a wondrous storm o'er France hath passed, With thunder-stroke and whirlwind's blast; Rain unmeasured, and hail, there came, Sharp and sudden the lightning's flame; And an earthquake ran--the sooth I say, From Besançon city to Wissant Bay; From Saint Michael's Mount to thy shrine, Cologne, House unrifted was there none. And a darkness spread in the noontide high-- No light, save gleams from the cloven sky. On all who saw came a mighty fear. They said, "The end of the world is near." Alas, they spake but with idle breath,-- 'Tis the great lament for Roland's death. CXVIII Dread are the omens and fierce the storm, Over France the signs and wonders swarm: From noonday on to the vesper hour, Night and darkness alone have power; Nor sun nor moon one ray doth shed, Who sees it ranks him among the dead. Well may they suffer such pain and woe, When Roland, captain of all, lies low. Never on earth hath his fellow been, To slay the heathen or realms to win. CXIX Stern and stubborn is the fight; Staunch are the Franks with the sword to smite; Nor is there one but whose blade is red, "_Montjoie!_" is ever their war-cry dread. Through the land they ride in hot pursuit, And the heathens feel 'tis a fierce dispute. CXX In wrath and anguish, the heathen race Turn in flight from the field their face; The Franks as hotly behind them strain. Then might ye look on a cumbered plain: Saracens stretched on the green grass bare, Helms and hauberks that shone full fair, Standards riven and arms undone: So by the Franks was the battle won. The foremost battle that then befell-- O God, what sorrow remains to tell! CXXI With heart and prowess the Franks have stood; Slain was the heathen multitude; Of a hundred thousand survive not two: The archbishop crieth, "O staunch and true! Written it is in the Frankish geste, That our Emperor's vassals shall bear them best." To seek their dead through the field they press, And their eyes drop tears of tenderness: Their hearts are turned to their kindred dear. Marsil the while with his host is near. CXXII Distraught was Roland with wrath and pain; Distraught were the twelve of Carlemaine-- With deadly strokes the Franks have striven, And the Saracen horde to the slaughter given; Of a hundred thousand escaped but one-- King Margaris fled from the field alone; But no disgrace in his flight he bore-- Wounded was he by lances four. To the side of Spain did he take his way, To tell King Marsil what chanced that day. CXXIII Alone King Margaris left the field, With broken spear and piercèd shield, Scarce half a foot from the knob remained, And his brand of steel with blood was stained; On his body were four lance wounds to see: Were he Christian, what a baron he! He sped to Marsil his tale to tell; Swift at the feet of the king he fell: "Ride, sire, on to the field forthright, You will find the Franks in an evil plight; Full half and more of their host lies slain, And sore enfeebled who yet remain; Nor arms have they in their utmost need: To crush them now were an easy deed," Marsil listened with heart aflame. Onward in search of the Franks he came. CXXIV King Marsil on through the valley sped, With the mighty host he has marshallèd. Twice ten battalions the king arrayed: Helmets shone, with their gems displayed, Bucklers and braided hauberks bound, Seven thousand trumpets the onset sound; Dread was the clangor afar to hear. Said Roland, "My brother, my Olivier, Gan the traitor our death hath sworn, Nor may his treason be now forborne. To our Emperor vengeance may well belong,-- To us the battle fierce and strong; Never hath mortal beheld the like. With my Durindana I trust to strike; And thou, my comrade, with thy Hauteclere: We have borne them gallantly otherwhere. So many fields 'twas ours to gain, They shall sing against us no scornful strain." CXXV As the Franks the heathen power descried, Filling the champaign from side to side, Loud unto Roland they made their call, And to Olivier and their captains all, Spake the archbishop as him became: "O barons, think not one thought of shame; Fly not, for sake of our God I pray. That on you be chaunted no evil lay. Better by far on the field to die; For in sooth I deem that our end is nigh. But in holy Paradise ye shall meet, And with the innocents be your seat." The Franks exult his words to hear, And the cry "_Montjoie!_" resoundeth clear. CXXVI King Marsil on the hill-top bides, While Grandonie with his legion rides. He nails his flag with three nails of gold: "Ride ye onwards, my barons bold." Then loud a thousand clarions rang. And the Franks exclaimed as they heard the clang-- "O God, our Father, what cometh on! Woe that we ever saw Ganelon: Foully, by treason, he us betrayed." Gallantly then the archbishop said, "Soldiers and lieges of God are ye, And in Paradise shall your guerdon be. To lie on its holy flowerets fair, Dastard never shall enter there." Say the Franks, "We will win it every one." The archbishop bestoweth his benison. Proudly mounted they at his word, And, like lions chafed, at the heathen spurred. CXXVII Thus doth King Marsil divide his men: He keeps around him battalions ten. As the Franks the other ten descry, "What dark disaster," they said, "is nigh? What doom shall now our peers betide?" Archbishop Turpin full well replied. "My cavaliers, of God the friends, Your crown of glory to-day He sends, To rest on the flowers of Paradise, That never were won by cowardice." The Franks made answer, "No cravens we, Nor shall we gainsay God's decree; Against the enemy yet we hold,-- Few may we be, but staunch and bold." Their spurs against the foe they set, Frank and paynim--once more they met. CXXVIII A heathen of Saragossa came. Full half the city was his to claim. It was Climorin: hollow of heart was he, He had plighted with Gan in perfidy, What time each other on mouth they kissed, And he gave him his helm and amethyst. He would bring fair France from her glory down And from the Emperor wrest his crown. He sate upon Barbamouche, his steed, Than hawk or swallow more swift in speed. Pricked with the spur, and the rein let flow, To strike at the Gascon of Bordeaux, Whom shield nor cuirass availed to save. Within his harness the point he drave, The sharp steel on through his body passed, Dead on the field was the Gascon cast. Said Climorin, "Easy to lay them low: Strike in, my pagans, give blow for blow." For their champion slain, the Franks cry woe. CXXIX Sir Roland called unto Olivier, "Sir Comrade, dead lieth Engelier; Braver knight had we none than he." "God grant," he answered, "revenge to me." His spurs of gold to his horse he laid, Grasping Hauteclere with his bloody blade. Climorin smote he, with stroke so fell, Slain at the blow was the infidel. Whose soul the Enemy bore away. Then turned he, Alphaien, the duke, to slay; From Escababi the head he shore, And Arabs seven to the earth he bore. Saith Roland, "My comrade is much in wrath; Won great laud by my side he hath; Us such prowess to Karl endears. Fight on, fight ever, my cavaliers." CXXX Then came the Saracen Valdabrun, Of whom King Marsil was foster-son. Four hundred galleys he owned at sea, And of all the mariners lord was he. Jerusalem erst he had falsely won, Profaned the temple of Solomon, Slaying the patriarch at the fount. 'Twas he who in plight unto Gan the count, His sword with a thousand coins bestowed. Gramimond named he the steed he rode, Swifter than ever was falcon's flight; Well did he prick with the sharp spurs bright, To strike Duke Samson, the fearless knight. Buckler and cuirass at once he rent, And his pennon's flaps through his body sent; Dead he cast him, with levelled spear. "Strike, ye heathens; their doom is near." The Franks cry woe for their cavalier. CXXXI When Roland was ware of Samson slain, Well may you weet of his bitter pain. With bloody spur he his steed impelled, While Durindana aloft he held, The sword more costly than purest gold; And he smote, with passion uncontrolled, On the heathen's helm, with its jewelled crown,-- Through head, and cuirass, and body down, And the saddle embossed with gold, till sank The griding steel in the charger's flank; Blame or praise him, the twain he slew. "A fearful stroke!" said the heathen crew. "I shall never love you," Count Roland cried, "With you are falsehood and evil pride." CXXXII From Afric's shore, of Afric's brood, Malquiant, son of King Malcus stood; Wrought of the beaten gold, his vest Flamed to the sun over all the rest. Saut-perdu hath he named his horse, Fleeter than ever was steed in course; He smote Anseis upon the shield, Cleft its vermeil and azure field, Severed the joints of his hauberk good, In his body planted both steel and wood. Dead he lieth, his day is o'er, And the Franks the loss of their peer deplore. CXXXIII Turpin rideth the press among; Never such priest the Mass had sung, Nor who hath such feats of his body done. "God send thee," he said, "His malison! For the knight thou slewest my heart is sore." He sets the spur to his steed once more, Smites the shield in Toledo made, And the heathen low on the sward is laid. CXXXIV Forth came the Saracen Grandonie, Bestriding his charger Marmorie; He was son unto Cappadocia's king, And his steed was fleeter than bird on wing. He let the rein on his neck decline, And spurred him hard against Count Gerein, Shattered the vermeil shield he bore, And his armor of proof all open tore; In went the pennon, so fierce the shock, And he cast him, dead, on a lofty rock; Then he slew his comrade in arms, Gerier, Guy of Saint Anton and Berengier. Next lay the great Duke Astor prone. The Lord of Valence upon the Rhone. Among the heathen great joy he cast. Say the Franks, lamenting, "We perish fast." CXXXV Count Roland graspeth his bloody sword: Well hath he heard how the Franks deplored; His heart is burning within his breast. "God's malediction upon thee rest! Right dearly shalt thou this blood repay." His war-horse springs to the spur straightway, And they come together--go down who may. CXXXVI A gallant captain was Grandonie, Great in arms and in chivalry. Never, till then, had he Roland seen, But well he knew him by form and mien, By the stately bearing and glance of pride, And a fear was on him he might not hide. Fain would he fly, but it skills not here; Roland smote him with stroke so sheer, That it cleft the nasal his helm beneath, Slitting nostril and mouth and teeth, Cleft his body and mail of plate, And the gilded saddle whereon he sate, Deep the back of the charger through: Beyond all succor the twain he slew. From the Spanish ranks a wail arose, And the Franks exult in their champion's blows. CXXXVII The battle is wondrous yet, and dire, And the Franks are cleaving in deadly ire; Wrists and ribs and chines afresh, And vestures, in to the living flesh; On the green grass streaming the bright blood ran, "O mighty country, Mahound thee ban! For thy sons are strong over might of man." And one and all unto Marsil cried, "Hither, O king, to our succor ride." CXXXVIII Marvellous yet is the fight around, The Franks are thrusting with spears embrowned; And great the carnage there to ken, Slain and wounded and bleeding men, Flung, each by other, on back or face. Hold no more can the heathen race. They turn and fly from the field apace; The Franks as hotly pursue in chase. CXXXIX Knightly the deeds by Roland done, Respite or rest for his Franks is none; Hard they ride on the heathen rear, At trot or gallop in full career. With crimson blood are their bodies stained, And their brands of steel are snapped or strained; And when the weapons their hands forsake, Then unto trumpet and horn they take. Serried they charge, in power and pride; And the Saracens cry--"May ill betide The hour we came on this fatal track!" So on our host do they turn the back, The Christians cleaving them as they fled, Till to Marsil stretcheth the line of dead. CXL King Marsil looks on his legions strown, He bids the clarion blast be blown, With all his host he onward speeds: Abîme the heathen his vanguard leads. No felon worse in the host than he, Black of hue as a shrivelled pea; He believes not in Holy Mary's Son; Full many an evil deed hath done. Treason and murder he prizeth more Than all the gold of Galicia's shore; Men never knew him to laugh nor jest, But brave and daring among the best-- Endeared to the felon king therefor; And the dragon flag of his race he bore. The archbishop loathed him--full well he might,-- And as he saw him he yearned to smite, To himself he speaketh, low and quick, "This heathen seems much a heretic; I go to slay him, or else to die, For I love not dastards or dastardy." CXLI The archbishop began the fight once more; He rode the steed he had won of yore, When in Denmark Grossaille the king he slew. Fleet the charger, and fair to view: His feet were small and fashioned fine, Long the flank, and high the chine, Chest and croup full amply spread, With taper ear and tawny head, And snow-white tail and yellow mane: To seek his peer on earth were vain. The archbishop spurred him in fiery haste, And, on the moment Abîme he faced, Came down on the wondrous shield the blow, The shield with amethysts all aglow, Carbuncle and topaz, each priceless stone; 'Twas once the Emir Galafir's own; A demon gave it in Metas vale; But when Turpin smote it might nought avail-- From side to side did his weapon trace, And he flung him dead in an open space. Say the Franks, "Such deeds beseem the brave. Well the archbishop his cross can save." CXLII Count Roland Olivier bespake: "Sir comrade, dost thou my thought partake? A braver breathes not this day on earth Than our archbishop in knightly worth. How nobly smites he with lance and blade!" Saith Olivier, "Yea, let us yield him aid;" And the Franks once more the fight essayed. Stern and deadly resound the blows. For the Christians, alas, 'tis a tale of woes! CXLIII The Franks of France of their arms are reft, Three hundred blades alone are left. The glittering helms they smite and shred, And cleave asunder full many a head; Through riven helm and hauberk rent, Maim head and foot and lineament. "Disfigured are we," the heathens cry. "Who guards him not hath but choice to die." Right unto Marsil their way they take. "Help, O king, for your people's sake!" King Marsil heard their cry at hand, "Mahound destroy thee, O mighty land; Thy race came hither to crush mine own. What cities wasted and overthrown, Doth Karl of the hoary head possess! Rome and Apulia his power confess, Constantinople and Saxony; Yet better die by the Franks than flee. On, Saracens! recreant heart be none; If Roland live, we are all foredone." CXLIV Then with the lance did the heathens smite On shield and gleaming helmet bright; Of steel and iron arose the clang, Towards heaven the flames and sparkles sprang; Brains and blood on the champaign flowed; But on Roland's heart is a dreary load, To see his vassals lie cold in death; His gentle France he remembereth, And his uncle, the good King Carlemaine; And the spirit within him groans for pain. CXLV Count Roland entered within the prease, And smote full deadly without surcease; While Durindana aloft he held, Hauberk and helm he pierced and quelled, Intrenching body and hand and head. The Saracens lie by the hundred dead, And the heathen host is discomfited. CXLVI Valiantly Olivier, otherwhere, Brandished on high his sword Hauteclere-- Save Durindana, of swords the best. To the battle proudly he him addressed. His arms with the crimson blood were dyed. "God, what a vassal!" Count Roland cried. "O gentle baron, so true and leal, This day shall set on our love the seal! The Emperor cometh to find us dead, For ever parted and severèd. France never looked on such woful day; Nor breathes a Frank but for us will pray,-- From the cloister cells shall the orisons rise, And our souls find rest in Paradise." Olivier heard him, amid the throng, Spurred his steed to his side along. Saith each to other, "Be near me still; We will die together, if God so will." CXLVII Roland and Olivier then are seen To lash and hew with their falchions keen; With his lance the archbishop thrusts and slays, And the numbers slain we may well appraise; In charter and writ is the tale expressed-- Beyond four thousand, saith the geste. In four encounters they sped them well: Dire and grievous the fifth befell. The cavaliers of the Franks are slain All but sixty, who yet remain; God preserved them, that ere they die, They may sell their lives full hardily. THE HORN CXLVIII As Roland gazed on his slaughtered men, He bespake his gentle compeer agen: "Ah, dear companion, may God thee shield! Behold, our bravest lie dead on field! Well may we weep for France the fair, Of her noble barons despoiled and bare. Had he been with us, our king and friend! Speak, my brother, thy counsel lend,-- How unto Karl shall we tidings send?" Olivier answered, "I wist not how. Liefer death than be recreant now." CXLIX "I will sound," said Roland, "upon my horn, Karl, as he passeth the gorge, to warn. The Franks, I know, will return apace." Said Olivier, "Nay, it were foul disgrace On your noble kindred to wreak such wrong; They would bear the stain their lifetime long. Erewhile I sought it, and sued in vain; But to sound thy horn thou wouldst not deign. Not now shall mine assent be won, Nor shall I say it is knightly done. Lo! both your arms are streaming red." "In sooth," said Roland, "good strokes I sped." CL Said Roland, "Our battle goes hard, I fear; I will sound my horn that Karl may hear." "'Twere a deed unknightly," said Olivier; "Thou didst disdain when I sought and prayed: Saved had we been with our Karl to aid; Unto him and his host no blame shall be: By this my beard, might I hope to see My gentle sister Alda's face, Thou shouldst never hold her in thine embrace." CLI "Ah, why on me doth thine anger fall?" "Roland, 'tis thou who hast wrought it all. Valor and madness are scarce allied,-- Better discretion than daring pride. All of thy folly our Franks lie slain, Nor shall render service to Karl again, As I implored thee, if thou hadst done, The king had come and the field were won; Marsil captive, or slain, I trow. Thy daring, Roland, hath wrought our woe. No service more unto Karl we pay, That first of men till the judgment day; Thou shalt die, and France dishonored be Ended our loyal company-- A woful parting this eve shall see." CLII Archbishop Turpin their strife hath heard, His steed with the spurs of gold he spurred, And thus rebuked them, riding near: "Sir Roland, and thou, Sir Olivier, Contend not, in God's great name, I crave. Not now availeth the horn to save; And yet behoves you to wind its call,-- Karl will come to avenge our fall, Nor hence the foemen in joyance wend. The Franks will all from their steeds descend; When they find us slain and martyred here, They will raise our bodies on mule and bier, And, while in pity aloud they weep, Lay us in hallowed earth to sleep; Nor wolf nor boar on our limbs shall feed." Said Roland, "Yea, 'tis a goodly rede." CLIII Then to his lips the horn he drew, And full and lustily he blew. The mountain peaks soared high around; Thirty leagues was borne the sound. Karl hath heard it, and all his band. "Our men have battle," he said, "on hand." Ganelon rose in front and cried, "If another spake, I would say he lied." CLIV With deadly travail, in stress and pain, Count Roland sounded the mighty strain. Forth from his mouth the bright blood sprang, And his temples burst for the very pang. On and onward was borne the blast, Till Karl hath heard as the gorge he passed, And Naimes and all his men of war. "It is Roland's horn," said the Emperor, "And, save in battle, he had not blown." "Battle," said Ganelon, "is there none. Old are you grown--all white and hoar; Such words bespeak you a child once more. Have you, then, forgotten Roland's pride, Which I marvel God should so long abide, How he captured Noples without your hest? Forth from the city the heathen pressed, To your vassal Roland they battle gave,-- He slew them all with the trenchant glaive, Then turned the waters upon the plain, That trace of blood might none remain. He would sound all day for a single hare: 'Tis a jest with him and his fellows there; For who would battle against him dare? Ride onward--wherefore this chill delay? Your mighty land is yet far away." CLV On Roland's mouth is the bloody stain, Burst asunder his temple's vein; His horn he soundeth in anguish drear; King Karl and the Franks around him hear. Said Karl, "That horn is long of breath." Said Naimes, "'Tis Roland who travaileth. There is battle yonder by mine avow. He who betrayed him deceives you now. Arm, sire; ring forth your rallying cry, And stand your noble household by; For you hear your Roland in jeopardy." CLVI The king commands to sound the alarm. To the trumpet the Franks alight and arm; With casque and corselet and gilded brand, Buckler and stalwart lance in hand, Pennons of crimson and white and blue, The barons leap on their steeds anew, And onward spur the passes through; Nor is there one but to other saith, "Could we reach but Roland before his death, Blows would we strike for him grim and great." Ah! what availeth!--'tis all too late. CLVII The evening passed into brightening dawn. Against the sun their harness shone; From helm and hauberk glanced the rays, And their painted bucklers seemed all ablaze. The Emperor rode in wrath apart. The Franks were moody and sad of heart; Was none but dropped the bitter tear, For they thought of Roland with deadly fear.-- Then bade the Emperor take and bind Count Gan, and had him in scorn consigned To Besgun, chief of his kitchen train. "Hold me this felon," he said, "in chain." Then full a hundred round him pressed, Of the kitchen varlets the worst and best; His beard upon lip and chin they tore, Cuffs of the fist each dealt him four, Roundly they beat him with rods and staves; Then around his neck those kitchen knaves Flung a fetterlock fast and strong, As ye lead a bear in a chain along; On a beast of burthen the count they cast, Till they yield him back to Karl at last. CLVIII Dark, vast, and high the summits soar, The waters down through the valleys pour. The trumpets sound in front and rear, And to Roland's horn make answer clear. The Emperor rideth in wrathful mood, The Franks in grievous solicitude; Nor one among them can stint to weep, Beseeching God that He Roland keep, Till they stand beside him upon the field, To the death together their arms to wield. Ah, timeless succor, and all in vain! Too long they tarried, too late they strain. CLIX Onward King Karl in his anger goes; Down on his harness his white beard flows. The barons of France spur hard behind; But on all there presseth one grief of mind-- That they stand not beside Count Roland then, As he fronts the power of the Saracen. Were he hurt in fight, who would then survive? Yet three score barons around him strive. And what a sixty! Nor chief nor king Had ever such gallant following. CLX Roland looketh to hill and plain, He sees the lines of his warriors slain, And he weeps like a noble cavalier, "Barons of France, God hold you dear, And take you to Paradise's bowers, Where your souls may lie on the holy flowers; Braver vassals on earth were none, So many kingdoms for Karl ye won; Years a-many your ranks I led, And for end like this were ye nurturèd. Land of France, thou art soothly fair; To-day thou liest bereaved and bare; It was all for me your lives you gave, And I was helpless to shield or save. May the great God save you who cannot lie. Olivier, brother, I stand thee by; I die of grief, if I 'scape unslain: In, brother, in to the fight again." CLXI Once more pressed Roland within the fight, His Durindana he grasped with might; Faldron of Pui did he cleave in two, And twenty-four of their bravest slew. Never was man on such vengeance bound; And, as flee the roe-deer before the hound, So in face of Roland the heathen flee. Saith Turpin, "Right well this liketh me. Such prowess a cavalier befits, Who harness wears, and on charger sits; In battle shall he be strong and great, Or I prize him not at four deniers' rate; Let him else be monk in a cloister cell, His daily prayers for our souls to tell." Cries Roland, "Smite them, and do not spare." Down once more on the foe they bear, But the Christian ranks grow thinned and rare. CLXII Who knoweth ransom is none for him, Maketh in battle resistance grim; The Franks like wrathful lions strike, But King Marsil beareth him baron-like; He bestrideth his charger, Gaignon hight, And he pricketh him hard, Sir Beuve to smite, The Lord of Beaune and of Dijon town, Through shield and cuirass, he struck him down: Dead past succor of man he lay. Ivon and Ivor did Marsil slay; Gerard of Roussillon beside. Not far was Roland, and loud he cried, "Be thou forever in God's disgrace, Who hast slain my fellows before my face, Before we part thou shalt blows essay, And learn the name of my sword to-day." Down, at the word, came the trenchant brand, And from Marsil severed his good right hand: With another stroke, the head he won Of the fair-haired Jurfalez, Marsil's son. "Help us, Mahound!" say the heathen train, "May our gods avenge us on Carlemaine! Such daring felons he hither sent, Who will hold the field till their lives be spent." "Let us flee and save us," cry one and all, Unto flight a hundred thousand fall, Nor can aught the fugitives recall. CLXIII But what availeth? though Marsil fly, His uncle, the Algalif, still is nigh; Lord of Carthagena is he, Of Alferna's shore and Garmalie, And of Ethiopia, accursed land: The black battalions at his command, With nostrils huge and flattened ears, Outnumber fifty thousand spears; And on they ride in haste and ire, Shouting their heathen war-cry dire. "At last," said Roland, "the hour is come, Here receive we our martyrdom; Yet strike with your burnished brands--accursed Who sells not his life right dearly first; In life or death be your thought the same, That gentle France be not brought to shame. When the Emperor hither his steps hath bent, And he sees the Saracens' chastisement, Fifteen of their dead against our one, He will breathe on our souls his benison." DEATH OF OLIVIER CLXIV When Roland saw the abhorrèd race, Than blackest ink more black in face, Who have nothing white but the teeth alone, "Now," he said, "it is truly shown, That the hour of our death is close at hand. Fight, my Franks, 'tis my last command." Said Olivier, "Shame is the laggard's due." And at his word they engage anew. CLXV When the heathen saw that the Franks were few, Heart and strength from the sight they drew; They said, "The Emperor hath the worse." The Algalif sat on a sorrel horse; He pricked with spurs of the gold refined, Smote Olivier in the back behind. On through his harness the lance he pressed, Till the steel came out at the baron's breast. "Thou hast it!" the Algalif, vaunting, cried, "Ye were sent by Karl in an evil tide. Of his wrongs against us he shall not boast; In thee alone I avenge our host." CLXVI Olivier felt the deadly wound, Yet he grasped Hauteclere, with its steel embrowned; He smote on the Algalif's crest of gold,-- Gem and flowers to the earth were rolled; Clave his head to the teeth below, And struck him dead with the single blow. "All evil, caitiff, thy soul pursue. Full well our Emperor's loss I knew; But for thee--thou goest not hence to boast To wife or dame on thy natal coast, Of one denier from the Emperor won, Or of scathe to me or to others done." Then Roland's aid he called upon. CLXVII Olivier knoweth him hurt to death; The more to vengeance he hasteneth; Knightly as ever his arms he bore, Staves of lances and shields he shore; Sides and shoulders and hands and feet,-- Whose eyes soever the sight would greet, How the Saracens all disfigured lie, Corpse upon corpse, each other by, Would think upon gallant deeds; nor yet Doth he the war-cry of Karl forget-- "_Montjoie!_" he shouted, shrill and clear; Then called he Roland, his friend and peer, "Sir, my comrade, anear me ride; This day of dolor shall us divide." CLXVIII Roland looked Olivier in the face,-- Ghastly paleness was there to trace; Forth from his wound did the bright blood flow, And rain in showers to the earth below. "O God!" said Roland, "is this the end Of all thy prowess, my gentle friend? Nor know I whither to bear me now: On earth shall never be such as thou. Ah, gentle France, thou art overthrown, Reft of thy bravest, despoiled and lone; The Emperor's loss is full indeed!" At the word he fainted upon his steed. CLXIX See Roland there on his charger swooned, Olivier smitten with his death wound. His eyes from bleeding are dimmed and dark, Nor mortal, near or far, can mark; And when his comrade beside him pressed, Fiercely he smote on his golden crest; Down to the nasal the helm he shred, But passed no further, nor pierced his head. Roland marvelled at such a blow, And thus bespake him soft and low: "Hast thou done it, my comrade, wittingly? Roland who loves thee so dear, am I, Thou hast no quarrel with me to seek?" Olivier answered, "I hear thee speak, But I see thee not. God seeth thee. Have I struck thee, brother? Forgive it me." "I am not hurt, O Olivier; And in sight of God, I forgive thee here." Then each to other his head has laid, And in love like this was their parting made. CLXX Olivier feeleth his throe begin; His eyes are turning his head within, Sight and hearing alike are gone. He alights and couches the earth upon; His _Mea Culpa_ aloud he cries, And his hands in prayer unto God arise, That he grant him Paradise to share, That he bless King Karl and France the fair, His brother Roland o'er all mankind; Then sank his heart, and his head declined, Stretched at length on the earth he lay,-- So passed Sir Olivier away. Roland was left to weep alone: Man so woful hath ne'er been known. CLXXI When Roland saw that life had fled, And with face to earth his comrade dead, He thus bewept him, soft and still: "Ah, friend, thy prowess wrought thee ill! So many days and years gone by We lived together, thou and I: And thou hast never done me wrong, Nor I to thee, our lifetime long. Since thou art dead, to live is pain." He swooned on Veillantif again, Yet may not unto earth be cast, His golden stirrups held him fast. CLXXII When passed away had Roland's swoon, With sense restored, he saw full soon What ruin lay beneath his view. His Franks have perished all save two-- The archbishop and Walter of Hum alone. From the mountain-side hath Walter flown, Where he met in battle the bands of Spain, And the heathen won and his men were slain In his own despite to the vale he came; Called unto Roland, his aid to claim. "Ah, count! brave gentleman, gallant peer! Where art thou? With thee I know not fear. I am Walter, who vanquished Maelgut of yore, Nephew to Drouin, the old and hoar. For knightly deeds I was once thy friend. I fought the Saracen to the end; My lance is shivered, my shield is cleft, Of my broken mail are but fragments left. I bear in my body eight thrusts of spear; I die, but I sold my life right dear." Count Roland heard as he spake the word, Pricked his steed, and anear him spurred. CLXXIII "Walter," said Roland, "thou hadst affray With the Saracen foe on the heights to-day. Thou wert wont a valorous knight to be: A thousand horsemen gave I thee; Render them back, for my need is sore." "Alas, thou seest them never more! Stretched they lie on the dolorous ground, Where myriad Saracen swarms we found,-- Armenians, Turks, and the giant brood Of Balisa, famous for hardihood, Bestriding their Arab coursers fleet, Such host in battle 'twas ours to meet; Nor vaunting thence shall the heathen go,-- Full sixty thousand on earth lie low. With our brands of steel we avenged us well, But every Frank by the foeman fell. My hauberk plates are riven wide, And I bear such wounds in flank and side, That from every part the bright blood flows, And feebler ever my body grows. I am dying fast, I am well aware: Thy liegeman I, and claim thy care. If I fled perforce, thou wilt forgive, And yield me succor while thou dost live." Roland sweated with wrath and pain, Tore the skirts of his vest in twain, Bound Walter's every bleeding vein. CLXXIV In Roland's sorrow his wrath arose, Hotly he struck at the heathen foes, Nor left he one of a score alive; Walter slew six, the archbishop five. The heathens cry, "What a felon three! Look to it, lords, that they shall not flee. Dastard is he who confronts them not; Craven, who lets them depart this spot." Their cries and shoutings begin once more, And from every side on the Franks they pour. CLXXV Count Roland in sooth is a noble peer; Count Walter, a valorous cavalier; The archbishop, in battle proved and tried, Each struck as if knight there were none beside. From their steeds a thousand Saracens leap, Yet forty thousand their saddles keep; I trow they dare not approach them near, But they hurl against them lance and spear, Pike and javelin, shaft and dart. Walter is slain as the missiles part; The archbishop's shield in pieces shred, Riven his helm, and pierced his head; His corselet of steel they rent and tore, Wounded his body with lances four; His steed beneath him dropped withal: What woe to see the archbishop fall! CLXXVI When Turpin felt him flung to ground, And four lance wounds within him found, He swiftly rose, the dauntless man, To Roland looked, and nigh him ran. Spake but, "I am not overthrown-- Brave warrior yields with life alone." He drew Almace's burnished steel, A thousand ruthless blows to deal. In after time, the Emperor said He found four hundred round him spread,-- Some wounded, others cleft in twain; Some lying headless on the plain. So Giles the saint, who saw it, tells, For whom High God wrought miracles. In Laon cell the scroll he wrote; He little weets who knows it not. CLXXVII Count Roland combateth nobly yet, His body burning and bathed in sweat; In his brow a mighty pain, since first, When his horn he sounded, his temple burst; But he yearns of Karl's approach to know, And lifts his horn once more--but oh, How faint and feeble a note to blow! The Emperor listened, and stood full still. "My lords," he said, "we are faring ill. This day is Roland my nephew's last; Like dying man he winds that blast. On! Who would aid, for life must press. Sound every trump our ranks possess." Peal sixty thousand clarions high, The hills re-echo, the vales reply. It is now no jest for the heathen band. "Karl!" they cry, "it is Karl at hand!" CLXXVIII They said, "'Tis the Emperor's advance, We hear the trumpets resound of France. If he assail us, hope in vain; If Roland live, 'tis war again, And we lose for aye the land of Spain." Four hundred in arms together drew, The bravest of the heathen crew; With serried power they on him press, And dire in sooth is the count's distress. CLXXIX When Roland saw his coming foes, All proud and stern his spirit rose; Alive he shall never be brought to yield: Veillantif spurred he across the field, With golden spurs he pricked him well, To break the ranks of the infidel; Archbishop Turpin by his side. "Let us flee, and save us," the heathen cried; "These are the trumpets of France we hear-- It is Karl, the mighty Emperor, near." CLXXX Count Roland never hath loved the base, Nor the proud of heart, nor the dastard race,-- Nor knight, but if he were vassal good,-- And he spake to Turpin, as there he stood; "On foot are you, on horseback I; For your love I halt, and stand you by. Together for good and ill we hold; I will not leave you for man of mould. We will pay the heathen their onset back, Nor shall Durindana of blows be slack." "Base," said Turpin, "who spares to smite: When the Emperor comes, he will all requite." CLXXXI The heathens said, "We were born to shame. This day for our disaster came: Our lords and leaders in battle lost, And Karl at hand with his marshalled host; We hear the trumpets of France ring out, And the cry '_Montjoie!_' their rallying shout. Roland's pride is of such a height, Not to be vanquished by mortal wight; Hurl we our missiles, and hold aloof." And the word they spake, they put in proof,-- They flung, with all their strength and craft, Javelin, barb, and plumèd shaft. Roland's buckler was torn and frayed, His cuirass broken and disarrayed, Yet entrance none to his flesh they made. From thirty wounds Veillantif bled, Beneath his rider they cast him, dead; Then from the field have the heathen flown: Roland remaineth, on foot, alone. THE LAST BENEDICTION OF THE ARCHBISHOP CLXXXII The heathens fly in rage and dread; To the land of Spain have their footsteps sped; Nor can Count Roland make pursuit-- Slain is his steed, and he rests afoot; To succor Turpin he turned in haste, The golden helm from his head unlaced, Ungirt the corselet from his breast, In stripes divided his silken vest; The archbishop's wounds hath he staunched and bound, His arms around him softly wound; On the green sward gently his body laid, And, with tender greeting, thus him prayed: "For a little space, let me take farewell; Our dear companions, who round us fell, I go to seek; if I haply find, I will place them at thy feet reclined." "Go," said Turpin; "the field is thine-- To God the glory, 'tis thine and mine." CLXXXIII Alone seeks Roland the field of fight, He searcheth vale, he searcheth height. Ivon and Ivor he found, laid low, And the Gascon Engelier of Bordeaux, Gerein and his fellow in arms, Gerier; Otho he found, and Berengier; Samson the duke, and Anseis bold, Gerard of Roussillon, the old. Their bodies, one after one, he bore, And laid them Turpin's feet before. The archbishop saw them stretched arow, Nor can he hinder the tears that flow; In benediction his hands he spread: "Alas! for your doom, my lords," he said, "That God in mercy your souls may give, On the flowers of Paradise to live; Mine own death comes, with anguish sore That I see mine Emperor never more." CLXXXIV Once more to the field doth Roland wend, Till he findeth Olivier his friend; The lifeless form to his heart he strained, Bore him back with what strength remained, On a buckler laid him, beside the rest, The archbishop assoiled them all, and blessed. Their dole and pity anew find vent, And Roland maketh his fond lament: "My Olivier, my chosen one, Thou wert the noble Duke Renier's son, Lord of the March unto Rivier vale. To shiver lance and shatter mail, The brave in council to guide and cheer, To smite the miscreant foe with fear,-- Was never on earth such cavalier." CLXXXV Dead around him his peers to see, And the man he loved so tenderly, Fast the tears of Count Roland ran, His visage discolored became, and wan, He swooned for sorrow beyond control. "Alas," said Turpin, "how great thy dole!" CLXXXVI To look on Roland swooning there, Surpassed all sorrow he ever bare; He stretched his hand, the horn he took,-- Through Roncesvailes there flowed a brook,-- A draught to Roland he thought to bring; But his steps were feeble and tottering, Spent his strength, from waste of blood,-- He struggled on for scarce a rood, When sank his heart, and drooped his frame, And his mortal anguish on him came. CLXXXVII Roland revived from his swoon again; On his feet he rose, but in deadly pain; He looked on high, and he looked below, Till, a space his other companions fro, He beheld the baron, stretched on sward, The archbishop, vicar of God our Lord. _Mea Culpa_ was Turpin's cry, While he raised his hands to heaven on high, Imploring Paradise to gain. So died the soldier of Carlemaine,-- With word or weapon, to preach or fight, A champion ever of Christian right, And a deadly foe of the infidel. God's benediction within him dwell! CLXXXVIII When Roland saw him stark on earth (His very vitals were bursting forth, And his brain was oozing from out his head), He took the fair white hands outspread, Crossed and clasped them upon his breast, And thus his plaint to the dead addressed,-- So did his country's law ordain:-- "Ah, gentleman of noble strain, I trust thee unto God the True, Whose service never man shall do With more devoted heart and mind: To guard the faith, to win mankind, From the apostles' days till now, Such prophet never rose as thou. Nor pain or torment thy soul await, But of Paradise the open gate." THE DEATH OF ROLAND CLXXIX Roland feeleth his death is near, His brain is oozing by either ear. For his peers he prayed--God keep them well; Invoked the angel Gabriel. That none reproach him, his horn he clasped; His other hand Durindana grasped; Then, far as quarrel from crossbow sent, Across the march of Spain he went, Where, on a mound, two trees between, Four flights of marble steps were seen; Backward he fell, on the field to lie; And he swooned anon, for the end was nigh. CXC High were the mountains and high the trees, Bright shone the marble terraces; On the green grass Roland hath swooned away. A Saracen spied him where he lay: Stretched with the rest he had feigned him dead, His face and body with blood bespread. To his feet he sprang, and in haste he hied,-- He was fair and strong and of courage tried, In pride and wrath he was overbold,-- And on Roland, body and arms, laid hold. "The nephew of Karl is overthrown! To Araby bear I this sword, mine own." He stooped to grasp it, but as he drew, Roland returned to his sense anew. CXCI He saw the Saracen seize his sword; His eyes he oped, and he spake one word-- "Thou art not one of our band, I trow," And he clutched the horn he would ne'er forego; On the golden crest he smote him full, Shattering steel and bone and skull, Forth from his head his eyes he beat, And cast him lifeless before his feet. "Miscreant, makest thou then so free, As, right or wrong, to lay hold on me? Who hears it will deem thee a madman born; Behold the mouth of mine ivory horn Broken for thee, and the gems and gold Around its rim to earth are rolled." CXCII Roland feeleth his eyesight reft, Yet he stands erect with what strength is left; From his bloodless cheek is the hue dispelled, But his Durindana all bare he held. In front a dark brown rock arose-- He smote upon it ten grievous blows. Grated the steel as it struck the flint, Yet it brake not, nor bore its edge one dint. "Mary, Mother, be thou mine aid! Ah, Durindana, my ill-starred blade, I may no longer thy guardian be! What fields of battle I won with thee! What realms and regions 'twas ours to gain, Now the lordship of Carlemaine! Never shalt thou possessor know Who would turn from face of mortal foe; A gallant vassal so long thee bore, Such as France the free shall know no more." CXCIII He smote anew on the marble stair. It grated, but breach nor notch was there. When Roland found that it would not break, Thus began he his plaint to make. "Ah, Durindana, how fair and bright Thou sparklest, flaming against the light! When Karl in Maurienne valley lay, God sent his angel from heaven to say-- 'This sword shall a valorous captain's be,' And he girt it, the gentle king, on me. With it I vanquished Poitou and Maine, Provence I conquered and Aquitaine; I conquered Normandy the free, Anjou, and the marches of Brittany; Romagna I won, and Lombardy, Bavaria, Flanders from side to side, And Burgundy, and Poland wide; Constantinople affiance vowed, And the Saxon soil to his bidding bowed; Scotia, and Wales, and Ireland's plain, Of England made he his own domain. What mighty regions I won of old, For the hoary-headed Karl to hold! But there presses on me a grievous pain, Lest thou in heathen hands remain. O God our Father, keep France from stain!" CXCIV His strokes once more on the brown rock fell, And the steel was bent past words to tell; Yet it brake not, nor was notched the grain, Erect it leaped to the sky again. When he failed at the last to break his blade, His lamentation he inly made. "Oh, fair and holy, my peerless sword, What relics lie in thy pommel stored! Tooth of Saint Peter, Saint Basil's blood, Hair of Saint Denis beside them strewed, Fragment of holy Mary's vest. 'Twere shame that thou with the heathen rest; Thee should the hand of a Christian serve One who would never in battle swerve. What regions won I with thee of yore, The empire now of Karl the hoar! Rich and mighty is he therefore." CXCV That death was on him he knew full well; Down from his head to his heart it fell. On the grass beneath a pine-tree's shade, With face to earth, his form he laid, Beneath him placed he his horn and sword, And turned his face to the heathen horde. Thus hath he done the sooth to show, That Karl and his warriors all may know, That the gentle count a conqueror died. _Mea Culpa_ full oft he cried; And, for all his sins, unto God above, In sign of penance, he raised his glove. CXCVI Roland feeleth his hour at hand; On a knoll he lies towards the Spanish land. With one hand beats he upon his breast: "In thy sight, O God, be my sins confessed. From my hour of birth, both the great and small, Down to this day, I repent of all." As his glove he raises to God on high, Angels of heaven descend him nigh. CXCVII Beneath a pine was his resting-place, To the land of Spain hath he turned his face, On his memory rose full many a thought-- Of the lands he won and the fields he fought; Of his gentle France, of his kin and line; Of his nursing father, King Karl benign;-- He may not the tear and sob control, Nor yet forgets he his parting soul. To God's compassion he makes his cry: "O Father true, who canst not lie, Who didst Lazarus raise unto life agen, And Daniel shield in the lions' den; Shield my soul from its peril, due For the sins I sinned my lifetime through." He did his right-hand glove uplift-- Saint Gabriel took from his hand the gift; Then drooped his head upon his breast, And with claspèd hands he went to rest. God from on high sent down to him One of his angel Cherubim-- Saint Michael of Peril of the sea, Saint Gabriel in company-- From heaven they came for that soul of price, And they bore it with them to Paradise. PART III THE REPRISALS THE CHASTISEMENT OF THE SARACENS CXCVIII Dead is Roland; his soul with God. While to Roncesvalles the Emperor rode, Where neither path nor track he found, Nor open space nor rood of ground, But was strewn with Frank or heathen slain, "Where art thou, Roland?" he cried in pain: "The Archbishop where, and Olivier, Gerein and his brother in arms, Gerier? Count Otho where, and Berengier, Ivon and Ivor, so dear to me; And Engelier of Gascony; Samson the duke, and Anseis the bold; Gerard, of Roussillon, the old; My peers, the twelve whom I left behind?" In vain!--No answer may he find. "O God," he cried, "what grief is mine That I was not in front of this battle line!" For very wrath his beard he tore, His knights and barons weeping sore; Aswoon full fifty thousand fall: Duke Naimes hath pity and dole for all. CXCIX Nor knight nor baron was there to see But wept full fast, and bitterly; For son and brother their tears descend, For lord and liege, for kin and friend; Aswoon all numberless they fell, But Naimes did gallantly and well. He spake the first to the Emperor-- "Look onward, sire, two leagues before, See the dust from the ways arise,-- There the strength of the heathen lies. Ride on; avenge you for this dark day." "O God," said Karl, "they are far away! Yet for right and honor, the sooth ye say. Fair France's flower they have torn from me." To Otun and Gebouin beckoned he, To Tybalt of Rheims, and Milo the count. "Guard the battle-field, vale, and mount-- Leave the dead as ye see them lie; Watch, that nor lion nor beast come nigh, Nor on them varlet or squire lay hand; None shall touch them, 'tis my command, Till with God's good grace we return again." They answered lowly, in loving strain, "Great lord, fair sire, we will do your hest," And a thousand warriors with them rest. CC The Emperor bade his clarions ring, Marched with his host the noble king. They came at last on the heathens' trace, And all together pursued in chase; But the king of the falling eve was ware: He alighted down in a meadow fair, Knelt on the earth unto God to pray That he make the sun in his course delay, Retard the night, and prolong the day. Then his wonted angel who with him spake, Swiftly to Karl did answer make, "Ride on! Light shall not thee forego; God seeth the flower of France laid low; Thy vengeance wreak on the felon crew." The Emperor sprang to his steed anew. CCI God wrought for Karl a miracle: In his place in heaven the sun stood still. The heathens fled, the Franks pursued, And in Val Tenèbres beside them stood; Towards Saragossa the rout they drave, And deadly were the strokes they gave. They barred against them path and road; In front the water of Ebro flowed: Strong was the current, deep and large, Was neither shallop, nor boat, nor barge. With a cry to their idol Termagaunt, The heathens plunge, but with scanty vaunt. Encumbered with their armor's weight, Sank the most to the bottom, straight; Others floated adown the stream; And the luckiest drank their fill, I deem: All were in marvellous anguish drowned. Cry the Franks, "In Roland your fate ye found." CCII As he sees the doom of the heathen host, Slain are some and drowned the most, (Great spoil have won the Christian knights), The gentle king from his steed alights, And kneels, his thanks unto God to pour: The sun had set as he rose once more. "It is time to rest," the Emperor cried, "And to Roncesvalles 'twere late to ride. Our steeds are weary and spent with pain; Strip them of saddle and bridle-rein, Free let them browse on the verdant mead." "Sire," say the Franks, "it were well indeed." CCIII The Emperor hath his quarters ta'en, And the Franks alight in the vacant plain; The saddles from their steeds they strip, And the bridle-reins from their heads they slip; They set them free on the green grass fair, Nor can they render them other care. On the ground the weary warriors slept; Watch nor vigil that night they kept. CCIV In the mead the Emperor made his bed, With his mighty spear beside his head, Nor will he doff his arms to-night, But lies in his broidered hauberk white. Laced is his helm, with gold inlaid, Girt on Joyeuse, the peerless blade, Which changes thirty times a day The brightness of its varying ray. Nor may the lance unspoken be Which pierced our Saviour on the tree; Karl hath its point--so God him graced-- Within his golden hilt enchased. And for this honor and boon of heaven, The name Joyeuse to the sword was given; The Franks may hold it in memory. Thence came "_Montjoie_," their battle-cry, And thence no race with them may vie. CCV Clear was the night, and the fair moon shone. But grief weighed heavy King Karl upon; He thought of Roland and Olivier, Of his Franks and every gallant peer, Whom he left to perish in Roncesvale, Nor can he stint but to weep and wail, Imploring God their souls to bless,-- Till, overcome with long distress, He slumbers at last for heaviness. The Franks are sleeping throughout the meads; Nor rest on foot can the weary steeds-- They crop the herb as they stretch them prone.-- Much hath he learned who hath sorrow known. CCVI The Emperor slumbered like man forespent, While God his angel Gabriel sent The couch of Carlemaine to guard. All night the angel kept watch and ward, And in a vision to Karl presaged A coming battle against him waged. 'Twas shown in fearful augury; The king looked upward to the sky-- There saw he lightning, and hail, and storm, Wind and tempest in fearful form. A dread apparel of fire and flame, Down at once on his host they came. Their ashen lances the flames enfold, And their bucklers in to the knobs of gold; Grated the steel of helm and mail. Yet other perils the Franks assail, And his cavaliers are in deadly strait. Bears and lions to rend them wait, Wiverns, snakes and fiends of fire, More than a thousand griffins dire; Enfuried at the host they fly. "Help us, Karl!" was the Franks' outcry, Ruth and sorrow the king beset; Fain would he aid, but was sternly let. A lion came from the forest path, Proud and daring, and fierce in wrath; Forward sprang he the king to grasp, And each seized other with deadly clasp; But who shall conquer or who shall fall, None knoweth. Nor woke the king withal. CCVII Another vision came him o'er: He was in France, his land, once more; In Aix, upon his palace stair, And held in double chain a bear. When thirty more from Arden ran, Each spake with voice of living man: "Release him, sire!" aloud they call; "Our kinsman shall not rest in thrall. To succor him our arms are bound." Then from the palace leaped a hound, On the mightiest of the bears he pressed, Upon the sward, before the rest. The wondrous fight King Karl may see, But knows not who shall victor be. These did the angel to Karl display; But the Emperor slept till dawning day. CCVIII At morning-tide when day-dawn broke, The Emperor from his slumber woke. His holy guardian, Gabriel, With hand uplifted sained him well. The king aside his armor laid, And his warriors all were disarrayed. Then mount they, and in haste they ride, Through lengthening path and highway wide Until they see the doleful sight In Roncesvalles, the field of fight. CCIX Unto Roncesvalles King Karl hath sped, And his tears are falling above the dead; "Ride, my barons, at gentle pace,-- I will go before, a little space, For my nephew's sake, whom I fain would find. It was once in Aix, I recall to mind, When we met at the yearly festal-tide,-- My cavaliers in vaunting vied Of stricken fields and joustings proud,-- I heard my Roland declare aloud, In foreign land would he never fall But in front of his peers and his warriors all, He would lie with head to the foeman's shore, And make his end like a conqueror." Then far as man a staff might fling, Clomb to a rising knoll the king. CCX As the king in quest of Roland speeds, The flowers and grass throughout the meads He sees all red with our baron's blood, And his tears of pity break forth in flood. He upward climbs, till, beneath two trees, The dints upon the rock he sees. Of Roland's corse he was then aware; Stretched it lay on the green grass bare. No marvel sorrow the king oppressed; He alighted down, and in haste he pressed, Took the body his arms between, And fainted: dire his grief I ween. CCXI As did reviving sense begin, Naimes, the duke, and Count Acelin, The noble Geoffrey of Anjou, And his brother Henry nigh him drew. They made a pine-tree's trunk his stay; But he looked to earth where his nephew lay, And thus all gently made his dole: "My friend, my Roland, God guard thy soul! Never on earth such knight hath been, Fields of battle to fight and win. My pride and glory, alas, are gone!" He endured no longer; he swooned anon. CCXII As Karl the king revived once more, His hands were held by barons four. He saw his nephew, cold and wan; Stark his frame, but his hue was gone; His eyes turned inward, dark and dim; And Karl in love lamented him: "Dear Roland, God thy spirit rest In Paradise, amongst His blest! In evil hour thou soughtest Spain: No day shall dawn but sees my pain, And me of strength and pride bereft. No champion of mine honor left; Without a friend beneath the sky; And though my kindred still be nigh, Is none like thee their ranks among." With both his hands his beard he wrung. The Franks bewailed in unison; A hundred thousand wept like one. CCXIII "Dear Roland, I return again To Laon, to mine own domain; Where men will come from many a land, And seek Count Roland at my hand. A bitter tale must I unfold-- 'In Spanish earth he lieth cold,' A joyless realm henceforth I hold, And weep with daily tears untold." CCXIV "Dear Roland, beautiful and brave, All men of me will tidings crave, When I return to La Chapelle. Oh, what a tale is mine to tell! That low my glorious nephew lies. Now will the Saxon foeman rise; Bulgar and Hun in arms will come, Apulia's power, the might of Rome, Palermitan and Afric bands, And men from fierce and distant lands. To sorrow sorrow must succeed; My hosts to battle who shall lead, When the mighty captain is overthrown?' Ah! France deserted now, and lone. Come, death, before such grief I bear." Once more his beard and hoary hair Began he with his hands to tear; A hundred thousand fainted there. CCXV "Dear Roland, and was this thy fate? May Paradise thy soul await. Who slew thee wrought fair France's bane: I cannot live, so deep my pain. For me my kindred lie undone; And would to Holy Mary's Son, Ere I at Cizra's gorge alight, My soul may take its parting flight: My spirit would with theirs abide; My body rest their dust beside." With sobs his hoary beard he tore. "Alas!" said Naimes, "for the Emperor." CCXVI "Sir Emperor," Geoffrey of Anjou said, "Be not by sorrow so sore misled. Let us seek our comrades throughout the plain, Who fell by the hands of the men of Spain; And let their bodies on biers be borne." "Yea," said the Emperor. "Sound your horn." CCXVII Now doth Count Geoffrey his bugle sound, And the Franks from their steeds alight to ground As they their dead companions find, They lay them low on biers reclined; Nor prayers of bishop or abbot ceased, Of monk or canon, or tonsured priest. The dead they blessed in God's great name, Set myrrh and frankincense aflame. Their incense to the dead they gave, Then laid them, as beseemed the brave-- What could they more?--in honored grave. CCXVIII But the king kept watch o'er Roland's bier O'er Turpin and Sir Olivier. He bade their bodies opened be, Took the hearts of the barons three, Swathed them in silken cerements light, Laid them in urns of the marble white. Their bodies did the Franks enfold In skins of deer, around them rolled; Laved them with spices and with wine, Till the king to Milo gave his sign, To Tybalt, Otun, and Gebouin; Their bodies three on biers they set, Each in its silken coverlet. * * * * * CCXIX To Saragossa did Marsil flee. He alighted beneath an olive tree, And sadly to his serfs he gave His helm, his cuirass, and his glaive, Then flung him on the herbage green; Came nigh him Bramimonde his queen. Shorn from his wrist was his right hand good; He swooned for pain and waste of blood. The queen, in anguish, wept and cried, With twenty thousand by her side. King Karl and gentle France they cursed; Then on their gods their anger burst. Unto Apollin's crypt they ran, And with revilings thus began: "Ah, evil-hearted god, to bring Such dark dishonor on our king. Thy servants ill dost thou repay." His crown and wand they wrench away, They bind him to a pillar fast, And then his form to earth they cast, His limbs with staves they bruise and break: From Termagaunt his gem they take: Mohammed to a trench they bear, For dogs and boars to tread and tear. CCXX Within his vaulted hall they bore King Marsil, when his swoon was o'er; The hall with colored writings stained. And loud the queen in anguish plained, The while she tore her streaming hair, "Ah, Saragossa, reft and bare, Thou seest thy noble king o'erthrown! Such felony our gods have shown, Who failed in fight his aids to be. The Emir comes--a dastard he, Unless he will that race essay, Who proudly fling their lives away. Their Emperor of the hoary beard, In valor's desperation reared, Will never fly for mortal foe. Till he be slain, how deep my woe[2]!" [Footnote 2: Here intervenes the episode of the great battle fought between Charlemagne and Baligant, Emir of Babylon, who had come, with a mighty army, to the succor of King Marsil his vassal. This episode has been suspected of being a later interpolation. The translation is resumed at the end of the battle, after the Emir had been slain by Charlemagne's own hand, and when the Franks enter Saragossa in pursuit of the Saracens.] * * * * * CCXXI Fierce is the heat and thick the dust. The Franks the flying Arabs thrust. To Saragossa speeds their flight. The queen ascends a turret's height. The clerks and canons on her wait, Of that false law God holds in hate. Order or tonsure have they none. And when she thus beheld undone The Arab power, all disarrayed, Aloud she cried, "Mahound us aid! My king! defeated is our race, The Emir slain in foul disgrace." King Marsil turns him to the wall, And weeps--his visage darkened all. He dies for grief--in sin he dies, His wretched soul the demon's prize. CCXXII Dead lay the heathens, or turned to flight, And Karl was victor in the fight. Down Saragossa's wall he brake-- Defence he knew was none to make. And as the city lay subdued, The hoary king all proudly stood, There rested his victorious powers. The queen hath yielded up the towers-- Ten great towers and fifty small. Well strives he whom God aids withal. CCXXIII Day passed; the shades of night drew on, And moon and stars refulgent shone. Now Karl is Saragossa's lord, And a thousand Franks, by the king's award, Roam the city, to search and see Where mosque or synagogue may be. With axe and mallet of steel in hand, They let nor idol nor image stand; The shrines of sorcery down they hew, For Karl hath faith in God the True, And will Him righteous service do. The bishops have the water blessed, The heathen to the font are pressed. If any Karl's command gainsay, He has him hanged or burned straightway. So a hundred thousand to Christ are won; But Bramimonde the queen alone Shall unto France be captive brought, And in love be her conversion wrought. CCXXIV Night passed, and came the daylight hours, Karl garrisoned the city's towers; He left a thousand valiant knights, To sentinel their Emperor's rights. Then all his Franks ascend their steeds, While Bramimonde in bonds he leads, To work her good his sole intent. And so, in pride and strength, they went; They passed Narbonne in gallant show, And reached thy stately walls, Bordeaux. There, on Saint Severin's altar high, Karl placed Count Roland's horn to lie, With mangons filled, and coins of gold, As pilgrims to this hour behold. Across Garonne he bent his way, In ships within the stream that lay, And brought his nephew unto Blaye, With his noble comrade, Olivier, And Turpin sage, the gallant peer. Of the marble white their tombs were made; In Saint Roman's shrine are the baron's laid, Whom the Franks to God and his saints commend And Karl by hill and vale doth wend, Nor stays till Aix is reached, and there Alighteth on his marble stair. When sits he in his palace hall, He sends around to his judges all, From Frisia, Saxony, Loraine, From Burgundy and Allemaine, From Normandy, Brittaine, Poitou: The realm of France he searches through, And summons every sagest man. The plea of Ganelon then began. CCXXV From Spain the Emperor made retreat, To Aix in France, his kingly seat; And thither, to his halls, there came, Alda, the fair and gentle dame. "Where is my Roland, sire," she cried, "Who vowed to take me for his bride?" O'er Karl the flood of sorrow swept; He tore his beard and loud he wept. "Dear sister, gentle friend," he said, "Thou seekest one who lieth dead: I plight to thee my son instead,-- Louis, who lord of my realm shall be." "Strange," she said, "seems this to me. God and his angels forbid that I Should live on earth if Roland die." Pale grew her cheek--she sank amain, Down at the feet of Carlemaine. So died she. God receive her soul! The Franks bewail her in grief and dole. CCXXVI So to her death went Alda fair. The king but deemed she fainted there. While dropped his tears of pity warm, He took her hands and raised her form. Upon his shoulder drooped her head, And Karl was ware that she was dead. When thus he saw that life was o'er, He summoned noble ladies four. Within a cloister was she borne; They watched beside her until morn; Beneath a shrine her limbs were laid;-- Such honor Karl to Alda paid. CCXXVII The Emperor sitteth in Aix again, With Gan, the felon, in iron chain, The very palace walls beside, By serfs unto a stake was tied. They bound his hands with leathern thong, Beat him with staves and cordage strong; Nor hath he earned a better fee. And there in pain awaits his plea. CCXXVIII 'Tis written in the ancient geste, How Karl hath summoned east and west. At La Chapelle assembled they; High was the feast and great the day-- Saint Sylvester's, the legend ran. The plea and judgment then began Of Ganelon, who the treason wrought, Now face to face with his Emperor brought. CCXXIX "Lords, my barons," said Karl the king, "On Gan be righteous reckoning: He followed in my host to Spain; Through him ten thousand Franks lie slain And slain was he, my sister's son, Whom never more ye look upon, With Olivier the sage and bold, And all my peers, betrayed for gold." "Shame befall me," said Gan, "if I Now or ever the deed deny; Foully he wronged me in wealth and land, And I his death and ruin planned: Therein, I say, was treason none." They said, "We will advise thereon." CCXXX Count Gan to the Emperor's presence came, Fresh of hue and lithe of frame, With a baron's mien, were his heart but true. On his judges round his glance he threw, And on thirty kinsmen by his side, And thus, with mighty voice, he cried: "Hear me, barons, for love of God. In the Emperor's host was I abroad-- Well I served him, and loyally, But his nephew, Roland, hated me: He doomed my doom of death and woe, That I to Marsil's court should go. My craft, the danger put aside, But Roland loudly I defied, With Olivier, and all their crew, As Karl, and these his barons, knew. Vengeance, not treason, have I wrought." "Thereon," they answered, "take we thought." CCXXXI When Ganelon saw the plea begin, He mustered thirty of his kin, With one revered by all the rest-- Pinabel of Sorrence's crest. Well can his tongue his cause unfold, And a vassal brave his arms to hold. "Thine aid," said Ganelon, "I claim; To rescue me from death and shame." Said Pinabel, "Rescued shalt thou be. Let any Frank thy death decree, And, wheresoe'er the king deems meet, I will him body to body greet, Give him the lie with my brand of steel." Ganelon sank at his feet to kneel. CCXXXII Come Frank and Norman to council in, Bavarian, Saxon, and Poitevin, With all the barons of Teuton blood; But the men of Auvergne are mild of mood-- Their hearts are swayed unto Pinabel. Saith each to other, "Pause we well. Let us leave this plea, and the king implore To set Count Ganelon free once more. Henceforth to serve him in love and faith: Count Roland lieth cold in death: Not all the gold beneath the sky Can give him back to mortal eye; Such battle would but madness be." They all applauded his decree, Save Thierry--Geoffrey's brother he. CCXXXIII The barons came the king before. "Fair Sire, we all thy grace implore, That Gan be suffered free to go, His faith and love henceforth to show. Oh, let him live--a noble he. Your Roland you shall never see: No wealth of gold may him recall." Karl answered, "Ye are felons all." CCXXXIV When Karl saw all forsake him now, Dark grew his face and drooped his brow. He said, "Of men most wretched I!" Stepped forth Thierry speedily, Duke Geoffrey's brother, a noble knight, Spare of body, and lithe and light, Dark his hair and his hue withal, Nor low of stature, nor over tall: To Karl, in courteous wise, he said, "Fair Sire, be not disheartenèd. I have served you truly, and, in the name Of my lineage, I this quarrel claim. If Roland wronged Sir Gan in aught, Your service had his safeguard wrought. Ganelon bore him like caitiff base, A perjured traitor before your face. I adjudge him to die on the gallows tree; Flung to the hounds let his carcase be, The doom of treason and felony. Let kin of his but say I lie, And with this girded sword will I My plighted word in fight maintain." "Well spoken," cry the Franks amain. CCXXXV Sir Pinabel stood before Karl in place, Vast of body and swift of pace,-- Small hope hath he whom his sword may smite. "Sire, it is yours to decide the right, Bid this clamor around to pause. Thierry hath dared to adjudge the cause; He lieth. Battle thereon I do." And forth his right-hand glove he drew. But the Emperor said, "In bail to me Shall thirty of his kinsmen be; I yield him pledges on my side: Be they guarded well till the right be tried." When Thierry saw the fight shall be, To Karl his right glove reacheth he; The Emperor gave his pledges o'er. And set in place were benches four-- Thereon the champions take their seat, And all is ranged in order meet,-- The preparations Ogier speeds,-- And both demand their arms and steeds. CCXXXVI But yet, ere lay they lance in rest, They make their shrift, are sained and blessed; They hear the Mass, the Host receive, Great gifts to church and cloister leave. They stand before the Emperor's face; The spurs upon their feet they lace; Gird on their corselets, strong and light; Close on their heads the helmets bright. The golden hilts at belt are hung; Their quartered shields from shoulder swung. In hand the mighty spears they lift, Then spring they on their chargers swift. A hundred thousand cavaliers The while for Thierry drop their tears; They pity him for Roland's sake. God knows what end the strife will take. CCXXXVII At Aix is a wide and grassy plain, Where met in battle the barons twain. Both of valorous knighthood are, Their chargers swift and apt for war. They prick them hard with slackened rein; Drive each at other with might and main. Their bucklers are in fragments flung, Their hauberks rent, their girths unstrung; With saddles turned, they earthward rolled. A hundred thousand in tears behold. CCXXXVIII Both cavaliers to earth are gone, Both rise and leap on foot anon. Strong is Pinabel, swift and light; Each striketh other, unhorsed they fight; With golden-hilted swords, they deal Fiery strokes on the helms of steel. Trenchant and fierce is their every blow. The Franks look on in wondrous woe. "O God," saith Karl, "Thy judgment show." CCXXXIX "Yield thee, Thierry," said Pinabel. "In love and faith will I serve thee well, And all my wealth to thy feet will bring, Win Ganelon's pardon from the king." "Never," Thierry in scorn replied, "Shall thought so base in my bosom bide! God betwixt us this day decide." CCXL "Ah, Pinabel!" so Thierry spake, "Thou art a baron of stalwart make, Thy knighthood known to every peer,-- Come, let us cease this battle here. With Karl thy concord shall be won, But on Ganelon be justice done; Of him henceforth let speech be none." "No," said Pinabel; "God forefend! My kinsman I to the last defend; Nor will I blench for mortal face,-- Far better death than such disgrace." Began they with their glaves anew The gold-encrusted helms to hew; Towards heaven the fiery sparkles flew. They shall not be disjoined again, Nor end the strife till one be slain. CCXLI Pinabel, lord of Sorrence's keep, Smote Thierry's helm with stroke so deep The very fire that from it came Hath set the prairie round in flame; The edge of steel did his forehead trace Adown the middle of his face; His hauberk to the centre clave. God deigned Thierry from death to save. CCXLII When Thierry felt him wounded so, For his bright blood flowed on the grass below, He smote on Pinabel's helmet brown, Cut and clave to the nasal down; Dashed his brains from forth his head, And, with stroke of prowess, cast him dead. Thus, at a blow, was the battle won: "God," say the Franks, "hath this marvel done." CCXLIII When Thierry thus was conqueror, He came the Emperor Karl before. Full fifty barons were in his train, Duke Naimes, and Ogier the noble Dane, Geoffrey of Anjou and William of Blaye. Karl clasped him in his arms straightway With skin of sable he wiped his face; Then cast it from him, and, in its place, Bade him in fresh attire be drest. His armor gently the knights divest; On an Arab mule they make him ride: So returns he, in joy and pride. To the open plain of Aix they come, Where the kin of Ganelon wait their doom. CCXLIV Karl his dukes and his counts addressed: "Say, what of those who in bondage rest-- Who came Count Ganelon's plea to aid, And for Pinabel were bailsmen made?" "One and all let them die the death." And the king to Basbrun, his provost, saith "Go, hang them all on the gallows tree. By my beard I swear, so white to see, If one escape, thou shalt surely die." "Mine be the task," he made reply. A hundred men-at-arms are there: The thirty to their doom they bear. The traitor shall his guilt atone, With blood of others and his own. CCXLV The men of Bavaria and Allemaine, Norman and Breton return again, And with all the Franks aloud they cry, That Gan a traitor's death shall die. They bade be brought four stallions fleet; Bound to them Ganelon, hands and feet: Wild and swift was each savage steed, And a mare was standing within the mead; Four grooms impelled the coursers on,-- A fearful ending for Ganelon. His every nerve was stretched and torn, And the limbs of his body apart were borne; The bright blood, springing from every vein, Left on the herbage green its stain. He died a felon and recreant: Never shall traitor his treason vaunt. CCXLVI Now was the Emperor's vengeance done, And he called to the bishops of France anon With those of Bavaria and Allemaine. "A noble captive is in my train. She hath hearkened to sermon and homily, And a true believer in Christ will be; Baptize her so that her soul have grace." They say, "Let ladies of noble race, At her christening, be her sponsors vowed." And so there gathered a mighty crowd. At the baths of Aix was the wondrous scene-- There baptized they the Spanish queen; Julienne they have named her name. In faith and truth unto Christ she came. CCXLVII When the Emperor's justice was satisfied, His mighty wrath did awhile subside. Queen Bramimonde was a Christian made, The day passed on into night's dark shade; As the king in his vaulted chamber lay, Saint Gabriel came from God to say, "Karl, thou shalt summon thine empire's host, And march in haste to Bira's coast; Unto Impha city relief to bring, And succor Vivian, the Christian king. The heathens in siege have the town essayed And the shattered Christians invoke thine aid." Fain would Karl such task decline. "God! what a life of toil is mine!" He wept; his hoary beard he wrung. * * * * * So ends the lay Turoldus sung. THE DESTRUCTION OF DÁ DERGA'S HOSTEL TRANSLATED BY WHITLEY STOKES, D.C.L. INTRODUCTORY NOTE _The vast and interesting epic literature of Ireland remained practically inaccessible to English readers till within the last sixty years. In 1853, Nicholas O'Kearney published the Irish text and an English translation of "The Battle of Gabra," and since that date the volume of printed texts and English versions has steadily increased, until now there lies open to the ordinary reader a very considerable mass of material illustrating the imaginative life of medieval Ireland. Of these Irish epic tales, "The Destruction of Dá Derga's Hostel" is a specimen of remarkable beauty and power. The primitive nature of the story is shown by the fact that the plot turns upon the disasters that follow on the violation of tabus or prohibitions often with a supernatural sanction, by the monstrous nature of many of the warriors, and by the utter absence of any attempt to rationalise or explain the beliefs implied or the marvels related in it. The powers and achievements of the heroes are fantastic and extraordinary beyond description, and the natural and extra-natural constantly mingle; yet nowhere, does the narrator express surprise. The technical method of the tale, too, is curiously and almost mechanically symmetrical, after the manner of savage art; and both description and narration are marked by a high degree of freshness and vividness. The following translation is, with slight modification, that of Dr. Whitley Stokes, from a text constructed by him on the basis of eight manuscripts, the oldest going back to about 1100 A.D. The story itself is, without doubt, several centuries earlier, and belongs to the oldest group of extant Irish sagas._ THE DESTRUCTION OF DÁ DERGA'S HOSTEL There was a famous and noble king over Erin, named Eochaid Feidlech. Once upon a time he came over the fairgreen of Brí Léith, and he saw at the edge of a well a woman with a bright comb of silver adorned with gold, washing in a silver basin wherein were four golden birds and little, bright gems of purple carbuncle in the rims of the basin. A mantle she had, curly and purple, a beautiful cloak, and in the mantle silvery fringes arranged, and a brooch of fairest gold. A kirtle she wore, long, hooded, hard-smooth, of green silk, with red embroidery of gold. Marvellous clasps of gold and silver in the kirtle on her breasts and her shoulders and spaulds on every side. The sun kept shining upon her, so that the glistening of the gold against the sun from the green silk was manifest to men. On her head were two golden-yellow tresses, in each of which was a plait of four locks, with a bead at the point of each lock. The hue of that hair seemed to them like the flower of the iris in summer, or like red gold after the burnishing thereof. There she was, undoing her hair to wash it, with her arms out through the sleeve-holes of her smock. White as the snow of one night were the two hands, soft and even, and red as foxglove were the two clear-beautiful cheeks. Dark as the back of a stag-beetle the two eyebrows. Like a shower of pearls were the teeth in her head. Blue as a hyacinth were the eyes. Red as rowan-berries the lips. Very high, smooth and soft-white the shoulders. Clear-white and lengthy the fingers. Long were the hands. White as the foam of a wave was the flank, slender, long, tender, smooth, soft as wool. Polished and warm, sleek and white were the two thighs. Round and small, hard and white the two knees. Short and white and rulestraight the two shins. Justly straight and beautiful the two heels. If a measure were put on the feet it would hardly have found them unequal, unless the flesh of the coverings should grow upon them. The bright radiance of the moon was in her noble face: the loftiness of pride in her smooth eyebrows: the light of wooing in each of her regal eyes. A dimple of delight in each of her cheeks, with a dappling (?) in them at one time, of purple spots with redness of a calf's blood, and at another with the bright lustre of snow. Soft womanly dignity in her voice; a step steady and slow she had: a queenly gait was hers. Verily, of the world's women 'twas she was the dearest and loveliest and justest that the eyes of men had ever beheld. It seemed to King Eochaid and his followers that she was from the elfmounds. Of her was said: "Shapely are all till compared with Etáin," "Dear are all till compared with Etáin." A longing for her straightway seized the king; so he sent forward a man of his people to detain her. The king asked tidings of her and said, while announcing himself: "Shall I have an hour of dalliance with thee?" "'Tis for that we have come hither under thy safeguard," quoth she. "Query, whence art thou and whence hast thou come?" says Eochaid. "Easy to say," quoth she. "Etáin am I, daughter of Etar, king of the cavalcade from the elfmounds. I have been here for twenty years since I was born in an elfmound. The men of the elfmound, both kings and nobles, have been wooing me; but nought was gotten from me, because ever since I was able to speak, I have loved thee and given thee a child's love for the high tales about thee and thy splendour. And though I had never seen thee, I knew thee at once from thy description: it is thou, then, I have reached." "No 'seeking of an ill friend afar' shall be thine," says Eochaid. "Thou shalt have welcome, and for thee every other woman shall be left by me, and with thee alone will I live so long as thou hast honour." "My proper bride-price to me!" she says, "and afterwards my desire." "Thou shalt have both," says Eochaid. Seven _cumals_[3] are given to her. [Footnote 3: I.e., twenty-one cows.] Then the king, even Eochaid Feidlech, dies, leaving one daughter named, like her mother, Etáin, and wedded to Cormac, king of Ulaid. After the end of a time Cormac, king of Ulaid, "the man of the three gifts," forsakes Eochaid's daughter, because she was barren save for one daughter that she had borne to Cormac after the making of the pottage which her mother--the woman from the elfmounds--gave her. Then she said to her mother: "Bad is what thou hast given me: it will be a daughter that I shall bear." "That will not be good," says her mother; "a king's pursuit will be on her." Then Cormac weds again his wife, even Etáin, and this was his desire, that the daughter of the woman who had before been abandoned [i.e. his own daughter] should be killed. So Cormac would not leave the girl to her mother to be nursed. Then his two thralls take her to a pit, and she smiles a laughing smile at them as they were putting her into it. Then their kindly nature came to them. They carry her into the calfshed of the cowherds of Etirscél, great-grandson of Iar, king of Tara, and they fostered her till she became a good embroideress; and there was not in Ireland a king's daughter dearer than she. A fenced house of wickerwork was made by the thralls for her, without any door, but only a window and a skylight. King Eterscél's folk espy that house and suppose that it was food that the cowherds kept there. But one of them went and looked through the skylight, and he saw in the house the dearest, beautifullest maiden! This is told to the king, and straightway he sends his people to break the house and carry her off without asking the cowherds. For the king was childless, and it had been prophesied to him by his wizards that a woman of unknown race would bear him a son. Then said the king: "This is the woman that has been prophesied to me!" Now while she was there next morning she saw a Bird on the skylight coming to her, and he leaves his birdskin on the floor of the house, and went to her and possessed her, and said: "They are coming to thee from the king to wreck thy house and to bring thee to him perforce. And thou wilt be pregnant by me, and bear a son, and that son must not kill birds[4]. And 'Conaire, son of Mess Buachalla' shall be his name," for hers was Mess Buachalla, "the Cowherds' fosterchild." [Footnote 4: This passage indicates the existence in Ireland of totems, and of the rule that the person to whom a totem belongs must not kill the totem-animal.--W.S.] And then she was brought to the king, and with her went her fosterers, and she was betrothed to the king, and he gave her seven _cumals_ and to her fosterers seven other _cumals_. And afterwards they were made chieftains, so that they all became legitimate, whence are the two Fedlimthi Rechtaidi. And then she bore a son to the king, even Conaire son of Mess Buachalla, and these were her three urgent prayers to the king, to wit, the nursing of her son among three households, that is, the fosterers who had nurtured her, and the two Honeyworded Mainès, and she herself is the third; and she said that such of the men of Erin as should wish to do aught for this boy should give to those three households for the boy's protection. So in that wise he was reared, and the men of Erin straightway knew this boy on the day he was born. And other boys were fostered with him, to wit, Fer Le and Fer Gar and Fer Rogein, three great-grandsons of Donn Désa the champion, an army-man of the army from Muc-lesi. Now Conaire possessed three gifts, to wit, the gift of hearing and the gift of eyesight and the gift of judgment; and of those three gifts he taught one to each of his three fosterbrothers. And whatever meal was prepared for him, the four of them would go to it. Even though three meals were prepared for him each of them would go to his meal. The same raiment and armour and colour of horses had the four. Then the king, even Eterscéle, died. A bull-feast is gathered by the men of Erin, in order to determine their future king; that is, a bull used to be killed by them and thereof one man would eat his fill and drink its broth, and a spell of truth was chanted over him in his bed. Whosoever he would see in his sleep would be king, and the sleeper would perish if he uttered a falsehood. Four men in chariots were on the Plain of Liffey at their game, Conaire himself and his three fosterbrothers. Then his fosterers went to him that he might repair to the bull-feast. The bull-feaster, then in his sleep, at the end of the night beheld a man stark-naked, passing along the road of Tara, with a stone in his sling. "I will go in the morning after you," quoth he. He left his fosterbrothers at their game, and turned his chariot and his charioteer until he was in Dublin. There he saw great, white-speckled birds, of unusual size and colour and beauty. He pursues then until his horses were tired. The birds would go a spearcast before him, and would not go any further. He alighted, and takes his sling for them out of the chariot. He goes after them until he was at the sea. The birds betake themselves to the wave. He went to them and overcame them. The birds quit their birdskins, and turn upon him with spears and swords. One of them protects him, and addressed him, saying: "I am Némglan, king of thy father's birds; and thou hast been forbidden to cast at birds, for here there is no one that should not be dear to thee because of his father or mother." "Till to-day," says Conaire, "I knew not this." "Go to Tara tonight," says Némglan; "'tis fittest for thee. A bull-feast is there, and through it thou shalt be king. A man stark-naked, who shall go at the end of the night along one of the roads of Tara, having a stone and a sling--'tis he that shall be king." So in this wise Conaire fared forth; and on each of the four roads whereby men go to Tara there were three kings awaiting him, and they had raiment for him, since it had been foretold that he would come stark-naked. Then he was seen from the road on which his fosterers were, and they put royal raiment about him, and placed him in a chariot, and he bound his pledges. The folk of Tara said to him: "It seems to us that our bull-feast and our spell of truth are a failure, if it be only a young, beardless lad that we have visioned therein." "That is of no moment," quoth he. "For a young, generous king like me to be in the kingship is no disgrace, since the binding of Tara's pledges is mine by right of father and grandsire." "Excellent! excellent!" says the host. They set the kingship of Erin upon him. And he said: "I will enquire of wise men that I myself may be wise." Then he uttered all this as he had been taught by the man at the wave, who said this to him: "Thy reign will be subject to a restriction, but the bird-reign will be noble, and this shall be thy restriction, i.e. thy tabu. "Thou shalt not go righthandwise round Tara and lefthandwise round Bregia. "The evil-beasts of Cerna must not be hunted by thee. "And thou shalt not go out every ninth night beyond Tara. "Thou shalt not sleep in a house from which firelight is manifest outside, after sunset, and in which light is manifest from without. "And three Reds shall not go before thee to Red's house. "And no rapine shall be wrought in thy reign. "And after sunset a company of one woman or one man shall not enter the house in which thou art. "And thou shalt not settle the quarrel of thy two thralls. Now there were in his reign great bounties, to wit, seven ships in every June in every year arriving at Inver Colptha[5], and oakmast up to the knees in every autumn, and plenty of fish in the rivers Bush and Boyne in the June of each year, and such abundance of good will that no one slew another in Erin during his reign. And to every one in Erin his fellow's voice seemed as sweet as the strings of lutes. From mid-spring to mid-autumn no wind disturbed a cow's tail. His reign was neither thunderous nor stormy. [Footnote 5: The mouth of the river Boyne.--W.S.] Now his fosterbrothers murmured at the taking from them of their father's and their grandsire's gifts, namely Theft and Robbery and Slaughter of men and Rapine. They thieved the three thefts from the same man, to wit, a swine and an ox and a cow, every year, that they might see what punishment therefor the king would inflict upon them, and what damage the theft in his reign would cause to the king. Now every year the farmer would come to the king to complain, and the king would say to him. "Go thou and address Donn Désá's three great-grandsons, for 'tis they that have taken the beasts." Whenever he went to speak to Donn Désá's descendants they would almost kill him, and he would not return to the king lest Conaire should attend his hurt. Since, then, pride and wilfulness possessed them, they took to marauding, surrounded by the sons of the lords of the men of Erin. Thrice fifty men had they as pupils when they (the pupils) were were-wolfing in the province of Connaught, until Maine Milscothach's swineherd saw them, and he had never seen that before. He went in flight. When they heard him they pursued him. The swineherd shouted, and the people of the two Mainès came to him, and the thrice fifty men were arrested, along with their auxiliaries, and taken to Tara. They consulted the king concerning the matter, and he said: "Let each (father) slay his son, but let my fosterlings be spared." "Leave, leave!" says every one: "it shall be done for thee." "Nay indeed," quoth he; "no 'cast of life' by me is the doom I have delivered. The men shall not be hung; but let veterans go with them that they may wreak their rapine on the men of Alba." This they do. Thence they put to sea and met the son of the king of Britain, even Ingcél the One-eyed, grandson of Conmac: thrice fifty men and their veterans they met upon the sea. They make an alliance, and go with Ingcél and wrought rapine with him. This is the destruction which his own impulse gave him. That was the night that his mother and his father and his seven brothers had been bidden to the house of the king of his district. All of them were destroyed by Ingcél in a single night. Then the Irish pirates put out to sea to the land of Erin to seek a destruction as payment for that to which Ingcél had been entitled from them. In Conaire's reign there was perfect peace in Erin, save that in Thomond there was a joining of battle between the two Carbres. Two fosterbrothers of his were they. And until Conaire came it was impossible to make peace between them. 'Twas a tabu of his to go to separate them before they had repaired to him. He went, however, although to do so was one of his tabus, and he made peace between them. He remained five nights with each of the two. That also was a tabu of his. After settling the two quarrels, he was travelling to Tara. This is the way they took to Tara, past Usnech of Meath; and they saw the raiding from east and west, and from south and north, and they saw the warbands and the hosts and the men stark-naked; and the land of the southern O'Neills was a cloud of fire around him. "What is this?" asked Conaire. "Easy to say," his people answer. "Easy to know that the king's law has broken down therein, since the country has begun to burn." "Whither shall we betake ourselves?" says Conaire. "To the Northeast," says his people. So then they went righthandwise round Tara, and lefthandwise round Bregia, and the evil beasts of Cerna were hunted by him. But he saw it not till the chase had ended. They that made of the world that smoky mist of magic were elves, and they did so because Conaire's tabus had been violated. Great fear then fell on Conaire because they had no way to wend save upon the Road of Midluachair and the Road of Cualu. So they took their way by the coast of Ireland southward. Then said Conaire on the Road of Cualu: "whither shall we go tonight?" "May I succeed in telling thee! my fosterling Conaire," says Mac cecht, son of Snade Teiched, the champion of Conaire, son of Eterscél. "Oftener have the men of Erin been contending for thee every night than thou hast been wandering about for a guesthouse." "Judgment goes with good times," says Conaire. "I had a friend in this country, if only we knew the way to his house!" "What is his name?" asked Mac cecht. "Dá Derga of Leinster," answered Conaire. "He came unto me to seek a gift from me, and he did not come with a refusal. I gave him a hundred kine of the drove. I gave him a hundred fatted swine. I gave him a hundred mantles made of close cloth. I gave him a hundred blue-coloured weapons of battle. I gave him ten red, gilded brooches. I gave him ten vats good and brown. I gave him ten thralls. I gave him ten querns. I gave him thrice nine hounds all-white in their silvern chains. I gave him a hundred racehorses in the herds of deer. There would be no abatement in his case though he should come again. He would make return. It is strange if he is surly to me tonight when reaching his abode." "When I was acquainted with his house," says Mac cecht, "the road whereon thou art going towards him was the boundary of his abode. It continues till it enters his house, for through the house passes the road. There are seven doorways into the house, and seven bedrooms between every two doorways; but there is only one door-valve on it, and that valve is turned to every doorway to which the wind blows." "With all that thou hast here," says Conaire, "thou shalt go in thy great multitude until thou alight in the midst of the house." "If so be," answers Mac cecht, "that thou goest thither, I go on that I may strike fire there ahead of thee." When Conaire after this was journeying along the Road of Cuálu, he marked before him three horsemen riding towards the house. Three red frocks had they, and three red mantles: three red bucklers they bore, and three red spears were in their hands: three red steeds they bestrode, and three red heads of hair were on them. Red were they all, both body and hair and raiment, both steeds and men. "Who is it that fares before us?" asked Conaire. "It was a tabu of mine for those Three to go before me--the three Reds to the house of Red. Who will follow them and tell them to come towards me in my track?" "I will follow them," says Lé fri flaith, Conaire's son. He goes after them, lashing his horse, and overtook them not. There was the length of a spearcast between them: but they did not gain upon him and he did not gain upon them. He told them not to go before the king. He overtook them not; but one of the three men sang a lay to him over his shoulder: "Lo, my son, great the news, news from a hostel.... Lo my son!" They go away from him then: he could not detain them. The boy waited for the host. He told his father what was said to him. Conaire liked it not. "After them, thou!" says Conaire, "and offer them three oxen and three bacon-pigs, and so long as they shall be in my household, no one shall be among them from fire to wall." So the lad goes after them, and offers them that, and overtook them not. But one of the three men sang a lay to him over his shoulder: "Lo, my son, great the news! A generous king's great ardour whets thee, burns thee. Through ancient men's enchantments a company of nine yields. Lo, my son!" The boy turns back and repeated the lay to Conaire. "Go after them," says Conaire, "and offer them six oxen and six bacon-pigs, and my leavings, and gifts tomorrow, and so long as they shall be in my household no one to be among them from fire to wall." The lad then went after them, and overtook them not; but one of the three men answered and said: "Lo, my son, great the news. Weary are the steeds we ride. We ride the steeds of Donn Tetscorach from the elfmounds. Though we are alive we are dead. Great are the signs; destruction of life: sating of ravens: feeding of crows, strife of slaughter: wetting of sword-edge, shields with broken bosses in hours after sundown. Lo, my son!" Then they go from him. "I see that thou hast not detained the men," says Conaire. "Indeed it is not I that betrayed it," says Lé fri flaith. He recited the last answer that they gave him. Conaire and his retainers were not blithe thereat: and afterwards evil forebodings of terror were on them. "All my tabus have seized me tonight," says Conaire, "since those Three Reds are the banished folks[6]." [Footnote 6: They had been banished from the elfmounds, and for them to precede was to violate one of his tabus.--W.S.] They went forward to the house and took their seats therein, and fastened their red steeds to the door of the house. That is the Forefaring of the Three Reds in the _Bruden Dá Derga_. This is the way that Conaire took with his troops, to Dublin. 'Tis then the man of the black, cropt hair, with his one hand and one eye and one foot, overtook them. Rough cropt hair upon him. Though a sackful of wild apples were flung on his crown, not an apple would fall on the ground, but each of them would stick on his hair. Though his snout were flung on a branch they would remain together. Long and thick as an outer yoke was each of his two shins. Each of his buttocks was the size of a cheese on a withe. A forked pole of iron black-pointed was in his hand. A swine, black-bristled, singed, was on his back, squealing continually, and a woman big-mouthed, huge, dark, sorry, hideous, was behind him. Though her snout were flung on a branch, the branch would support it. Her lower lip would reach her knee. He starts forward to meet Conaire, and made him welcome. "Welcome to thee, O master Conaire! Long hath thy coming hither been known." "Who gives the welcome?" asks Conaire. "Fer Caille here, with his black swine for thee to consume that thou be not fasting tonight, for 'tis thou art the best king that has come into the world!" "What is thy wife's name?" says Conaire. "Cichuil," he answers. "Any other night," says Conaire, "that pleases you, I will come to you,--and leave us alone to night." "Nay," say the churl, "for we will go to thee to the place wherein thou wilt be tonight, O fair little master Conaire!" So he goes towards the house, with his great, big-mouthed wife behind him, and his swine short-bristled, black, singed, squealing continually, on his back. That was one of Conaire's tabus, and that plunder should be taken in Ireland during his reign was another tabu of his. Now plunder was taken by the sons of Donn Désa, and five hundred there were in the body of their marauders, besides what underlings were with them. This, too, was a tabu of Conaire's. There was a good warrior in the north country, "Wain over withered sticks," this was his name. Why he was so called was because he used to go over his opponent even as a wain would go over withered sticks. Now plunder was taken by him, and there were five hundred in the body of their marauders alone, besides underlings. There was after that a troop of still haughtier heroes, namely, the seven sons of Ailill and Medb, each of whom was called "Manè." And each Manè had a nickname, to wit, Manè Fatherlike and Manè Motherlike, and Manè otherlike, and Manè Gentle-pious, Manè Very-pious, Manè Unslow, and Manè Honeyworded, Manè Grasp-them-all, and Manè the Loquacious. Rapine was wrought by them. As to Manè Motherlike and Manè Unslow there were fourteen score in the body of their marauders. Manè Fatherlike had three hundred and fifty. Manè Honeyworded had five hundred. Manè Grasp-them-all had seven hundred. Manè the Loquacious had seven hundred. Each of the others had five hundred in the body of his marauders. There was a valiant trio of the men of Cúalu of Leinster, namely, the three Red Hounds of Cúalu, called Cethach and Clothach and Conall. Now rapine was wrought by them, and twelve score were in the body of their marauders, and they had a troop of madmen. In Conaire's reign a third of the men of Ireland were reavers. He was of sufficient strength and power to drive them out of the land of Erin so as to transfer their marauding to the other side (Great Britain), but after this transfer they returned to their country. When they had reached the shoulder of the sea, they meet Ingcél the One-eyed and Eiccel and Tulchinne, three great-grandsons of Conmac of Britain, on the raging of the sea. A man ungentle, huge, fearful, uncouth was Ingcél. A single eye in his head, as broad as an oxhide, as black as a chafer, with three pupils therein. Thirteen hundred were in the body of his marauders. The marauders of the men of Erin were more numerous then they. They go for a sea-encounter on the main. "Ye should not do this," says Ingcél: "do not break the truth of men (fair play) upon us, for ye are more in number than I." "Nought but a combat on equal terms shall befall thee," say the reavers of Erin. "There is somewhat better for you," quoth Ingcél. "Let us make peace since ye have been cast out of the land of Erin, and we have been cast out of the land of Alba and Britain. Let us make an agreement between us. Come ye and wreak your rapine in my country, and I will go with you and wreak my rapine in your country." They follow this counsel, and they gave pledges therefor from this side and from that. There are the sureties that were given to Ingcél by the men of Erin, namely, Fer gair and Gabur (or Fer lee) and Fer rogain, for the destruction that Ingcél should choose to cause in Ireland and for the destruction that the sons of Donn Désa should choose in Alba and Britain. A lot was cast upon them to see with which of them they should go first. It fell that they should go with Ingcél to his country. So they made for Britain, and there his father and mother and his seven brothers were slain, as we have said before. Thereafter they made for Alba, and there they wrought the destruction, and then they returned to Erin. 'Tis then, now, that Conaire son of Eterscél went towards the Hostel along the Road of Cualu. 'Tis then that the reavers came till they were in the sea off the coast of Bregia overagainst Howth. Then said the reavers: "Strike the sails, and make one band of you on the sea that ye may not be sighted from land; and let some lightfoot be found from among you to go on shore to see if we could save our honors with Ingcél. A destruction for the destruction he has given us." "Who will go on shore to listen? Let some one go," says Ingcél, "who should have there the three gifts, namely gift of hearing, gift of far sight, and gift of judgment." "I," says Manè Honeyworded, "have the gift of hearing." "And I," says Manè Unslow, "have the gift of far sight and of judgment." "'Tis well for you to go thus," say the reavers: "good is that wise." Then nine men go on till they were on the Hill of Howth, to know what they might hear and see. "Be still a while!" says Manè Honeyworded. "What is that?" asks Manè Unslow. "The sound of a good king's cavalcade I hear." "By the gift of far sight, I see," quoth his comrade. "What seest thou here?" "I see there," quoth he, "cavalcades splendid, lofty, beautiful, warlike, foreign, somewhat slender, weary, active, keen, whetted, vehement, a good course that shakes a great covering of land. They fare to many heights, with wondrous waters and invers[7]." [Footnote 7: Mouths of rivers.] "What are the waters and heights and invers that they traverse?" "Easy to say: Indéoin, Cult, Cuiltén, Máfat, Ammat, Iarmáfat, Finne, Goiste, Guistíne. Gray spears over chariots: ivory-hilted swords on thighs: silvery shields above their elbows. Half red and half white. Garments of every color about them. "Thereafter I see before them special cattle specially keen, to wit, thrice fifty dark-gray steeds. Small-headed are they, red-nosed, pointed, broad-hoofed, big-nosed, red-chested, fat, easily-stopt, easily-yoked, foray-nimble, keen, whetted, vehement, with their thrice fifty bridles of red enamel upon them." "I swear by what my tribe swears," says the man of the long sight, "these are the cattle of some good lord. This is my judgment thereof: it is Conaire, son of Eterscél, with multitudes of the men of Erin around him, who has travelled the road." Back then they go that they may tell it to the reavers. "This," they say, "is what we have heard and seen." Of this host, then, there was a multitude, both on this side and on that, namely, thrice fifty boats, with five thousand in them, and ten hundred in every thousand. Then they hoisted the sails on the boats, and steer them thence to shore, till they landed on the Strand of Fuirbthe. When the boats reached land, then was Mac cecht a-striking fire in Dá Derga's Hostel. At the sound of the spark the thrice fifty boats were hurled out, so that they were on the shoulders of the sea. "Be silent a while!" said Ingcél. "Liken thou that, O Fer rogain." "I know not," answers Fer rogain, "unless it is Luchdonn the satirist in Emain Macha, who makes this hand-smiting when his food is taken from him perforce: or the scream of Luchdonn in Temair Luachra: or Mac cecht's striking a spark, when he kindles a fire before a king of Erin where he sleeps. Every spark and every shower which his fire would let fall on the floor would broil a hundred calves and two half-pigs." "May God not bring that man (even Conaire) there to-night!" say Donn Désa's sons. "Sad that he is under the hurt of foes!" "Meseems," says Ingcél, "it should be no sadder for me than the destruction I gave you. This were my feast that Conaire should chance to come there." Their fleet is steered to land. The noise that the thrice fifty vessels made in running ashore shook Dá Derga's Hostel so that no spear nor shield remained on rack therein, but the weapons uttered a cry and fell all on the floor of the house. "Liken thou that, O Conaire," says every one: "what is this noise?" "I know nothing like it unless it be the earth that has broken, or the Leviathan that surrounds the globe and strikes with its tail to overturn the world, or the barque of the sons of Donn Désa that has reached the shore. Alas that it should not be they who are there! Beloved foster-brothers of our own were they! Dear were the champions. We should not have feared them tonight." Then came Conaire, so that he was on the green of the Hostel. When Mac cecht heard the tumultuous noise, it seemed to him that warriors had attacked his people. Thereat he leapt on to his armour to help them. Vast as the thunder-feat of three hundred did they deem his game in leaping to his weapons. Thereof there was no profit. Now in the bow of the ship wherein were Donn Désa's sons was the champion, greatly-accoutred, wrathful, the lion hard and awful, Ingcél the One-eyed, great-grandson of Conmac. Wide as an oxhide was the single eye protruding from his forehead, with seven pupils therein, which were black as a chafer. Each of his knees as big as a stripper's caldron; each of his two fists was the size of a reaping-basket: his buttocks as big as a cheese on a withe: each of his shins as long as an outer yoke. So after that, the thrice fifty boats, and those five thousands--with ten hundred in every thousand,--landed on the Strand of Fuirbthe. Then Conaire with his people entered the Hostel, and each took his seat within, both tabu and non-tabu. And the three Reds took their seats, and Fer caille with his swine took his seat. Thereafter Dá Derga came to them, with thrice fifty warriors, each of them having a long head of hair to the hollow of his polls, and a short cloak to their buttocks. Speckled-green drawers they wore, and in their hands were thrice fifty great clubs of thorn with bands of iron. "Welcome, O master Conaire!" quoth he. "Though the bulk of the men of Erin were to come with thee, they themselves would have a welcome." When they were there they saw a lone woman coming to the door of the Hostel, after sunset, and seeking to be let in. As long as a weaver's beam was each of her two shins, and they were as dark as the back of a stag-beetle. A greyish, wooly mantle she wore. Her lower hair used to reach as far as her knee. Her lips were on one side of her head. She came and put one of her shoulders against the doorpost of the house, casting the evil eye on the king and the youths who surrounded him in the Hostel. He himself addressed her from within. "Well, O woman," says Conaire, "if thou art a wizard, what seest thou for us?" "Truly I see for thee," she answers, "that neither fell nor flesh of thine shall escape from the place into which thou hast come, save what birds will bear away in their claws." "It was not an evil omen we foreboded, O woman," saith he: "it is not thou that always augurs for us. What is thy name, O woman?" "Cailb," she answers. "That is not much of a name," says Conaire. "Lo, many are my names besides." "Which be they?" asks Conaire. "Easy to say," quoth she. "Samon, Sinand, Seisclend, Sodb, Caill, Coll, Díchóem, Dichiúil, Díthím, Díchuimne, Dichruidne, Dairne, Dáríne, Déruaine, Egem, Agam, Ethamne, Gním, Cluiche, Cethardam, Níth, Némain, Nóennen, Badb, Blosc, B[l]oár, Huae, óe Aife la Sruth, Mache, Médé, Mod." On one foot, and holding up one hand, and breathing one breath she sang all that to them from the door of the house. "I swear by the gods whom I adore," says Conaire, "that I will call thee by none of these names whether I shall be here a long or a short time." "What dost thou desire?" says Conaire. "That which thou, too, desirest," she answered. "'Tis a tabu of mine," says Conaire, "to receive the company of one woman after sunset." "Though it be a tabu," she replied, "I will not go until my guesting come at once this very night." "Tell her," says Conaire, "that an ox and a bacon-pig shall be taken out to her, and my leavings: provided that she stays tonight in some other place." "If in sooth," she says, "it has befallen the king not to have room in his house for the meal and bed of a solitary woman, they will be gotten apart from him from some one possessing generosity--if the hospitality of the Prince in the Hostel has departed." "Savage is the answer!" says Conaire. "Let her in, though it is a tabu of mine." Great loathing they felt after that from the woman's converse, and ill-foreboding; but they knew not the cause thereof. The reavers afterwards landed, and fared forth till they were at Lecca cinn slébe. Ever open was the Hostel. Why it was called a _Bruden_ was because it resembles the lips of a man blowing a fire. Great was the fire which was kindled by Conaire every night, to wit, a "Boar of the Wood." Seven outlets it had. When a log was cut out of its side every flame that used to come forth at each outlet was as big as the blaze of a burning oratory. There were seventeen of Conaire's chariots at every door of the house, and by those that were looking from the vessels that great light was clearly seen through the wheels of the chariots. "Canst thou say, O Fer rogain, what that great light yonder resembles?" "I cannot liken it to aught," answers Fer rogain, "unless it be the fire of a king. May God not bring that man there tonight! 'Tis a pity to destroy him!" "What then deemest thou," says Ingcél, "of that man's reign in the land of Erin?" "Good is his reign," replied Fer rogain. "Since he assumed the kingship, no cloud has veiled the sun for the space of a day from the middle of spring to the middle of autumn. And not a dewdrop fell from grass till midday, and wind would not touch a beast's tail until nones. And in his reign, from year's end to year's end, no wolf has attacked aught save one bullcalf of each byre; and to maintain this rule there are seven wolves in hostageship at the sidewall in his house, and behind this a further security, even Maclocc, and 'tis he that pleads for them in Conaire's house. In Conaire's reign are the three crowns on Erin, namely, crown of corn-ears, and crown of flowers, and crown of oak mast. In his reign, too, each man deems the other's voice as melodious as the strings of lutes, because of the excellence of the law and the peace and the goodwill prevailing throughout Erin. May God not bring that man there tonight! 'Tis sad to destroy him. 'Tis _'a branch through its blossom,'_ 'Tis _a swine that falls before mast._ 'Tis _an infant in age._ Sad is the shortness of his life!" "This was my luck," says Ingcél, "that he should be there, and there should be one Destruction for another. It were not more grievous to me than my father and my mother and my seven brothers, and the king of my country, whom I gave up to you before coming on the transfer of the rapine." "'Tis true, 'tis true!" say the evildoers who were along with the reavers. The reavers make a start from the Strand of Fuirbthe, and bring a stone for each man to make a cairn; for this was the distinction which at first the Fians made between a "Destruction" and a "Rout." A pillar-stone they used to plant when there would be a Rout. A cairn, however, they used to make when there would be a Destruction. At this time, then, they made a cairn, for it was a Destruction. Far from the house was this, that they might not be heard or seen therefrom. For two causes they built their cairn, namely, first, since this was a custom in marauding, and, secondly, that they might find out their losses at the Hostel. Every one that would come safe from it would take his stone from the cairn: thus the stones of those that were slain would be left, and thence they would know their losses. And this is what men skilled in story recount, that for every stone in Carn leca there was one of the reavers killed at the Hostel. From that cairn Leca in Húi Cellaig is so called. A "boar of a fire" is kindled by the sons of Donn Désa to give warning to Conaire. So _that_ is the first warning-beacon that has been made in Erin, and from it to this day every warning-beacon is kindled. This is what others recount: that it was on the eve of _samain_ (All-Saints-day) the destruction of the Hostel was wrought, and that from yonder beacon the beacon of _samain_ is followed from that to this, and stones (are placed) in the _samain_-fire. Then the reavers framed a counsel at the place where they had put the cairn. "Well, then," says Ingcél to the guides, "what is nearest to us here?" "Easy to say: the Hostel of Hua Derga, chief-hospitaller of Erin." "Good men indeed," says Ingcél, "were likely to seek their fellows at that Hostel to-night." This, then, was the counsel of the reavers, to send one of them to see how things were there. "Who will go there to espy the house?" say everyone. "Who should go," says Ingcél, "but I, for 'tis I that am entitled to dues." Ingcél went to reconnoitre the Hostel with one of the seven pupils of the single eye which stood out of his forehead, to fit his eye into the house in order to destroy the king and the youths who were around him therein. And Ingcél saw them through the wheels of the chariots. Then Ingcél was perceived from the house. He made a start from it after being perceived. He went till he reached the reavers in the stead wherein they were. Each circle of them was set around another to hear the tidings--the chiefs of the reavers being in the very centre of the circles. There were Fer gér and Fer gel and Fer rogel and Fer rogain and Lomna the Buffoon, and Ingcél the One-eyed--six in the centre of the circles. And Fer rogain went to question Ingcél. "How is that, O Ingcél?" asks Fer rogain. "However it be," answers Ingcél, "royal is the custom, hostful is the tumult: kingly is the noise thereof. Whether a king be there or not, I will take the house for what I have a right to. Thence my turn of rapine cometh." "We have left it in thy hand, O Ingcél!" say Conaire's fosterbrothers. "But we should not wreak the Destruction till we know who may be therein." "Question, hast thou seen the house well, O Ingcél?" asks Fer rogain. "Mine eye cast a rapid glance around it, and I will accept it for my dues as it stands." "Thou mayest well accept it, O Ingcél," saith Fer rogain: "the foster father of us all is there, Erin's overking, Conaire, son of Eterscél." "Question, what sawest thou in the champion's high seat of the house, facing the King, on the opposite side?" THE ROOM OF CORMAC CONDLONGAS "I saw there," says Ingcél, "a man of noble countenance, large, with a clear and sparkling eye, an even set of teeth, a face narrow below, broad above. Fair, flaxen, golden hair upon him, and a proper fillet around it. A brooch of silver in his mantle, and in his hand a gold-hilted sword. A shield with five golden circles upon it: a five-barbed javelin in his hand. A visage just, fair, ruddy he hath: he is also beardless. Modest-minded is that man!" "And after that, whom sawest thou there?" THE ROOM OF CORMAC'S NINE COMRADES "There I saw three men to the west of Cormac, and three to the east of him, and three in front of the same man. Thou wouldst deem that the nine of them had one mother and one father. They are of the same age, equally goodly, equally beautiful, all alike. Thin rods of gold in their mantles. Bent shields of bronze they bear. Ribbed javelins above them. An ivory-hilted sword in the hand of each. An unique feat they have, to wit, each of them takes his sword's point between his two fingers, and they twirl the swords round their fingers, and the swords afterwards extend themselves by themselves. Liken thou _that_, O Fer rogain," says Ingcél. "Easy," says Fer rogain, "for me to liken them. It is Conchobar's son, Cormac Condlongas, the best hero behind a shield in the land of Erin. Of modest mind is that boy! Evil is what he dreads tonight. He is a champion of valour for feats of arms; he is an hospitaller for householding. These are yon nine who surround him, the three Dúngusses, and the three Doelgusses, and the three Dangusses, the nine comrades of Cormac Condlongas, son of Conchobar. They have never slain men on account of their misery, and they never spared them on account of their prosperity. Good is the hero who is among them, even Cormac Condlongas. I swear what my tribe swears, nine times ten will fall by Cormac in his first onset, and nine times ten will fall by his people, besides a man for each of their weapons, and a man for each of themselves. And Cormac will share prowess with any man before the Hostel, and he will boast of victory over a king or crown-prince or noble of the reavers; and he himself will chance to escape, though all his people be wounded." "Woe to him who shall wreak this Destruction!" says Lomna Drúth, "even because of that one man, Cormac Condlongas, son of Conchobar." "I swear what my tribe swears," says Lomna son of Donn Désa, "if I could fulfil my counsel, the Destruction would not be attempted were it only because of that one man, and because of the hero's beauty and goodness!" "It is not feasible to prevent it," says Ingcél: "clouds of weakness come to you. A keen ordeal which will endanger two cheeks of a goat will be opposed by the oath of Fer rogain, who will run. Thy voice, O Lomna," says Ingcél, "hath taken breaking upon thee: thou art a worthless warrior, and I know thee. Clouds of weakness come to you...." Neither old men nor historians shall declare that I quitted the Destruction, until I shall wreak it." "Reproach not our honour, O Ingcél," say Gér and Gabur and Fer rogain. "The Destruction shall be wrought unless the earth break under it, until all of us are slain thereby." "Truly, then, thou hast reason, O Ingcél," says Lomna Drúth son of Donn Désa. "Not to thee is the loss caused by the Destruction. Thou wilt carry off the head of the king of a foreign country, with thy slaughter of another; and thou and thy brothers will escape from the Destruction, even Ingcél and Ecell and the Yearling of the Rapine." "Harder, however, it is for me," says Lomna Drúth: "woe is me before every one! woe is me after every one! 'Tis my head that will be first tossed about there to-night after an hour among the chariot-shafts, where devilish foes will meet. It will be flung into the Hostel thrice, and thrice will it be flung forth. Woe to him that comes! woe to him with whom one goes! woe to him to whom one goes! wretches are they that go! wretches are they to whom they go!" "There is nothing that will come to me," says Ingcél, "in place of my mother and my father and my seven brothers, and the king of my district, whom ye destroyed with me. There is nothing that I shall not endure henceforward." "Though a ... should go through them," say Gér and Gabur and Fer rogain, "the Destruction will be wrought by thee to-night." "Woe to him who shall put them under the hands of foes!" says Lomna. "And whom sawest thou afterwards?" THE ROOM OF THE PICTS, THIS "I saw another room there, with a huge trio in it: three brown, big men: three round heads of hair on them, even, equally long at nape and forehead. Three short black cowls about them reaching to their elbows: long hoods were on the cowls. Three black, huge swords they had, and three black shields they bore, with three dark broad-green javelins above them. Thick as the spit of a caldron was the shaft of each. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!" "Hard it is for me to find their like. I know not in Erin that trio, unless it be yon trio of Pictland, who went into exile from their country, and are now in Conaire's household. These are their names: Dublonges son of Trebúat, and Trebúat son of Húa-Lonsce, and Curnach son of Húa Fáich. The three who are best in Pictland at taking arms are that trio. Nine decads will fall at their hands in their first encounter, and a man will fall for each of their weapons, besides one for each of themselves. And they will share prowess with every trio in the Hostel. They will boast a victory over a king or a chief of the reavers; and they will afterwards escape though wounded. Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction, though it be only on account of those three!" Says Lomna Drúth: "I swear to God what my tribe swears, if my counsel were taken, the Destruction would never be wrought." "Ye cannot," says Ingcél: "clouds of weakness are coming to you. A keen ordeal which will endanger, etc. And whom sawest thou there afterwards?" THE ROOM OF THE PIPERS "There I beheld a room with nine men in it. Hair fair and yellow was on them: they all are equally beautiful. Mantles speckled with colour they wore, and above them were nine bagpipes, four-tuned, ornamented. Enough light in the palace were the ornament on these four-tuned pipes. Liken thou them, O Fer rogain." "Easy for me to liken them," says Fer rogain. "Those are the nine pipers that came to Conaire out of the Elfmound of Bregia, because of the noble tales about him. These are their names: Bind, Robind, Riarbind, Sibè, Dibè, Deichrind, Umall, Cumal, Ciallglind. They are the best pipers in the world. Nine enneads will fall before them, and a man for each of their weapons, and a man for each of themselves. And each of them will boast a victory over a king or a chief of the reavers. And they will escape from the Destruction; for a conflict with them will be a conflict with a shadow. They will slay, but they will not be slain, for they are out of an elfmound. Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction, though it be only because of those nine!" "Ye cannot," says Ingcél. "Clouds of weakness come to you," etc. "And after that, whom sawest thou there?" THE ROOM OF CONAIRE'S MAJORDOMO "There I saw a room with one man in it. Rough cropt hair upon him. Though a sack of crab-apples should be flung on his head, not one of them would fall on the floor, but every apple would stick on his hair. His fleecy mantle was over him in the house. Every quarrel therein about seat or bed comes to his decision. Should a needle drop in the house, its fall would be heard when he speaks. Above him is a huge black tree, like a millshaft, with its paddles and its cap and its spike. Liken thou him, O Fer rogain!" "Easy for me is this. Tuidle of Ulaid is he, the steward of Conaire's household. 'Tis needful to hearken to the decision of that man, the man that rules seat and bed and food for each. 'Tis his household staff that is above him. That man will fight with you. I swear what my tribe swears, the dead at the Destruction slain by him will be more numerous than the living. Thrice his number will fall by him, and he himself will fall there. Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction!" etc. "Ye cannot," says Ingcél. "Clouds of weakness come upon you. What sawest thou there after that?" THE ROOM OF MAC CECHT, CONAIRE'S BATTLE-SOLDIER There I beheld another room with a trio in it, three half-furious nobles: the biggest of them in the middle, very noisy ... rock-bodied, angry, smiting, dealing strong blows, who beats nine hundred in battle-conflict. A wooden shield, dark, covered with iron, he bears, with a hard ... rim, a shield whereon would fit the proper litter of four troops of ten weaklings on its ... of ... leather. A ... boss thereon, the depth of a caldron, fit to cook four oxen, a hollow maw, a great boiling, with four swine in its mid-maw great.... At his two smooth sides are two five-thwarted boats fit for three parties of ten in each of his two strong fleets. A spear he hath, blue-red, hand-fitting, on its puissant shaft. It stretches along the wall on the roof and rests on the ground. An iron point upon it, dark-red, dripping. Four amply-measured feet between the two points of its edge. Thirty amply-measured feet in his deadly-striking sword from dark point to iron hilt. It shews forth fiery sparks which illumine the Mid-court House from roof to ground. 'Tis a strong countenance that I see. A swoon from horror almost befell me while staring at those three. There is nothing stranger. Two bare hills were there by the man with hair. Two loughs by a mountain of the ... of a blue-fronted wave: two hides by a tree. Two boats near them full of thorns of a white thorn tree on a circular board. And there seems to me somewhat like a slender stream of water on which the sun is shining, and its trickle down from it, and a hide arranged behind it, and a palace house-post shaped like a great lance above it. A good weight of a plough-yoke is the shaft that is therein. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain! "Easy, meseems, to liken him! That is Mac cecht son of Snaide Teichid; the battle-soldier of Conaire son of Eterscél. Good is the hero Mac cecht! Supine he was in his room, in his sleep, when thou beheldest him. The two bare hills which thou sawest by the man with hair, these are his two knees by his head. The two loughs by the mountain which thou sawest, these are his two eyes by his nose. The two hides by a tree which thou sawest, these are his two ears by his head. The two five-thwarted boats on a circular board, which thou sawest, these are his two sandals on his shield. The slender stream of water which thou sawest, whereon the sun shines, and its trickle down from it, this is the flickering of his sword. The hide which thou sawest arranged behind him, that is his sword's scabbard. The palace-housepost which thou sawest, that is his lance; and he brandishes this spear till its two ends meet, and he hurls a wilful cast of it when he pleases. Good is the hero, Mac cecht!" "Six hundred will fall by him in his first encounter, and a man for each of his weapons, besides a man for himself. And he will share prowess with every one in the Hostel, and he will boast of triumph over a king or chief of the reavers in front of the Hostel. He will chance to escape though wounded. And when he shall chance to come upon you out of the house, as numerous as hailstones, and grass on a green, and stars of heaven will be your cloven heads and skulls, and the clots of your brains, your bones and the heaps of your bowels, crushed by him and scattered throughout the ridges." Then with trembling and terror of Mac cecht they flee over three ridges. They took the pledges among them again, even Gér and Gabur and Fer rogain. "Woe to him that shall wreak the Destruction!" says Lomna Drúth; "your heads will depart from you." "Ye cannot," says Ingcél: "clouds of weakness are coming to you" etc. "True indeed, O Ingcél," says Lomna Drúth son of Donn Désa. "Not unto thee is the loss caused by the Destruction. Woe is me for the Destruction, for the first head that will reach the Hostel will be mine!" "'Tis harder for _me_," says Ingcél: "'tis _my_ destruction that has been ... there." "Truly then," says Ingcél, "maybe I shall be the corpse that is frailest there," etc. "And afterwards whom sawest thou there?" THE ROOM OF CONAIRE'S THREE SONS, OBALL AND OBLIN AND CORPRE "There I beheld a room with a trio in it, to wit, three tender striplings, wearing three silken mantles. In their mantles were three golden brooches. Three golden-yellow manes were on them. When they undergo head-cleansing their golden-yellow mane reaches the edge of their haunches. When they raise their eye it raises the hair so that it is not lower than the tips of their ears, and it is as curly as a ram's head. A ... of gold and a palace-flambeau above each of them. Every one who is in the house spares them, voice and deed and word. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain," says Ingcél. Fer rogain wept, so that his mantle in front of him became moist. And no voice was gotten out of his head till a third of the night had passed. "O little ones," says Fer rogain, "I have good reason for what I do! Those are three sons of the king of Erin: Oball and Oblíne and Corpre Findmor." "It grieves us if the tale be true," say the sons of Donn Désa. "Good is the trio in that room. Manners of ripe maidens have they, and hearts of brothers, and valours of bears, and furies of lions. Whosoever is in their company and in their couch, and parts from them, he sleeps not and eats not at ease till the end of nine days, from lack of their companionship. Good are the youths for their age! Thrice ten will fall by each of them in their first encounter, and a man for each weapon, and three men for themselves. And one of the three will fall there. Because of that trio, woe to him that shall wreak the Destruction!" "Ye cannot," says Ingcél: "clouds of weakness are coming to you, etc. And whom sawest thou afterwards?" THE ROOM OF THE FOMORIANS I beheld there a room with a trio in it, to wit, a trio horrible, unheard-of, a triad of champions, etc. * * * * * Liken thou that, O Fer rogain? "'Tis hard for me to liken that trio. Neither of the men of Erin nor of the men of the world do I know it, unless it be the trio that Mac cecht brought out of the land of the Fomorians by dint of duels. Not one of the Fomorians was found to fight him, so he brought away those three, and they are in Conaire's house as sureties that, while Conaire is reigning, the Fomorians destroy neither corn nor milk in Erin beyond their fair tribute. Well may their aspect be loathy! Three rows of teeth in their heads from one ear to another. An ox with a bacon-pig, this is the ration of each of them, and that ration which they put into their mouths is visible till it comes down past their navels. Bodies of bone (i.e. without a joint in them) all those three have. I swear what my tribe swears, more will be killed by them at the Destruction than those they leave alive. Six hundred warriors will fall by them in their first conflict, and a man for each of their weapons, and one for each of the three themselves. And they will boast a triumph over a king or chief of the reavers. It will not be more than with a bite or a blow or a kick that each of those men will kill, for no arms are allowed them in the house, since they are in 'hostageship at the wall' lest they do a misdeed therein. I swear what my tribe swears, if they had armour on them, they would slay us all but a third. Woe to him that shall wreak the Destruction, because it is not a combat against sluggards." "Ye cannot," says Ingcél, etc. "And whom sawest thou there after that?" THE ROOM OF MUNREMAR SON OF GERRCHENN AND BIRDERG SON OF RUAN AND MÁL SON OF TELBAND "I beheld a room there, with a trio in it. Three brown, big men, with three brown heads of short hair. Thick calf-bottoms (ankles?) they had. As thick as a man's waist was each of their limbs. Three brown and curled masses of hair upon them, with a thick head: three cloaks, red and speckled, they wore: three black shields with clasps of gold, and three five-barbed javelins; and each had in hand an ivory-hilted sword. This is the feat they perform with their swords: they throw them high up, and they throw the scabbards after them, and the swords, before reaching the ground, place themselves in the scabbards. Then they throw the scabbards first, and the swords after them, and the scabbards meet the swords and place themselves round them before they reach the ground. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!" "Easy for me to liken them! Mál son of Telband, and Munremar son of Gerrchenn, and Birderg son of Rúan. Three crown-princes, three champions of valour, three heroes the best behind weapons in Erin! A hundred heroes will fall by them in their first conflict, and they will share prowess with every man in the Hostel, and they will boast of the victory over a king or chief of the reavers, and afterwards they will chance to escape. The Destruction should not be wrought even because of those three." "Woe to him that shall wreak the Destruction!" says Lomna. "Better were the victory of saving them than the victory of slaying them! Happy he who should save them! Woe to him that shall slay them!" "It is not feasible," says Ingcél, etc. "And afterwards whom sawest thou?" THE ROOM OF CONALL CERNACH "There I beheld in a decorated room the fairest man of Erin's heroes. He wore a tufted purple cloak. White as snow was one of his cheeks, the other was red and speckled like foxglove. Blue as hyacinth was one of his eyes, dark as a stag-beetle's back was the other. The bushy head of fair golden hair upon him was as large as a reaping-basket, and it touches the edge of his haunches. It is as curly as a ram's head. If a sackful of red-shelled nuts were spilt on the crown of his head, not one of them would fall on the floor, but remain on the hooks and plaits and swordlets of their hair. A gold hilted sword in his hand; a blood-red shield which has been speckled with rivets of white bronze between plates of gold. A long, heavy, three-ridged spear: as thick as an outer yoke is the shaft that is in it. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!" "Easy for me to liken him, for the men of Erin know that scion. That is Conall Cernach, son of Amorgen. He has chanced to be along with Conaire at this time. 'Tis he whom Conaire loves beyond every one, because of his resemblance to him in goodness of form and shape. Goodly is the hero that is there, Conall Cernach! To that blood-red shield on his fist, which has been speckled with rivets of white bronze, the Ulaid have given a famous name, to wit, the _Bricriu_ of Conall Cernach. "I swear what my tribe swears, plenteous will be the rain of red blood over it to-night before the Hostel! That ridged spear above him, many will there be unto whom to-night, before the Hostel, it will deal drinks of death. Seven doorways there are out of the house, and Conall Cernach will contrive to be at each of them, and from no doorway will he be absent. Three hundred will fall by Conall in his first conflict, besides a man for each (of his) weapons and one for himself. He will share prowess with every one in the Hostel, and when he shall happen to sally upon you from the house, as numerous as hailstones and grass on green and stars of heaven will be your half-heads and cloven skulls, and your bones under the point of his sword. He will succeed in escaping though wounded. Woe to him that shall wreak the Destruction, were it but for this man only!" "Ye cannot," says Ingcél. "Clouds," etc. "And after that whom sawest thou?" THE ROOM OF CONAIRE HIMSELF "There I beheld a room, more beautifully decorated than the other rooms of the house. A silvery curtain around it, and there were ornaments in the room. I beheld a trio in it. The outer two of them were, both of them, fair, with their hair and eyelashes; and they are as bright as snow. A very lovely blush on the cheek of each of the twain. A tender lad in the midst between them. The ardour and energy of a king has he, and the counsel of a sage. The mantle I saw around him is even as the mist of Mayday. Diverse are the hue and semblance each moment shewn upon it. Lovelier is each hue than the other. In front of him in the mantle I beheld a wheel of gold which reached from his chin to his navel. The colour of his hair was like the sheen of smelted gold. Of all the world's forms that I beheld, this is the most beautiful. I saw his golden-hilted glaive down beside him. A forearm's length of the sword was outside the scabbard. That forearm, a man down in the front of the house could see a fleshworm by the shadow of the sword! Sweeter is the melodious sounding of the sword than the melodious sound of the golden pipes that accompany music in the palace." "Then," quoth Ingcél, "I said, gazing at him: I see a high, stately prince, etc. I see a famous king, etc. I see his white prince's diadem, etc. I see his two blue-bright cheeks, etc. I see his high wheel ... round his head ... which is over his yellow-curly hair. I see his mantle red, many-coloured, etc. I see therein a huge brooch of gold, etc. I see his beautiful linen frock ... from ankle to kneecaps. I see his sword golden-hilted, inlaid, its in scabbard of white silver, etc. I see his shield bright, chalky, etc. A tower of inlaid gold," etc. Now the tender warrior was asleep, with his feet in the lap of one of the two men and his head in the lap of the other. Then he awoke out of his sleep, and arose, and chanted this lay: "The howl of Ossar (Conaire's dog) ... cry of warriors on the summit of Tol Géisse; a cold wind over edges perilous: a night to destroy a king is this night." He slept again, and awoke thereout, and sang this rhetoric: "The howl of Ossar ... a battle he announced: enslavement of a people: sack of the Hostel: mournful are the champions: men wounded: wind of terror: hurling of javelins: trouble of unfair fight: wreck of houses: Tara waste: a foreign heritage: like is lamenting Conaire: destruction of corn: feast of arms: cry of screams: destruction of Erin's king: chariots a-tottering: oppression of the king of Tara: lamentations will overcome laughter: Ossar's howl." He said the third time: "Trouble hath been shewn to me: a multitude of elves: a host supine; foes' prostration: a conflict of men on the Dodder[8]: oppression of Tara's king: in youth he was destroyed; lamentations will overcome laughter: Ossar's howl." [Footnote 8: A small river near Dublin, which is said to have passed through the Bruden.--W.S.] "Liken thou, O Fer rogain, him who has sung that lay." "Easy for me to liken him," says Fer rogain. No "conflict without a king" this. He is the most splendid and noble and beautiful and mighty king that has come into the whole world. He is the mildest and gentlest and most perfect king that has come to it, even Conaire son of Eterscél. 'Tis he that is overking of all Erin. There is no defect in that man, whether in form or shape or vesture: whether in size or fitness or proportion, whether in eye or hair or brightness, whether in wisdom or skill or eloquence, whether in weapon or dress or appearance, whether in splendour or abundance or dignity, whether in knowledge or valour or kindred. "Great is the tenderness of the sleepy simple man till he has chanced on a deed of valour. But if his fury and his courage be awakened when the champions of Erin and Alba are at him in the house, the Destruction will not be wrought so long as he is therein. Six hundred will fall by Conaire before he shall attain his arms, and seven hundred will fall by him in his first conflict after attaining his arms. I swear to God what my tribe swears, unless drink be taken from him, though there be no one else in the house, but he alone, he would hold the Hostel until help would reach it which the man would prepare for him from the Wave of Clidna[9] and the Wave of Assaroe[10] while ye are at the Hostel." [Footnote 9: In the bay of Glandore, co. Cork.--W.S.] [Footnote 10: At Ballyshannon, co. Donegal.--W.S.] "Nine doors there are to the house, and at each door a hundred warriors will fall by his hand. And when every one in the house has ceased to ply his weapon, 'tis then he will resort to a deed of arms. And if he chance to come upon you out of the house, as numerous as hailstones and grass on a green will be your halves of heads and your cloven skulls and your bones under the edge of his sword. "'Tis my opinion that he will not chance to get out of the house. Dear to him are the two that are with him in the room, his two fosterers, Dris and Snithe. Thrice fifty warriors will fall before each of them in front of the Hostel and not farther than a foot from him, on this side and that, will they too fall." "Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction, were it only because of that pair and the prince that is between them, the over-king-of Erin, Conaire son of Eterscél! Sad were the quenching of that reign!" says Lomna Drúth, son of Donn Désa. "Ye cannot," says Ingcél. "Clouds of weakness are coming to you," etc. "Good cause hast thou, O Ingcél," says Lomna son of Donn Désa. "Not unto _thee_ is the loss caused by the Destruction: for thou wilt carry off the head of the king of another country, and thyself will escape. Howbeit 'tis hard for me, for I shall be the first to be slain at the Hostel." "Alas for me!" says Ingcél, "peradventure I shall be the frailest corpse," etc. "And whom sawest thou afterwards?" THE ROOM OF THE REARGUARDS "There I saw twelve men on silvery hurdles all around that room of the king. Light yellow hair was on them. Blue kilts they wore. Equally beautiful were they, equally hardy, equally shapely. An ivory-hilted sword in each man's hand, and they cast them not down; but it is the horse-rods in their hands that are all round the room. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain." "Easy for me to say. The king of Tara's guardsmen are there. These are their names: three Londs of Liffey-plain: three Arts of Ath cliath (_Dublin_): three Buders of Buagnech: and three Trénfers of Cuilne. I swear what my tribe swears, that many will be the dead by them around the Hostel. And they will escape from it although they are wounded. Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction were it only because of that band! And afterwards whom sawest thou there?" LE FRI FLAITH SON OF CONAIRE, WHOSE LIKENESS THIS IS "There I beheld a red-freckled boy in a purple cloak. He is always a-wailing in the house. A stead wherein is the king of a cantred, whom each man takes from bosom to bosom. "So he is with a blue silvery chair under his seat in the midst of the house, and he always a-wailing. Truly then, sad are his household listening to him! Three heads of hair on that boy, and these are the three: green hair and purple hair and all-golden hair. I know not whether they are many appearances which the hair receives, or whether they are three kinds of hair which are naturally upon him. But I know that evil is the thing he dreads to-night. I beheld thrice fifty boys on silvern chairs around him, and there were fifteen bulrushes in the hand of that red-freckled boy, with a thorn at the end of each of the rushes. And we were fifteen men, and our fifteen right eyes were blinded by him, and he blinded one of the seven pupils which was in my head" saith Ingcél. "Hast thou his like, O Fer rogain?" "Easy for me to liken him!" Fer rogain wept till he shed his tears of blood over his cheeks. "Alas for him!" quoth he. This child is a 'scion of contention' for the men of Erin with the men of Alba for hospitality, and shape, and form and horsemanship. Sad is his slaughter! 'Tis a 'swine that goes before mast,' 'tis a babe in age! the best crown-prince that has ever come into Erin! The child of Conaire son of Eterscél, Lé fri flaith is his name. Seven years there are in his age. It seems to me very likely that he is miserable because of the many appearances on his hair and the various hues that the hair assumes upon him. This is his special household, the thrice fifty lads that are around him." "Woe," says Lomna, "to him that shall wreak the Destruction, were it only because of that boy!" "Ye cannot," says Ingcél. "Clouds of weakness are coming on you, etc." "And after that whom sawest thou there?" THE ROOM OF THE CUPBEARERS "There I saw six men in front of the same room. Fair yellow manes upon them: green mantles about them: tin brooches at the opening of their mantles. Half-horses (centaurs) are they, like Conall Cernach. Each of them throws his mantle round another and is as swift as a millwheel. Thine eye can hardly follow them. Liken thou those, O Fer rogain!" "This is easy for me. Those are the King of Tara's six cupbearers, namely Uan and Broen and Banna, Delt and Drucht and Dathen. That feat does not hinder them from their skinking, and it blunts not their intelligence thereat. Good are the warriors that are there! Thrice their number will fall by them. They will share prowess with any six in the Hostel, and they will escape from their foes, for they are out of the elfmounds. They are the best cupbearers in Erin. Woe to him that shall wreak the Destruction were it only because of them!" "Ye cannot," says Ingcél. "Clouds, etc." "And after that, whom sawest thou there?" THE ROOM OF TULCHINNE THE JUGGLER "There I beheld a great champion, in front of the same room, on the floor of the house. The shame of baldness is on him. White as mountain cotton-grass is each hair that grows through his head. Earrings of gold around his ears. A mantle speckled, coloured, he wore. Nine swords in his hand, and nine silvern shields, and nine apples of gold. He throws each of them upwards, and none of them falls on the ground, and there is only one of them on his palm; each of them rising and falling past another is just like the movement to and fro of bees on a day of beauty. When he was swiftest, I beheld him at the feat, and as I looked, they uttered a cry about him and they were all on the house-floor. Then the Prince who is in the house said to the juggler: 'We have come together since thou wast a little boy, and till to-night thy juggling never failed thee.' "'Alas, alas, fair master Conaire, good cause have I. A keen, angry eye looked at me: a man with the third of a pupil which sees the going of the nine bands. Not much to him is that keen, wrathful sight! Battles are fought with it,' saith he. 'It should be known till doomsday that there is evil in front of the Hostel.' "Then he took the swords in his hand, and the silvern shields and the apples of gold; and again they uttered a cry and were all on the floor of the house. That amazed him, and he gave over his play and said: 'O Fer caille, arise! Do not ... its slaughter. Sacrifice thy pig! Find out who is in front of the house to injure the men of the Hostel.' 'There,' said he, 'are Fer Cualngi, Fer lé, Fer gar, Fer rogel, Fer rogain. They have announced a deed which is not feeble, the annihilation of Conaire by Donn Désa's five sons, by Conaire's five loving fosterbrothers.' "Liken thou that, O Fer rogain! Who has chanted that lay?" "Easy for me to liken him," says Fer rogain. "Taulchinne the chief juggler of the King of Tara; he is Conaire's conjurer. A man of great might is that man. Thrice nine will fall by him in his first encounter, and he will share prowess with every one in the Hostel, and he will chance to escape therefrom though wounded. What then? Even on account of this man only the Destruction should not be wrought." "Long live he who should spare him!" says Lomna Drúth. "Ye cannot," says Ingcél, etc. THE ROOM OF THE SWINEHERDS "I beheld a trio in the front of the house: three dark crowntufts on them: three green frocks around them: three dark mantles over them: three forked ...(?) above them on the side of the wall. Six black greaves they had on the mast. Who are yon, O Fer rogain?" "Easy to say," answers Fer rogain: "the three swineherds of the king, Dub and Donn and Dorcha: three brothers are they, three sons of Mapher of Tara. Long live he who should protect them! woe to him who shall slay them! for greater would be the triumph of protecting them than the triumph of slaying them!" "Ye cannot," says Ingcél, etc. THE ROOM OF THE PRINCIPAL CHARIOTEERS "I beheld another trio in front of them: three plates of gold on their foreheads: three short aprons they wore, of grey linen embroidered with gold: three crimson capes about them: three goads of bronze in their hands. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!" "I know them," he answered. "Cul and Frecul and Forcul, the three charioteers of the King: three of the same age: three sons of Pole and Yoke. A man will perish by each of their weapons, and they will share the triumph of slaughter." THE ROOM OF CUSCRAD SON OF CONCHOBAR "I beheld another room. Therein were eight swordsmen, and among them a stripling. Black hair is on him, and very stammering speech has he. All the folk of the Hostel listen to his counsel. Handsomest of men he is: he wears a shirt and a bright-red mantle, with a brooch of silver therein." "I know him," says Fer rogain: "'tis Cuscraid Menn of Armagh, Conchobar's son, who is in hostageship with the king. And his guards are those eight swordsmen around him, namely, two Flanns, two Cummains, two Aeds, two Crimthans. They will share prowess with every one in the Hostel, and they will chance to escape from it with their fosterling." THE ROOM OF THE UNDER-CHARIOTEERS "I beheld nine men: on the mast were they. Nine capes they wore, with a purple loop. A plate of gold on the head of each of them. Nine goads in their hands. Liken thou." "I know those," quoth Fer rogain: "Riado, Riamcobur, Ríade, Buadon, Búadchar, Buadgnad, Eirr, Ineirr, Argatlam--nine charioteers in apprenticeship with the three chief charioteers of the king. A man will perish at the hands of each of them," etc. THE ROOM OF THE ENGLISHMEN "On the northern side of the house I beheld nine men. Nine very yellow manes were on them. Nine linen frocks somewhat short were round them: nine purple plaids over them without brooches therein. Nine broad spears, nine red curved shields above them." "We know them," quoth he. "Oswald and his two fosterbrothers, Osbrit Longhand and his two fosterbrothers, Lindas and his two fosterbrothers. Three crown-princes of England who are with the king. That set will share victorious prowess," etc. THE ROOM OF THE EQUERRIES "I beheld another trio. Three cropt heads of hair on them, three frocks they wore, and three mantles wrapt around them. A whip in the hand of each." "I know those," quoth Fer rogain. "Echdruim, Echriud, Echrúathar, the three horsemen of the king, that is, his three equerries. Three brothers are they, three sons of Argatron. Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction, were it only because of that trio." THE ROOM OF THE JUDGES "I beheld another trio in the room by them. A handsome man who had got his baldness newly. By him were two young men with manes upon them. Three mixed plaids they wore. A pin of silver in the mantle of each of them. Three suits of armour above them on the wall. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!" "I know those," quoth he. "Fergus Ferde, Fergus Fordae and Domáine Mossud, those are the king's three judges. Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction were it only because of that trio! A man will perish by each of them." THE ROOM OF THE HARPERS "To the east of them I beheld another ennead. Nine branchy, curly manes upon them. Nine grey, floating mantles about them: nine pins of gold in their mantles. Nine rings of crystal round their arms. A thumb-ring of gold round each man's thumb: an ear-tie of gold round each man's ear: a torque of silver round each man's throat. Nine bags with golden faces above them on the wall. Nine rods of white silver in their hands. Liken thou them." "I know those," quoth Fer rogain. "They are the king's nine harpers, with their nine harps above them: Side and Dide, Dulothe and Deichrinne, Caumul and Cellgen, Ol and Olene and Olchói. A man will perish by each of them." THE ROOM OF THE CONJURORS "I saw another trio on the dais. Three bedgowns girt about them. Four-cornered shields in their hands, with bosses of gold upon them. Apples of silver they had, and small inlaid spears." "I know them," says Fer rogain. "Cless and Clissíne and Clessamun, the king's three conjurers. Three of the same age are they: three brothers, three sons of Naffer Rochless. A man will perish by each of them." THE ROOM OF THE THREE LAMPOONEERS "I beheld another trio hard by the room of the King himself. Three blue mantles around them, and three bedgowns with red insertion over them. Their arms had been hung above them on the wall." "I know those," quoth he. "Dris and Draigen and Aittít ('Thorn and Bramble and Furze'), the king's three lampooners, three sons of Sciath foilt. A man will perish by each of their weapons." THE ROOM OF THE BADBS "I beheld a trio, naked, on the roof-tree of the house: their jets of blood coming through them, and the ropes of their slaughter on their necks." "Those I know," saith he, "three ... of awful boding. Those are the three that are slaughtered at every time." THE ROOM OF THE KITCHENERS "I beheld a trio cooking, in short inlaid aprons: a fair grey man, and two youths in his company." "I know those," quoth Fer rogain: "they are the King's three chief kitcheners, namely, the Dagdae and his two fosterlings, Séig and Segdae, the two sons of Rofer Singlespit. A man will perish by each of them," etc. "I beheld another trio there. Three plates of gold over their heads. Three speckled mantles about them: three linen shirts with red insertion: three golden brooches in their mantles: three wooden darts above them on the wall." "Those I know," says Fer rogain: "the three poets of that king: Sui and Rodui and Fordui: three of the same age, three brothers: three sons of Maphar of the Mighty Song. A man will perish for each of them, and every pair will keep between them one man's victory. Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction!" etc. THE ROOM OF THE SERVANT-GUARDS "There I beheld two warriors standing over the king. Two curved shields they had, and two great pointed swords. Red kilts they wore, and in the mantles pins of white silver." "Bole and Root are those," quoth he, "the king's two guards, two sons of Maffer Toll." THE ROOM OF THE KING'S GUARDSMEN "I beheld nine men in a room there in front of the same room. Fair yellow manes upon them: short aprons they wore and spotted capes: they carried smiting shields. An ivory-hilted sword in the hand of each of them, and whoever enters the house they essay to smite him with the swords. No one dares to go to the room of the King without their consent. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!" "Easy for me is that. Three Mochmatnechs of Meath, three Buageltachs of Bregia, three Sostachs of Sliab Fuait, the nine guardsmen of that King. Nine decads will fall by them in their first conflict, etc. Woe to him that shall wreak the Destruction because of them only!" "Ye cannot," says Ingcél. "Clouds of weakness," etc. "And whom sawest thou then?" THE ROOM OF NIA AND BRUTHNE, CONAIRE'S TWO WAITERS "There I beheld another room, and a pair was in it, and they are 'oxtubs,' stout and thick. Aprons they wore, and the men were dark and brown. They had short back-hair on them, but high upon their foreheads. They are as swift as a waterwheel, each of them past another, one of them to the King's room, the other to the fire. Liken thou those, O Fer rogain!" "Easy to me. They are Nia and Bruthne, Conaire's two table-servants. They are the pair that is best in Erin for their lord's advantage. What causes brownness to them and height to their hair is their frequent haunting of the fire. In the world is no pair better in their art than they. Thrice nine men will fall by them in their first encounter, and they will share prowess with every one, and they will chance to escape. And after that whom sawest thou?" THE ROOM OF SENCHA AND DUBTHACH AND GOBNIU SON OF LURGNECH "I beheld the room that is next to Conaire. Three chief champions, in their first greyness, are therein. As thick as a man's waist is each of their limbs. They have three black swords, each as long as a weaver's beam. These swords would split a hair on water. A great lance in the hand of the midmost man, with fifty rivets through it. The shaft therein is a good load for the yoke of a plough-team. The midmost man brandishes that lance so that its edge-studs hardly stay therein, and he strikes the haft thrice against his palm. There is a great boiler in front of them, as big as a calf's caldron, wherein is a black and horrible liquid. Moreover he plunges the lance into that black fluid. If its quenching be delayed it flames on its shaft and then thou wouldst suppose that there is a fiery dragon in the top of the house. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!" "Easy to say. Three heroes who are best at grasping weapons in Erin, namely, Sencha the beautiful son of Ailill, and Dubthach Chafer of Ulaid, and Goibnenn son of Lurgnech. And the _Luin_ of Celtchar son of Uthider which was found in the battle of Mag Tured, this is in the hand of Dubthach Chafer of Ulaid. That feat is usual for it when it is ripe to pour forth a foeman's blood. A caldron full of poison is needed to quench it when a deed of man-slaying is expected. Unless this come to the lance, it flames on its haft and will go through its bearer or the master of the palace wherein it is. If it be a blow that is to be given thereby it will kill a man at every blow, when it is at that feat, from one hour to another, though it may not reach him. And if it be a cast, it will kill nine men at every cast, and one of the nine will be a king or crown-prince or chieftain of the reavers. "I swear what my tribe swears, there will be a multitude unto whom tonight the _Luin_ of Celtchar will deal drinks of death in front of the Hostel. I swear to God what my tribe swears that, in their first encounter, three hundred will fall by that trio, and they will share prowess with every three in the Hostel tonight. And they will boast of victory over a king or chief of the reavers, and the three will chance to escape." "Woe," says Lomna Drúth, "to him who shall wreak the Destruction, were it only because of that trio!" "Ye cannot," says Ingcél, etc. "And after that, whom sawest thou there?" THE ROOM OF THE THREE MANX GIANTS "There I beheld a room with a trio in it. Three men mighty, manly, overbearing, which see no one abiding at their three hideous crooked aspects. A fearful view because of the terror of them. A ... dress of rough hair covers them ... of cow's hair, without garments enwrapping down to the right heels. With three manes, equine, awful, majestic, down to their sides. Fierce heroes who wield against foeman hard-smiting swords. A blow, they give with three iron flails having seven chains triple-twisted, three-edged, with seven iron knobs at the end of every chain: each of them as heavy as an ingot of ten smeltings. Three big brown men. Dark equine back-manes on them, which reach their two heels. Two good thirds of an oxhide in the girdle round each one's waist, and each quadrangular clasp that closes it as thick as a man's thigh. The raiment that is round them is the dress that grows through them. Tresses of their back-manes were spread, and a long staff of iron, as long and thick as an outer yoke was in each man's hand, and an iron chain out of the end of every club, and at the end of every chain an iron pestle as long and thick as a middle yoke. They stand in their sadness in the house, and enough is the horror of their aspect. There is no one in the house that would not be avoiding them. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!" Fer rogain was silent. "Hard for me to liken them. I know none such of the world's men unless they be yon trio of giants to whom Cúchulainn gave quarter at the beleaguerment of the Men of Falga, and when they were getting quarter they killed fifty warriors. But Cúchulainn would not let them be slain, because of their wondrousness. These are the names of the three: Srubdaire son of Dordbruige, and Conchenn of Cenn maige, and Fiad sceme son of Scípe. Conaire bought them from Cúchulainn for ... so they are along with him. Three hundred will fall by them in their first encounter, and they will surpass in prowess every three in the Hostel; and if they come forth upon you, the fragments of you will be fit to go through the sieve of a corn-kiln, from the way in which they will destroy you with the flails of iron. Woe to him that shall wreak the Destruction, though it were only on account of those three! For to combat against them is not a 'paean round a sluggard.'" "Ye cannot," says Ingcél. "Clouds of weakness are coming to you," etc. "And after that, whom sawest thou there?" THE ROOM OF DÁ DERGA "There I beheld another room, with one man therein and in front of him two servants with two manes upon them, one of the two dark, the other fair. Red hair on the warrior, and red eyebrows. Two ruddy cheeks he had, and an eye very blue and beautiful. He wore a green cloak and a shirt with a white hood and a red insertion. In his hand was a sword with a hilt of ivory, and he supplies attendance of every room in the house with ale and food, and he is quick-footed in serving the whole host. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!" "I know those men. That one is Dá Derga. 'Tis by him that the Hostel was built, and since it was built its doors have never been shut save on the side to which the wind comes--the valve is closed against it--and since he began housekeeping his caldron was never taken from the fire, but it has been boiling food for the men of Erin. The pair before him, those two youths, are his fosterlings, two sons of the king of Leinster, namely Muredach and Corpre. Three decads will fall by that trio in front of their house and they will boast of victory over a king or a chief of the reavers. After this they will chance to escape from it." "Long live he who should protect them!" says Lomna. "Better were triumph of saving them than triumph of slaying them! They should be spared were it only on account of that man. 'Twere meet to give that man quarter," says Lomna Drúth. "Ye cannot," says Ingcél. "Clouds," etc. "And after that whom sawest thou there?" THE ROOM OF THE THREE CHAMPIONS FROM THE ELFMOUNDS "There I beheld a room with a trio in it. Three red mantles they wore, and three red shirts, and three red heads of hair were on them. Red were they all together with their teeth. Three red shields above them. Three red spears in their hands. Three red horses in their bridles in front of the Hostel. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!" "Easily done. Three champions who wrought falsehood in the elfmounds. This is the punishment inflicted upon them by the king of the elfmounds, to be destroyed thrice by the King of Tara. Conaire son of Eterscél is the last king by whom they are destroyed. Those men will escape from you. To fulfil their own destruction, they have come. But they will not be slain, nor will they slay anyone. And after that whom sawest thou?" THE ROOM OF THE DOORWARDS "There I beheld a trio in the midst of the house at the door. Three holed maces in their hands. Swift as a hare was each of them round the other towards the door. Aprons were on them, and they had gray and speckled mantles. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!" "Easily done: Three doorwardens of Tara's King are those, namely Echur ('Key') and Tochur and Tecmang, three sons of Ersa ('Doorpost') and Comla ('Valve'). Thrice their number will fall by them, and they will share a man's triumph among them. They will chance to escape though wounded." "Woe to him that shall wreak!" etc., says Lomna Drúth. "Ye cannot," says Ingcél, etc. "And after that whom sawest thou?" THE ROOM OF FER CAILLE "There I beheld at the fire in front a man with black cropt hair, having only one eye and one foot and one hand, having on the fire a pig bald, black, singed, squealing continually, and in his company a great big-mouthed woman. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!" "Easily done: Fer caille with his pig and his wife Cichuil. They (the wife and the pig) are his proper instruments on the night that ye destroy Conaire King of Erin. Alas for the guest who will run between them! Fer caille with his pig is one of Conaire's tabus." "Woe to him who shall wreak the Destruction!" says Lomna. "Ye cannot," quoth Ingcél. "And after that, whom sawest thou there?" THE ROOM OF THE THREE SONS OF BÁITHIS OF BRITAIN "There I beheld a room with three enneads in it. Fair yellow manes upon them, and they are equally beautiful. Each of them wore a black cape, and there was a white hood on each mantle, a red tuft on each hood, and an iron brooch at the opening of every mantle, and under each man's cloak a huge black sword, and the swords would split a hair on water. They bore shields with scalloped edges. Liken thou them, O Fer rogain!" "Easily done. That is the robber-band of the three sons of Báithis of Britain. Three enneads will fall by them in their first conflict, and among them they will share a man's triumph. And after that whom sawest thou?" THE ROOM OF THE MIMES "There I beheld a trio of jesters hard by the fire. Three dun mantles they wore. If the men of Erin were in one place, even though the corpse of his mother or his father were in front of each, not one could refrain from laughing at them. Wheresoever the king of a cantred is in the house, not one of them attains his seat on his bed because of that trio of jesters. Whenever the king's eye visits them it smiles at every glance. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!" "Easily done. Mael and Mlithe and Admlithe--those are the king of Erin's three jesters. By each of them a man will perish, and among them they will share a man's triumph." "Woe to him that will wreak the Destruction!" says Lomna, etc. "And after that whom sawest thou there?" THE ROOM OF THE CUPBEARERS "There I beheld a room with a trio in it. Three grey-floating mantles they wore. There was a cup of water in front of each man, and on each cup a bunch of watercress. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!" "Easily done. Black and Dun and Dark: they are the King of Tara's three cupbearers, to wit, the sons of Day and Night. And after that, whom sawest thou there?" THE ROOM OF NÁR THE SQUINTER-WITH-THE-LEFT-EYE "There I beheld a one-eyed man asquint with a ruinous eye. A swine's head he had on the fire, continually squealing. Liken thou that, O Fer rogain!" "Easy for me to name the like. He is Nár the Squinter with the left eye, the swineherd of Bodb of the Elfmound on Femen, 'tis he that is over the cooking. Blood hath been spilt at every feast at which he has ever been present." * * * * * "Rise up, then, ye champions!" says Ingcél, "and get you on to the house!" With that the reavers march to the Hostel, and made a murmur about it. "Silence a while!" says Conaire, "what is this?" "Champions at the house," says Conall Cernach. "There are warriors for them here," answers Conaire. "They will be needed tonight," Conall Cernach rejoins. Then went Lomna Drúth before the host of reavers into the Hostel. The doorkeepers struck off his head. Then the head was thrice flung into the Hostel, and thrice cast out of it, as he himself had foretold. Then Conaire himself sallies out of the Hostel together with some of his people, and they fight a combat with the host of reavers, and six hundred fell by Conaire before he could get to his arms. Then the Hostel is thrice set on fire, and thrice put out from thence: and it was granted that the Destruction would never have been wrought had not work of weapons been taken from Conaire. Thereafter Conaire went to seek his arms, and he dons his battle-dress, and falls to plying his weapons on the reavers, together with the band that he had. Then, after getting his arms, six hundred fell by him in his first encounter. After this the reavers were routed. "I have told you," says Fer rogain son of Donn Désa, "that if the champions of the men of Erin and Alba attack Conaire at the house, the Destruction will not be wrought unless Conaire's fury and valour be quelled." "Short will his time be," say the wizards along with the reavers. This was the quelling they brought, a scantness of drink that seized him. Thereafter Conaire entered the house, and asked for a drink. "A drink to me, O master Mac cecht!" says Conaire. Says Mac cecht: "This is not the order that I have hitherto had from thee, to give thee a drink. There are spencers and cupbearers who bring drink to thee. The order I have hitherto had from thee is to protect thee when the champions of the men of Erin and Alba may be attacking thee around the Hostel. Thou wilt go safe from them, and no spear shall enter thy body. Ask a drink of thy spencers and thy cupbearers." Then Conaire asked a drink of his spencers and his cupbearers who were in the house. "In the first place there is none," they say; "all the liquids that had been in the house have been spilt on the fires." The cupbears found no drink for him in the Dodder (a river), and the Dodder had flowed through the house. Then Conaire again asked for a drink. "A drink to me, O fosterer, O Mac cecht! 'Tis equal to me what death I shall go to, for anyhow I shall perish." Then Mac cecht gave a choice to the champions of valour of the men of Erin who were in the house, whether they cared to protect the King or to seek a drink for him. Conall Cernach answered this in the house--and cruel he deemed the contention, and afterwards he had always a feud with Mac cecht.--"Leave the defence of the King to _us_," says Conall, "and go thou to seek the drink, for of thee it is demanded." So then Mac cecht fared forth to seek the drink, and he took Conaire's son, Lé fri flaith, under his armpit, and Conaire's golden cup, in which an ox with a bacon-pig would be boiled; and he bore his shield and his two spears and his sword, and he carried the caldron-spit, a spit of iron. He burst forth upon them, and in front of the Hostel he dealt nine blows of the iron spit, and at every blow nine reavers fell. Then he makes a sloping feat of the shield and an edge-feat of the sword about his head, and he delivered a hostile attack upon them. Six hundred fell in his first encounter, and after cutting down hundreds he goes through the band outside. The doings of the folk of the Hostel, this is what is here examined, presently. Conall Cernach arises, and takes his weapons, and wends over the door of the Hostel, and goes round the house. Three hundred fell by him, and he hurls back the reavers over three ridges out from the Hostel, and boasts of triumph over a king, and returns, wounded, into the Hostel. Cormac Condlongas sallies out, and his nine comrades with him, and they deliver their onsets on the reavers. Nine enneads fall by Cormac and nine enneads by his people, and a man for each weapon and a man for each man. And Cormac boasts of the death of a chief of the reavers. They succeed in escaping though they be wounded. The trio of Picts sally forth from the Hostel, and take to plying their weapons on the reavers. And nine enneads fall by them, and they chance to escape though they be wounded. The nine pipers sally forth and dash their warlike work on the reavers; and then they succeed in escaping. Howbeit then, but it is long to relate, 'tis weariness of mind, 'tis confusion of the senses, 'tis tediousness to hearers, 'tis superfluity of narration to go over the same things twice. But the folk of the Hostel came forth in order, and fought their combats with the reavers, and fell by them, as Fer rogain and Lomna Drúth had said to Ingcêl, to wit, that the folk of every room would sally forth still and deliver their combat, and after that escape. So that none were left in the Hostel in Conaire's company save Conall and Sencha and Dubthach. Now from the vehement ardour and the greatness of the contest which Conaire had fought, his great drouth of thirst attacked him, and he perished of a consuming fever, for he got not his drink. So when the king died those three sally out of the Hostel, and deliver a wily stroke of reaving on the reavers, and fare forth from the Hostel, wounded, to-broken and maimed. Touching Mac cecht, however, he went his way till he reached the Well of Casair, which was near him in Crích Cualann; but of water he found not therein the full of his cup, that is, Conaire's golden cup which he had brought in his hand. Before morning he had gone round the chief rivers of Erin, to wit, Bush, Boyne, Bann, Barrow, Neim, Luae, Láigdae, Shannon, Suir, Sligo, Sámair, Find, Ruirthech, Slaney, and in them he found not the full of his cup of water. Then before morning he had travelled to the chief lakes of Erin, to wit, Lough Derg, Loch Luimnig, Lough Foyle, Lough Mask, Long Corrib, Loch Láig, Loch Cúan, Lough Neagh, Môrloch, and of water he found not therein the full of his cup. He went his way till he reached Uaran Garad on Magh Ai. It could not hide itself from him: so he brought thereout the full of his cup, and the boy fell under his covering. After this he went on and reached Dá Derga's Hostel before morning. When Mac cecht went across the third ridge towards the house, 'tis there were twain striking off Conaire's head. Then Mac cecht strikes off the head of one of the two men who were beheading Conaire. The other man then was fleeing forth with the king's head. A pillar-stone chanced to be under Mac cecht's feet on the floor of the Hostel. He hurls it at the man who had Conaire's head and drove it through his spine, so that his back broke. After this Mac cecht beheads him. Mac cecht then spilt the cup of water into Conaire's gullet and neck. Then said Conaire's head, after the water had been put into its neck and gullet: "A good man Mac cecht! an excellent man Mac cecht! A good warrior without, good within, He gives a drink, he saves a king, he doth a deed. Well he ended the champions I found. He sent a flagstone on the warriors. Well he hewed by the door of the Hostel ... Fer lé, So that a spear is against one hip. Good should I be to far-renowned Mac cecht If I were alive. A good man!" After this Mac cecht followed the routed foe. 'Tis this that some books relate, that but a very few fell around Conaire, namely, nine only. And hardly a fugitive escaped to tell the tidings to the champions who had been at the house. Where there had been five thousand--and in every thousand ten hundred--only one set of five escaped, namely Ingcél, and his two brothers Echell and Tulchinne, the "Yearling of the Reavers"--three great-grandsons of Conmac, and the two Reds of Róiriu who had been the first to wound Conaire. Thereafter Ingcél went into Alba, and received the kingship after his father, since he had taken home triumph over a king of another country. This, however, is the recension in other books, and it is more probably truer. Of the folk of the Hostel forty or fifty fell, and of the reavers three fourths and one fourth of them only escaped from the Destruction. Now when Mac cecht was lying wounded on the battle-field, at the end of the third day, he saw a woman passing by. "Come hither, O woman!" says Mac cecht. "I dare not go thus," says the woman, "for horror and fear of thee." "There _was_ a time when I had this, O woman, even horror and fear of me on some one. But now thou shouldst fear nothing. I accept thee on the truth of my honour and my safeguard." Then the woman goes to him. "I know not," says he, "whether it is a fly or a gnat, or an ant that nips me in the wound." It happened that it was a hairy wolf that was there, as far as its two shoulders in the wound! The woman seized it by the tail, and dragged it out of the wound, and it takes the full of its jaws out of him. "Truly," says the woman, "this is 'an ant of ancient land.'" Says Mac cecht "I swear to God what my people swears, I deemed it no bigger than a fly, or a gnat, or an ant." And Mac cecht took the wolf by the throat, and struck it a blow on the forehead, and killed it with a single blow. Then Lé fri flaith, son of Conaire, died under Mac cecht's armpit, for the warrior's heat and sweat had dissolved him. Thereafter Mac cecht, having cleansed the slaughter, at the end of the third day, set forth, and he dragged Conaire with him on his back, and buried him at Tara, as some say. Then Mac cecht departed into Connaught, to his own country, that he might work his cure in Mag Bréngair. Wherefore the name clave to the plain from Mac cecht's misery, that is, Mag Brén-guir. Now Conall Cernach escaped from the Hostel, and thrice fifty spears had gone through the arm which upheld his shield. He fared forth till he reached his father's house, with half his shield in his hand, and his sword, and the fragments of his two spears. Then he found his father before his garth in Taltiu. "Swift are the wolves that have hunted thee, my son," saith his father. "'Tis this that has wounded us, thou old hero, an evil conflict with warriors," Conall Cernach replied. "Hast thou then news of Dá Derga's Hostel?" asked Amorgin. "Is thy lord alive?" "He is _not_ alive," says Conall. "I swear to God what the great tribes of Ulaid swear, it is cowardly for the man who went thereout alive, having left his lord with his foes in death." "My wounds are not white, thou old hero," says Conall. He shews him his shield-arm, whereon were thrice fifty wounds: this is what was inflicted upon it. The shield that guarded it is what saved it. But the right arm had been played upon, as far as two thirds thereof, since the shield had not been guarding it. That arm was mangled and maimed and wounded and pierced, save that the sinews kept it to the body without separation. "That arm fought tonight, my son," says Amorgein. "True is that, thou old hero," says Conall Cernach. "Many there are unto whom it gave drinks of death tonight in front of the Hostel." Now as to the reavers, every one of them that escaped from the Hostel went to the cairn which they had built on the night before last, and they brought thereout a stone for each man not mortally wounded. So this is what they lost by death at the Hostel, a man for every stone that is (now) in Carn Lecca. It endeth: Amen: it endeth. 
20406	----	Transcriber's note: This text employs some Anglo-Saxon characters, such as the eth (Ð or ð, equivalent of "th") and the thorn (Þ or þ, also equivalent of "th"). These characters should display properly in most text viewers. The Anglo-Saxon yogh (equivalent of "y," "g," or "gh") will display properly only if the user has the proper font. To maximize accessibility, the character "3" is used in this e-text to represent the yogh, e.g., "3ong" (yong). EPIC AND ROMANCE Essays on Medieval Literature by W. P. KER Fellow of All Souls College, Oxford Professor of English Literature in University College London MacMillan and Co., Limited St. Martin's Street, London 1931 Copyright First Edition (8vo) 1896 Second Edition (Eversley Series) 1908 Reprinted (Crown 8vo) 1922, 1926, 1931 Printed in Great Britain By R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh PREFACE These essays are intended as a general description of some of the principal forms of narrative literature in the Middle Ages, and as a review of some of the more interesting works in each period. It is hardly necessary to say that the conclusion is one "in which nothing is concluded," and that whole tracts of literature have been barely touched on--the English metrical romances, the Middle High German poems, the ballads, Northern and Southern--which would require to be considered in any systematic treatment of this part of history. Many serious difficulties have been evaded (in _Finnesburh_, more particularly), and many things have been taken for granted, too easily. My apology must be that there seemed to be certain results available for criticism, apart from the more strict and scientific procedure which is required to solve the more difficult problems of _Beowulf_, or of the old Northern or the old French poetry. It is hoped that something may be gained by a less minute and exacting consideration of the whole field, and by an attempt to bring the more distant and dissociated parts of the subject into relation with one another, in one view. Some of these notes have been already used, in a course of three lectures at the Royal Institution, in March 1892, on "the Progress of Romance in the Middle Ages," and in lectures given at University College and elsewhere. The plot of the Dutch romance of _Walewein_ was discussed in a paper submitted to the Folk-Lore Society two years ago, and published in the journal of the Society (_Folk-Lore_, vol. v. p. 121). I am greatly indebted to my friend Mr. Paget Toynbee for his help in reading the proofs. I cannot put out on this venture without acknowledgment of my obligation to two scholars, who have had nothing to do with my employment of all that I have borrowed from them, the Oxford editors of the Old Northern Poetry, Dr. Gudbrand Vigfusson and Mr. York Powell. I have still to learn what Mr. York Powell thinks of these discourses. What Gudbrand Vigfusson would have thought I cannot guess, but I am glad to remember the wise goodwill which he was always ready to give, with so much else from the resources of his learning and his judgment, to those who applied to him for advice. W. P. KER. LONDON, _4th November 1896_. POSTSCRIPT This book is now reprinted without addition or change, except in a few small details. If it had to be written over again, many things, no doubt, would be expressed in a different way. For example, after some time happily spent in reading the Danish and other ballads, I am inclined to make rather less of the interval between the ballads and the earlier heroic poems, and I have learned (especially from Dr. Axel Olrik) that the Danish ballads do not belong originally to simple rustic people, but to the Danish gentry in the Middle Ages. Also the comparison of Sturla's Icelandic and Norwegian histories, though it still seems to me right in the main, is driven a little too far; it hardly does enough justice to the beauty of the _Life of Hacon_ (_Hákonar Saga_), especially in the part dealing with the rivalry of the King and his father-in-law Duke Skule. The critical problems with regard to the writings of Sturla are more difficult than I imagined, and I am glad to have this opportunity of referring, with admiration, to the work of my friend Dr. Björn Magnússon Olsen on the _Sturlunga Saga_ (in _Safn til Sögu Islands_, iii. pp. 193-510, Copenhagen, 1897). Though I am unable to go further into that debatable ground, I must not pass over Dr. Olsen's argument showing that the life of the original Sturla of Hvamm (_v. inf._ pp. 253-256) was written by Snorri himself; the story of the alarm and pursuit (p. 255) came from the recollections of Gudny, Snorri's mother. In the _Chansons de Geste_ a great discovery has been made since my essay was written; the _Chançun de Willame_, an earlier and ruder version of the epic of _Aliscans_, has been printed by the unknown possessor of the manuscript, and generously given to a number of students who have good reason to be grateful to him for his liberality. There are some notes on the poem in _Romania_ (vols. xxxii. and xxxiv.) by M. Paul Meyer and Mr. Raymond Weeks, and it has been used by Mr. Andrew Lang in illustration of Homer and his age. It is the sort of thing that the Greeks willingly let die; a rough draught of an epic poem, in many ways more barbarous than the other extant _chansons de geste_, but full of vigour, and notable (like _le Roi Gormond_, another of the older epics) for its refrain and other lyrical passages, very like the manner of the ballads. The _Chançun de Willame_, it may be observed, is not very different from _Aliscans_ with regard to Rainouart, the humorous gigantic helper of William of Orange. One would not have been surprised if it had been otherwise, if Rainouart had been first introduced by the later composer, with a view to "comic relief" or some such additional variety for his tale. But it is not so; Rainouart, it appears, has a good right to his place by the side of William. The grotesque element in French epic is found very early, _e.g._ in the _Pilgrimage of Charlemagne_, and is not to be reckoned among the signs of decadence. There ought to be a reference, on p. 298 below, to M. Joseph Bédier's papers in the _Revue Historique_ (xcv. and xcvii.) on _Raoul de Cambrai_. M. Bédier's _Légendes épiques_, not yet published at this time of writing, will soon be in the hands of his expectant readers. I am deeply indebted to many friends--first of all to York Powell--for innumerable good things spoken and written about these studies. My reviewers, in spite of all differences of opinion, have put me under strong obligations to them for their fairness and consideration. Particularly, I have to offer my most sincere acknowledgments to Dr. Andreas Heusler of Berlin for the honour he has done my book in his _Lied und Epos_ (1905), and not less for the help that he has given, in this and other of his writings, towards the better understanding of the old poems and their history. W. P. K. OXFORD, _25th Jan. 1908_. CONTENTS CHAPTER I INTRODUCTION I THE HEROIC AGE PAGE Epic and Romance: the two great orders of medieval narrative 3 _Epic_, of the "heroic age," preceding _Romance_ of the "age of chivalry" 4 The heroic age represented in three kinds of literature--Teutonic Epic, French Epic, and the Icelandic Sagas 6 Conditions of Life in an "heroic age" 7 Homer and the Northern poets 9 Homeric passages in _Beowulf_ 10 and in the _Song of Maldon_ 11 Progress of poetry in the heroic age 13 Growth of Epic, distinct in character, but generally incomplete, among the Teutonic nations 14 II EPIC AND ROMANCE The complex nature of Epic 16 No kind or aspect of life that may not be included 16 This freedom due to the dramatic quality of true (_e.g._ Homeric) Epic 17 as explained by Aristotle 17 Epic does not require a magnificent ideal subject 18 such as those of the artificial epic (_Aeneid_, _Gerusalemme Liberata_, _Paradise Lost_) 18 The _Iliad_ unlike these poems in its treatment of "ideal" motives (patriotism, etc.) 19 True Epic begins with a dramatic plot and characters 20 The Epic of the Northern heroic age is sound in its dramatic conception 20 and does not depend on impersonal ideals (with exceptions, in the _Chansons de geste_) 21 The German heroes in history and epic (Ermanaric, Attila, Theodoric) 21 Relations of Epic to historical fact 22 The epic poet is free in the conduct of his story 23 but his story and personages must belong to his own people 26 Nature of Epic brought out by contrast with secondary narrative poems, where the subject is not national 27 This secondary kind of poem may be excellent, but is always different in character from native Epic 28 Disputes of academic critics about the "Epic Poem" 30 Tasso's defence of Romance. Pedantic attempts to restrict the compass of Epic 30 Bossu on Phaeacia 31 Epic, as the most comprehensive kind of poetry, includes Romance as one of its elements 32 but needs a strong dramatic imagination to keep Romance under control 33 III ROMANTIC MYTHOLOGY Mythology not required in the greatest scenes in Homer 35 Myths and popular fancies may be a hindrance to the epic poet, but he is compelled to make some use of them 36 He criticises and selects, and allows the characters of the gods to be modified in relation to the human characters 37 Early humanism and reflexion on myth--two processes: (1) rejection of the grosser myths; (2) refinement of myth through poetry 40 Two ways of refining myth in poetry--(1) by turning it into mere fancy, and the more ludicrous things into comedy; (2) by finding an imaginative or an ethical meaning in it 40 Instances in Icelandic literature--_Lokasenna_ 41 Snorri Sturluson, his ironical method in the _Edda_ 42 The old gods rescued from clerical persecution 43 Imaginative treatment of the graver myths--the death of Balder; the Doom of the Gods 43 Difficulties in the attainment of poetical self-command 44 Medieval confusion and distraction 45 Premature "culture" 46 Depreciation of native work in comparison with ancient literature and with theology 47 An Icelandic gentleman's library 47 The whalebone casket 48 Epic not wholly stifled by "useful knowledge" 49 IV THE THREE SCHOOLS--TEUTONIC EPIC--FRENCH EPIC--THE ICELANDIC HISTORIES Early failure of Epic among the Continental Germans 50 Old English Epic invaded by Romance (Lives of Saints, etc.) 50 Old Northern (Icelandic) poetry full of romantic mythology 51 French Epic and Romance contrasted 51 Feudalism in the old French Epic (_Chansons de Geste_) not unlike the prefeudal "heroic age" 52 But the _Chansons de Geste_ are in many ways "romantic" 53 Comparison of the English _Song of Byrhtnoth_ (_Maldon_, A.D. 991) with the _Chanson de Roland_ 54 Severity and restraint of _Byrhtnoth_ 55 Mystery and pathos of _Roland_ 56 Iceland and the German heroic age 57 The Icelandic paradox--old-fashioned politics together with clear understanding 58 Icelandic prose literature--its subject, the anarchy of the heroic age; its methods, clear and positive 59 The Icelandic histories, in prose, complete the development of the early Teutonic Epic poetry 60 CHAPTER II THE TEUTONIC EPIC I THE TRAGIC CONCEPTION Early German poetry 65 One of the first things certain about it is that it knew the meaning of tragic situations 66 The _Death of Ermanaric_ in Jordanes 66 The story of _Alboin_ in Paulus Diaconus 66 Tragic plots in the extant poems 69 The _Death of Ermanaric_ in the "Poetic Edda" (_Hamðismál_) 70 Some of the Northern poems show the tragic conception modified by romantic motives, yet without loss of the tragic purport--_Helgi and Sigrun_ 72 Similar harmony of motives in the _Waking of Angantyr_ 73 Whatever may be wanting, the heroic poetry had no want of tragic plots--the "fables" are sound 74 Value of the abstract plot (Aristotle) 74 II SCALE OF THE POEMS List of extant poems and fragments in one or other of the older Teutonic languages (German, English, and Northern) in unrhymed alliterative verse 76 Small amount of the extant poetry 78 Supplemented in various ways 79 1. THE WESTERN GROUP (German and English) 79 Amount of story contained in the several poems, and scale of treatment 79 _Hildebrand_, a short story 80 _Finnesburh_, (1) the Lambeth fragment (Hickes); and (2) the abstract of the story in _Beowulf_ 81 _Finnesburh_, a story of (1) wrong and (2) vengeance, like the story of the death of Attila, or of the betrayal of Roland 82 Uncertainty as to the compass of the _Finnesburh_ poem (Lambeth) in its original complete form 84 _Waldere_, two fragments: the story of Walter of Aquitaine preserved in the Latin _Waltharius_ 84 Plot of _Waltharius_ 84 Place of the _Waldere_ fragments in the story, and probable compass of the whole poem 86 Scale of _Maldon_ 88 and of _Beowulf_ 89 General resemblance in the themes of these poems--unity of action 89 Development of style, and not neglect of unity nor multiplication of contents, accounts for the difference of length between earlier and later poems 91 Progress of Epic in England--unlike the history of Icelandic poetry 92 2. THE NORTHERN GROUP 93 The contents of the so-called "Elder Edda" (_i.e._ _Codex Regius_ 2365, 4to _Havn_.) 93 to what extent _Epic_ 93 Notes on the contents of the poems, to show their scale; the _Lay of Weland_ 94 Different plan in the _Lays of Thor_, _Þrymskviða_ and _Hymiskviða_ 95 The _Helgi_ Poems--complications of the text 95 Three separate stories--_Helgi Hundingsbane and Sigrun_ 95 _Helgi Hiorvardsson and Swava_ 98 _Helgi and Kara_ (lost) 99 The story of the Volsungs--the long _Lay of Brynhild_ 100 contains the whole story in abstract 100 giving the chief place to the character of _Brynhild_ 101 The _Hell-ride of Brynhild_ 102 The fragmentary _Lay of Brynhild_ (_Brot af Sigurðarkviðu_) 103 Poems on the death of Attila--the _Lay of Attila_ (_Atlakviða_), and the Greenland _Poem of Attila_ (_Atlamál_) 105 Proportions of the story 105 A third version of the story in the _Lament of Oddrun_ (_Oddrúnargrátr_) 107 The _Death of Ermanaric_ (_Hamðismál_) 109 The Northern idylls of the heroines (Oddrun, Gudrun)--the _Old Lay of Gudrun_, or Gudrun's story to Theodoric 109 The _Lay of Gudrun_ (_Guðrúnarkviða_)--Gudrun's sorrow for Sigurd 111 The refrain 111 Gudrun's _Chain of Woe_ (_Tregrof Guðrúnar_) 111 The _Ordeal of Gudrun_, an episodic lay 111 Poems in dialogue, without narrative-- (1) Dialogues in the common epic measure--_Balder's Doom_, Dialogues of _Sigurd_, _Angantyr_--explanations in prose, between the dialogues 112 (2) Dialogues in the gnomic or elegiac measure: (_a_) vituperative debates--_Lokasenna_, _Harbarzlióð_ (in irregular verse), _Atli and Rimgerd_ 112 (_b_) Dialogues implying action--_The Wooing of Frey_ (_Skírnismál_) 114 _Svipdag and Menglad_ (_Grógaldr_, _Fiölsvinnsmál_) 114 The _Volsung_ dialogues 115 The Western and Northern poems compared, with respect to their scale 116 The old English poems (_Beowulf_, _Waldere_), in scale, midway between the Northern poems and Homer 117 Many of the Teutonic epic remains may look like the "short lays" of the agglutinative epic theory; but this is illusion 117 Two kinds of story in Teutonic Epic--(1) episodic, _i.e._ representing a single action (_Hildebrand_, etc.); (2) summary, _i.e._ giving the whole of a long story in abstract, with details of one part of it (_Weland_, etc.) 118 The second class is unfit for agglutination 119 Also the first, when it is looked into 121 The Teutonic Lays are too individual to be conveniently fused into larger masses of narrative 122 III EPIC AND BALLAD POETRY Many of the old epic lays are on the scale of popular ballads 123 Their style is different 124 As may be proved where later ballads have taken up the epic subjects 125 The Danish ballads of _Ungen Sveidal_ (_Svipdag and Menglad_) 126 and of _Sivard_ (_Sigurd and Brynhild_) 127 The early epic poetry, unlike the ballads, was ambitious and capable of progress 129 IV THE STYLE OF THE POEMS Rhetorical art of the alliterative verse 133 English and Norse 134 Different besetting temptations in England and the North 136 English tameness; Norse emphasis and false wit (the Scaldic poetry) 137 Narrative poetry undeveloped in the North; unable to compete with the lyrical forms 137 Lyrical element in Norse narrative 138 _Volospá_, the greatest of all the Northern poems 139 False heroics; _Krákumál_ (_Death-Song of Ragnar Lodbrok_) 140 A fresh start, in prose, with no rhetorical encumbrances 141 V THE PROGRESS OF EPIC Various renderings of the same story due (1) to accidents of tradition and impersonal causes; (2) to calculation and selection of motives by poets, and intentional modification of traditional matter 144 The three versions of the death of Gunnar and Hogni compared--_Atlakviða_, _Atlamál_, _Oddrúnargrátr_ 147 Agreement of the three poems in ignoring the German theory of Kriemhild's revenge 149 The incidents of the death of Hogni clear in _Atlakviða_, apparently confused and ill recollected in the other two poems 150 But it turns out that these two poems had each a view of its own which made it impossible to use the original story 152 _Atlamál_, the work of a critical author, making his selection of incidents from heroic tradition 153 the largest epic work in Northern poetry, and the last of its school 155 The "Poetic Edda," a collection of deliberate experiments in poetry and not of casual popular variants 156 VI _BEOWULF_ _Beowulf_ claims to be a single complete work 158 Want of unity: a story and a sequel 159 More unity in _Beowulf_ than in some Greek epics. The first 2200 lines form a complete story, not ill composed 160 Homeric method of episodes and allusions in _Beowulf_ 162 and _Waldere_ 163 Triviality of the main plot in both parts of _Beowulf_--tragic significance in some of the allusions 165 The characters in _Beowulf_ abstract types 165 The adventures and sentiments commonplace, especially in the fight with the dragon 168 Adventure of Grendel not pure fantasy 169 Grendel's mother more romantic 172 _Beowulf_ is able to give epic dignity to a commonplace set of romantic adventures 173 CHAPTER III THE ICELANDIC SAGAS I ICELAND AND THE HEROIC AGE The close of Teutonic Epic--in Germany the old forms were lost, but not the old stories, in the later Middle Ages 179 England kept the alliterative verse through the Middle Ages 180 Heroic themes in Danish ballads, and elsewhere 181 Place of Iceland in the heroic tradition--a new heroic literature in prose 182 II MATTER AND FORM The Sagas are not pure fiction 184 Difficulty of giving form to genealogical details 185 Miscellaneous incidents 186 Literary value of the historical basis--the characters well known and recognisable 187 The coherent Sagas--the tragic motive 189 Plan of _Njála_ 190 of _Laxdæla_ 191 of _Egils Saga_ 192 _Vápnfirðinga Saga_, a story of two generations 193 _Víga-Glúms Saga_, a biography without tragedy 193 _Reykdæla Saga_ 194 _Grettis Saga_ and _Gísla Saga_ clearly worked out 195 Passages of romance in these histories 196 _Hrafnkels Saga Freysgoða_, a tragic idyll, well proportioned 198 Great differences of scale among the Sagas--analogies with the heroic poems 198 III THE HEROIC IDEAL Unheroic matters of fact in the Sagas 200 Heroic characters 201 Heroic rhetoric 203 Danger of exaggeration--Kjartan in _Laxdæla_ 204 The heroic ideal not made too explicit or formal 206 IV TRAGIC IMAGINATION Tragic contradictions in the Sagas--_Gisli_, _Njal_ 207 Fantasy 208 _Laxdæla_, a reduction of the story of Sigurd and Brynhild to the terms of common life 209 Compare Ibsen's _Warriors in Helgeland_ 209 The Sagas are a late stage in the progress of heroic literature 210 The Northern rationalism 212 Self-restraint and irony 213 The elegiac mood infrequent 215 The story of Howard of Icefirth--ironical pathos 216 The conventional Viking 218 The harmonies of _Njála_ 219 and of _Laxdæla_ 222 The two speeches of Gudrun 223 V COMEDY The Sagas not bound by solemn conventions 225 Comic humours 226 Bjorn and his wife in _Njála_ 228 _Bandamanna Saga_: "The Confederates," a comedy 229 Satirical criticism of the "heroic age" 231 Tragic incidents in _Bandamanna Saga_ 233 Neither the comedy nor tragedy of the Sagas is monotonous or abstract 234 VI THE ART OF NARRATIVE Organic unity of the best Sagas 235 Method of representing occurrences as they appear at the time 236 Instance from _Þorgils Saga_ 238 Another method--the death of Kjartan as it appeared to a churl 240 Psychology (not analytical) 244 Impartiality--justice to the hero's adversaries (_Færeyinga Saga_) 245 VII EPIC AND HISTORY Form of Saga used for contemporary history in the thirteenth century 246 The historians, Ari (1067-1148) and Snorri (1178-1241) 248 The _Life of King Sverre_, by Abbot Karl Jónsson 249 Sturla (_c._ 1214-1284), his history of Iceland in his own time (_Islendinga_ or _Sturlunga Saga_) 249 The matter ready to his hand 250 Biographies incorporated in _Sturlunga_: Thorgils and Haflidi 252 _Sturlu Saga_ 253 The midnight raid (A.D. 1171) 254 Lives of Bishop Gudmund, Hrafn, and Aron 256 Sturla's own work (_Islendinga Saga_) 257 The burning of Flugumyri 259 Traces of the heroic manner 264 The character of this history brought out by contrast with Sturla's other work, the _Life of King Hacon of Norway_ 267 Norwegian and Icelandic politics in the thirteenth century 267 Norway more fortunate than Iceland--the history less interesting 267 Sturla and Joinville contemporaries 269 Their methods of narrative compared 270 VIII THE NORTHERN PROSE ROMANCES Romantic interpolations in the Sagas--the ornamental version of _Fóstbræðra Saga_ 275 The secondary romantic Sagas--_Frithiof_ 277 French romance imported (_Strengleikar_, _Tristram's Saga_, etc.) 278 Romantic Sagas made out of heroic poems (_Volsunga Saga_, etc.) 279 and out of authentic Sagas by repetition of common forms and motives 280 Romantic conventions in the original Sagas 280 _Laxdæla_ and _Gunnlaug's Saga_--_Thorstein the White_ 281 _Thorstein Staffsmitten_ 282 Sagas turned into rhyming romances (_Rímur_) 283 and into ballads in the Faroes 284 CHAPTER IV THE OLD FRENCH EPIC (_CHANSONS DE GESTE_) Lateness of the extant versions 287 Competition of Epic and Romance in the twelfth century 288 Widespread influence of the _Chansons de geste_--a contrast to the Sagas 289 Narrative style 290 No obscurities of diction 291 The "heroic age" imperfectly represented 292 but not ignored 293 _Roland_--heroic idealism--France and Christendom 293 William of Orange--_Aliscans_ 296 Rainouart--exaggeration of heroism 296 Another class of stories in the _Chansons de geste_, more like the Sagas 297 _Raoul de Cambrai_ 298 Barbarism of style 299 _Garin le Loherain_--style clarified 300 Problems of character--Fromont 301 The story of the death of Begon 302 unlike contemporary work of the Romantic School 304 The lament for Begon 307 _Raoul_ and _Garin_ contrasted with _Roland_ 308 Comedy in French Epic--"humours" in _Garin_ 310 in the _Coronemenz Looïs_, etc. 311 Romantic additions to heroic cycles--_la Prise d'Orange_ 313 _Huon de Bordeaux_--the original story grave and tragic 314 converted to Romance 314 CHAPTER V ROMANCE AND THE OLD FRENCH ROMANTIC SCHOOLS Romance an element in Epic and Tragedy apart from all "romantic schools" 321 The literary movements of the twelfth century 322 A new beginning 323 The Romantic School unromantic in its methods 324 Professional Romance 325 Characteristics of the school--courteous sentiment 328 Decorative passages--descriptions--pedantry 329 Instances from _Roman de Troie_ 330 and from _Ider_, etc. 331 Romantic adventures--the "matter of Rome" and the "matter of Britain" 334 Blending of classical and Celtic influences--_e.g._ in Benoit's _Medea_ 334 Methods of narrative--simple, as in the _Lay of Guingamor_; overloaded, as in _Walewein_ 337 _Guingamor_ 338 _Walewein_, a popular tale disguised as a chivalrous romance 340 The different versions of _Libeaux Desconus_--one of them is sophisticated 343 _Tristram_--the Anglo-Norman poems comparatively simple and ingenuous 344 French Romance and Provençal Lyric 345 Ovid in the Middle Ages--the _Art of Love_ 346 The Heroines 347 Benoit's _Medea_ again 348 Chrestien of Troyes, his place at the beginning of modern literature 349 'Enlightenment' in the Romantic School 350 The sophists of Romance--the rhetoric of sentiment and passion 351 The progress of Romance from medieval to modern literature 352 Chrestien of Troyes, his inconsistencies--nature and convention 352 Departure from conventional romance; Chrestien's _Enid_ 355 Chrestien's _Cliges_--"sensibility" 357 _Flamenca_, a Provençal story of the thirteenth century--the author a follower of Chrestien 359 His acquaintance with romantic literature 360 and rejection of the "machinery" of adventures 360 _Flamenca_, an appropriation of Ovid--disappearance of romantic mythology 361 The _Lady of Vergi_, a short tragic story without false rhetoric 362 Use of medieval themes by the great poets of the fourteenth century 363 Boccaccio and Chaucer--the _Teseide_ and the _Knight's Tale_ 364 Variety of Chaucer's methods 364 Want of art in the _Man of Law's Tale_ 365 The abstract point of honour (_Clerk's Tale_, _Franklin's Tale_) 366 Pathos in the _Legend of Good Women_ 366 Romantic method perfect in the _Knight's Tale_ 366 _Anelida_, the abstract form of romance 367 In _Troilus and Criseyde_ the form of medieval romance is filled out with strong dramatic imagination 367 Romance obtains the freedom of Epic, without the old local and national limitations of Epic 368 Conclusion 370 APPENDIX Note A--Rhetoric of the Alliterative Poetry 373 Note B--Kjartan and Olaf Tryggvason 375 Note C--Eyjolf Karsson 381 Note D--Two Catalogues of Romances 384 INDEX 391 CHAPTER I INTRODUCTION I THE HEROIC AGE The title of Epic, or of "heroic poem," is claimed by historians for a number of works belonging to the earlier Middle Ages, and to the medieval origins of modern literature. "Epic" is a term freely applied to the old school of Germanic narrative poetry, which in different dialects is represented by the poems of Hildebrand, of Beowulf, of Sigurd and Brynhild. "Epic" is the name for the body of old French poems which is headed by the _Chanson de Roland_. The rank of Epic is assigned by many to the _Nibelungenlied_, not to speak of other Middle High German poems on themes of German tradition. The title of prose Epic has been claimed for the Sagas of Iceland. By an equally common consent the name Romance is given to a number of kinds of medieval narrative by which the Epic is succeeded and displaced; most notably in France, but also in other countries which were led, mainly by the example and influence of France, to give up their own "epic" forms and subjects in favour of new manners. This literary classification corresponds in general history to the difference between the earlier "heroic" age and the age of chivalry. The "epics" of Hildebrand and Beowulf belong, if not wholly to German heathendom, at any rate to the earlier and prefeudal stage of German civilisation. The French epics, in their extant form, belong for the most part in spirit, if not always in date, to an order of things unmodified by the great changes of the twelfth century. While among the products of the twelfth century one of the most remarkable is the new school of French romance, the brilliant and frequently vainglorious exponent of the modern ideas of that age, and of all its chivalrous and courtly fashions of thought and sentiment. The difference of the two orders of literature is as plain as the difference in the art of war between the two sides of the battle of Hastings, which indeed is another form of the same thing; for the victory of the Norman knights over the English axemen has more than a fanciful or superficial analogy to the victory of the new literature of chivalry over the older forms of heroic narrative. The history of those two orders of literature, of the earlier Epic kinds, followed by the various types of medieval Romance, is parallel to the general political history of the earlier and the later Middle Ages, and may do something to illustrate the general progress of the nations. The passage from the earlier "heroic" civilisation to the age of chivalry was not made without some contemporary record of the "form and pressure" of the times in the changing fashions of literature, and in successive experiments of the imagination. Whatever Epic may mean, it implies some weight and solidity; Romance means nothing, if it does not convey some notion of mystery and fantasy. A general distinction of this kind, whatever names may be used to render it, can be shown, in medieval literature, to hold good of the two large groups of narrative belonging to the earlier and the later Middle Ages respectively. Beowulf might stand for the one side, Lancelot or Gawain for the other. It is a difference not confined to literature. The two groups are distinguished from one another, as the respectable piratical gentleman of the North Sea coast in the ninth or tenth century differs from one of the companions of St. Louis. The latter has something fantastic in his ideas which the other has not. The Crusader may indeed be natural and brutal enough in most of his ways, but he has lost the sobriety and simplicity of the earlier type of rover. If nothing else, his way of fighting--the undisciplined cavalry charge--would convict him of extravagance as compared with men of business, like the settlers of Iceland for example. The two great kinds of narrative literature in the Middle Ages might be distinguished by their favourite incidents and commonplaces of adventure. No kind of adventure is so common or better told in the earlier heroic manner than the defence of a narrow place against odds. Such are the stories of Hamther and Sorli in the hall of Ermanaric, of the Niblung kings in the hall of Attila, of the Fight of Finnesburh, of Walter at the Wasgenstein, of Byrhtnoth at Maldon, of Roland in the Pyrenees. Such are some of the finest passages in the Icelandic Sagas: the death of Gunnar, the burning of Njal's house, the burning of Flugumyri (an authentic record), the last fight of Kjartan in Svinadal, and of Grettir at Drangey. The story of Cynewulf and Cyneheard in the English Chronicle may well have come from a poem in which an attack and defence of this sort were narrated. The favourite adventure of medieval romance is something different,--a knight riding alone through a forest; another knight; a shock of lances; a fight on foot with swords, "racing, tracing, and foining like two wild boars"; then, perhaps, recognition--the two knights belong to the same household and are engaged in the same quest. Et Guivrez vers lui esperone, De rien nule ne l'areisone, Ne Erec ne li sona mot. _Erec_, l. 5007. This collision of blind forces, this tournament at random, takes the place, in the French romances, of the older kind of combat. In the older kind the parties have always good reasons of their own for fighting; they do not go into it with the same sort of readiness as the wandering champions of romance. The change of temper and fashion represented by the appearance and the vogue of the medieval French romances is a change involving the whole world, and going far beyond the compass of literature and literary history. It meant the final surrender of the old ideas, independent of Christendom, which had been enough for the Germanic nations in their earlier days; it was the close of their heroic age. What the "heroic age" of the modern nations really was, may be learned from what is left of their heroic literature, especially from three groups or classes,--the old Teutonic alliterative poems on native subjects; the French _Chansons de Geste_; and the Icelandic Sagas. All these three orders, whatever their faults may be, do something to represent a society which is "heroic" as the Greeks in Homer are heroic. There can be no mistake about the likeness. To compare the imaginations and the phrases of any of these barbarous works with the poetry of Homer may be futile, but their contents may be compared without reference to their poetical qualities; and there is no question that the life depicted has many things in common with Homeric life, and agrees with Homer in ignorance of the peculiar ideas of medieval chivalry. The form of society in an heroic age is aristocratic and magnificent. At the same time, this aristocracy differs from that of later and more specialised forms of civilisation. It does not make an insuperable difference between gentle and simple. There is not the extreme division of labour that produces the contempt of the lord for the villain. The nobles have not yet discovered for themselves any form of occupation or mode of thought in virtue of which they are widely severed from the commons, nor have they invented any such ideal of life or conventional system of conduct as involves an ignorance or depreciation of the common pursuits of those below them. They have no such elaborate theory of conduct as is found in the chivalrous society of the Middle Ages. The great man is the man who is best at the things with which every one is familiar. The epic hero may despise the churlish man, may, like Odysseus in the _Iliad_ (ii. 198), show little sympathy or patience with the bellowings of the multitude, but he may not ostentatiously refuse all community of ideas with simple people. His magnificence is not defended by scruples about everything low. It would not have mattered to Odysseus if he had been seen travelling in a cart, like Lancelot; though for Lancelot it was a great misfortune and anxiety. The art and pursuits of a gentleman in the heroic age are different from those of the churl, but not so far different as to keep them in different spheres. There is a community of prosaic interests. The great man is a good judge of cattle; he sails his own ship. A gentleman adventurer on board his own ship, following out his own ideas, carrying his men with him by his own power of mind and temper, and not by means of any system of naval discipline to which he as well as they must be subordinate; surpassing his men in skill, knowledge, and ambition, but taking part with them and allowing them to take part in the enterprise, is a good representative of the heroic age. This relation between captain and men may be found, accidentally and exceptionally, in later and more sophisticated forms of society. In the heroic age a relation between a great man and his followers similar to that between an Elizabethan captain and his crew is found to be the most important and fundamental relation in society. In later times it is only by a special favour of circumstances, as for example by the isolation of shipboard from all larger monarchies, that the heroic relation between the leader and the followers can be repeated. As society becomes more complex and conventional, this relation ceases. The homeliness of conversation between Odysseus and his vassals, or between Njal and Thord Freedman's son, is discouraged by the rules of courtly behaviour as gentlefolk become more idle and ostentatious, and their vassals more sordid and dependent. The secrets also of political intrigue and dexterity made a difference between noble and villain, in later and more complex medieval politics, such as is unknown in the earlier days and the more homely forms of Society. An heroic age may be full of all kinds of nonsense and superstition, but its motives of action are mainly positive and sensible,--cattle, sheep, piracy, abduction, merchandise, recovery of stolen goods, revenge. The narrative poetry of an heroic age, whatever dignity it may obtain either by its dramatic force of imagination, or by the aid of its mythology, will keep its hold upon such common matters, simply because it cannot do without the essential practical interests, and has nothing to put in their place, if kings and chiefs are to be represented at all. The heroic age cannot dress up ideas or sentiments to play the part of characters. If its characters are not men they are nothing, not even thoughts or allegories; they cannot go on talking unless they have something to do; and so the whole business of life comes bodily into the epic poem. How much the matter of the Northern heroic literature resembles the Homeric, may be felt and recognised at every turn in a survey of the ground. In both there are the _ashen spears_; there are the _shepherds of the people_; the retainers bound by loyalty to the prince who gives them meat and drink; the great hall with its minstrelsy, its boasting and bickering; the battles which are a number of single combats, while "physiology supplies the author with images"[1] for the same; the heroic rule of conduct ([Greek: iomen])[2]; the eminence of the hero, and at the same time his community of occupation and interest with those who are less distinguished. [Footnote 1: Johnson on the Epic Poem (_Life of Milton_).] [Footnote 2: _Il._ xii. 328.] There are other resemblances also, but some of these are miraculous, and perhaps irrelevant. By what magic is it that the cry of Odysseus, wounded and hard bestead in his retreat before the Trojans, comes over us like the three blasts of the horn of Roland? Thrice he shouted, as loud as the head of a man will bear; and three times Menelaus heard the sound thereof, and quickly he turned and spake to Ajax: "Ajax, there is come about me the cry of Odysseus slow to yield; and it is like as though the Trojans had come hard upon him by himself alone, closing him round in the battle."[3] [Footnote 3: _Il._ xi. 462.] It is reported as a discovery made by Mephistopheles in Thessaly, in the classical _Walpurgisnacht_, that the company there was very much like his old acquaintances on the Brocken. A similar discovery, in regard to more honourable personages and other scenes, may be made by other Gothic travellers in a "south-eastward" journey to heroic Greece. The classical reader of the Northern heroics may be frequently disgusted by their failures; he may also be bribed, if not to applaud, at least to continue his study, by the glimmerings and "shadowy recollections," the affinities and correspondences between the Homeric and the Northern heroic world. Beowulf and his companions sail across the sea to Denmark on an errand of deliverance,--to cleanse the land of monsters. They are welcomed by Hrothgar, king of the Danes, and by his gentle queen, in a house less fortunate than the house of Alcinous, for it is exposed to the attacks of the lumpish ogre that Beowulf has to kill, but recalling in its splendour, in the manner of its entertainment, and the bearing of its gracious lord and lady, the house where Odysseus told his story. Beowulf, like Odysseus, is assailed by an envious person with discourteous words. Hunferth, the Danish courtier, is irritated by Beowulf's presence; "he could not endure that any one should be counted worthier than himself"; he speaks enviously, a biting speech--[Greek: thymodakês gar mythos]--and is answered in the tone of Odysseus to Euryalus.[4] Beowulf has a story to tell of his former perils among the creatures of the sea. It is differently introduced from that of Odysseus, and has not the same importance, but it increases the likeness between the two adventurers. [Footnote 4: _Od._ viii. 165.] In the shadowy halls of the Danish king a minstrel sings of the famous deeds of men, and his song is given as an interlude in the main action. It is a poem on that same tragedy of Finnesburh, which is the theme of a separate poem in the Old English heroic cycle; so Demodocus took his subjects from the heroic cycle of Achaea. The leisure of the Danish king's house is filled in the same manner as the leisure of Phaeacia. In spite of the difference of the climate, it is impossible to mistake the likeness between the Greek and the Northern conceptions of a dignified and reasonable way of life. The magnificence of the Homeric great man is like the magnificence of the Northern lord, in so far as both are equally marked off from the pusillanimity and cheapness of popular morality on the one hand, and from the ostentation of Oriental or chivalrous society on the other. The likeness here is not purely in the historical details, but much more in the spirit that informs the poetry. If this part of _Beowulf_ is a Northern _Odyssey_, there is nothing in the whole range of English literature so like a scene from the _Iliad_ as the narrative of Maldon. It is a battle in which the separate deeds of the fighters are described, with not quite so much anatomy as in Homer. The fighting about the body of Byrhtnoth is described as strongly, as "the Fighting at the Wall" in the twelfth book of the _Iliad_, and essentially in the same way, with the interchange of blows clearly noted, together with the speeches and thoughts of the combatants. Even the most heroic speech in Homer, even the power of Sarpedon's address to Glaucus in the twelfth book of the _Iliad_, cannot discredit, by comparison, the heroism and the sublimity of the speech of the "old companion" at the end of _Maldon_. The language is simple, but it is not less adequate in its own way than the simplicity of Sarpedon's argument. It states, perhaps more clearly and absolutely than anything in Greek, the Northern principle of resistance to all odds, and defiance of ruin. In the North the individual spirit asserts itself more absolutely against the bodily enemies than in Greece; the defiance is made wholly independent of any vestige of prudent consideration; the contradiction, "Thought the harder, Heart the keener, Mood the more, as our Might lessens," is stated in the most extreme terms. This does not destroy the resemblance between the Greek and the Northern ideal, or between the respective forms of representation. The creed of Maldon is that of Achilles:[5] "Xanthus, what need is there to prophesy of death? Well do I know that it is my doom to perish here, far from my father and mother; but for all that I will not turn back, until I give the Trojans their fill of war." The difference is that in the English case the strain is greater, the irony deeper, the antithesis between the spirit and the body more paradoxical. [Footnote 5: _Il._ xix. 420.] Where the centre of life is a great man's house, and where the most brilliant society is that which is gathered at his feast, where competitive boasting, story-telling, and minstrelsy are the principal intellectual amusements, it is inevitable that these should find their way into a kind of literature which has no foundation except experience and tradition. Where fighting is more important than anything else in active life, and at the same time is carried on without organisation or skilled combinations, it is inevitable that it should be described as it is in the _Iliad_, the _Song of Maldon_ and _Song of Roland_, and the Icelandic Sagas, as a series of personal encounters, in which every stroke is remembered. From this early aristocratic form of society, there is derived in one age the narrative of life at Ithaca or of the navigation of Odysseus, in another the representation of the household of Njal or of Olaf the Peacock, and of the rovings of Olaf Tryggvason and other captains. There is an affinity between these histories in virtue of something over and above the likeness in the conditions of things they describe. There is a community of literary sense as well as of historical conditions, in the record of Achilles and Kjartan Olafsson, of Odysseus and Njal. The circumstances of an heroic age may be found in numberless times and places, in the history of the world. Among its accompaniments will be generally found some sort of literary record of sentiments and imaginations; but to find an heroic literature of the highest order is not so easy. Many nations instead of an _Iliad_ or an _Odyssey_ have had to make shift with conventional repetitions of the praise of chieftains, without any story; many have had to accept from their story-tellers all sorts of monstrous adventures in place of the humanities of debate and argument. Epic literature is not common; it is brought to perfection by a slow process through many generations. The growth of Epic out of the older and commoner forms of poetry, hymns, dirges, or panegyrics, is a progress towards intellectual and imaginative freedom. Few nations have attained, at the close of their heroic age, to a form of poetical art in which men are represented freely in action and conversation. The labour and meditation of all the world has not discovered, for the purposes of narrative, any essential modification of the procedure of Homer. Those who are considered reformers and discoverers in later times--Chaucer, Cervantes, Fielding--are discoverers merely of the old devices of dramatic narration which were understood by Homer and described after him by Aristotle. The growth of Epic, in the beginning of the history of the modern nations, has been generally thwarted and stunted. It cannot be said of many of the languages of the North and West of Europe that in them the epic form has come fully to its own, or has realised its proper nature. Many of them, however, have at least made a beginning. The history of the older German literature, and of old French, is the history of a great number of experiments in Epic; of attempts, that is, to represent great actions in narrative, with the personages well defined. These experiments are begun in the right way. They are not merely barbarous nor fantastic. They are different also from such traditional legends and romances as may survive among simple people long after the day of their old glories and their old kings. The poems of _Beowulf_ and _Waldere_, of _Roland_ and _William of Orange_, are intelligible and reasonable works, determined in the main by the same essential principles of narrative art, and of dramatic conversation within the narrative, as are observed in the practice of Homer. Further, these are poems in which, as in the Homeric poems, the ideas of their time are conveyed and expressed in a noble manner: they are high-spirited poems. They have got themselves clear of the confusion and extravagance of early civilisation, and have hit upon a way of telling a story clearly and in proportion, and with dignity. They are epic in virtue of their superiority to the more fantastic motives of interest, and in virtue of their study of human character. They are heroic in the nobility of their temper and their style. If at any time they indulge in heroic commonplaces of sentiment, they do so without insincerity or affectation, as the expression of the general temper or opinion of their own time. They are not separated widely from the matters of which they treat; they are not antiquarian revivals of past forms, nor traditional vestiges of things utterly remote and separate from the actual world. What art they may possess is different from the "rude sweetness" of popular ballads, and from the unconscious grace of popular tales. They have in different degrees and manners the form of epic poetry, in their own right. There are recognisable qualities that serve to distinguish even a fragment of heroic poetry from the ballads and romances of a lower order, however near these latter forms may approach at times to the epic dignity. II EPIC AND ROMANCE It is the nature of epic poetry to be at ease in regard to its subject matter, to be free from the strain and excitement of weaker and more abstract forms of poetry in dealing with heroic subjects. The heroic ideal of epic is not attained by a process of abstraction and separation from the meannesses of familiar things. The magnificence and aristocratic dignity of epic is conformable to the practical and ethical standards of the heroic age; that is to say, it tolerates a number of things that may be found mean and trivial by academicians. Epic poetry is one of the complex and comprehensive kinds of literature, in which most of the other kinds may be included--romance, history, comedy; _tragical_, _comical_, _historical_, _pastoral_ are terms not sufficiently various to denote the variety of the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_. The "common life" of the Homeric poems may appeal to modern pedantic theorists, and be used by them in support of Euripidean or Wordsworthian receipts for literature. But the comprehensiveness of the greater kinds of poetry, of Homer and Shakespeare, is a different thing from the premeditated and self-assertive realism of the authors who take viciously to common life by way of protest against the romantic extreme. It has its origin, not in a critical theory about the proper matter of literature, but in dramatic imagination. In an epic poem where the characters are vividly imagined, it follows naturally that their various moods and problems involve a variety of scenery and properties, and so the whole business of life comes into the story. The success of epic poetry depends on the author's power of imagining and representing characters. A kind of success and a kind of magnificence may be attained in stories, professing to be epic, in which there is no dramatic virtue, in which every new scene and new adventure merely goes to accumulate, in immortal verse, the proofs of the hero's nullity and insignificance. This is not the epic poetry of the heroic ages. Aristotle, in his discussion of tragedy, chose to lay stress upon the plot, the story. On the other hand, to complete the paradox, in the epic he makes the characters all-important, not the story. Without the tragic plot or fable, the tragedy becomes a series of moral essays or monologues; the life of the drama is derived from the original idea of the fable which is its subject. Without dramatic representation of the characters, epic is mere history or romance; the variety and life of epic are to be found in the drama that springs up at every encounter of the personages. "Homer is the only poet who knows the right proportions of epic narrative; when to narrate, and when to let the characters speak for themselves. Other poets for the most part tell their story straight on, with scanty passages of drama and far between. Homer, with little prelude, leaves the stage to his personages, men and women, all with characters of their own."[6] [Footnote 6: [Greek: Homêros de alla te polla axios epaineisthai kai dê kai hoti monos tôn poiêtôn ouk agnoei ho dei poiein auton. auton gar dei ton poiêtên elachista legein: ou gar esti kata tauta mimêtês. hoi men oun alloi autoi men di' holou agônizontai, mimountai de oliga kai oligakis: ho de oliga phroimiasamenos euthys eisagei andra ê gynaika ê allo ti êthos kai ouden' aêthê all' echonta êthê.]--ARIST. _Poet._ 1460 a 5.] Aristotle wrote with very little consideration for the people who were to come after him, and gives little countenance to such theories of epic as have at various times been prevalent among the critics, in which the dignity of the subject is insisted on. He does not imagine it the chief duty of an epic poet to choose a lofty argument for historical rhetoric. He does not say a word about the national or the ecumenical importance of the themes of the epic poet. His analysis of the plot of the _Odyssey_, but for the reference to Poseidon, might have been the description of a modern realistic story. "A man is abroad for many years, persecuted by Poseidon and alone; meantime the suitors of his wife are wasting his estate and plotting against his son; after many perils by sea he returns to his own country and discovers himself to his friends. He falls on his enemies and destroys them, and so comes to his own again." The _Iliad_ has more likeness than the _Odyssey_ to the common pattern of later sophisticated epics. But the war of Troy is not the subject of the _Iliad_ in the same way as the siege of Jerusalem is the subject of Tasso's poem. The story of the _Aeneid_ can hardly be told in the simplest form without some reference to the destiny of Rome, or the story of _Paradise Lost_ without the feud of heaven and hell. But in the _Iliad_, the assistance of the Olympians, or even the presence of the whole of Greece, is not in the same degree essential to the plot of the story of Achilles. In the form of Aristotle's summary of the _Odyssey_, reduced to "the cool element of prose," the _Iliad_ may be proved to be something quite different from the common fashion of literary epics. It might go in something like this way:-- "A certain man taking part in a siege is slighted by the general, and in his resentment withdraws from the war, though his own side is in great need of his help. His dearest friend having been killed by the enemy, he comes back into the action and takes vengeance for his friend, and allows himself to be reconciled." It is the debate among the characters, and not the onset of Hera and Athena in the chariot of Heaven, that gives its greatest power to the _Iliad_. The _Iliad_, with its "machines," its catalogue of the forces, its funeral games, has contributed more than the _Odyssey_ to the common pattern of manufactured epics. But the essence of the poem is not to be found among the Olympians. Achilles refusing the embassy or yielding to Priam has no need of the Olympian background. The poem is in a great degree independent of "machines"; its life is in the drama of the characters. The source of all its variety is the imagination by which the characters are distinguished; the liveliness and variety of the characters bring with them all the other kinds of variety. It is impossible for the author who knows his personages intimately to keep to any one exclusive mode of sentiment or one kind of scene. He cannot be merely tragical and heroic, or merely comical and pastoral; these are points of view to which those authors are confined who are possessed by one kind of sentiment or sensibility, and who wish to find expression for their own prevailing mood. The author who is interested primarily in his characters will not allow them to be obliterated by the story or by its diffused impersonal sentiment. The action of an heroic poem must be "of a certain magnitude," but the accessories need not be all heroic and magnificent; the heroes do not derive their magnificence from the scenery, the properties, and the author's rhetoric, but contrariwise: the dramatic force and self-consistency of the _dramatis personae_ give poetic value to any accessories of scenery or sentiment which may be required by the action. They are not figures "animating" a landscape; what the landscape means for the poet's audience is determined by the character of his personages. All the variety of epic is explained by Aristotle's remark on Homer. Where the characters are true, and dramatically represented, there can be no monotony. In the different kinds of Northern epic literature--German, English, French, and Norse--belonging to the Northern heroic ages, there will be found in different degrees this epic quality of drama. Whatever magnificence they may possess comes mainly from the dramatic strength of the heroes, and in a much less degree from the historic dignity or importance of the issues of the story, or from its mythological decorations. The place of history in the heroic poems belonging to an heroic age is sometimes misconceived. Early epic poetry may be concerned with great historic events. It does not necessarily emphasise--by preference it does not emphasise--the historic importance or the historic results of the events with which it deals. Heroic poetry implies an heroic age, an age of pride and courage, in which there is not any extreme organisation of politics to hinder the individual talent and its achievements, nor on the other hand too much isolation of the hero through the absence of any national or popular consciousness. There must be some unity of sentiment, some common standard of appreciation, among the people to whom the heroes belong, if they are to escape oblivion. But this common sentiment must not be such as to make the idea of the community and its life predominant over the individual genius of its members. In such a case there may be a Roman history, but not anything approaching the nature of the Homeric poems. In some epic poems belonging to an heroic age, and not to a time of self-conscious and reflective literature, there may be found general conceptions that seem to resemble those of the _Aeneid_ rather than those of the _Iliad_. In many of the old French _Chansons de Geste_, the war against the infidels is made the general subject of the story, and the general idea of the Holy War is expressed as fully as by Tasso. Here, however, the circumstances are exceptional. The French epic with all its Homeric analogies is not as sincere as Homer. It is exposed to the touch of influences from another world, and though many of the French poems, or great part of many of them, may tell of heroes who would be content with the simple and positive rules of the heroic life, this is not allowed them. They are brought within the sphere of other ideas, of another civilisation, and lose their independence. Most of the old German heroic poetry is clearly to be traced, as far as its subjects are concerned, to the most exciting periods in early German history, between the fourth and the sixth centuries. The names that seem to have been most commonly known to the poets are the names that are most important to the historian--Ermanaric, Attila, Theodoric. In the wars of the great migration the spirit of each of the German families was quickened, and at the same time the spirit of the whole of Germany, so that each part sympathised with all the rest, and the fame of the heroes went abroad beyond the limits of their own kindred. Ermanaric, Attila, and Theodoric, Sigfred the Frank, and Gundahari the Burgundian, are heroes over all the region occupied by all forms of Teutonic language. But although the most important period of early German history may be said to have produced the old German heroic poetry, by giving a number of heroes to the poets, at the same time that the imagination was stirred to appreciate great things and make the most of them, still the result is nothing like the patriotic epic in twelve books, the _Aeneid_ or the _Lusiad_, which chooses, of set purpose, the theme of the national glory. Nor is it like those old French epics in which there often appears a contradiction between the story of individual heroes, pursuing their own fortunes, and the idea of a common cause to which their own fortunes ought to be, but are not always, subordinate. The great historical names which appear in the old German heroic poetry are seldom found there in anything like their historical character, and not once in their chief historical aspect as adversaries of the Roman Empire. Ermanaric, Attila, and Theodoric are all brought into the same Niblung story, a story widely known in different forms, though it was never adequately written out. The true history of the war between the Burgundians and the Huns in the fifth century is forgotten. In place of it, there is associated with the life and death of Gundahari the Burgundian king a story which may have been vastly older, and may have passed through many different forms before it became the story of the Niblung treasure, of Sigfred and Brynhild. This, which has made free with so many great historical names, the name of Attila, the name of Theodoric, has little to do with history. In this heroic story coming out of the heroic age, there is not much that can be traced to historical as distinct from mythical tradition. The tragedy of the death of Attila, as told in the _Atlakviða_ and the _Atlamál_, may indeed owe something to the facts recorded by historians, and something more to vaguer historical tradition of the vengeance of Rosamund on Alboin the Lombard. But, in the main, the story of the Niblungs is independent of history, in respect of its matter; in its meaning and effect as a poetical story it is absolutely free from history. It is a drama of personal encounters and rivalries. This also, like the story of Achilles, is fit for a stage in which the characters are left free to declare themselves in their own way, unhampered by any burden of history, any purpose or moral apart from the events that are played out in the dramatic clashing of one will against another. It is not vanity in an historian to look for the historical origin of the tale of Troy or of the vengeance of Gudrun; but no result in either case can greatly affect the intrinsic relations of the various elements within the poems. The relations of Achilles to his surroundings in the _Iliad_, of Attila and Ermanaric to theirs, are freely conceived by the several poets, and are intelligible at once, without reference to anything outside the poems. To require of the poetry of an heroic age that it shall recognise the historical meaning and importance of the events in which it originates, and the persons whose names it uses, is entirely to mistake the nature of it. Its nature is to find or make some drama played by kings and heroes, and to let the historical framework take care of itself. The connexion of epic poetry with history is real, and it is a fitting subject for historical inquiry, but it lies behind the scene. The epic poem is cut loose and set free from history, and goes on a way of its own. Epic magnificence and the dignity of heroic poetry may thus be only indirectly derived from such greatness or magnificence as is known to true prosaic history. The heroes, even if they can be identified as historical, may retain in epic nothing of their historical character, except such qualities as fit them for great actions. Their conduct in epic poetry may be very far unlike their actual demeanour in true history; their greatest works may be thrust into a corner of the epic, or barely alluded to, or left out altogether. Their greatness in epic may be quite a different kind of greatness from that of their true history and where there are many poems belonging to the same cycle there may be the greatest discrepancy among the views taken of the same hero by different authors, and all the views may be alike remote from the prosaic or scientific view. There is no constant or self-consistent opinion about the character of Charles the Emperor in old French poetry: there is one view in the _Chanson de Roland_, another in the _Pèlerinage_, another in the _Coronemenz Looïs_: none of the opinions is anything like an elaborate or detailed historical judgment. Attila, though he loses his political importance and most of his historical acquisitions in the Teutonic heroic poems in which he appears, may retain in some of them his ruthlessness and strength; at other times he may be a wise and peaceful king. All that is constant, or common, in the different poetical reports of him, is that he was great. What touches the mind of the poet out of the depths of the past is nothing but the tradition, undefined, of something lordly. This vagueness of tradition does not imply that tradition is impotent or barren; only that it leaves all the execution, the growth of detail, to the freedom of the poet. He is bound to the past, in one way; it is laid upon him to tell the stories of the great men of his own race. But in those stories, as they come to him, what is most lively is not a set and established series of incidents, true or false, but something to which the standards of truth and falsehood are scarcely applicable; something stirring him up to admiration, a compulsion or influence upon him requiring him to make the story again in his own way; not to interpret history, but to make a drama of his own, filled somehow with passion and strength of mind. It does not matter in what particular form it may be represented, so long as in some form or other the power of the national glory is allowed to pass into his work. This vagueness and generality in the relation of heroic poetry to the historical events and persons of an heroic age is of course quite a different thing from vagueness in the poetry itself. Gunther and Attila, Roland and Charlemagne, in poetry, are very vaguely connected with their antitypes in history; but that does not prevent them from being characterised minutely, if it should agree with the poet's taste or lie within his powers to have it so. The strange thing is that this vague relation should be so necessary to heroic poetry; that it should be impossible at any stage of literature or in any way by taking thought to make up for the want of it. The place of Gunther the Burgundian, Sigfred the Frank, and Attila the Hun, in the poetical stories of the Niblung treasure may be in one sense accidental. The fables of the treasure with a curse upon it, the killing of the dragon, the sleeping princess, the wavering flame, are not limited to this particular course of tradition, and, further, the traditional motives of the Niblung story have varied enormously not only in different countries, but in one and the same language at the same time. The story is never told alike by two narrators; what is common and essential in it is nothing palpable or fixed, but goes from poet to poet "like a shadow from dream to dream." And the historical names are apparently unessential; yet they remain. To look for the details of the Niblung story in the sober history of the Goths and Huns, Burgundians and Franks, is like the vanity confessed by the author of the _Roman de Rou_, when he went on a sentimental journey to Broceliande, and was disappointed to find there only the common daylight and nothing of the Faerie. Nevertheless it is the historical names, and the vague associations about them, that give to the Niblung story, not indeed the whole of its plot, but its temper, its pride and glory, its heroic and epic character. Heroic poetry is not, as a rule, greatly indebted to historical fact for its material. The epic poet does not keep record of the great victories or the great disasters. He cannot, however, live without the ideas and sentiments of heroism that spring up naturally in periods like those of the Teutonic migrations. In this sense the historic Gunther and Attila are necessary to the Niblung story. The wars and fightings of generation on generation went to create the heroism, the loftiness of spirit, expressed in the Teutonic epic verse. The plots of the stories may be commonplace, the common property of all popular tales. The temper is such as is not found everywhere, but only in historical periods of great energy. The names of Ermanaric and Attila correspond to hardly anything of literal history in the heroic poems; but they are the sign of conquests and great exploits that have gone to form character, though their details are forgotten. It may be difficult to appreciate and understand in detail this vague relation of epic poetry to the national life and to the renown of the national heroes, but the general fact is not less positive or less capable of verification than the date of the battle of Châlons, or the series of the Gothic vowels. All that is needed to prove this is to compare the poetry of a national cycle with the poetry that comes in its place when the national cycle is deserted for other heroes. The secondary or adopted themes may be treated with so much of the manner of the original poetry as to keep little of their foreign character. The rhetoric, the poetical habit, of the original epic may be retained. As in the Saxon poem on the Gospel history, the _Hêliand_, the twelve disciples may be represented as Thanes owing loyalty to their Prince, in common poetic terms befitting the men of Beowulf or Byrhtnoth. As in the French poems on Alexander the Great, Alexander may become a feudal king, and take over completely all that belongs to such a rank. There may be no consciousness of any need for a new vocabulary or a new mode of expression to fit the foreign themes. In France, it is true, there is a general distinction of form between the _Chansons de Geste_ and the romances; though to this there are exceptions, themes not French, and themes not purely heroic, being represented in the epic form. In the early Teutonic poetry there is no distinction of versification, vocabulary, or rhetoric between the original and the secondary narrative poems; the alliterative verse belongs to both kinds equally. Nor is it always the case that subjects derived from books or from abroad are handled with less firmness than the original and traditional plots. Though sometimes a prevailing affection for imported stories, for Celtic or Oriental legend, may be accompanied by a relaxation in the style, the superiority of national to foreign subjects is not always proved by greater strength or eloquence. Can it be said that the Anglo-Saxon _Judith_, for instance, is less heroic, less strong and sound, than the somewhat damaged and motley accoutrements of Beowulf? The difference is this, that the more original and native kind of epic has immediate association with all that the people know about themselves, with all their customs, all that part of their experience which no one can account for or refer to any particular source. A poem like _Beowulf_ can play directly on a thousand chords of association; the range of its appeal to the minds of an audience is almost unlimited; on no side is the poet debarred from freedom of movement, if only he remember first of all what is due to the hero. He has all the life of his people to strengthen him. A poem like the _Hêliand_ is under an obligation to a literary original, and cannot escape from this restriction. It makes what use it can of the native associations, but with whatever perseverance the author may try to bend his story into harmony with the laws of his own country, there is an untranslated residue of foreign ideas. Whatever the defects or excesses of _Beowulf_ may be, the characters are not distressed by any such unsolved contradiction as in the Saxon _Hêliand_, or in the old English _Exodus_, or _Andreas_, or the other poems taken from the Bible or the lives of saints. They have not, like the personages of the second order of poems, been translated from one realm of ideas to another, and made to take up burdens and offices not their own. They have grown naturally in the mind of a poet, out of the poet's knowledge of human nature, and the traditional ethical judgments of which he is possessed. The comparative freedom of _Beowulf_ in its relation to historical tradition and traditional ethics, and the comparative limitation of the _Hêliand_, are not in themselves conditions of either advantage or inferiority. They simply mark the difference between two types of narrative poem. To be free and comprehensive in relation to history, to summarise and represent in epic characters the traditional experience of an heroic age, is not the proper virtue of every kind of poetry, though it is proper to the Homeric kind. The freedom that belongs to the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ is also shared by many a dismal and interminable poem of the Middle Ages. That foreign or literary subjects impose certain limitations, and interfere with the direct use of matter of experience in poetry, is nothing against them. The Anglo-Saxon _Judith_, which is thus restricted as compared with _Beowulf_, may be more like Milton for these restrictions, if it be less like Homer. Exemption from them is not a privilege, except that it gives room for the attainment of a certain kind of excellence, the Homeric kind; as, on the other hand, it excludes the possibility of the literary art of Virgil or Milton. The relation of epic poetry to its heroic age is not to be found in the observance of any strict historical duty. It lies rather in the epic capacity for bringing together all manner of lively passages from the general experience of the age, in a story about famous heroic characters. The plot of the story gives unity and harmony to the composition, while the variety of its matter is permitted and justified by the dramatic variety of the characters and their interests. By its comprehensiveness and the variety of its substance, which are the signs and products of its dramatic imagination, epic poetry of the heroic age is distinguished from the more abstract kinds of narrative, such as the artificial epic, and from all kinds of imagination or fancy that are limited in their scope. In times when "the Epic Poem" was a more attractive, if not more perilous theme of debate than it now is, there was a strong controversy about the proper place and the proper kind of miraculous details to be admitted. The question was debated by Tasso in his critical writings, against the strict and pedantic imitators of classical models, and with a strong partiality for Ariosto against Trissino. Tasso made less of a distinction between romance and epic than was agreeable to some of his successors in criticism; and the controversy went on for generations, always more or less concerned with the great Italian heroic poems, _Orlando_ and _Jerusalem_. Some record of it will be found in Dr. Hurd's _Letters on Chivalry and Romance_ (1762). If the controversy has any interest now, it must be because it provided the most extreme statements of abstract literary principles, which on account of their thoroughness are interesting. From the documents it can be ascertained how near some of the critics came to that worship of the Faultless Hero with which Dryden in his heroic plays occasionally conformed, while he guarded himself against misinterpretation in his prefaces. The epic poetry of the more austere critics was devised according to the strictest principles of dignity and sublimity, with a precise exclusion of everything "Gothic" and romantic. Davenant's Preface to _Gondibert_--"the Author's Preface to his much Honour'd friend, Mr Hobs"--may show how the canon of epic was understood by poets who took things seriously; "for I will yield to their opinion, who permit not _Ariosto_, no, not _Du Bartas_, in this eminent rank of the _Heroicks_; rather than to make way by their admission for _Dante_, _Marino_, and others." It is somewhat difficult to find a common measure for these names, but it is clear that what is most distasteful to the writer, in theory at any rate, is variety. Epic is the most solemn, stately, and frigid of all kinds of composition. This was the result attained by the perverse following of precepts supposed to be classical. The critics of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were generally right in distinguishing between Epic and Romance, and generally wrong in separating the one kind from the other as opposite and mutually exclusive forms, instead of seeing with Tasso, in his critical discourses, that romance may be included in epic. Against the manifold perils of the Gothic fantasy they set up the image of the Abstract Hero, and recited the formulas of the decorous and symmetrical abstract heroic poem. They were occasionally troubled by the "Gothic" elements in Homer, of which their adversaries were not slow to take advantage. One of the most orthodox of all the formalists, who for some reason came to be very much quoted in England, Bossu, in his discourse on the Epic Poem, had serious difficulties with the adventures of Ulysses, and his stories told in Phaeacia. The episodes of Circe, of the Sirens, and of Polyphemus, are _machines_; they are also not quite easy to understand. "They are necessary to the action, and yet they are not humanly probable." But see how Homer gets over the difficulty and brings back these _machines_ to the region of human probability. "Homère les fait adroitement rentrer dans la Vraisemblance humaine par la simplicité de ceux devant qui il fait faire ses récits fabuleux. Il dit assez plaisamment que les Phéaques habitoient dans une Isle éloignée des lieux où demeurent les hommes qui ont de l'esprit. [Greek: heisen d' en Scheriê hekas andrôn alphêstaôn]. Ulysses les avoit connus avant que de se faire connoître à eux: et aiant observé qu'ils avoient toutes les qualités de ces fainéans qui n'admirent rien avec plus de plaisir que les aventures Romanesques: il les satisfait par ces récits accommodez à leur humeur. Mais le Poëte n'y a pas oublié les Lecteurs raisonnables. Il leur a donné en ces Fables tout le plaisir que l'on peut tirer des véritez Morales, si agréablement déguisées sous ces miraculeuses allégories. C'est ainsi qu'il a réduit ces Machines dans la vérité et dans la Vraisemblance Poëtique."[7] [Footnote 7: _Traité du Poëme Épique_, par le R.P. Le Bossu, Chanoine Régulier de Sainte Geneviève; MDCLXXV (t. ii. p. 166).] Although the world has fallen away from the severity of this critic, there is still a meaning at the bottom of his theory of machines. He has at any rate called attention to one of the most interesting parts of Epic, and has found the right word for the episodes of the Phaeacian story of Odysseus. Romance is the word for them, and Romance is at the same time one of the constituent parts and one of the enemies of epic poetry. That it was dangerous was seen by the academical critics. They provided against it, generally, by treating it with contempt and proscribing it, as was done by those French critics who were offended by Ariosto and perplexed by much of the Gothic machinery of Tasso. They did not readily admit that epic poetry is as complex as the plays of Shakespeare, and as incongruous as these in its composition, if the different constituents be taken out separately in the laboratory and then compared. Romance by itself is a kind of literature that does not allow the full exercise of dramatic imagination; a limited and abstract form, as compared with the fulness and variety of Epic; though episodes of romance, and romantic moods and digressions, may have their place, along with all other human things, in the epic scheme. The difference between the greater and the lesser kinds of narrative literature is vital and essential, whatever names may be assigned to them. In the one kind, of which Aristotle knew no other examples than the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_, the personages are made individual through their dramatic conduct and their speeches in varying circumstances; in the other kind, in place of the moods and sentiments of a multitude of different people entering into the story and working it out, there is the sentiment of the author in his own person; there is one voice, the voice of the story-teller, and his theory of the characters is made to do duty for the characters themselves. There may be every poetic grace, except that of dramatic variety; and wherever, in narrative, the independence of the characters is merged in the sequence of adventures, or in the beauty of the landscape, or in the effusion of poetic sentiment, the narrative falls below the highest order, though the art be the art of Ovid or of Spenser. The romance of Odysseus is indeed "brought into conformity with poetic verisimilitude," but in a different way from that of Bossu _On the Epic Poem_. It is not because the Phaeacians are romantic in their tastes, but because it belongs to Odysseus, that the Phaeacian night's entertainment has its place in the _Odyssey_. The _Odyssey_ is the story of his home-coming, his recovery of his own. The great action of the drama of Odysseus is in his dealings with Penelope, Eumaeus, Telemachus, the suitors. The Phaeacian story is indeed episodic; the interest of those adventures is different from that of the meeting with Penelope. Nevertheless it is all kept in harmony with the stronger part of the poem. It is not pure fantasy and "Faerie," like the voyage of Maelduin or the vigil in the castle of Busirane. Odysseus in the house of Alcinous is not different from Odysseus of the return to Ithaca. The story is not pure romance, it is a dramatic monologue; and the character of the speaker has more part than the wonders of the story in the silence that falls on the listeners when the story comes to an end. In all early literature it is hard to keep the story within limits, to observe the proportion of the _Odyssey_ between strong drama and romance. The history of the early heroic literature of the Teutonic tongues, and of the epics of old France, comes to an end in the victory of various romantic schools, and of various restricted and one-sided forms of narrative. From within and without, from the resources of native mythology and superstition and from the fascination of Welsh and Arabian stories, there came the temptation to forget the study of character, and to part with an inheritance of tragic fables, for the sake of vanities, wonders, and splendours among which character and the tragic motives lost their pre-eminent interest and their old authority over poets and audience. III ROMANTIC MYTHOLOGY Between the dramatic qualities of epic poetry and the myths and fancies of popular tradition there must inevitably be a conflict and a discrepancy. The greatest scenes of the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ have little to do with myth. Where the characters are most vividly realised there is no room for the lighter kinds of fable; the epic "machines" are superfluous. Where all the character of Achilles is displayed in the interview with Priam, all his generosity, all his passion and unreason, the imagination refuses to be led away by anything else from looking on and listening. The presence of Hermes, Priam's guide, is forgotten. Olympus cannot stand against the spell of words like those of Priam and Achilles; it vanishes like a parched scroll. In the great scene in the other poem where the disguised Odysseus talks with Penelope, but will not make himself known to her for fear of spoiling his plot, there is just as little opportunity for any intervention of the Olympians. "Odysseus pitied his wife as she wept, but his eyes were firm as horn or steel, unwavering in his eyelids, and with art he concealed his tears.[8]" [Footnote 8: [Greek: autar' Odysseus thymôi men gooôsan heên eleaire gynaika, ophthalmoi d' hôs ei kera hestasan êe sidêros atremas en blepharoisi; dolôi d' ho ge dakrya keuthen.] _Od._ xix. 209.] In passages like these the epic poet gets clear away from the cumbrous inheritance of traditional fancies and stories. In other places he is inevitably less strong and self-sustained; he has to speak of the gods of the nation, or to work into his large composition some popular and improbable histories. The result in Homer is something like the result in Shakespeare, when he has a more than usually childish or old-fashioned fable to work upon. A story like that of the _Three Caskets_ or the _Pound of Flesh_ is perfectly consistent with itself in its original popular form. It is inconsistent with the form of elaborate drama, and with the lives of people who have souls of their own, like Portia or Shylock. Hence in the drama which uses the popular story as its ground-plan, the story is never entirely reduced into conformity with the spirit of the chief characters. The caskets and the pound of flesh, in despite of all the author's pains with them, are imperfectly harmonised; the primitive and barbarous imagination in them retains an inconvenient power of asserting its discordance with the principal parts of the drama. Their unreason is of no great consequence, yet it is something; it is not quite kept out of sight. The epic poet, at an earlier stage of literature than Shakespeare, is even more exposed to this difficulty. Shakespeare was free to take his plots where he chose, and took these old wives' tales at his own risk. The epic poet has matter of this sort forced upon him. In his treatment of it, it will be found that ingenuity does not fail him, and that the transition from the unreasonable or old-fashioned part of his work to the modern and dramatic part is cunningly worked out. "He gets over the unreason by the grace and skill of his handling,"[9] says Aristotle of a critical point in the "machinery" of the _Odyssey_, where Odysseus is carried ashore on Ithaca in his sleep. There is a continual play in the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_ between the wonders of mythology and the spirit of the drama. In this, as in other things, the Homeric poems observe the mean: the extremes may be found in the heroic literature of other nations; the extreme of marvellous fable in the old Irish heroic legends, for example; the extreme of plainness and "soothfastness" in the old English lay of _Maldon_. In some medieval compositions, as in _Huon of Bordeaux_, the two extremes are brought together clumsily and without harmony. In other medieval works again it is possible to find something like the Homeric proportion--the drama of strong characters, taking up and transforming the fanciful products of an earlier world, the inventions of minds not deeply or especially interested in character. [Footnote 9: [Greek: nun de tois allois agathois aphanizei hêdunôn to atopon.] ARISTOT. _Poet._ 1460 b.] The defining and shaping of myths in epic poetry is a process that cannot go on in a wholly simple and unreflecting society. On the contrary, this process means that the earlier stages of religious legend have been succeeded by a time of criticism and selection. It is hard on the old stories of the gods when men come to appreciate the characters of Achilles and Odysseus. The old stories are not all of equal value and authority; they cannot all be made to fit in with the human story; they have to be tested, and some have to be rejected as inconvenient. The character of the gods is modified under the influence of the chief actors in the drama. Agamemnon, Diomede, Odysseus, Ajax, and Achilles set the standard by which the gods are judged. The Homeric view of the gods is already more than half-way to the view of a modern poet. The gods lose their old tyranny and their right to the steam of sacrifice as they gain their new poetical empire, from which they need not fear to be banished; not, at any rate, for any theological reasons. In Shakespearean drama, where each man is himself, with his own character and his own fortune to make, there is small scope for any obvious Divine interposition in the scene. The story of human actions and characters, the more fully it is developed, leaves the less opportunity for the gods to interfere in it. Something of this sort was felt by certain medieval historians; they found it necessary to begin with an apologetic preface explaining the long-suffering of God, who has given freedom to the will of man to do good or evil. It was felt to be on the verge of impiety to think of men as left to themselves and doing what they pleased. Those who listen to a story might be tempted to think of the people in it as self-sufficient and independent powers, trespassing on the domain of Providence. A pious exculpation was required to clear the author of blame.[10] [Footnote 10: "In the events of this history may be proved the great long-suffering of God Almighty towards us every day; and the freedom of will which He has given to every man, that each may do what he will, good or evil."--_Hrafns Saga_, Prologue (_Sturlunga Saga_ Oxford, 1878, II. p. 275). "As all good things are the work of God, so valour is made by Him and placed in the heart of stout champions, and freedom therewithal to use it as they will, for good or evil."--_Fóstbræðra Saga_ (1852), p. 12: one of the sophistical additions to the story: see below p. 275. The moral is different in the following passage:-- "And inasmuch as the Providence of God hath ordained, and it is His pleasure, that the seven planets should have influence on the world, and bear dominion over man's nature, giving him divers inclinations to sin and naughtiness of life: nevertheless the Universal Creator has not taken from him the free will, which, as it is well governed, may subdue and abolish these temptations by virtuous living, if men will use discretion."--_Tirant lo Blanch_ (1460), c. i.] In the _Iliad_ this scrupulous conscience has less need to deliver itself. The gods are not far away; the heroes are not left alone. But the poet has already done much to reduce the immediate power of the gods, not by excluding them from the action, certainly, nor by any attenuation of their characters into allegory, but by magnifying and developing the characters of men. In many occasional references it would seem that an approach was being made to that condition of mind, at ease concerning the gods, so common in the North, in Norway and Iceland, in the last days of heathendom. There is the great speech of Hector to Polydamas--"we defy augury"[11]--there is the speech of Apollo himself to Aeneas[12] about those who stand up for their own side, putting trust in their own strength. But passages like these do not touch closely on the relations of gods and men as they are depicted in the story. As so depicted, the gods are not shadowy or feeble abstractions and personifications; yet they are not of the first value to the poem, they do not set the tone of it. [Footnote 11: _Il._ xii. 241.] [Footnote 12: _Il._ xvii. 227.] They are subsidiary, like some other of the most beautiful things in the poem; like the similes of clouds and winds, like the pictures on the Shield. They are there because the whole world is included in epic poetry; the heroes, strong in themselves as they could be if they were left alone in the common day, acquire an additional strength and beauty from their fellowship with the gods. Achilles talking with the Embassy is great; he is great in another way when he stands at the trench with the flame of Athena on his head. These two scenes belong to two different kinds of imagination. It is because the first is there that the second takes effect. It is the hero that gives meaning and glory to the light of the goddess. It is of some importance that it is Achilles, and not another, that here is crowned with the light of heaven and made terrible to his enemies. There is a double way of escape for young nations from their outgrown fables and mythologies. They start with enormous, monstrous, and inhuman beliefs and stories. Either they may work their way out of them, by gradual rejection of the grosser ingredients, to something more or less positive and rational; or else they may take up the myths and transmute them into poetry. The two processes are not independent of one another. Both are found together in the greater artists of early times, in Homer most notably; and also in artists less than Homer; in the poem of _Beowulf_, in the stories of Sigfred and Brynhild. There are further, under the second mode, two chief ways of operation by which the fables of the gods may be brought into poetry. It is possible to take them in a light-hearted way and weave them into poetical stories, without much substance or solemnity; enhancing the beauty that may be inherent in any part of the national legend, and either rejecting the scandalous chronicle of Olympus or Asgard altogether, or giving it over to the comic graces of levity and irony, as in the Phaeacian story of Ares and Aphrodite, wherein the Phaeacian poet digressed from his tales of war in the spirit of Ariosto, and with an equally accomplished and elusive defiance of censure.[13] [Footnote 13: The censure is not wanting:-- "L'on doit considérer que ce n'est ni le Poëte, ni son Héros, ni un honnête homme qui fait ce récit: mais que les Phéaques, peuples mols et effeminez, se le font chanter pendant leur festin."--BOSSU, _op. cit._ p. 152.] There is another way in which poetry may find room for fable. It may treat the myths of the gods as material for the religious or the ethical imagination, and out of them create ideal characters, analogous in poetry to the ideal divine or heroic figures of painting and sculpture. This is the kind of imagination in virtue of which modern poets are best able to appropriate the classical mythology; but this modern imagination is already familiar to Homer, and that not only in direct description, as in the description of the majesty of Zeus, but also, more subtly, in passages where the character of the divinity is suggested by comparison with one of the human personages, as when Nausicaa is compared to Artemis,[14] a comparison that redounds not less to the honour of the goddess than of Nausicaa. [Footnote 14: _Od._ vi. 151.] In Icelandic literature there are many instances of the trouble arising from inconsiderate stories of the gods, in the minds of people who had got beyond the more barbarous kind of mythology. They took the boldest and most conclusive way out of the difficulty; they made the barbarous stories into comedy. The _Lokasenna_, a poem whose author has been called the Aristophanes of the Western Islands, is a dramatic piece in which Loki, the Northern Satan, appearing in the house of the gods, is allowed to bring his railing accusations against them and remind them of their doings in the "old days." One of his victims tells him to "let bygones be bygones." The gods are the subject of many stories that are here raked up against them, stories of another order of belief and of civilisation than those in which Odin appears as the wise and sleepless counsellor. This poem implies a great amount of independence in the author of it. It is not a satire on the gods; it is pure comedy; that is, it belongs to a type of literature which has risen above prejudices and which has an air of levity because it is pure sport--or pure art--and therefore is freed from bondage to the matter which it handles. This kind of invention is one that tests the wit of its audience. A serious-minded heathen of an older school would no doubt have been shocked by the levity of the author's manner. Not much otherwise would the poem have affected a serious adversary of heathendom, or any one whose education had been entirely outside of the circle of heathen or mythological tradition. An Englishman of the tenth century, familiar with the heroic poetry of his own tongue, would have thought it indecent. If chance had brought such an one to hear this _Lokasenna_ recited at some entertainment in a great house of the Western Islands, he might very well have conceived the same opinion of his company and their tastes in literature as is ascribed by Bossu to Ulysses among the Phaeacians. This genius for comedy is shown in other Icelandic poems. As soon as the monstrosities of the old traditions were felt to be monstrous, they were overcome (as Mr. Carlyle has shown) by an appreciation of the fun of them, and so they ceased to be burdensome. It is something of this sort that has preserved old myths, for amusement, in popular tales all over the world. The Icelandic poets went further, however, than most people in their elaborate artistic treatment of their myths. There is with them more art and more self-consciousness, and they give a satisfactory and final poetical shape to these things, extracting pure comedy from them. The perfection of this ironical method is to be found in the _Edda_, a handbook of the Art of Poetry, written in the thirteenth century by a man of liberal genius, for whom the Æsir were friends of the imagination, without any prejudice to the claims of the Church or of his religion. In the view of Snorri Sturluson, the old gods are exempt from any touch of controversy. Belief has nothing to do with them; they are free. It may be remembered that some of the greatest English writers of the seventeenth century have come short of this security of view, and have not scrupled to repeat the calumny of the missionaries and the disputants against the ancient gods, that Jupiter and Apollo were angels of the bottomless pit, given over to their own devices for a season, and masking as Olympians. In this freedom from embarrassing and irrelevant considerations in dealing with myth, the author of the _Edda_ follows in his prose the spirit of mythological poems three centuries older, in which, even before the change of faith in the North, the gods were welcomed without fear as sharing in many humorous adventures. And at the same time, along with this detached and ironical way of thinking there is to be found in the Northern poetry the other, more reverent mode of shaping the inherited fancies; the mode of Pindar, rejecting the vain things fabled about the gods, and holding fast to the more honourable things. The humours of Thor in the fishing for the serpent and the winning of the hammer may be fairly likened to the humours of Hermes in the Greek hymn. The _Lokasenna_ has some likeness to the Homeric description of the brawls in heaven. But in the poems that refer to the death of Balder and the sorrow of the gods there is another tone; and the greatest of them all, the _Sibyl's Prophecy_, is comparable, not indeed in volume of sound, but in loftiness of imagination, to the poems in which Pindar has taken up the myths of most inexhaustible value and significance--the Happy Islands, the Birth of Athena. The poet who lives in anything like an heroic or Homeric age has it in his power to mingle the elements of mythology and of human story--Phaeacia and Ithaca--in any proportion he pleases. As a matter of fact, all varieties of proportion are to be found in medieval documents. At the one extreme is the mythological romance and fantasy of Celtic epic, and at the other extreme the plain narrative of human encounters, in the old English battle poetry or the Icelandic family histories. As far as one can judge from the extant poems, the old English and old German poetry did not make such brilliant romance out of mythological legend as was produced by the Northern poets. These alone, and not the poets of England or Saxony, seem to have appropriated for literature, in an Homeric way, the histories of the gods. Myth is not wanting in old English or German poetry, but it does not show itself in the same clear and delightful manner as in the Northern poems of Thor, or in the wooing of Frey. Thus in different places there are different modes in which an inheritance of mythical ideas may be appreciated and used. It may become a treasury for self-possessed and sure-handed artists, as in Greece, and so be preserved long after it has ceased to be adequate to all the intellectual desires. It may, by the fascination of its wealth, detain the minds of poets in its enchanted ground, and prevent them from ever working their way through from myth to dramatic imagination, as in Ireland. The early literature, and therewith the intellectual character and aptitudes, of a nation may be judged by their literary use of mythology. They may neglect it, like the Romans; they may neglect all things for the sake of it, like the Celts; they may harmonise it, as the Greeks did, in a system of imaginative creations where the harmony is such that myth need never be felt as an encumbrance or an absurdity, however high or far the reason may go beyond it in any direction of art or science. At the beginning of modern literature there are to be found the attempts of Irish and Welsh, of English and Germans, Danes and Northmen, to give shape to myth, and make it available for literature. Together with that, and as part of the same process, there is found the beginning of historical literature in an heroic or epic form. The results are various; but one thing may be taken as certain, that progress in literature is most assured when the mythology is so far under control as to leave room for the drama of epic characters; for epic, as distinguished from romance. Now the fortunes of these people were such as to make this self-command exceedingly difficult for them, and to let in an enormous extraneous force, encouraging the native mythopoetic tendencies, and unfavourable to the growth of epic. They had to come to an understanding with themselves about their own heathen traditions, to bring the extravagances of them into some order, so as to let the epic heroes have free play. But they were not left to themselves in this labour of bringing mythology within bounds; even before they had fairly escaped from barbarism, before they had made a fair beginning of civilisation and of reflective literature on their own account, they were drawn within the Empire, into Christendom. Before their imaginations had fully wakened out of the primeval dream, the cosmogonies and theogonies, gross and monstrous, of their national infancy, they were asked to have an opinion about the classical mythology, as represented by the Latin poets; they were made acquainted with the miracles of the lives of saints. More than all this, even, their minds were charmed away from the labour of epic invention, by the spell of the preacher. The task of representing characters--Waldere or Theodoric or Attila--was forgotten in the lyrical rapture of devotion, in effusion of pathos. The fascination of religious symbolism crept over minds that had hardly yet begun to see and understand things as they are; and in all their reading the "moral," "anagogical," and "tropological" significations prevailed against the literal sense. One part of medieval history is concerned with the progress of the Teutonic nations, in so far as they were left to themselves, and in so far as their civilisation is home-made. The _Germania_ of Tacitus, for instance, is used by historians to interpret the later development of Teutonic institutions. But this inquiry involves a good deal of abstraction and an artificial limitation of view. In reality, the people of Germania were never left to themselves at all, were never beyond the influence of Southern ideas; and the history of the influence of Southern ideas on the Northern races takes up a larger field than the isolated history of the North. Nothing in the world is more fantastic. The logic of Aristotle and the art of Virgil are recommended to people whose chief men, barons and earls, are commonly in their tastes and acquirements not very different from the suitors in the _Odyssey_. Gentlemen much interested in raids and forays, and the profits of such business, are confronted with a literature into which the labours of all past centuries have been distilled. In a society that in its native elements is closely analogous to Homer's Achaeans, men are found engaged in the study of Boethius _On the Consolation of Philosophy_, a book that sums up the whole course of Greek philosophical speculation. Ulysses quoting Aristotle is an anachronism; but King Alfred's translation of Boethius is almost as much of a paradox. It is not easy to remain unmoved at the thought of the medieval industry bestowed on authors like Martianus Capella _de Nuptiis Philologiae_, or Macrobius _de Somnio Scipionis_. What is to be said of the solemnity with which, in their pursuit of authoritative doctrine, they applied themselves to extract the spiritual meaning of Ovid's _Metamorphoses_, and appropriate the didactic system of the _Art of Love_? In medieval literature, whatever there is of the Homeric kind has an utterly different relation to popular standards of appreciation from that of the Homeric poems in Greece. Here and there some care may be taken, as by Charlemagne and Alfred, to preserve the national heroic poetry. But such regard for it is rare; and even where it is found, it comes far short of the honour paid to Homer by Alexander. English Epic is not first, but one of the least, among the intellectual and literary interests of King Alfred. Heroic literature is only one thread in the weft of medieval literature. There are some curious documents illustrative of its comparative value, and of the variety and complexity of medieval literature. Hauk Erlendsson, an Icelander of distinction in the fourteenth century, made a collection of treatises in one volume for his own amusement and behoof. It contains the _Volospá_, the most famous of all the Northern mythical poems, the Sibyl's song of the doom of the gods; it contains also the _Landnámabók_, the history of the colonisation of Iceland; _Kristni Saga_, the history of the conversion to Christianity; the history of _Eric the Red_, and _Fóstbræðra Saga_, the story of the two sworn brethren, Thorgeir and Thormod the poet. Besides these records of the history and the family traditions of Iceland and Greenland, there are some mythical stories of later date, dealing with old mythical themes, such as the life of Ragnar Lodbrok. In one of them, the _Heidreks Saga_, are embedded some of the most memorable verses, after _Volospá_, in the old style of Northern poetry--the poem of the _Waking of Angantyr_. The other contents of the book are as follows: geographical, physical, and theological pieces; extracts from St. Augustine; the _History of the Cross_; the _Description of Jerusalem_; the _Debate of Body and Soul_; _Algorismus_ (by Hauk himself, who was an arithmetician); a version of the _Brut_ and of _Merlin's Prophecy_; _Lucidarium_, the most popular medieval handbook of popular science. This is the collection, to which all the ends of the earth have contributed, and it is in strange and far-fetched company like this that the Northern documents are found. In Greece, whatever early transactions there may have been with the wisdom of Egypt or Phoenicia, there is no such medley as this. Another illustration of the literary chaos is presented, even more vividly than in the contents of Hauk's book, by the whalebone casket in the British Museum. Weland the smith (whom Alfred introduced into his _Boethius_) is here put side by side with the Adoration of the Magi; on another side are Romulus and Remus; on another, Titus at Jerusalem; on the lid of the casket is the defence of a house by one who is shooting arrows at his assailants; his name is written over him, and his name is _Ægili_,--Egil the master-bowman, as Weland is the master-smith, of the Northern mythology. Round the two companion pictures, Weland on the left and the Three Kings on the right, side by side, there go wandering runes, with some old English verses about the "whale," or walrus, from which the ivory for these engravings was obtained. The artist plainly had no more suspicion than the author of _Lycidas_ that there was anything incorrect or unnatural in his combinations. It is under these conditions that the heroic poetry of Germania has been preserved; never as anything more than an accident among an infinity of miscellaneous notions, the ruins of ancient empires, out of which the commonplaces of European literature and popular philosophy have been gradually collected. The fate of epic poetry was the same as that of the primitive German forms of society. In both there was a progress towards independent perfection, an evolution of the possibilities inherent in them, independent of foreign influences. But both in Teutonic society, and in the poetry belonging to it and reflecting it, this independent course of life is thwarted and interfered with. Instead of independent strong Teutonic national powers, there are the more or less Romanised and blended nationalities possessing the lands that had been conquered by Goths and Burgundians, Lombards and Franks; instead of Germania, the Holy Roman Empire; instead of Epic, Romance; not the old-fashioned romance of native mythology, not the natural spontaneous romance of the Irish legends or the Icelandic stories of gods and giants, but the composite far-fetched romance of the age of chivalry, imported from all countries and literatures to satisfy the medieval appetite for novel and wonderful things. Nevertheless, the stronger kind of poetry had still something to show, before all things were overgrown with imported legend, and before the strong enunciation of the older manner was put out of fashion by the medieval clerks and rhetoricians. IV THE THREE SCHOOLS--TEUTONIC EPIC--FRENCH EPIC--THE ICELANDIC HISTORIES The Teutonic heroic poetry was menaced on all hands from the earliest times; it was turned aside from the national heroes by saints and missionaries, and charmed out of its sterner moods by the spell of wistful and regretful meditation. In continental Germany it appears to have been early vanquished. In England, where the epic poetry was further developed than on the Continent, it was not less exposed to the rivalry of the ideas and subjects that belonged to the Church. The Anglo-Saxon histories of St. Andrew and St. Helen are as full of romantic passages as those poems of the fourteenth century in which the old alliterative verse is revived to tell the tale of Troy or of the _Mort Arthur_. The national subjects themselves are not proof against the ideas of the Church; even in the fragments of _Waldere_ they are to be found; and the poem of _Beowulf_ has been filled, like so much of the old English poetry, with the melancholy of the preacher, and the sense of the vanity of earthly things. But the influence of fantasy and pathos could not dissolve the strength of epic beyond recovery, or not until it had done something to show what it was worth. Not all the subjects are treated in the romantic manner of Cynewulf and his imitators. The poem of _Maldon_, written at the very end of the tenth century, is firm and unaffected in its style, and of its style there can be no question that it is heroic. The old Norse poetry was beyond the influence of most of the tendencies and examples that corrupted the heroic poetry of the Germans, and changed the course of poetry in England. It was not till the day of its glory was past that it took to subjects like those of Cynewulf and his imitators. But it was hindered in other ways from representing the lives of heroes in a consistent epic form. If it knew less of the miracles of saints, it knew more of the old mythology; and though it was not, like English and German poetry, taken captive by the preachers, it was stirred and thrilled by the beauty of its own stories in a way that inclined to the lyrical rather than the epic tone. Yet here also there are passages of graver epic, where the tone is more assured and the composition more stately. The relation of the French epics to French romance is on the one side a relation of antagonism, in which the older form gives way to the newer, because "the newer song is sweeter in the ears of men." The _Chanson de Geste_ is driven out by poems that differ from it in almost every possible respect; in the character of their original subject-matter, in their verse, their rhetoric, and all their gear of commonplaces, and all the devices of their art. But from another point of view there may be detected in the _Chansons de Geste_ no small amount of the very qualities that were fatal to them, when the elements were compounded anew in the poems of _Erec_ and _Lancelot_. The French epics have many points of likeness with the Teutonic poetry of _Beowulf_ or _Finnesburh_, or of the Norse heroic songs. They are epic in substance, having historical traditions at the back of them, and owing the materials of their picture to no deliberate study of authorities. They differ from _Beowulf_ in this respect, among others, that they are the poems of feudal society, not of the simpler and earlier communities. The difference ought not to be exaggerated. As far as heroic poetry is concerned, the difference lies chiefly in the larger frame of the story. The kingdom of France in the French epics is wider than the kingdom of Hrothgar or Hygelac. The scale is nearer that of the _Iliad_ than of the _Odyssey_. The "Catalogue of the Armies sent into the Field" is longer, the mass of fighting-men is more considerable, than in the epic of the older school. There is also, frequently, a much fuller sense of the national greatness and the importance of the defence of the land against its enemies, a consciousness of the dignity of the general history, unlike the carelessness with which the Teutonic poets fling themselves into the story of individual lives, and disregard the historical background. Generally, however, the Teutonic freedom and rebellious spirit is found as unmistakably in the _Chansons de Geste_ as in the alliterative poems. Feudalism appears in heroic poetry, and indeed in prosaic history, as a more elaborate form of that anarchy which is the necessary condition of an heroic age. It does not deprive the poet of his old subjects, his family enmities, and his adventures of private war. Feudalism did not invent, neither did it take away, the virtue of loyalty that has so large a place in all true epic, along with its counterpart of defiance and rebellion, no less essential to the story. It intensified the poetical value of both motives, but they are older than the _Iliad_. It provided new examples of the "wrath" of injured or insulted barons; it glorified to the utmost, it honoured as martyrs, those who died fighting for their lord.[15] [Footnote 15: Lor autres mors ont toz en terre mis: Crois font sor aus, qu'il erent droit martir: Por lor seignor orent esté ocis. _Garin le Loherain_, tom. ii. p. 88.] In all this it did nothing to change the essence of heroic poetry. The details were changed, the scene was enlarged, and so was the number of the combatants. But the details of feudalism that make a difference between Beowulf, or the men of Attila, and the epic paladins of Charlemagne in the French poems of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, need not obscure the essential resemblance between one heroic period and another. On the other hand, it is plain from the beginning that French epic had to keep its ground with some difficulty against the challenge of romantic skirmishers. In one of the earliest of the poems about Charlemagne, the Emperor and his paladins are taken to the East by a poet whom Bossu would hardly have counted "honest." In the poem of _Huon of Bordeaux_, much later, the story of Oberon and the magic horn has been added to the plot of a feudal tragedy, which in itself is compact and free from extravagance. Between those extreme cases there are countless examples of the mingling of the graver epic with more or less incongruous strains. Sometimes there is magic, sometimes the appearance of a Paynim giant, often the repetition of long prayers with allusions to the lives of saints and martyrs, and throughout there is the constant presence of ideas derived from homilies and the common teaching of the Church. In some of these respects the French epics are in the same case as the old English poems which, like _Beowulf_, show the mingling of a softer mood with the stronger; of new conventions with old. In some respects they show a further encroachment of the alien spirit. The English poem of _Maldon_ has some considerable likeness in the matter of its story, and not a little in its ideal of courage, with the _Song of Roland_. A comparison of the two poems, in those respects in which they are commensurable, will show the English poem to be wanting in certain elements of mystery that are potent in the other. The _Song of Maldon_ and the _Song of Roncesvalles_ both narrate the history of a lost battle, of a realm defended against its enemies by a captain whose pride and self-reliance lead to disaster, by refusing to take fair advantage of the enemy and put forth all his available strength. Byrhtnoth, fighting the Northmen on the shore of the Essex river, allows them of his own free will to cross the ford and come to close quarters. "He gave ground too much to the adversary; he called across the cold river and the warriors listened: 'Now is space granted to you; come speedily hither and fight; God alone can tell who will hold the place of battle.' Then the wolves of blood, the rovers, waded west over Panta." This unnecessary magnanimity has for the battle of Maldon the effect of Roland's refusal to sound the horn at the battle of Roncesvalles; it is the tragic error or transgression of limit that brings down the crash and ruin at the end of the day. In both poems there is a like spirit of indomitable resistance. The close of the battle of Maldon finds the loyal companions of Byrhtnoth fighting round his body, abandoned by the cowards who have run away, but themselves convinced of their absolute strength to resist to the end. Byrhtwold spoke and grasped his shield--he was an old companion--he shook his ashen spear, and taught courage to them that fought:-- "Thought shall be the harder, heart the keener, mood shall be the more, as our might lessens. Here our prince lies low, they have hewn him to death! Grief and sorrow for ever on the man that leaves this war-play! I am old of years, but hence I will not go; I think to lay me down by the side of my lord, by the side of the man I cherished." The story of Roncesvalles tells of an agony equally hopeless and equally secure from every touch of fear. The _Song of Maldon_ is a strange poem to have been written in the reign of Ethelred the Unready. But for a few phrases it might, as far as the matter is concerned, have been written before the conversion of England, and although it is a battle in defence of the country, and not a mere incident of private war, the motive chiefly used is not patriotism, but private loyalty to the captain. Roland is full of the spirit of militant Christendom, and there is no more constant thought in the poem than that of the glory of France. The virtue of the English heroes is the old Teutonic virtue. The events of the battle are told plainly and clearly; nothing adventitious is brought in to disturb the effect of the plain story; the poetical value lies in the contrast between the grey landscape (which is barely indicated), the severe and restrained description of the fighters, on the one hand, and on the other the sublimity of the spirit expressed in the last words of the "old companion." In the narrative of events there are no extraneous beauties to break the overwhelming strength of the eloquence in which the meaning of the whole thing is concentrated. With Roland at Roncesvalles the case is different. He is not shown in the grey light of the Essex battlefield. The background is more majestic. There is a mysterious half-lyrical refrain throughout the tale of the battle: "high are the mountains and dark the valleys" about the combatants in the pass; they are not left to themselves like the warriors of the poem of _Maldon_. It is romance, rather than epic or tragedy, which in this way recognises the impersonal power of the scene; the strength of the hills under which the fight goes on. In the first part of the _Odyssey_ the spell of the mystery of the sea is all about the story of Odysseus; in the later and more dramatic part the hero loses this, and all the strength is concentrated in his own character. In the story of Roland there is a vastness and vagueness throughout, coming partly from the numbers of the hosts engaged, partly from the author's sense of the mystery of the Pyrenean valleys, and, in a very large measure, from the heavenly aid accorded to the champion of Christendom. The earth trembles, there is darkness over all the realm of France even to the Mount St. Michael: C'est la dulur pur la mort de Rollant. St. Gabriel descends to take from the hand of Roland the glove that he offers with his last confession; and the three great angels of the Lord are there to carry his soul to Paradise. There is nothing like this in the English poem. The battle is fought in the light of an ordinary day; there is nothing to greet the eyes of Byrhtnoth and his men except the faces of their enemies. It is not hard to find in old English poetry descriptions less austere than that of _Maldon_; there may be found in the French _Chansons de Geste_ great spaces in which there is little of the majestic light and darkness of Roncesvalles. But it is hard to escape the conviction that the poem of _Maldon_, late as it is, has uttered the spirit and essence of the Northern heroic literature in its reserved and simple story, and its invincible profession of heroic faith; while the poem of Roncesvalles is equally representative of the French epic spirit, and of the French poems in which the ideas common to every heroic age are expressed with all the circumstances of the feudal society of Christendom, immediately before the intellectual and literary revolutions of the twelfth century. The French epics are full of omens of the coming victory of romance, though they have not yet given way. They still retain, in spite of their anticipations of the Kingdom of the Grail, an alliance in spirit with the older Teutonic poetry, and with those Icelandic histories that are the highest literary expression of the Northern spirit in its independence of feudalism. The heroic age of the ancient Germans may be said to culminate, and end, in Iceland in the thirteenth century. The Icelandic _Sagas_--the prose histories of the fortunes of the great Icelandic houses--are the last and also the finest expression and record of the spirit and the ideas belonging properly to the Germanic race in its own right, and not derived from Rome or Christendom. Those of the German nations who stayed longest at home had by several centuries the advantage of the Goths and Franks, and had time to complete their native education before going into foreign subjects. The English were less exposed to Southern influences than the continental Germans; the Scandinavian nations less than the Angles and Saxons. In Norway particularly, the common German ideas were developed in a way that produced a code of honour, a consciousness of duty, and a strength of will, such as had been unknown in the German nations who were earlier called upon to match themselves against Rome. Iceland was colonised by a picked lot of Norwegians; by precisely those Norwegians who had this strength of will in its highest degree. Political progress in the Middle Ages was by way of monarchy; but strong monarchy was contrary to the traditions of Germania, and in Norway, a country of great extent and great difficulties of communication, the ambition of Harold Fairhair was resisted by numbers of chieftains who had their own local following and their own family dignity to maintain, in their firths and dales. Those men found Norway intolerable through the tyranny of King Harold, and it was by them that Iceland was colonised through the earlier colonies in the west--in Scotland, in Ireland, in Shetland and the other islands. The ideas that took the Northern colonists to Iceland were the ideas of Germania,--the love of an independent life, the ideal of the old-fashioned Northern gentleman, who was accustomed to consideration and respect from the freemen, his neighbours, who had authority by his birth and fortune to look after the affairs of his countryside, who would not make himself the tenant, vassal, or steward of any king. In the new country these ideas were intensified and defined. The ideal of the Icelandic Commonwealth was something more than a vague motive, it was present to the minds of the first settlers in a clear and definite form. The most singular thing in the heroic age of Iceland is that the heroes knew what they were about. The heroic age of Iceland begins in a commonwealth founded by a social contract. The society that is established there is an association of individuals coming to an agreement with one another to invent a set of laws and observe them. Thus while Iceland on the one hand is a reactionary state, founded by men who were turning their backs on the only possible means of political progress, cutting themselves off from the world, and adhering obstinately to forms of life with no future before them, on the other hand this reactionary commonwealth, this fanatical representative of early Germanic use and wont, is possessed of a clearness of self-consciousness, a hard and positive clearness of understanding, such as is to be found nowhere else in the Middle Ages and very rarely at all in any polity. The prose literature of Iceland displays the same two contradictory characters throughout. The actions described, and the customs, are those of an early heroic age, with rather more than the common amount of enmity and vengeance, and an unequalled power of resistance and rebellion in the individual wills of the personages. The record of all this anarchy is a prose history, rational and unaffected, seeing all things in a dry light; a kind of literature that has not much to learn from any humanism or rationalism, in regard to its own proper subjects at any rate. The people of Iceland were not cut off from the ordinary European learning and its commonplaces. They read the same books as were read in England or Germany. They read St. Gregory _de Cura Pastorali_, they read _Ovidius Epistolarum_, and all the other popular books of the Middle Ages. In time those books and the world to which they belonged were able to obtain a victory over the purity of the Northern tradition and manners, but not until the Northern tradition had exhausted itself, and the Icelandic polity began to break up. The literature of the maturity of Iceland just before the fall of the Commonwealth is a literature belonging wholly and purely to Iceland, in a style unmodified by Latin syntax and derived from the colloquial idiom. The matter is the same in kind as the common matter of heroic poetry. The history represents the lives of adventurers, the rivalries and private wars of men who are not ignorant of right and honour, but who acknowledge little authority over them, and are given to choose their right and wrong for themselves, and abide the consequences. This common matter is presented in a form which may be judged on its own merits, and there is no need to ask concessions from any one in respect of the hard or unfavourable conditions under which this literature was produced. One at least of the Icelandic Sagas is one of the great prose works of the world--the story of Njal and his sons. The most perfect heroic literature of the Northern nations is to be found in the country where the heroic polity and society had most room and leisure; and in Iceland the heroic ideals of life had conditions more favourable than are to be discovered anywhere else in history. Iceland was a world divided from the rest, outside the orbit of all the states of Europe; what went on there had little more than an ideal relation to the course of the great world; it had no influence on Europe, it was kept separate as much as might be from the European storms and revolutions. What went on in Iceland was the progress in seclusion of the old Germanic life--a life that in the rest of the world had been blended and immersed in other floods and currents. Iceland had no need of the great movements of European history. They had a humanism of their own, a rationalism of their own, gained quite apart from the great European tumults, and gained prematurely, in comparison with the rest of Europe. Without the labour of the Middle Ages, without the storm and stress of the reform of learning, they had the faculty of seeing things clearly and judging their values reasonably, without superstition. They had to pay the penalty of their opposition to the forces of the world; there was no cohesion in their society, and when once the balance of power in the island was disturbed, the Commonwealth broke up. But before that, they accomplished what had been ineffectually tried by the poet of _Beowulf_, the poet of _Roland_; they found an adequate form of heroic narrative. Also in their use of this instrument they were led at last to a kind of work that has been made nowhere else in the world, for nowhere else does the form of heroic narrative come to be adapted to contemporary events, as it was in Iceland, by historians who were themselves partakers in the actions they described. Epic, if the Sagas are epic, here coincides with autobiography. In the _Sturlunga Saga_, written by Sturla, Snorri's nephew, the methods of heroic literature are applied by an eye-witness to the events of his own time, and there is no discrepancy or incongruity between form and matter. The age itself takes voice and speaks in it; there is no interval between actors and author. This work is the end of the heroic age, both in politics and in literature. After the loss of Icelandic freedom there is no more left of Germania, and the _Sturlunga Saga_ which tells the story of the last days of freedom is the last word of the Teutonic heroic age. It is not a decrepit or imitative or secondary thing; it is a masterpiece; and with this true history, this adaptation of an heroic style to contemporary realities, the sequence of German heroic tradition comes to an end. CHAPTER II THE TEUTONIC EPIC I THE TRAGIC CONCEPTION Of the heroic poetry in the Teutonic alliterative verse, the history must be largely conjectural. The early stages of it are known merely through casual references like those of Tacitus. We know that to the mind of the Emperor Julian, the songs of the Germans resembled the croaking of noisy birds; but this criticism is not satisfactory, though it is interesting. The heroes of the old time before Ermanaric and Attila were not without their poets, but of what sort the poems were in which their praises were sung, we can only vaguely guess. Even of the poems that actually remain it is difficult to ascertain the history and the conditions of their production. The variety of styles discoverable in the extant documents is enough to prevent the easy conclusion that the German poetry of the first century was already a fixed type, repeated by successive generations of poets down to the extinction of alliterative verse as a living form. After the sixth century things become a little clearer, and it is possible to speak with more certainty. One thing at any rate of the highest importance may be regarded as beyond a doubt. The passages in which Jordanes tells of Suanihilda trampled to death by the horses of Ermanaric, and of the vengeance taken by her brothers Sarus and Ammius, are enough to prove that the subjects of heroic poetry had already in the sixth century, if not earlier, formed themselves compactly in the imagination. If Jordanes knew a Gothic poem on Ermanaric and the brothers of Suanihilda, that was doubtless very different from the Northern poem of Sorli and Hamther, which is a later version of the same story. But even if the existence of a Gothic ballad of Swanhild were doubted,--and the balance of probabilities is against the doubter,--it follows indisputably from the evidence that in the time of Jordanes people were accustomed to select and dwell upon dramatic incidents in what was accepted as history; the appreciation of tragedy was there, the talent to understand a tragic situation, to shape a tragic plot, to bring out the essential matter in relief and get rid of irrelevant particulars. In this respect at any rate, and it is one of the most important, there is continuity in the ancient poetry, onward from this early date. The stories of Alboin in the Lombard history of Paulus Diaconus, the meaning of which for the history of poetry is explained so admirably in the Introduction to _Corpus Poeticum Boreale_, by Dr. Vigfusson and Mr. York Powell, are further and more vivid illustrations of the same thing. In the story of the youth of Alboin, and the story of his death, there is matter of the same amount as would suffice for one of the short epics of the kind we know,--a poem of the same length as the Northern lay of the death of Ermanaric, of the same compass as _Waltharius_,--or, to take another standard of measurement, matter for a single tragedy with the unities preserved. Further, there is in both of them exactly that resolute comprehension and exposition of tragic meaning which is the virtue of the short epics. The tragic contradiction in them could not be outdone by Victor Hugo. It is no wonder that the story of Rosamond and Albovine king of the Lombards became a favourite with dramatists of different schools, from the first essays of the modern drama in the _Rosmunda_ of Rucellai, passing by the common way of the novels of Bandello to the Elizabethan stage. The earlier story of Alboin's youth, if less valuable for emphatic tragedy, being without the baleful figure of a Rosamond or a Clytemnestra, is even more perfect as an example of tragic complication. Here again is the old sorrow of Priam; the slayer of the son face to face with the slain man's father, and not in enmity. In beauty of original conception the story is not finer than that of Priam and Achilles; and it is impossible to compare the stories in any other respect than that of the abstract plot. But in one quality of the plot the Lombard drama excels or exceeds the story of the last book of the _Iliad_. The contradiction is strained with a greater tension; the point of honour is more nearly absolute. This does not make it a better story, but it proves that the man who told the story could understand the requirements of a tragic plot, could imagine clearly a strong dramatic situation, could refrain from wasting or obliterating the outline of a great story. The Lombards and the Gepidae were at war. Alboin, son of the Lombard king Audoin, and Thurismund, son of the Gepid king Thurisvend, met in battle, and Alboin killed Thurismund. After the battle, the Lombards asked King Audoin to knight his son. But Audoin answered that he would not break the Lombard custom, according to which it was necessary for the young man to receive arms first from the king of some other people. Alboin when he heard this set out with forty of the Lombards, and went to Thurisvend, whose son he had killed, to ask this honour from him. Thurisvend welcomed him, and set him down at his right hand in the place where his son used to sit. Then follows the critical point of the action. The contradiction is extreme; the reconciliation also, the solution of the case, is perfect. Things are stretched to the breaking-point before the release comes; nothing is spared that can possibly aggravate the hatred between the two sides, which is kept from breaking out purely by the honour of the king. The man from whom an infinite debt of vengeance is owing, comes of his own will to throw himself on the generosity of his adversary. This, to begin with, is hardly fair to simple-minded people like the Gepid warriors; they may fairly think that their king is going too far in his reading of the law of honour: And it came to pass while the servants were serving at the tables, that Thurisvend, remembering how his son had been lately slain, and calling to mind his death, and beholding his slayer there beside him in his very seat, began to draw deep sighs, for he could not withhold himself any longer, and at last his grief burst forth in words. "Very pleasant to me," quoth he, "is the seat, but sad enough it is to see him that is sitting therein."[16] [Footnote 16: _C.P.B._, Introduction, p. lii.] By his confession of his thoughts the king gives an opening to those who are waiting for it, and it is taken at once. Insult and rejoinder break out, and it is within a hair's breadth of the irretrievable plunge that the king speaks his mind. He is lord in that house, and his voice allays the tumult; he takes the weapons of his son Thurismund, and gives them to Alboin and sends him back in peace and safety to his father's kingdom. It is a great story, even in a prose abstract, and the strength of its tragic problem is invincible. It is with strength like that, with a knowledge not too elaborate or minute, but sound and clear, of some of the possibilities of mental conflict and tragic contradiction, that heroic poetry first reveals itself among the Germans. It is this that gives strength to the story of the combat between Hildebrand and his son, of the flight of Walter and Hildegund, of the death of Brynhild, of Attila and Gudrun. Some of the heroic poems and plots are more simple than these. The battle of Maldon is a fair fight without any such distressful circumstances as in the case of Hildebrand or of Walter of Aquitaine. The adventures of Beowulf are simple, also; there is suspense when he waits the attack of the monster, but there is nothing of the deadly crossing of passions that there is in other stories. Even in _Maldon_, however, there is the tragic error; the fall and defeat of the English is brought about by the over-confidence and over-generosity of Byrhtnoth, in allowing the enemy to come to close quarters. In _Beowulf_, though the adventures of the hero are simple, other less simple stories are referred to by the way. One of these is a counterpart to the story of the youth of Alboin and the magnanimity of Thurisvend. One of the most famous of all the old subjects of heroic poetry was the vengeance of Ingeld for the death of his father, King Froda. The form of this story in _Beowulf_ agrees with that of Saxo Grammaticus in preserving the same kind of opposition as in the story of Alboin, only in this case there is a different solution. Here a deadly feud has been put to rest by a marriage, and the daughter of Froda's slayer is married to Froda's son. But as in the Lombard history and in so many of the stories of Iceland, this reconciliation is felt to be intolerable and spurious; the need of vengeance is real, and it finds a spokesman in an old warrior, who cannot forget his dead lord, nor endure the sight of the new bride's kinsmen going free and wearing the spoils of their victory. So Ingeld has to choose between his wife, wedded to him out of his enemy's house, and his father, whom that enemy has killed. And so everywhere in the remains, not too voluminous, of the literature of the heroic age, one encounters this sort of tragic scheme. One of those ancient plots, abstracted and written out fair by Saxo, is the plot of _Hamlet_. There is not one of the old Northern heroic poems, as distinct from the didactic and mythological pieces, that is without this tragic contradiction; sometimes expressed with the extreme of severity, as in the lay of the death of Ermanaric; sometimes with lyrical effusiveness, as in the lament of Gudrun; sometimes with a mystery upon it from the under-world and the kingdom of the dead, as in the poems of Helgi, and of the daughter of Angantyr. The poem of the death of Ermanaric is a version of the story told by Jordanes, which since his time had come to be attached to the cycle of the Niblungs. Swanhild, the daughter of Sigurd and Gudrun, was wedded to Ermanaric, king of the Goths. The king's counsellor wrought on his mind with calumnies against the queen, and he ordered her to be trampled to death under horses' feet, and so she died, though the horses were afraid of the brightness of her eyes and held back until her eyes were covered. Gudrun stirred up her sons, Sorli and Hamther, to go and avenge their sister. As they set out, they quarrelled with their base-born brother Erp, and killed him,--the tragic error in this history, for it was the want of a third man that ruined them, and Erp would have helped them if they had let him. In the hall of the Goths they defy their enemy and hew down his men; no iron will bite in their armour; they cut off the hands and feet of Ermanaric. Then, as happens so often in old stories, they go too far, and a last insult alters the balance against them, as Odysseus alters it at the leave-taking with Polyphemus. The last gibe at Ermanaric stirs him as he lies, and he calls on the remnant of the Goths to stone the men that neither sword nor spear nor arrow will bring down. And that was the end of them. "We have fought a good fight; we stand on slain Goths that have had their fill of war. We have gotten a good report, though we die to-day or to-morrow. No man can live over the evening, when the word of the Fates has gone forth." There fell Sorli at the gable of the hall, and Hamther was brought low at the end of the house. Among the Norse poems it is this one, the _Hamðismál_, that comes nearest to the severity of the English _Maldon_ poem. It is wilder and more cruel, but the end attains to simplicity. The gap in _Codex Regius_, the "Elder" or "Poetic Edda," has destroyed the poems midway between the beginning and end of the tragedy of Sigfred and Brynhild, and among them the poem of their last meeting. There is nothing but the prose paraphrase to tell what that was, but the poor substitute brings out all the more clearly the strength of the original conception, the tragic problem. After the gap in the manuscript there are various poems of Brynhild and Gudrun, in which different views of the story are taken, and in all of them the tragic contradiction is extreme: in Brynhild's vengeance on Sigurd, in Gudrun's lament for her husband slain by her brothers, and in the later fortunes of Gudrun. In some of these poems the tragedy becomes lyrical, and two kinds of imagination, epic and elegiac, are found in harmony. The story of Helgi and Sigrun displays this rivalry of moods--a tragic story, carried beyond the tragic stress into the mournful quiet of the shadows. Helgi is called upon by Sigrun to help her against Hodbrodd, and save her from a hateful marriage. Helgi kills Hodbrodd, and wins Sigrun; but he has also killed Sigrun's father Hogni and her elder brother. The younger brother Dag takes an oath to put away enmity, but breaks his oath and kills Helgi. It is a story like all the others in which there is a conflict of duties, between friendship and the duty of vengeance, a plot of the same kind as that of Froda and Ingeld. Sigrun's brother is tried in the same way as Ingeld in the story told by Saxo and mentioned in _Beowulf_. But it does not end with the death of Helgi. Sigrun looks for Helgi to come back in the hour of the "Assembly of Dreams," and Helgi comes and calls her, and she follows him:-- "Thy hair is thick with rime, thou art wet with the dew of death, thy hands are cold and dank." "It is thine own doing, Sigrun from Sevafell, that Helgi is drenched with deadly dew; thou weepest cruel tears, thou gold-dight, sunbright lady of the South, before thou goest to sleep; every one of them falls with blood, wet and chill, upon my breast. Yet precious are the draughts that are poured for us, though we have lost both love and land, and no man shall sing a song of lamentation though he see the wounds on my breast, for kings' daughters have come among the dead." "I have made thee a bed, Helgi, a painless bed, thou son of the Wolfings. I shall sleep in thine arms, O king, as I should if thou wert alive." This is something different from epic or tragedy, but it does not interfere with the tragedy of which it is the end. The poem of the _Waking of Angantyr_ is so filled with mystery and terror that it is hard to find in it anything else. After the _Volospá_ it is the most wonderful of all the Northern poems. Hervor, daughter of Angantyr, is left alone to avenge her father and her eleven brothers, killed by Arrow Odd before her birth. In her father's grave is the sword of the Dwarfs that never is drawn in vain, and she comes to his grave to find it. The island where he lies is full of death-fires, and the dead are astir, but Hervor goes on. She calls on her father and her brothers to help her: "Awake, Angantyr! It is Hervor that bids thee awake. Give me the sword of the Dwarfs! Hervard! Hiorvard! Rani! Angantyr! I bid you all awake!" Her father answers from the grave; he will not give up the sword, for the forgers of it when it was taken from them put a curse on those who wear it. But Hervor will not leave him until he has yielded to her prayers, and at last she receives the sword from her father's hands.[17] [Footnote 17: This poem has been followed by M. Leconte de Lisle in _L'Épée d'Angantyr (Poèmes Barbares)_. It was among the first of the Northern poems to be translated into English, in Hickes's _Thesaurus_ (1705), i. p. 193. It is also included in Percy's _Five Pieces of Runic Poetry_ (1763).] Although the poem of Hervor lies in this way "between the worlds" of Life and Death,--the phrase is Hervor's own,--although the action is so strange and so strangely encompassed with unearthly fire and darkness, its root is not set in the dim borderland where the dialogue is carried on. The root is tragic, and not fantastic, nor is there any excess, nor anything strained beyond the limit of tragedy, in the passion of Hervor. Definite imagination of a tragic plot, and sure comprehension of the value of dramatic problems, are not enough in themselves to make a perfect poem. They may go along with various degrees of imperfection in particular respects; faults of diction, either tenuity or extravagance of phrasing may accompany this central imaginative power. Strength of plot is partly independent of style; it bears translation, it can be explained, it is something that can be abstracted from the body of a poem and still make itself impressive. The dramatic value of the story of the death of Alboin is recognisable even when it is stated in the most general terms, as a mere formula; the story of _Waltharius_ retains its life, even in the Latin hexameters; the plot of _Hamlet_ is interesting, even in Saxo; the story of the Niblungs, even in the mechanical prose paraphrase. This gift of shaping a plot and letting it explain itself without encumbrances is not to be mistaken for the whole secret of the highest kind of poetry. But, if not the whole, it is the spring of the whole. All the other gifts may be there, but without this, though all but the highest kind of epic or tragic art may be attainable, the very highest will not be attained. Aristotle may be referred to again. As he found it convenient in his description of epic to insist on its dramatic nature, in his description of tragedy it pleased him to lay emphasis on that part of the work which is common to tragedy and epic--the story, the plot. It may be remarked how well the barbarous poetry conforms to the pattern laid down in Aristotle's description. The old German epic, in _Hildebrand_, _Waldere_, _Finnesburh_, _Byrhtnoth_, besides all the Northern lays of Sigurd, Brynhild, and Gudrun, is dramatic in its method, letting the persons speak for themselves as much as may be. So far it complies with Aristotle's delineation of epic. And further, all this dramatic bent may be seen clearly to have its origin in the mere story,--in the dramatic situation, in fables that might be acted by puppets or in a dumb show, and yet be tragical. No analytic or psychological interest in varieties of character--in [Greek: êthê]--could have uttered the passion of Brynhild or of Gudrun. Aristotle knew that psychological analysis and moral rhetoric were not the authors of Clytemnestra or Oedipus. The barbarian poets are on a much lower and more archaic level than the poets with whom Aristotle is concerned, but here, where comparison is not meaningless nor valueless, their imaginations are seen to work in the same sound and productive way as the minds of Aeschylus or Sophocles, letting the seed--the story in its abstract form, the mere plot--develop itself and spring naturally into the fuller presentation of the characters that are implied in it. It is another kind of art that studies character in detail, one by one, and then sets them playing at chance medley, and trusts to luck that the result will be entertaining. That Aristotle is confirmed by these barbarian auxiliaries is of no great importance to Aristotle, but it is worth arguing that the barbarous German imagination at an earlier stage, relatively, than the Homeric, is found already possessed of something like the sanity of judgment, the discrimination of essentials from accidents, which is commonly indicated by the term classical. Compared with Homer these German songs are prentice work; but they are begun in the right way, and therefore to compare them with a masterpiece in which the same way is carried out to its end is not unjustifiable. II SCALE OF THE POEMS The following are the extant poems on native heroic themes, written in one or other of the dialects of the Teutonic group, and in unrhymed alliterative measures. (1) _Continental._--The _Lay of Hildebrand_ (_c._ A.D. 800), a Low German poem, copied by High German clerks, is the only remnant of the heroic poetry of the continental Germans in which, together with the national metre, there is a national theme. (2) _English._--The poems of this order in old English are _Beowulf_, _Finnesburh_, _Waldere_, and _Byrhtnoth_, or the _Lay of Maldon_. Besides these there are poems on historical themes preserved in the Chronicle, of which _Brunanburh_ is the most important, and two dramatic lyrics, _Widsith_ and _Deor_, in which there are many allusions to the mythical and heroic cycles. (3) _Scandinavian and Icelandic._--The largest number of heroic poems in alliterative verse is found in the old Northern language, and in manuscripts written in Iceland. The poems themselves may have come from other places in which the old language of Norway was spoken, some of them perhaps from Norway itself, many of them probably from those islands round Britain to which a multitude of Norwegian settlers were attracted,--Shetland, the Orkneys, the Western Islands of Scotland.[18] [Footnote 18: Cf. G. Vigfusson, Prolegomena to _Sturlunga_ (Oxford, 1878); (_Corpus Poeticum Boreale_ (_ibid._ 1883); _Grimm Centenary Papers_ 1886); Sophus Bugge, _Helgedigtene_ (1896; trans. Schofield, 1899).] The principal collection is that of the manuscript in the King's Library at Copenhagen (2365, 4'o) generally referred to as _Codex Regius_ (R); it is this book, discovered in the seventeenth century, that has received the inaccurate but convenient names of _Elder Edda_, or _Poetic Edda_, or _Edda of Sæmund the Wise_, by a series of miscalculations fully described in the preface to the _Corpus Poeticum Boreale_. Properly, the name _Edda_ belongs only to the prose treatise by Snorri Sturluson. The chief contents of _Codex Regius_ are a series of independent poems on the Volsung story, beginning with the tragedies of _Helgi and Swava_ and _Helgi and Sigrun_ (originally unconnected with the Volsung legend), and going on in the order of events. The series is broken by a gap in which the poems dealing with some of the most important parts of the story have been lost. The matter of their contents is known from the prose paraphrase called _Volsunga Saga_. Before the Volsung series comes a number of poems chiefly mythological: the _Sibyl's Prophecy_, (Volospá); _the Wooing of Frey_, or the _Errand of Skirnir_; the _Flyting of Thor and Woden_ (Harbarzlióð); _Thor's Fishing for the Midgarth Serpent_ (Hymiskviða); the _Railing of Loki_ (Lokasenna); the _Winning of Thor's Hammer_ (Þrymskviða); the _Lay of Weland_. There are also some didactic poems, chief among them being the gnomic miscellany under the title _Hávamál_; while besides this there are others, like _Vafþrúðnismál_, treating of mythical subjects in a more or less didactic and mechanical way. There are a number of prose passages introducing or linking the poems. The confusion in some parts of the book is great. _Codex Regius_ is not the only source; other mythic and heroic poems are found in other manuscripts. The famous poem of the _Doom of Balder_ (Gray's "Descent of Odin"); the poem of the _Rescue of Menglad_, the enchanted princess; the verses preserved in the _Heiðreks Saga_, belonging to the story of Angantyr; besides the poem of the _Magic Mill_ (Grottasöngr) and the _Song of the Dart_ (Gray's "Fatal Sisters"). There are many fragmentary verses, among them some from the _Biarkamál_, a poem with some curious points of likeness to the English _Lay of Finnesburh_. A Swedish inscription has preserved four verses of an old poem on Theodoric. Thus there is some variety in the original documents now extant out of the host of poems that have been lost. One conclusion at least is irresistible--that, in guessing at the amount of epic poetry of this order which has been lost, one is justified in making a liberal estimate. Fragments are all that we possess. The extant poems have escaped the deadliest risks; the fire at Copenhagen in 1728, the bombardment in 1807, the fire in the Cotton Library in 1731, in which _Beowulf_ was scorched but not burned. The manuscripts of _Finnesburh_ and _Maldon_ have been mislaid; but for the transcripts taken in time by Hickes and Hearne they would have been as little known as the songs that the Sirens sang. The poor remnants of _Waldere_ were found by Stephens in two scraps of bookbinders' parchment. When it is seen what hazards have been escaped by those bits of wreckage, and at the same time how distinct in character the several poems are, it is plain that one may use some freedom in thinking of the amount of this old poetry that has perished. The loss is partly made good in different ways: in the Latin of the historians, Jordanes, Paulus Diaconus, and most of all in the paraphrases, prose and verse, by Saxo Grammaticus; in Ekkehard's Latin poem of _Waltharius_ (_c._ A.D. 930); in the _Volsunga Saga_, which has kept the matter of the lost poems of _Codex Regius_ and something of their spirit; in the _Thidreks Saga_, a prose story made up by a Norwegian in the thirteenth century from current North German ballads of the Niblungs; in the German poems of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, which, in a later form of the language and in rhyming verse, have preserved at any rate some matters of tradition, some plots of stories, if little of the peculiar manner and imagination of the older poetry. The casual references to Teutonic heroic subjects in a vast number of authors have been brought together in a monumental work, _die deutsche Heldensage_, by Wilhelm Grimm (1829). THE WESTERN GROUP _Hildebrand_, _Finnesburh_, _Waldere_, _Beowulf_, _Byrhtnoth_ The Western group of poems includes all those that are not Scandinavian; there is only one among them which is not English, the poem of _Hildebrand_. They do not afford any very copious material for inferences as to the whole course and progress of poetry in the regions to which they belong. A comparison of the fragmentary _Hildebrand_ with the fragments of _Waldere_ shows a remarkable difference in compass and fulness; but, at the same time, the vocabulary and phrases of _Hildebrand_ declare that poem unmistakably to belong to the same family as the more elaborate _Waldere_. _Finnesburh_, the fragmentary poem of the lost Lambeth MS., seems almost as far removed as _Hildebrand_ from the more expansive and leisurely method of _Waldere_; while _Waldere_, _Beowulf_, and the poem of _Maldon_ resemble one another in their greater ease and fluency, as compared with the brevity and abruptness of _Hildebrand_ or _Finnesburh_. The documents, as far as they go, bear out the view that in the Western German tongues, or at any rate in England, there was a development of heroic poetry tending to a greater amplitude of narration. This progress falls a long way short of the fulness of Homer, not to speak of the extreme diffuseness of some of the French _Chansons de Geste_. It is such, however, as to distinguish the English poems, _Waldere_, _Beowulf_, and _Byrhtnoth_, very obviously from the poem of _Hildebrand_. While, at the same time, the brevity of _Hildebrand_ is not like the brevity of the Northern poems. _Hildebrand_ is a poem capable of expansion. It is easy enough to see in what manner its outlines might be filled up and brought into the proportions of _Waldere_ or _Beowulf_. In the Northern poems, on the other hand, there is a lyrical conciseness, and a broken emphatic manner of exposition, which from first to last prevented any such increase of volume as seems to have taken place in the old English poetry; though there are some poems, the _Atlamál_ particularly, which indicate that some of the Northern poets wished to go to work on a larger scale than was generally allowed them by their traditions. In the Northern group there is a great variety in respect of the amount of incident that goes to a single poem; some poems deal with a single adventure, while others give an abstract of a whole heroic history. In the Western poems this variety is not to be found. There is a difference in this respect between _Hildebrand_ and _Waldere_, and still more, at least on the surface, between _Hildebrand_ and _Beowulf_; but nothing like the difference between the _Lay of the Hammer_ (Þrymskviða), which is an episode of Thor, and the _Lay of Weland_ or the _Lay of Brynhild_, which give in a summary way a whole history from beginning to end. _Hildebrand_ tells of the encounter of father and son, Hildebrand and Hadubrand, with a few references to the past of Hildebrand and his relations to Odoacer and Theodoric. It is one adventure, a tragedy in one scene. _Finnesburh_, being incomplete at the beginning and end, is not good evidence. What remains of it presents a single adventure, the fight in the hall between Danes and Frisians. There is another version of the story of _Finnesburh_, which, as reported in _Beowulf_ (ll. 1068-1154) gives a good deal more of the story than is given in the separate _Finnesburh Lay_. This episode in _Beowulf_, where a poem of _Finnesburh_ is chanted by the Danish minstrel, is not to be taken as contributing another independent poem to the scanty stock; the minstrel's story is reported, not quoted at full length. It has been reduced by the poet of _Beowulf_, so as not to take up too large a place of its own in the composition. Such as it is, it may very well count as direct evidence of the way in which epic poems were produced and set before an audience; and it may prove that it was possible for an old English epic to deal with almost the whole of a tragic history in one sitting. In this case the tragedy is far less complex than the tale of the Niblungs, whatever interpretation may be given to the obscure allusions in which it is preserved. Finn, son of Folcwalda, king of the Frisians, entertained Hnæf the Dane, along with the Danish warriors, in the castle of Finnesburh. There, for reasons of his own, he attacked the Danes; who kept the hall against him, losing their own leader Hnæf, but making a great slaughter of the Frisians. The _Beowulf_ episode takes up the story at this point. Hnæf was slain in the place of blood. His sister Hildeburg, Finn's wife, had to mourn for brother and son. Hengest succeeded Hnæf in command of the Danes and still kept the hall against the Frisians. Finn was compelled to make terms with the Danes. Hengest and his men were to live among the Frisians with a place of their own, and share alike with Finn's household in all the gifts of the king. Finn bound himself by an oath that Hengest and his men should be free of blame and reproach, and that he would hold any Frisian guilty who should cast it up against the Danes that they had followed their lord's slayer.[19] Then, after the oaths, was held the funeral of the Danish and the Frisian prince, brother and son of Hildeburg the queen. [Footnote 19: Compare _Cynewulf and Cyneheard_ in the Chronicle (A.D. 755); also the outbreak of enmity, through recollection of old wrongs, in the stories of Alboin, and of the vengeance for Froda (_supra_, pp. 68-70).] Then they went home to Friesland, where Hengest stayed with Finn through the winter. With the spring he set out, meaning vengeance; but he dissembled and rendered homage, and accepted the sword the lord gives his liegeman. Death came upon Finn in his house; for the Danes came back and slew him, and the hall was made red with the Frisian blood. The Danes took Hildeburg and the treasure of Finn and carried the queen and the treasure to Denmark. The whole story, with the exception of the original grievance or grudge of the Frisian king, which is not explained, and the first battle, which is taken as understood, is given in _Beowulf_ as the contents of one poem, delivered in one evening by a harper. It is more complicated than the story of _Hildebrand_, more even than _Waldere_; and more than either of the two chief sections of _Beowulf_ taken singly--"Beowulf in Denmark" and the "Fight with the Dragon." It is far less than the plot of the long _Lay of Brynhild_, in which the whole Niblung history is contained. In its distribution of the action, it corresponds very closely to the story of the death of the Niblungs as given by the _Atlakviða_ and the _Atlamál_. The discrepancies between these latter poems need not be taken into account here. In each of them and in the _Finnesburh_ story there is a double climax; first the wrong, then the vengeance. _Finnesburh_ might also be compared, as far as the arrangement goes, with the _Song of Roland_; the first part gives the treacherous attack and the death of the hero; then comes a pause between the two centres of interest, followed in the second part by expiation of the wrong. The story of _Finnesburh_ is obscure in many respects; the tradition of it has failed to preserve the motive for Finn's attack on his wife's brother, without which the story loses half its value. Something remains, nevertheless, and it is possible to recognise in this episode a greater regard for unity and symmetry of narrative than is to be found in _Beowulf_ taken as a whole. The Lambeth poem of _Finnesburh_ most probably confined itself to the battle in the hall. There is no absolute proof of this, apart from the intensity of its tone, in the extant fragment, which would agree best with a short story limited, like _Hildebrand_, to one adventure. It has all the appearance of a short lay, a single episode. Such a poem might end with the truce of Finn and Hengest, and an anticipation of the Danes' vengeance: It is marvel an the red blood run not, as the rain does in the street. Yet the stress of this adventure is not greater than that of Roland, which does not end at Roncesvalles; it may be that the _Finnesburh_ poem went on to some of the later events, as told in the _Finnesburh_ abridgment in _Beowulf_. The story of Walter of Aquitaine as represented by the two fragments of old English verse is not greatly inconsistent with the same story in its Latin form of _Waltharius_. The Latin verses of _Waltharius_ tell the story of the flight of Walter and Hildegund from the house of Attila, and of the treacherous attack on Walter by Gunther, king of the Franks, against the advice, but with the unwilling consent, of Hagen, his liegeman and Walter's friend. Hagen, Hildegund, and Walter were hostages with Attila from the Franks, Burgundians, and Aquitanians. They grew up together at the Court of Attila till Gunther, son of Gibicho, became king of the Franks and refused tribute to the Huns. Then Hagen escaped and went home. Walter and Hildegund were lovers, and they, too, thought of flight, and escaped into the forests, westward, with a great load of treasure, and some fowling and fishing gear for the journey. After they had crossed the Rhine, they were discovered by Hagen; and Gunther, with twelve of the Franks, went after them to take the Hunnish treasure: Hagen followed reluctantly. The pursuers came up with Walter as he was asleep in a hold among the hills, a narrow green place with overhanging cliffs all round, and a narrow path leading up to it. Hildegund awakened Walter, and he went and looked down at his adversaries. Walter offered terms, through the mediation of Hagen, but Gunther would have none of them, and the fight began. The Latin poem describes with great spirit how one after another the Franks went up against Walter: Camelo (ll. 664-685), Scaramundus (686-724), Werinhardus the bowman (725-755), Ekevrid the Saxon (756-780), who went out jeering at Walter; Hadavartus (781-845), Patavrid (846-913), Hagen's sister's son, whose story is embellished with a diatribe on avarice; Gerwicus (914-940), fighting to avenge his companions and restore their honour-- Is furit ut caesos mundet vindicta sodales; but he, too, fell-- Exitiumque dolens, pulsabat calcibus arvum. Then there was a breathing-space, before Randolf, the eighth of them, made trial of Walter's defence (962-981). After him came Eleuther, whose other name was Helmnod, with a harpoon and a line, and the line was held by Trogus, Tanastus, and the king; Hagen still keeping aloof, though he had seen his nephew killed. The harpoon failed; three Frankish warriors were added to the slain; the king and Hagen were left (l. 1060). Gunther tried to draw Hagen into the fight. Hagen refused at first, but gave way at last, on account of the slaying of his nephew. He advised a retreat for the night, and an attack on Walter when he should have left the fastness. And so the day ended. Walter and Hildegund took turns to watch, Hildegund singing to awaken Walter when his turn came. They left their hold in the morning; but they had not gone a mile when Hildegund, looking behind, saw two men coming down a hill after them. These were Gunther and Hagen, and they had come for Walter's life. Walter sent Hildegund with the horse and its burden into the wood for safety, while he took his stand on rising ground. Gunther jeered at him as he came up; Walter made no answer to him, but reproached Hagen, his old friend. Hagen defended himself by reason of the vengeance due for his nephew; and so they fought, with more words of scorn. Hagen lost his eye, and Gunther his leg, and Walter's right hand was cut off by Hagen; and "this was their sharing of the rings of Attila!"-- Sic, sic, armillas partiti sunt Avarenses (l. 1404). Walter and Hildegund were king and queen of Aquitaine, but of his later wars and victories the tale has no more to tell. Of the two old English fragments of this story the first contains part of a speech of Hildegund[20] encouraging Walter. [Footnote 20: Hildegyth, her English name, is unfortunately not preserved in either of the fragmentary leaves. It is found (Hildigið) in the _Liber Vitae_ (Sweet, _Oldest English Texts_, p. 155).] Its place appears to be in the pause of the fight, when the Frankish champions have been killed, and Gunther and Hagen are alone. The speech is rhetorical: "Thou hast the sword Mimming, the work of Weland, that fails not them that wield it. Be of good courage, captain of Attila; never didst thou draw back to thy hold for all the strokes of the foeman; nay, my heart was afraid because of thy rashness. Thou shalt break the boast of Gunther; he came on without a cause, he refused the offered gifts; he shall return home empty-handed, if he return at all." That is the purport of it. The second fragment is a debate between Gunther and Walter. It begins with the close of a speech of Gunther (Guðhere) in which there are allusions to other parts of the heroic cycle, such as are common in _Beowulf_. The allusion here is to one of the adventures of Widia, Weland's son; how he delivered Theodoric from captivity, and of Theodoric's gratitude. The connexion is obscure, but the reference is of great value as proving the resemblance of narrative method in _Waldere_ and _Beowulf_, not to speak of the likeness to the Homeric way of quoting old stories. Waldere answers, and this is the substance of his argument: "Lo, now, Lord of the Burgundians, it was thy thought that Hagena's hand should end my fighting. Come then and win my corselet, my father's heirloom, from the shoulders weary of war."[21] [Footnote 21: The resemblance to Hildebrand, l. 58, is pointed out by Sophus Bugge: "Doh maht du nu aodlihho, ibu dir din ellen taoc, In sus heremo man hrusti giwinnan." (Hildebrand speaks): "Easily now mayest thou win the spoils of so old a man, if thy strength avail thee." It is remarkable as evidence of the strong conventional character of the Teutonic poetry, and of the community of the different nations in the poetical convention, that two short passages like _Hildebrand_ and _Waldere_ should present so many points of likeness to other poems, in details of style. Thus the two lines quoted from _Hildebrand_ as a parallel to _Waldere_ contain also the equivalent of the Anglo-Saxon phrase, _Þonne his ellen deah_, a familiar part of the Teutonic _Gradus_.] The fragment closes with a pious utterance of submission to heaven, by which the poem is shown to be of the same order as _Beowulf_ in this respect also, as well as others, that it is affected by a turn for edification, and cannot stand as anything like a pure example of the older kind of heroic poetry. The phrasing here is that of the Anglo-Saxon secondary poems; the common religious phrasing that came into vogue and supplemented the old heathen poetical catch-words. The style of _Waldere_ makes it probable that the action of the story was not hurried unduly. If the author kept the same proportion throughout, his poem may have been almost as long as _Waltharius_. It is probable that the fight among the rocks was described in detail; the _Maldon_ poem may show how such a subject could be managed in old English verse, and how the matter of _Waltharius_ may have been expressed in _Waldere_. Roughly speaking, there is about as much fighting in the three hundred and twenty-five lines of _Maldon_ as in double the number of hexameters in _Waltharius_; but the _Maldon_ poem is more concise than the extant fragments of _Waldere_. _Waldere_ may easily have taken up more than a thousand lines. The Latin and the English poems are not in absolute agreement. The English poet knew that Guðhere, Guntharius, was Burgundian, not Frank; and an expression in the speech of Hildegyth suggests that the fight in the narrow pass was not so exact a succession of single combats as in _Waltharius_. The poem of _Maldon_ is more nearly related in its style to _Waldere_ and _Beowulf_ than to the _Finnesburh_ fragment. The story of the battle has considerable likeness to the story of the fight at Finnesburh. The details, however, are given in a fuller and more capable way, at greater length. _Beowulf_ has been commonly regarded as exceptional, on account of its length and complexity, among the remains of the old Teutonic poetry. This view is hardly consistent with a right reading of _Waldere_, or of _Maldon_ either, for that matter. It is not easy to make any great distinction between _Beowulf_ and _Waldere_ in respect of the proportions of the story. The main action of _Beowulf_ is comparable in extent with the action of _Waltharius_. The later adventure of _Beowulf_ has the character of a sequel, which extends the poem, to the detriment of its proportions, but without adding any new element of complexity to the epic form. Almost all the points in which the manner of _Beowulf_ differs from that of _Finnesburh_ may be found in _Waldere_ also, and are common to _Waldere_ and _Beowulf_ in distinction from _Hildebrand_ and _Finnesburh_. The two poems, the poem of _Beowulf_ and the fragments of _Waldere_, seem to be alike in the proportion they allow to dramatic argument, and in their manner of alluding to heroic matters outside of their own proper stories, not to speak of their affinities of ethical tone and sentiment. The time of the whole action of _Beowulf_ is long. The poem, however, falls naturally into two main divisions--_Beowulf in Denmark_, and the _Death of Beowulf_. If it is permissible to consider these for the present as two separate stories, then it may be affirmed that in none of the stories preserved in the old poetic form of England and the German Continent is there any great length or complexity. _Hildebrand_, a combat; _Finnesburh_, a defence of a house; _Waldere_, a champion beset by his enemies; _Beowulf in Denmark_, the hero as a deliverer from pests; _Beowulf's Death_ in one action; _Maldon_ the last battle of an English captain; these are the themes, and they are all simple. There is more complexity in the story of _Finnesburh_, as reported in _Beowulf_, than in all the rest; but even that story appears to have observed as much as possible the unity of action. The epic singer at the court of the Dane appears to have begun, not with the narrative of the first contest, but immediately after that, assuming that part of the story as known, in order to concentrate attention on the vengeance, on the penalty exacted from Finn the Frisian for his treachery to his guests. Some of the themes may have less in them than others, but there is no such variety of scale among them as will be found in the Northern poems. There seems to be a general agreement of taste among the Western German poets and audiences, English and Saxon, as to the right compass of an heroic lay. When the subject was a foreign one, as in the _Hêliand_, in the poems of _Genesis_ and _Exodus_, in _Andreas_, or _Elene_, there might be room for the complexity and variety of the foreign model. The poem of _Judith_ may be considered as a happy instance in which the foreign document has of itself, by a pre-established harmony, conformed to an old German fashion. In the original story of _Judith_ the unities are observed in the very degree that was suited to the ways of the Anglo-Saxon poetry. It is hazardous to speak generally of a body of poetry so imperfectly represented in extant literature, but it is at any rate permissible to say that the extant heroic poems, saved out of the wreck of the Western Teutonic poetry, show a strong regard for unity of action, in every case except that of _Beowulf_; while in that case there are two stories--a story and a sequel--each observing a unity within its own limit. Considered apart from the Northern poems, the poems of England and Germany give indication of a progress in style from a more archaic and repressed, to a more developed and more prolix kind of narrative. The difference is considerable between _Hildebrand_ and _Waldere_, between _Finnesburh_ and _Beowulf_. It is the change and development in style, rather than any increase in the complexity of the themes, that accounts for the difference in scale between the shorter and the longer poems. For the natural history of poetical forms this point is of the highest importance. The Teutonic poetry shows that epic may be developed out of short lays through a gradual increase of ambition and of eloquence in the poets who deal with common themes. There is no question here of the process of agglutination and contamination whereby a number of short lays are supposed to be compounded into an epic poem. Of that process it may be possible to find traces in _Beowulf_ and elsewhere. But quite apart from that, there is the process by which an archaic stiff manner is replaced by greater freedom, without any loss of unity in the plot. The story of Walter of Aquitaine is as simple as the story of Hildebrand. The difference between _Hildebrand_ and _Waldere_ is the difference between an archaic and an accomplished mode of narrative, and this difference is made by a change in spirit and imagination, not by a process of agglutination. To make the epic of _Waldere_ it was not necessary to cobble together a number of older lays on separate episodes. It was possible to keep the original plan of the old story in its simplest irreducible form, and still give it the force and magnificence of a lofty and eloquent style. It was for the attainment of this pitch of style that the heroic poetry laboured in _Waldere_ and _Beowulf_, with at least enough success to make these poems distinct from the rest in this group. With all the differences among them, the continental and English poems, _Hildebrand_, _Waldere_, and the rest, form a group by themselves, with certain specific qualities of style distinguishing them from the Scandinavian heroic poetry. The history of the Scandinavian poetry is the converse of the English development. Epic poetry in the North becomes more and more hopeless as time goes on, and with some exceptions tends further and further away from the original type which was common to all the Germans, and from which those common forms and phrases have been derived that are found in the "Poetic Edda" as well as in _Beowulf_ or the _Hêliand_. In England before the old poetry died out altogether there was attained a certain magnitude and fulness of narrative by which the English poems are distinguished, and in virtue of which they may claim the title _epic_ in no transferred or distorted sense of the term. In the North a different course is taken. There seems indeed, in the _Atlamál_ especially, a poem of exceptional compass and weight among those of the North, to have been something like the Western desire for a larger scale of narrative poem. But the rhetorical expansion of the older forms into an equable and deliberate narrative was counteracted by the still stronger affection for lyrical modes of speech, for impassioned, abrupt, and heightened utterance. No epic solidity or composure could be obtained in the fiery Northern verse; the poets could not bring themselves into the frame of mind required for long recitals; they had no patience for the intervals necessary, in epic as in dramatic poetry, between the critical moments. They would have everything equally full of energy, everything must be emphatic and telling. But with all this, the Northern heroic poems are in some of their elements strongly allied to the more equable and duller poems of the West; there is a strong element of epic in their lyrical dialogues and monologues, and in their composition and arrangement of plots. THE NORTHERN GROUP In comparing the English and the Northern poems, it should be borne in mind that the documents of the Northern poetry are hardly sufficient evidence of the condition of Northern epic at its best. The English documents are fragmentary, indeed, but at least they belong to a time in which the heroic poetry was attractive and well appreciated; as is proved by the wonderful freshness of the _Maldon_ poem, late though it is. The Northern poems seem to have lost their vogue and freshness before they came to be collected and written down. They were imperfectly remembered and reported; the text of them is broken and confused, and the gaps are made up with prose explanations. The fortunate preservation of a second copy of _Volospá_, in Hauk's book, has further multiplied labours and perplexities by a palpable demonstration of the vanity of copiers, and of the casual way in which the strophes of a poem might be shuffled at random in different texts; while the chief manuscript of the poems itself has in some cases double and incongruous versions of the same passage.[22] [Footnote 22: Cf. _C.P.B._, i. p. 375, for double versions of part of _Hamðismál_, and of the _Lay of Helgi_. On pp. 377-379, parts of the two texts of _Volospá_--R and H--are printed side by side for comparison.] The _Codex Regius_ contains a number of poems that can only be called _epic_ in the widest and loosest sense of the term, and some that are not _epic_ in any sense at all. The gnomic verses, the mythological summaries, may be passed over for the present; whatever illustrations they afford of early beliefs and ideas, they have no evidence to give concerning the proportions of stories. Other poems in the collection come under the denomination of epic only by a rather liberal extension of the term to include poems which are no more epic than dramatic, and just as much the one as the other, like the poems of _Frey's Wooing_ and of the earlier exploits of Sigurd, which tell their story altogether by means of dialogue, without any narrative passages at all. The links and explanations are supplied, in prose, in the manuscript. Further, among the poems which come nearer to the English form of narrative poetry there is the very greatest variety of scale. The amount of story told in the Northern poems may vary indefinitely within the widest limits. Some poems contain little more than an idyll of a single scene; others may give an abstract of a whole history, as the whole Volsung story is summarised, for instance, in the _Prophecy of Gripir_. Some of the poems are found in such a confused and fragmentary form, with interruptions and interpolations, that, although it is possible to make out the story, it is hardly possible to give any confident judgment about the original proportions of the poems. This is particularly the case with the poems in which the hero bears the name of Helgi. The difficulties of these were partly appreciated, but not solved, by the original editor. The differences of scale may be illustrated by the following summary description, which aims at little more than a rough measurement of the stories, for purposes of comparison with _Beowulf_ and _Waldere_. The _Lay of Weland_ gives a whole mythical history. How Weland and his brother met with the swan-maidens, how the swan-brides left them in the ninth year, how Weland Smith was taken prisoner by King Nidad, and hamstrung, and set to work for the king; and of the vengeance of Weland. There are one hundred and fifty-nine lines, but in the text there are many defective places. The _Lay_ is a ballad history, beginning at the beginning, and ending, not with the end of the life of Weland, nor with the adventures of his son Widia, but with the escape of Weland from the king, his enemy, after he had killed the king's sons and put shame on the king's daughter Bodvild. In plan, the _Lay of Weland_ is quite different from the lays of the adventures of Thor, the _Þrymskviða_ and the _Hymiskviða_, the songs of the Hammer and the Cauldron. These are chapters, episodes, in the history of Thor, not summaries of the whole matter, such as is the poem of _Weland_. The stories of Helgi Hundingsbane, and of his namesakes, as has been already remarked, are given in a more than usually complicated and tangled form. At first everything is simple enough. A poem of the life of Helgi begins in a way that promises a mode of narrative fuller and less abrupt than the _Lay of Weland_. It tells of the birth of Helgi, son of Sigmund; of the coming of the Norns to make fast the threads of his destiny; of the gladness and the good hopes with which his birth was welcomed. Then the _Lay of Helgi_ tells, very briefly, how he slew King Hunding, how the sons of Hunding made claims for recompense. "But the prince would make no payment of amends; he bade them look for no payment, but for the strong storm, for the grey spears, and for the rage of Odin."[23] And the sons of Hunding were slain as their father had been. [Footnote 23: Cf. _Maldon_, l. 45 _sq._, "Hearest thou what this people answer? They will pay you, for tribute, spears, the deadly point, the old swords, the weapons of war that profit you not," etc.] Then the main interest begins, the story of Helgi and Sigrun. "A light shone forth from the Mountains of Flame, and lightnings followed." There appeared to Helgi, in the air, a company of armed maidens riding across the field of heaven; "their armour was stained with blood, and light went forth from their spears." Sigrun from among the other "ladies of the South" answered Helgi, and called on him for help; her father Hogni had betrothed her, against her will, to Hodbrodd, son of Granmar. Helgi summoned his men to save her from this loathed wedding. The battle in which Helgi slew his enemies and won the lady of the air is told very shortly, while disproportionate length is given to an interlude of vituperative dialogue between two heroes, Sinfiotli, Helgi's brother, and Gudmund, son of Granmar, the warden of the enemy's coast; this passage of _Vetus Comoedia_ takes up fifty lines, while only six are given to the battle, and thirteen to the meeting of Helgi and Sigrun afterwards. Here ends the poem which is described in _Codex Regius_ as the _Lay of Helgi_ (_Helgakviða_). The story is continued in the next section in a disorderly way, by means of ill-connected quotations. The original editor, whether rightly or wrongly, is quite certain that the _Lay of Helgi_, which ends with the victory of Helgi over the unamiable bridegroom, is a different poem from that which he proceeds to quote as the _Old Lay of the Volsungs_, in which the same story is told. In this second version there is at least one interpolation from a third; a stanza from a poem in the "dialogue measure," which is not the measure in which the rest of the story is told. It is uncertain what application was meant to be given to the title _Old Lay of the Volsungs_, and whether the editor included under that title the whole of his second version of Helgi and Sigrun. For instance, he gives another version of the railing verses of Sinfiotli, which he may or may not have regarded as forming an essential part of his _Old Volsung Lay_. He distinguishes it at any rate from the other "Flyting," which he definitely and by name ascribes to _Helgakviða_. It is in this second version of the story of Helgi that the tragedy is worked out. Helgi slays the father of Sigrun in his battle against the bridegroom's kindred: Sigrun's brother takes vengeance. The space is scant enough for all that is told in it; scant, that is to say, in comparison with the space of the story of Beowulf; though whether the poem loses, as poetry, by this compression is another matter. It is here, in connexion with the second version, that the tragedy is followed by the verses of the grief of Sigrun, and the return of Helgi from the dead; the passage of mystery, the musical close, in which the tragic idea is changed into something less distinct than tragedy, yet without detriment to the main action. Whatever may be the critical solution of the textual problems of these _Lays_, it is impossible to get out of the text any form of narrative that shall resemble the English mode. Even where the story of Helgi is slowest, it is quicker, more abrupt, and more lyrical even than the _Lay of Finnesburh_, which is the quickest in movement of the English poems. The story of Helgi and Sigrun is intelligible, and though incomplete, not yet so maimed as to have lost its proportions altogether. Along with it, however, in the manuscript there are other, even more difficult fragments of poems about another Helgi, son of Hiorvard, and his love for another Valkyria, Swava. And yet again there are traces of a third Helgi, with a history of his own. The editors of _Corpus Poeticum Boreale_ have accepted the view of the three Helgis that is indicated by the prose passages of the manuscript here; namely, that the different stories are really of the same persons born anew, "to go through the same life-story, though with varying incidents."[24] "Helgi and Swava, it is said, were born again," is the note in the manuscript. "There was a king named Hogni, and his daughter was Sigrun. She was a Valkyria and rode over air and sea; _she was Swava born again_." And, after the close of the story of Sigrun, "it was a belief in the old days that men were born again, but that is now reckoned old wives' fables. Helgi and Sigrun, it is reported, were born anew, and then he was Helgi Haddingjaskati, and she Kara, Halfdan's daughter, as is told in the songs of Kara, and she was a Valkyria." [Footnote 24: _C.P.B._, i. p. 130.] It is still possible to regard the "old wives' fable" (which is a common element in Celtic legend and elsewhere) as something unessential in the poems of Helgi; as a popular explanation intended to reconcile different myths attaching to the name. However that may be, the poems of _Helgi and Swava_ are so fragmentary and confused, and so much has to be eked out with prose, that it is impossible to say what the complete form and scale of the poetical story may have been, and even difficult to be certain that it was ever anything else than fragments. As they stand, the remains are like those of the story of Angantyr; prominent passages quoted by a chronicler, who gives the less important part of the story in prose, either because he has forgotten the rest of the poem, or because the poem was made in that way to begin with. Of the poem of _Kara_, mentioned in the manuscript, there is nothing left except what can be restored by a conjectural transference of some verses, given under the name of Helgi and Sigrun, to this third mysterious plot. The conjectures are supported by the reference to the third story in the manuscript, and by the fact that certain passages which do not fit in well to the story of Helgi and Sigrun, where they are placed by the collector, correspond with prose passages in the late Icelandic romance of _Hromund Greipsson_,[25] in which Kara is introduced. [Footnote 25: _C.P.B._, Introduction, p. lxxviii.] The story of Helgi and Swava is one that covers a large period of time, though the actual remnants of the story are small. It is a tragedy of the early Elizabethan type described by Sir Philip Sidney, which begins with the wooing of the hero's father and mother. The hero is dumb and nameless from his birth, until the Valkyria, Swava, meets him and gives him his name, Helgi; and tells him of a magic sword in an island, that will bring him victory. The tragedy is brought about by a witch who drives Hedin, the brother of Helgi, to make a foolish boast, an oath on the Boar's head (like the vows of the Heron or the Peacock, and the _gabs_ of the Paladins of France) that he will wed his brother's bride. Hedin confesses his vanity to Helgi, and is forgiven, Helgi saying, "Who knows but the oath may be fulfilled? I am on my way to meet a challenge." Helgi is wounded mortally, and sends a message to Swava to come to him, and prays her after his death to take Hedin for her lord. The poem ends with two short energetic speeches: of Swava refusing to have any love but Helgi's; and of Hedin bidding farewell to Swava as he goes to make amends, and avenge his brother. These fragments, though their evidence tells little regarding epic scale or proportions, are, at least, illustrations of the nature of the stories chosen for epic narrative. The character of Hedin, his folly and magnanimity, is in strong contrast to that of Dag, the brother of Sigrun, who makes mischief in the other poem. The character of Swava is a fainter repetition of Sigrun. Nothing very definite can be made out of any of the Helgi poems with regard to the conventions of scale in narrative; except that the collector of the poems was himself in difficulties in this part of his work, and that he knew he had no complete poem to offer his readers, except perhaps the _Helgakviða_. The poem named by the Oxford editors "The Long Lay of Brunhild" (i. p. 293) is headed in the manuscript "Qviða Sigurþar," _Lay of Sigurd_, and referred to, in the prose gloss of _Codex Regius_, as "The Short Lay of Sigurd."[26] This is one of the most important of the Northern heroic lays, in every respect; and, among other reasons, as an example of definite artistic calculation and study, a finished piece of work. It shows the difference between the Northern and the Western standards of epic measurement. The poem is one that gives the whole of the tragedy in no longer space than is used in the poem of _Maldon_ for the adventures of a few hours of battle. There are 288 lines, not all complete. [Footnote 26: The "Long Lay of Sigurd" has disappeared. Cf. Heusler, _Die Lieder der Lücke im Codex Regius der Edda_, 1902.] There are many various modes of representation in the poem. The beginning tells the earlier story of Sigurd and Brynhild in twenty lines:-- It was in the days of old that Sigurd, the young Volsung, the slayer of Fafni, came to the house of Giuki. He took the troth-plight of two brothers; the doughty heroes gave oaths one to another. They offered him the maid Gudrun, Giuki's daughter, and store of treasure; they drank and took counsel together many a day, Child Sigurd and the sons of Giuki; until they went to woo Brynhild, and Sigurd the Volsung rode in their company; he was to win her if he could get her. The Southern hero laid a naked sword, a falchion graven, between them twain; nor did the Hunnish king ever kiss her, neither take her into his arms; he handed the young maiden over to Giuki's son. She knew no guilt in her life, nor was any evil found in her when she died, no blame in deed or thought. The grim Fates came between.[27] [Footnote 27: From _C.P.B._, i. pp. 293, 294, with some modifications.] "It was the Fates that worked them ill." This sententious close of the prologue introduces the main story, chiefly dramatic in form, in which Brynhild persuades Gunnar to plan the death of Sigurd, and Gunnar persuades Hogni. It is love for Sigurd, and jealousy of Gudrun, that form the motive of Brynhild. Gunnar's conduct is barely intelligible; there is no explanation of his compliance with Brynhild, except the mere strength of her importunity. Hogni is reluctant, and remembers the oaths sworn to Sigurd. Gothorm, their younger brother, is made their instrument,--he was "outside the oaths." The slaying of Sigurd by Gothorm, and Sigurd's dying stroke that cuts his slayer in two, are told in the brief manner of the prologue to the poem; likewise the grief of Gudrun. Then comes Sigurd's speech to Gudrun before his death. The principal part of the poem, from line 118 to the end, is filled by the storm in the mind of Brynhild: her laughter at the grief of Gudrun, her confession of her own sorrows, and her preparation for death; the expostulations of Gunnar, the bitter speech of Hogni,--"Let no man stay her from her long journey"; the stroke of the sword with which Brynhild gives herself the death-wound; her dying prophecy. In this last speech of Brynhild, with all its vehemence, there is manifest care on the part of the author to bring out clearly his knowledge of the later fortunes of Gudrun and Gunnar. The prophecy includes the birth of Swanhild, the marriage of Attila and Gudrun, the death of Gunnar at the hands of Attila, by reason of the love between Gudrun and Oddrun; the vengeance of Gudrun on Attila, the third marriage of Gudrun, the death of Swanhild among the Goths. With all this, and carrying all this burden of history, there is the passion of Brynhild, not wholly obscured or quenched by the rhetorical ingenuity of the poet. For it is plain that the poet was an artist capable of more than one thing at a time. He was stirred by the tragic personage of Brynhild; he was also pleased, intellectually and dispassionately, with his design of grouping together in one composition all the events of the tragic history. The poem is followed by the short separate Lay (forty-four lines) of the _Hell-ride of Brynhild_, which looks as if it might have been composed by the same or another poet, to supply some of the history wanting at the beginning of the _Lay of Brynhild_. Brynhild, riding Hell-ward with Sigurd, from the funeral pile where she and Sigurd had been laid by the Giuking lords, is encountered by a giantess who forbids her to pass through her "rock-built courts," and cries shame upon her for her guilt. Brynhild answers with the story of her evil fate, how she was a Valkyria, punished by Odin for disobedience, set in the ring of flame, to be released by none but the slayer of Fafni; how she had been beguiled in Gunnar's wooing, and how Gudrun cast it in her teeth. This supplies the motive for the anger of Brynhild against Sigurd, not clearly expressed in the _Lay_, and also for Gunnar's compliance with her jealous appeal, and Hogni's consent to the death of Sigurd. While, in the same manner as in the _Lay_, the formalism and pedantry of the historical poet are burnt up in the passion of the heroine. "Sorrow is the portion of the life of all men and women born: we two, I and Sigurd, shall be parted no more for ever." The latter part of the _Lay_, the long monologue of Brynhild, is in form like the _Lamentation of Oddrun_ and the idyll of Gudrun and Theodoric; though, unlike those poems, it has a fuller narrative introduction: the monologue does not begin until the situation has been explained. On the same subject, but in strong contrast with the _Lay of Brynhild_, is the poem that has lost its beginning in the great gap in _Codex Regius_. It is commonly referred to in the editions as the _Fragmentary Lay of Sigurd_ ("Brot af Sigurðarkviðu"); in the Oxford edition it is styled the "Fragment of a short Brunhild Lay." There are seventy-six lines (incomplete) beginning with the colloquy of Gunnar and Hogni. Here also the character of Brynhild is the inspiration of the poet. But there does not seem to have been in his mind anything like the historical anxiety of the other poet to account for every incident, or at least to show that, if he wished, he could account for every incident, in the whole story. It is much stronger in expression, and the conception of Brynhild is more dramatic and more imaginative, though less eloquent, than in the longer poem. The phrasing is short and emphatic:-- Gudrun, Giuki's daughter, stood without, and this was the first word she spoke: "Where is Sigurd, the king of men, that my brothers are riding in the van?" Hogni made answer to her words: "We have hewn Sigurd asunder with the sword; ever the grey horse droops his head over the dead king." Then spake Brynhild, Budli's daughter: "Have great joy of your weapons and hands. Sigurd would have ruled everything as he chose, if he had kept his life a little longer. It was not meet that he should so rule over the host of the Goths and the heritage of Giuki, who begat five sons that delighted in war and in the havoc of battle." Brynhild laughed, the whole house rang: "Have long joy of your hands and weapons, since ye have slain the valiant king."[28] [Footnote 28: From _C.P.B._, i. p. 307, with some changes.] The mood of Brynhild is altered later, and she "weeps at that she had laughed at." She wakens before the day, chilled by evil dreams. "It was cold in the hall, and cold in the bed," and she had seen in her sleep the end of the Niblungs, and woke, and reproached Gunnar with the treason to his friend. It is difficult to estimate the original full compass of this fragmentary poem, but the scale of its narrative and its drama can be pretty clearly understood from what remains. It is a poem with nothing superfluous in it. The death of Sigurd does not seem to have been given in any detail, except for the commentary spoken by the eagle and the raven, prophetic of the doom of the Niblungs. The mystery of Brynhild's character is curiously recognised by a sort of informal chorus. It is said that "they were stricken silent as she spoke, and none could understand her bearing, that she should weep to speak of that for which she had besought them laughing." It is one of the simplest forms in narrative; but in this case the simplicity of the rhetoric goes along with some variety and subtlety of dramatic imagination. The character of the heroine is rightly imagined and strongly rendered, and her change of mind is impressive, as the author plainly meant it to be. The _Lay of Attila_ (_Atlakviða_) and the Greenland poem of _Attila_ (_Atlamál_) are two poems which have a common subject and the same amount of story: how Attila sent for Gunnar and Hogni, the brothers of Gudrun, and had them put to death, and how Gudrun took vengeance on Attila. In the _Atlakviða_ there are 174 lines, and some broken places; in _Atlamál_ there are 384 lines; its narrative is more copious than in most of the Norse Lays. There are some curious discrepancies in the matter of the two poems, but these hardly affect the scale of the story. The difference between them in this respect is fairly represented by the difference in the number of their lines. The scenes of the history are kept in similar proportions in both poems. The story of Gudrun's vengeance has been seen (p. 83) to correspond, as far as the amount of action is concerned, pretty closely with the story of Hengest and Finn. The epic unity is preserved; and, as in the _Finnesburh_ story, there is a distribution of interest between the _wrong_ and the _vengeance_,--(1) the death of Hnæf, the death of Gunnar and Hogni; (2) the vengeance of Hengest, the vengeance of Gudrun, with an interval of dissimulation in each case. The plot of the death of Attila, under all its manifold variations, is never without a certain natural fitness for consistent and well-proportioned narrative. None of the Northern poems take any account of the theory that the murder of Sigfred was avenged by his wife upon her brothers. That theory belongs to the _Nibelungenlied_; in some form or other it was known to Saxo; it is found in the Danish ballad of _Grimild's Revenge_, a translation or adaptation from the German. That other conception of the story may be more full of tragic meaning; the Northern versions, which agree in making Attila the slayer of the Niblung kings, have the advantage of greater concentration. The motive of Attila, which is different in each of the poems on this subject, is in no case equal to the tragic motive of Kriemhild in the _Nibelungen_. On the other hand, the present interest of the story is not distracted by reference to the long previous history of Sigfred; a new start is made when the Niblungs are invited to Attila's Court. The situation is intelligible at once, without any long preliminary explanation. In the _Lay of Attila_ the hoard of the Niblungs comes into the story; its fatal significance is recognised; it is the "metal of discord" that is left in the Rhine for ever. But the situation can be understood without any long preliminary history of the Niblung treasure and its fate. Just as the story of _Waldere_ explains itself at once,--a man defending his bride and his worldly wealth against a number of enemies, in a place where he is able to take them one by one, as they come on,--so the story of _Attila_ can begin without long preliminaries; though the previous history is to be found, in tradition, in common stories, if any one cares to ask for it. The plot is intelligible in a moment: the brothers inveigled away and killed by their sister's husband (for reasons of his own, as to which the versions do not agree); their sister's vengeance by the sacrifice of her own children and the death of her husband. In the _Atlamál_ there is very much less recognition of the previous history than in _Atlakviða_. The story begins at once with the invitation to the Niblung brothers and with their sister's warning. Attila's motive is not emphasised; he has a grudge against them on account of the death of Brynhild his sister, but his motive is not very necessary for the story, as the story is managed here. The present scene and the present passion are not complicated with too much reference to the former history of the personages. This mode of procedure will be found to have given some trouble to the author, but the result at any rate is a complete and rounded work. There is great difference of treatment between _Atlakviða_ and the Greenland poem _Atlamál_, a difference which is worth some further consideration.[29] There is, however, no very great difference of scale; at any rate, the difference between them becomes unimportant when they are compared with _Beowulf_. Even the more prolix of the two, which in some respects is the fullest and most elaborate of the Northern heroic poems, yet comes short of the English scale. _Atlamál_ takes up very little more than the space of the English poem of _Maldon_, which is a simple narrative of a battle, with nothing like the tragic complexity and variety of the story of the vengeance of Gudrun. [Footnote 29: See pp. 150-156 below.] There is yet another version of the death of Gunnar the Giuking to compare with the two poems of _Attila_--the _Lament of Oddrun_ (_Oddrúnargrátr_), which precedes the _Atlakviða_ in the manuscript. The form of this, as well as the plot of it, is wonderfully different from either of the other two poems. This is one of the epic or tragic idylls in which a passage of heroic legend is told dramatically by one who had a share in it. Here the death of Gunnar is told by Oddrun his mistress, the sister of Attila. This form of indirect narration, by giving so great a dramatic value to the person of the narrator, before the beginning of her story, of course tends to depreciate or to exclude the vivid dramatic scenes that are common everywhere else in the Northern poems. The character of the speaker leaves too little independence to the other characters. But in none of the poems is the tragic plot more strongly drawn out than in the seventy lines of Oddrun's story to Borgny. The father of Oddrun, Brynhild, and Attila had destined Oddrun to be the bride of Gunnar, but it was Brynhild that he married. Then came the anger of Brynhild against Sigurd, the death of Sigurd, the death of Brynhild that is renowned over all the world. Gunnar sought the hand of Oddrun from her brother Attila, but Attila would not accept the price of the bride from the son of Giuki. The love of Oddrun was given to Gunnar. "I gave my love to Gunnar as Brynhild should have loved him. We could not withstand our love: I kept troth with Gunnar." The lovers were betrayed to Attila, who would not believe the accusation against his sister; "yet no man should pledge his honour for the innocence of another, when it is a matter of love." At last he was persuaded, and laid a plot to take vengeance on the Niblungs; Gudrun knew nothing of what was intended. The death of Gunnar and Hogni is told in five-and-twenty lines:-- There was din of the hoofs of gold when the sons of Giuki rode into the Court. The heart was cut out of the body of Hogni; his brother they set in the pit of snakes. The wise king smote on his harp, for he thought that I should come to his help. Howbeit I was gone to the banquet at the house of Geirmund. From Hlessey I heard how the strings rang loud. I called to my handmaidens to rise and go; I sought to save the life of the prince; we sailed across the sound, till we saw the halls of Attila. But the accursed serpent crept to the heart of Gunnar, so that I might not save the life of the king. Full oft I wonder how I keep my life after him, for I thought I loved him like myself. Thou hast sat and listened while I have told thee many evils of my lot and theirs. The life of a man is as his thoughts are. The Lamentation of Oddrun is finished. The _Hamðismál_, the poem of the death of Ermanaric, is one that, in its proportions, is not unlike the _Atlakviða_: the plot has been already described (pp. 70-71). The poem of 130 lines as it stands has suffered a good deal. This also is like the story of Hengest and the story of Gudrun in the way the action is proportioned. It began with the slaying of Swanhild, the wrong to Gudrun--this part is lost. It goes on to the speech of Gudrun to her sons, Sorli and Hamther, and their expedition to the hall of the Goth; it ends with their death. In this case, also, the action must have begun at once and intelligibly, as soon as the motive of the Gothic treachery and cruelty was explained, or even without that explanation, in the more immediate sense of the treachery and cruelty, in the story of Swanhild trampled to death, and of the news brought to Gudrun. Here, also, there is much less expansion of the story than in the English poems; everything is surcharged with meaning. The _Old Lay of Gudrun_ (_Guðrúnarkviða in forna_), or the tale of Gudrun to Theodoric, an idyll like the story of Oddrun, goes quickly over the event of the killing of Sigurd, and the return of Grani, masterless. Unlike the _Lament of Oddrun_, this monologue of Gudrun introduces dramatic passages. The meeting of Gudrun and her brother is not merely told by Gudrun in indirect narration; the speeches of Hogni and Gudrun are reported directly, as they might have been in a poem of the form of _Atlakviða_, or the _Lay of Sigurd_, or any other in which the poet tells the story himself, without the introduction of an imaginary narrator. The main part of the poem is an account of the way in which Gudrun's mother, Grimhild, compelled her, by a potion of forgetfulness, to lose the thought of Sigurd and of all her woes, and consent to become the wife of Attila. This part is well prefaced by the quiet account of the life of Gudrun in her widowhood, before Grimhild began her schemes; how Gudrun lived in the house of Half, with Thora, daughter of Hakon, in Denmark, and how the ladies spent their time at the tapestry frame, working pictures of the heroes, the ships of Sigmund, the ranks of Hunnish warriors. In the manuscript there are found at the end of the _Old Lay of Gudrun_, as if they were part of it, some verses which have been separated from it by the editors (_C.P.B._, i. 347) as a "Fragment of an Atli Lay." They came from a poem of which the design, at any rate, was the same as that of the _Old Lay_, and Gudrun is the speaker. She tells how, after the death of Gunnar and Hogni, she was wakened by Atli, to listen to his evil dreams, foreboding his doom, and how she interpreted them in a way to comfort him and put him off his guard. In English poetry there are instances of stories introduced dramatically, long before the pilgrimage to Canterbury. In _Beowulf_ there are various episodes where a story is told by one of the persons engaged. Besides the poem of Hengest chanted in Heorot, there is Beowulf's own narrative of his adventures, after his return to his own people in the kingdom of the Gauts, and passages still nearer in form to the _Lament of Oddrun_ and the _Confession of Gudrun_ are the last speech of Beowulf before his death (2426-2537), and the long speech of Wiglaf (2900-3027) telling of the enmity of the Gauts and the Swedes. But those are not filled with dramatic pathos to the same degree as these Northern _Heroides_, the monologues of Oddrun and Gudrun. The _Lay of Gudrun_ (_Gudrúnarkviða_) which comes in the manuscript immediately before the _Lay of Sigurd_, is a pure heroic idyll. Unlike most of its companions, it leaves the details of the Volsung story very much in neglect, and brings all its force to bear on the representation of the grief of the queen, contrasted with the stormy passion of Brynhild. It is rightly honoured for its pathetic imagination of the dumb grief of Gudrun, broken up and dissolved when her sister draws away the covering from the face of Sigurd. "But fire was kindled in the eyes of Brynhild, daughter of Budli, when she looked upon his wounds." The refrain of the poem increases its resemblance to the form of a Greek idyll. The verse is that of narrative poetry; the refrain is not purely lyrical and does not come in at regular intervals. The _Tregrof Guðrúnar_, or _Chain of Woe_, restored by the Oxford editors out of the most confused part of the original text, is pure lamentation, spoken by Gudrun before her death, recounting all her sorrows: the bright hair of Swanhild trampled in the mire; Sigurd slain in his bed, despoiled of victory; Gunnar in the court of the serpents; the heart of Hogni cut out of his living body--"Saddle thy white steed and come to me, Sigurd; remember what we promised to one another, that thou wouldst come from Hell to seek me, and I would come to thee from the living world." The short poem entitled _Qviða Guðrúnar_ in the manuscript, the _Ordeal of Gudrun_ in the English edition, has a simple plot. The subject is the calumny which was brought against Gudrun by Herkja, the cast-off mistress of Attila (that "she had seen Gudrun and Theodoric together") and the ordeal of water by which Gudrun proved her innocence, while the falsehood was brought home to Herkja, the bondwoman. The theme is slighter than all the rest, and this poem, at least, might be reckoned not unfit to be taken up as a single scene in a long epic. Some of the Northern poems in the epic measure are almost wholly made up of dialogue. The story of _Balder's Doom_ is a dialogue between Odin and the witch whom he raises from the dead. The earlier part of the story of Sigurd in the "Elder Edda" is almost all dialogue, even where the narrative measure is employed. There is hardly any mere narrative in the poems remaining of the cycle of Angantyr. In several other cases, the writer has only given, perhaps has only remembered clearly, the dramatic part of the poems in which he was interested; the intervals of the story he fills up with prose. It is difficult to tell where this want of narrative connexion in the poetry is original, and where it is due to forgetfulness or ignorance; where the prose of the manuscripts is to be taken as standing in the place of lost narrative verses, and where it fills a gap that was never intended to be filled with verse, but was always left to the reciter, to be supplied in his own way by passages of story-telling, between his chantings of the poetic dialogue of Hervor and the Shepherd, for instance, or of Hervor and Angantyr. The poems just mentioned are composed in narrative measure. There are also other dialogue poems in a measure different from this, and peculiarly adapted to dialogues, the measure of the gnomic _Hávamál_ and of the didactic mythological poems, _Vafþrúðnismál_, _Alvíssmál_, _Grímnismál_. These pieces are some distance removed from epic or ballad poetry. But there are others in this gnomic measure which it is not easy to keep far apart from such dialogue poems as _Balder's Doom_, though their verse is different. By their peculiar verse they are distinguished from the English and Saxon heroic poetry; but they retain, for all their peculiar metre and their want of direct narrative, some of the characteristics of Teutonic epic. The _Lokasenna_ has a plot, and represents dramatically an incident in the history of the gods. The chief business is Loki's shameless rehearsal of accusations against the gods, and their helpless rejoinders. It is a masque of the gods, and not a ballad like the _Winning of Thor's Hammer_. It is not, however, a mere string of "flytings" without a plot; there is some plot and action. It is the absence of Thor that gives Loki courage to browbeat the gods; the return of Thor at the end of the poem avenges the gods on their accuser. In the strange poem of the _Railing of Thor and Harbard_, and in a very rough and irregular kind of verse, there is a similar kind of plot. The _Contention of Atli and Rimgerd the Giantess_ is a short comic dialogue, interposed among the fragments of the poem of Helgi Hiorvard's son, and marked off from them by its use of the dialogue verse, as well as by its episodic plot. Helgi Hiorvard's son had killed the giant Hati, and the giant's daughter comes at night where Helgi's ships are moored in the firth, and stands on a rock over them, challenging Helgi and his men. Atli, keeping watch on deck, answers the giantess, and there is an exchange of gibes in the old style between them. Helgi is awakened and joins in the argument. It is good comedy of its kind, and there is poetry in the giantess's description of the company of armed maidens of the air whom she has seen keeping guard over Helgi's ships--"three nines of maids, but one rode foremost, a white maid, enhelmed. Their rearing horses shook dew from their manes into the deep dales, and hail upon the lofty woods; thence come fair seasons among men. But the whole sight was hateful to me" (_C.P.B._, i. p. 154). The giantess is kept there by the gibes of Atli till the daybreak. "Look eastward, now, Rimgerd!" And the giantess is turned into stone, a great harbour mark, to be laughed at. In some other poems there is much more action, and much more need for an interpreter to act as chorus in the intervals between the dialogues. The story of the wooing of Gerd is in this form: how Frey sat in the seat of Odin and saw a fair maid in Jotunheim, and got great sickness of thought, till his swain Skirnir found the cause of his languishing, and went to woo Gerd for him in Gymi's Garth. Another love-story, and a story not unlike that of Frey and Gerd, is contained in two poems _Grógaldr_ and _Fiölsvinnsmál_, that tell of the winning of Menglad by her destined lover. These two latter poems are not in _Codex Regius_, and it was only gradually that their relation to one another was worked out, chiefly by means of the Danish ballad which contains the story of both together in the right order. In the first, Svipdag the hero comes to his mother's grave to call on her for counsel. He has been laid under a mysterious charge, to go on a quest which he cannot understand, "to find out Menglad," and Menglad he has never heard of, and does not know where she is to be found. The second poem, also in dialogue, and in the dialogue measure, gives the coming of Svipdag to the mysterious castle, and his debate with the giant who keeps the gate. For Menglad is the princess whose story is told everywhere, and under a thousand names,--the lady of a strange country, kept under a spell in a witch's castle till the deliverer comes. The wooing of Gerd out of Jotunheim is another version of the same story, which in different forms is one of the oldest and most universal everywhere,--the fairy story of the princess beyond the sea. The second dialogue is very much encumbered by the pedantries of the giant who keeps the gate; it ends, however, in the recognition of Svipdag and Menglad. Menglad says: "Long have I sat waiting for thee, many a day; but now is that befallen that I have sought for, and thou art come to my bower. Great was the sorrow of my waiting; great was thine, waiting for the gladness of love. Now it is very truth for us: the days of our life shall not be sundered." The same form is used in the older poems of Sigurd, those that come before the hiatus of the great manuscript, and have been gathered together in the Oxford edition under the title of the _Old Play of the Wolsungs_. They touch briefly on all the chief points of the story of the Niblung hoard, from the capture and ransom of Andvari to the winning of the warrior maiden Sigrdrifa by Sigurd. All these last-mentioned dialogue poems, in spite of their lyric or elegiac measure, are like the narrative poems in their dependence upon traditional, mythic, or heroic stories, from which they choose their themes. They are not like the lyrical heroic poems of _Widsith_ and _Deor_ in Anglo-Saxon literature, which survey a large tract of heroic legend from a point of vantage. Something of this sort is done by some of the Norse dialogue poems, _Vafþrúðnismál_, etc., but in the poems of Frey and Gerd, of Svipdag and Menglad, and of the Niblung treasure, though this reflective and comparative method occasionally makes itself evident, the interest is that of the story. They have a story to represent, just as much as the narrative poems, though they are debarred from the use of narrative. * * * * * It must be confessed that there is an easily detected ambiguity in the use of the term epic in application to the poems, whether German, English, or Northern, here reviewed. That they are heroic poems cannot be questioned, but that they are epic in any save the most general sense of the term is not quite clear. They may be epic in character, in a general way, but how many of them have a claim to the title in its eminent and special sense? Most of them are short poems; most of them seem to be wanting in the breadth of treatment, in the amplitude of substance, that are proper to epic poetry. _Beowulf_, it may be admitted, is epic in the sense that distinguishes between the longer narrative poem and the shorter ballad. The fragments of _Waldere_ are the fragments of a poem that is not cramped for room, and that moves easily and with sufficient eloquence in the representation of action. The narrative of the _Maldon_ poem is not pinched nor meagre in its proportions. Hardly any of the other poems, however, can be compared with these in this respect. These are the most liberal in scale of all the old Teutonic poems; the largest epic works of which we know anything directly. These are the fullest in composition, the least abstract or elliptical; and they still want something of the scale of the _Iliad_. The poem of _Maldon_, for instance, corresponds not to the _Iliad_, but to the action of a single book, such as the twelfth, with which it has been already compared. If the story of the English _Waldere_, when complete, was not more elaborate than the extant Latin _Waltharius_, it must have come far short of the proportions of Homer. It is a story for a single recitation, like the story of Finnesburh in _Beowulf_. The poem of _Beowulf_ may have more in it than the story of Walter and Hildegund, but this advantage would seem to be gained at the expense of the unity of the poem. It is lengthened out by a sequel, by the addition of a new adventure which requires the poet to make a new start. In the poem of _Hildebrand_ there is a single tragedy contained in a single scene. It is briefly rendered, in a style evidently more primitive, less expansive and eloquent, than the style of _Beowulf_ or _Waldere_. Even if it had been given in a fuller form, the story would still have been essentially a short one; it could not well have been longer than the poem of _Sohrab and Rustum_, where the theme is almost the same, while the scale is that of the classical epic. If the old English epic poetry falls short of the Homeric magnitude, it almost equally exceeds the scale of the Northern heroic poems. If _Beowulf_ and _Waldere_ seem inadequate in size, the defect will not be made good out of the Northern lays of _Helgi_ or _Sigfred_. The Northern poems are exceedingly varied in their plan and disposition, but none of them is long, and many of them are in the form of _dramatic lyric_, with no place for pure narrative at all; such are the poems of _Frey's Wooing_, of _Svipdag and Menglad_, and others, in which there is a definite plot worked out by means of lyric dialogue. None of them is of anything like the same scale as _Beowulf_, which is a complex epic poem, or _Byrhtnoth_, which is an episodic poem liberally dealt with and of considerable length. The Teutonic poetry presents itself, at a first view, as the complement of Homer. Here are to be found many of the things that are wanting at the beginning of Greek literary history. Here are single epic lays, or clusters of them, in every form. Here, in place of the two great poems, rounded and complete, there is the nebulous expanse of heroic tradition, the outline of an heroic cycle, together with a number of episodic poems taking their origin from one point or another of the cycle, according as the different parts of the story happen to catch the imagination of a poet. Instead of the Homeric scale of epic there are a number of brief epic tragedies, the plots of which are chosen from the multitude of stories current in tradition. Among these shorter epic poems, if such they may be called, there are to be distinguished great varieties of procedure in regard to the amount of action represented in the poem. There is one class of poem that represents a single action with some detail; there is another that represents a long and complex story in a summary and allusive way. The first kind may be called _episodic_ in the sense that it takes up about the same quantity of story as might make an act in a play; or perhaps, with a little straining of the term, as much as might serve for one play in a trilogy. The second kind is not episodic; it does not seem fitted for a place in a larger composition. It is a kind of short and summary epic, taking as large a province of history as the _Iliad_ or the _Odyssey_. _Hildebrand_, the _Fight at Finnesburh_, _Waldere_, _Byrhtnoth_, the _Winning of the Hammer_, _Thor's Fishing_, the _Death of the Niblungs_ (in any of the Northern versions), the _Death of Ermanaric_, might all be fairly regarded as belonging to the first kind of story; while the _Lay of Weland_ and the _Lay of Brynhild_ cover a much larger extent of story, though not of actual space, than any of those. It is not quite easy to find a common measure for these and for the Homeric poems. One can tell perhaps from Mr. Arnold's poem of _Sohrab and Rustum_ how much is wanting to the _Lay of Hildebrand_, and on what scale the story of Hildebrand might have been told if it had been told in the Homeric instead of the archaic German manner. The story of Walter of Aquitaine in the Latin hexameters of _Waltharius_ takes up 1456 lines. Although the author of this Latin poem is something short of Homer, "a little overparted" by the comparison, still his work is designed on the scale of classical epic, and gives approximately the right extent of the story in classical form. But while those stories are comparatively short, even in their most expanded forms, the story of Weland and the story of Helgi each contains as much as would suffice for the plot of an _Odyssey_, or more. The _Lay of Brynhild_ is not an episodic poem of the vengeance and the passion of Brynhild, though that is the principal theme. It begins in a summary manner with Sigurd's coming to the house of the Niblungs, the wedding of Sigurd and Gudrun, the wooing of Brynhild for Gunnar; all these earlier matters are taken up and touched on before the story comes to the searchings of heart when the kings are persuaded to kill Sigurd. Then the death of Sigurd is told of, and the rest of the poem is filled with the tragedy of Brynhild and Gudrun; the future history of Gudrun is spoken of prophetically by Brynhild before she throws herself on the funeral pile. Plainly this cannot be considered in the same sense "episodic" as the poem of Thor's fishing for the Midgarth snake. The poems of Thor's fishing and the recovery of the hammer are distinctly fragments of a legendary cycle. The _Lay of Brynhild_ makes an attempt to complete the whole Volsung story from beginning to end, while giving special importance to one particular incident of it,--the passion of Brynhild after the death of Sigurd. The poems of _Attila_ and the _Lay of the Death of Ermanaric_ are more restricted. It remains true that the great story of the Niblung tragedy was never told at length in the poetical measure used for episodes of it, and for the summary form of the _Lay of Brynhild_. It should be remembered, however, that a poem of the scale of the _Nibelungenlied_, taking up the whole matter, must go as far beyond the Homeric limit as the _Lay of Brynhild_ falls short of it. From one point of view the shorter episodic poems are more Homeric in their plots than either the summary epics which cover the whole ground, as the _Lay of Brynhild_ attempts to cover it, or the longer works in prose that begin at the beginning and go on to the end, like the _Volsunga Saga_. The _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ are themselves episodic poems; neither of them has the reach of the _Nibelungenlied_. It should not be forgotten, either, that Aristotle found the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ rather long. The Teutonic poems are not to be despised because they have a narrower orbit than the _Iliad_. Those among them that contain matter enough for a single tragedy, and there are few that have not as much as this in them, may be considered not to fall far short of the standard fixed by Aristotle for the right amount of action to be contained in an heroic poem. They are too hurried, they are wanting in the classical breadth and ease of narrative; but at any rate they are comprehensible, they observe an epic unity. They do not, like certain of the endless French poetical histories, remind one of the picture of incomprehensible bulk in Aristotle's _Poetics_, the animal 10,000 stadia long. Thus, though it is natural at first to imagine that in the old Teutonic poetry one is possessed of such separate lays or ballads as might be the original materials of a larger epic, an epic of the Homeric scale, this impression will hardly remain long after a closer criticism of the workmanship of the poems. Very few of them correspond in the amount of their story to the episodes of the Homeric poems. Many of them contain in a short space the matter of stories more complicated, more tragical, than the story of Achilles. Most of them by their unity and self-consistency make it difficult to think of them as absorbed in a longer epic. This is the case not only with those that take in a whole history, like the _Lay of Brynhild_, but also with those whose plot is comparatively simple, like _Hildebrand_ or _Waldere_. It is possible to think of the story of Walter and Hildegund as forming part of a larger story of the fortunes of the Huns. It has this subordinate place in the _Thidreks Saga_. But it is not easy to believe that in such a case it preserves its value. _Thidreks Saga_ is not an epic, though it is made by an agglutination of ballads. In like manner the tragedy of _Hildebrand_ gains by its isolation from the stories of the other chiefs, Theodoric and Odoacer. The stories of Walter and of Hildebrand, like the story of Hamlet the Dane, are too strong in themselves to form part of a larger composition, without detriment to its unity and harmony. They might be brought in allusively and in a subordinate way, like the story of Thebes and other stories in the _Iliad_; but that is not the same thing as making an epic poem out of separate lays. So that on all grounds the first impression of the Teutonic epic poetry has to be modified. If ever epic poetry was made by a conglomeration of ballads, it must have had other kinds of material than this. Some of the poems are episodic; others are rather to be described as abridgments of epic than as separate epic scenes. But neither in the one case nor in the other is there to be found the kind of poetry that is required by the hypothesis of composite epic. There are short epics that might conceivably have served as the framework, or the ground-plan, of a more elaborate work, containing, like the _Lay of Helgi_ or the _Lay of Brynhild_, incidents enough and hints of character enough for a history fully worked out, as large as the Homeric poems. If it should be asked why there is so little evidence of any Teutonic attempt to weave together separate lays into an epic work, the answer might be, first, that the separate lays we know are too much separate and individual, too strong in themselves, to be satisfactorily cobbled into a more expansive fabric; and, secondly, that it has not yet been proved that epic poems can be made by process of cobbling. The need of a comprehensive epic of the Niblungs was not imperative. Neither was there any demand in Athens, in the time of Sophocles and Euripides, for a comprehensive work--a _Thebaid_, a _Roman de Thèbes_--to include the plots of all the tragedies of the house of Cadmus. It was not a poet, but a prose journeyman, who did this sort of work in the North, and it was not till the old school of poetry had passed away that the composite prose history of the Volsungs and Niblungs, of Sigmund and Sinfiotli, Sigurd, Brynhild, Gudrun, and Atli, was put together out of the old poems. The old lays, Northern and Western, whatever their value, have all strong individual characters of their own, and do not easily submit to be regarded as merely the unused materials, waiting for an epic composer who never was born. III EPIC AND BALLAD POETRY The ballads of a later age have many points of likeness to such poems as _Hildebrand_, _Finnesburh_, _Maldon_, and the poems of the Northern collection. The two orders of poetry are, however, not to be confounded. Their affinity indeed is clear. But the older poems in alliterative verse have a character not possessed by the ballads which followed them, and which often repeated the same stories in the later Middle Ages. Even the simplest of the older poems, which is the _Lay of Hildebrand_, is distinguished by evident signs of dignity from even the most ambitious of the rhyming ballads in any of the tongues. Its rhetoric is of a different order. This is not a question of preferences, but of distinction of kinds. The claim of an epic or heroic rank for the older poems need not be forced into a denial of all the other excellences of the rhyming ballads. _Ballad_, as the term is commonly used, implies a certain degree of simplicity, and an absence of high poetical ambition. Ballads are for the market-place and the "blind crowder," or for the rustic chorus that sings the ballad burden. The wonderful poetical beauty of some of the popular ballads of Scotland and Denmark, not to speak of other lands, is a kind of beauty that is never attained by the great poetical artists; an unconscious grace. The ballads of the Scottish Border, from their first invention to the publication of the _Border Minstrelsy_, lie far away from the great streams of poetical inspiration. They have little or nothing to do with the triumphs of the poets; the "progress of poesy" leaves them untouched; they learn neither from Milton nor from Pope, but keep a life of their own that has its sources far remote in the past, in quite another tradition of art than that to which the great authors and their works belong. The Teutonic epic poems, the Northern poems at any rate, are ballads in respect of their management of the plots. The scale of them is not to be distinguished from the scale of a ballad: the ballads have the same way of indicating and alluding to things and events without direct narrative, without continuity, going rapidly from critical point to point, in their survey of the fable. But there is this great difference, that the style of the earlier epics is ambitious and self-conscious, an aristocratic and accomplished style. The ballads of _Clerk Saunders_ or _Sir Patrick Spens_ tell about things that have been generally forgotten, in the great houses of the country, by the great people who have other things to think about, and, if they take to literature, other models of style. The lay of the fight at Finnesburh, the lays of the death of Attila, were in their time the poems of the king's or the earl's hall; they were at the height of literary accomplishment in their generation, and their style displays the consciousness of rank. The ballads never had anything like the honour that was given to the older lays. The difference between epic and ballad style comes out most obviously when, as frequently has happened, in Denmark, Iceland, and the Faroes, the poems of the old school have been translated from their epic verse into the "eights and sixes" or some other favourite measure of the common ballads. This has been the case, for instance, with the poem of Thor's Hammer, and the poem of the journey of Svipdag in search of Menglad. In other cases, as in that of the return of Helgi from the dead, it is less certain, though it is probable, that there is a direct relation between the two kinds of poetry, between the old Northern poem of Helgi and the Danish ballad of Sir Aage which has the same story to tell; but a comparison of the two styles, in a case like this, is none the less possible and justifiable. The poems in the older form and diction, however remote they may be from modern fashions, assert themselves unmistakably to be of an aristocratic and not a popular tradition. The ballads have many things in common with the other poems, but they have lost the grand style, and the pride and solemnity of language. One thing they have retained almost invariably. Ballad poetry may be trusted to preserve the sense of the tragic situation. If some ballads are less strong than others in their rendering of a traditional story, their failure is not peculiar to that kind of composition. Not every ballad-singer, and not every tragic poet, has the same success in the development of his fable. As a rule, however, it holds good that the ballads are sound in their conception of a story; if some are constitutionally weak or unshapely, and others have suffered from the infirmity of reciters and transcribers, these accidents are not to be counted against the class of poetry to which they belong. Yet, however well the ballads may give the story, they cannot give it with the power of epic; and that this power belongs to the older kind of verse, the verse of the _Lay of Brynhild_, may be proved with all the demonstration that this kind of argument allows. It is open to any one to say that the grand style is less attractive than the charm of the ballad burdens, that the airy music of the ballads is more appealing and more mysterious than all the eloquence of heroic poetry; but that does not touch the question. The rhetoric of the older poems merely claims to be acknowledged for what it is worth. The Danish ballad of _Ungen Sveidal_, "Child Sveidal,"[30] does not spoil the ancient story which had been given in the older language and older verse of _Svipdag and Menglad_. But there are different ways of describing how the adventurer comes to the dark tower to rescue the unknown maiden. The ballad uses the common ballad forms, the common easy rhymes and assonances:-- Out they cast their anchor All on the white sea sand, And who was that but the Child Sveidal Was first upon the land? His heart is sore with deadly pain For her that he never saw, His name is the Child Sveidal; So the story goes. [Footnote 30: Grundtvig, _Danmarks gamle Folkeviser_, No. 70. See above, p. 114.] This sort of story need not be despised, and it is peculiarly valuable when it appears in the middle of one of the least refreshing seasons of literature, like this ballad in the age of the Lutheran Reformation in Denmark. In such an age and among theological tracts and controversies, the simple ballad measures may bring relief from oppression and desolation; and call for thanks to the Danish ladies by whose care this ballad and so many others were written down. But gratitude need not conceal the truth, that the style of the ballad is unlike the style of an heroic poem. The older poem from which _Child Sveidal_ is derived may have left many poetical opportunities unemployed; it comes short in many things, and makes up for them by mythological irrelevances. But it is composed in a style of which it is impossible to mistake the gravity; it has all the advantage of established forms that have been tested and are able to bear the weight of the poetical matter. There is a vast difference between the simplicity of the ballad and the stately measure and rhetorical pomp of the original:-- Svipdag is my name; Sunbright was my Father's name; The winds have driven me far, along cold ways; No one can gainsay the word of Fate, Though it be spoken to his own destruction. The difference is as great as the difference between the ballad of the _Marriage of Gawayne_ and the same story as told in the _Canterbury Tales_; or the difference between Homer's way of describing the recovery of lifted cattle and the ballad of _Jamie Telfer of the Fair Dodheid_. It happens fortunately that one of the Danish ballads, _Sivard og Brynild_, which tells of the death of Sigurd (_Danmarks gamle Folkeviser_, No. 3), is one of the best of the ballads, in all the virtues of that style, so that a comparison with the _Lay of Brynhild_, one of the best poems of the old collection, is not unfair to either of them. The ballad of _Sivard_, like the _Lay of Brynhild_, includes much more than an episode; it is a complete tragic poem, indicating all the chief points of the story. The tragic idea is different from that of any of the other versions of the Volsung story, but quite as distinct and strong as any. SIVARD (_O the King's Sons of Denmark!_) Sivard has a horse that is fleet, and he has stolen Brynild from the Mountain of Glass, all by the light of day. From the Mountain of Glass he has stolen proud Brynild, and given her to Hagen, his brother-in-arms. Brynild and Signild went to the river shore to wash their silken gowns. "Signild, my sister, where got you the golden rings on your hand?"--"The gold rings on my hand I got from Sivard, my own true love; they are his pledge of troth: and you are given to Hagen." When Brynild heard this she went into the upper room and lay there sick: there she lay sick and Hagen came to her. "Tell me, maiden Brynild, my own true love, what is there in the world to heal you; tell me, and I will bring it, though it cost all the world's red gold."--"Nothing in the world you can bring me, unless you bring me, into my hands, the head of Sivard."--"And how shall I bring to your hands the head of Sivard? There is not the sword in all the world that will bite upon him: no sword but his own, and that I cannot get."--"Go to his room, and bid him lend you his sword, for his honour, and say, 'I have vowed an adventure for the sake of my true love.' When first he hands you over his sword, I pray you remember me, in the Lord God's name." It is Hagen that has swept his mantle round him, and goes into the upper room to Sivard. "Here you sit, Sivard, my foster-brother; will you lend me your good sword for your honour? for I have vowed a vow for the sake of my love."--"And if I lend you my good sword Adelbring, you will never come in battle where it will fail you. My good sword Adelbring you may have, indeed, but keep you well from the tears of blood that are under the hilt, keep you from the tears of blood that are so red.[31] If they run down upon your fingers, it will be your death." Hagen got the sword, and it was his own sworn brother he slew there in the room. He took up the bloody head under his cloak of furs and brought it to proud Brynild. "Here you have the head for which you sought; for the sake of you I have slain my brother to my undoing."--"Take away the head and let me not see it; nor will I pledge you my troth to make you glad."--"Never will I pledge troth to you, and nought is the gladness; for the sake of you I have slain my brother; sorrow is on me, sore and great." It was Hagen drew his sword and took the proud Brynild and hewed her asunder. He set the sword against a stone, and the point was deadly in the King's son's heart. He set the sword in the black earth, and the point was death in the King's son's heart. Ill was the day that maiden was born. For her were spilt the lives of two King's sons. (_O the King's Sons of Denmark!_) [Footnote 31: Compare the warning of Angantyr to Hervor when he gives her the sword Tyrfing--"Keep the sword sheathed, the slayer of Hialmar; touch not the edges, there is venom upon them"--and the magic sword Skofnung in _Kormaks Saga_.] This is a consistent tragic story, and it is well told. It has the peculiar virtue of the ballad, to make things impressive by the sudden manner in which they are spoken of and passed by; in this abrupt mode of narrative the ballads, as has been noted already, are not much different from the earlier poems. The _Lay of Brynhild_ is not much more diffuse than the ballad of _Sivard_ in what relates to the slaying of the hero. Both are alike distinct from the method of Homer; compared with Homer both the lays and the ballads are hurried in their action, over-emphatic, cramped in a narrow space. But when the style and temper are considered, apart from the incidents of the story, then it will appear that the lay belongs to a totally different order of literature from the ballad. The ballad tells of things dimly discerned by the poet; king's sons and daughters are no more to him than they are to the story-tellers of the market-place--forms of a shadowy grandeur, different from ordinary people, swayed by strange motives, not irrationally, nor altogether in a way beyond the calculation of simple audiences, yet in ways for which there is no adequate mode of explanation known to the reciter. The ballad keeps instinctively a right outline for its tragic story, but to develop the characters is beyond its power. In the epic _Lay of Brynhild_, on the other hand, the poet is concerned with passions which he feels himself able to comprehend and to set forth dramatically; so that, while the story of the poem is not very much larger in scale than that of the ballad, the dramatic speeches are greatly elaborated. Brynhild in the lay is not a mere tragic symbol, as in the ballad, but a tragic character. The ballad has the seed of tragedy in it, but in the lay the seed has sprung up in the dramatic eloquence of Brynhild's utterances before her death. The ballad is tragical, but in an abstract manner. The plot of the slighted woman and her vengeance, with the remorse of Hagen, is all true, and not exaggerated in motive. But while the motives are appreciated, it is not in the power of the poet to develop the exposition of them, to make them dramatically characteristic, as well as right in their general nature. It is just this dramatic ideal which is the ambition and inspiration of the other poet; the character of Brynhild has taken possession of his imagination, and requires to be expressed in characteristic speech. A whole poetical world is open to the poet of Brynhild, and to the other poets of the Northern heroic cycle. They have taken the first day's journey into the empire of Homer and Shakespeare; the forms of poetry that they employ are varied and developed by them so as to express as fully as possible the poetical conception of different individual characters. It is not easy to leave them without the impression that their poetry was capable of infinitely greater progress in this direction; that some at least of the poets of the North were "bearers of the torch" in their generation, not less than the poets of Provence or France who came after them and led the imagination of Christendom into another way. That is, it is possible to think of the poets of Sigurd and Brynhild as holding among the Northern nations of the tenth or eleventh century the place that is held in every generation by some set of authors who, for the time, are at the head of intellectual and literary adventure, who hold authority, from Odin or the Muses, to teach their contemporaries one particular kind of song, till the time comes when their vogue is exhausted, and they are succeeded by other masters and other schools. This commission has been held by various kinds of author since the beginning of history, and manifold are the lessons that have been recommended to the world by their authority; now epic, now courtly and idealist lyric, romantic drama, pedantic tragedy, funeral orations, analytical novels. They are not all amusing, and not all their prices are more than the rate of an old song. But they all have a value as trophies, as monuments of what was most important in their time, of the things in which the generations, wise and foolish, have put their trust and their whole soul. The ballads have not this kind of importance; the ballad poets are remote from the lists where the great champions overthrow one another, where poet takes the crown from poet. The ballads, by their very nature, are secluded and apart from the great literary enterprises; it is the beauty of them that they are exempt from the proclamations and the arguments, the shouting and the tumult, the dust and heat, that accompany the great literary triumphs and make epochs for the historians, as in the day of _Cléopatre_, or the day of _Hernani_. The ballad has no weight of responsibility upon it; it does not carry the intellectual light of its century; its authors are easily satisfied. In the various examples of the Teutonic alliterative poetry there is recognisable the effort and anxiety of poets who are not content with old forms, who have a poetical vocation to go on and find out new forms, who are on the search for the "one grace above the rest," by which all the chief poets are led. The remains of this poetry are so many experiments, which, in whatever respects they may have failed, yet show the work and energy of authors who are proud of their art, as well as the dignity of men who are familiar with greatness and great actions: in both which respects they differ from the ballad poets. The spell of the popular story, the popular ballad, is not quite the same as theirs. Theirs is more commanding; they are nearer to the strenuous life of the world than are the simple people who remember, over their fires of peat, the ancient stories of the wanderings of kings' sons. They have outgrown the stage of life for which the fables and old wives' tales are all-sufficient; they have begun to make a difference between fable and characters; they have entered on a way by which the highest poetical victories are attainable. The poetry of the old lays of the Volsungs, as compared with popular ballads and tales, is "weighty and philosophical"--full of the results of reflection on character. Nor have they with all this lost the inexplicable magic of popular poetry, as the poems of Helgi and Sigrun, and of the daughter of Angantyr, and others, may easily prove. IV THE STYLE OF THE POEMS The style of the poems, in what concerns their verse and diction, is not less distinctly noble than their spirit and temper. The alliterative verse, wherever it is found, declares itself as belonging to an elaborate poetical tradition. The alliterative line is rhetorically capable of a great amount of emphasis; it lends itself as readily as the "drumming decasyllabon" of the Elizabethan style to pompous declamation. Parallelism of phrases, the favourite rhetorical device, especially with the old English poets, is incompatible with tenuity of style; while the weight of the verse, as a rule, prevents the richness of phrasing from becoming too extravagant and frivolous.[32] [Footnote 32: Examples in Appendix, Note A.] The style of alliterative verse is not monotonous. Without reckoning the forms that deviate from the common epic measure, such as the Northern lyrical staves, there may be found in it as many varieties of style as in English blank verse from the days of _Gorboduc_ onward. In its oldest common form it may be supposed that the verse was not distinctly epic or lyric; lyric rather than epic, lyric with such amount of epic as is proper for psalms of triumph, or for the praise of a king, the kind of verse that might be used for any sort of _carmina_, such as for marking authorship and ownership on a sword or a horn, for epitaphs or spells, or for vituperative epigrams. In England and the Continent the verse was early adapted for continuous history. The lyrical and gnomic usages were not abandoned. The poems of _Widsith_ and _Deor's Lament_ show how the allusive and lyrical manner of referring to heroic legend was kept up in England. The general tendency, however, seems to have favoured a different kind of poetry. The common form of old English verse is fitted for narrative. The ideal of the poets is one that would have the sense "variously drawn out from one verse to another." When the verse is lyrical in tone, as in the _Dream of the Rood_, or the _Wanderer_, the lyrical passion is commonly that of mourning or regret, and the expression is elegiac and diffuse, not abrupt or varied. The verse, whether narrative or elegiac, runs in rhythmical periods; the sense is not "concluded in the couplet." The lines are mortised into one another; by preference, the sentences begin in the middle of a line. The parallelism of the old poetry, and its wealth of paraphrase, encourage deliberation in the sentences, though they are often interrupted by a short sentence, generally introduced to point a moral. The old Norse poetry, with many likenesses to the old English, had a different taste in rhetorical syntax. Instead of the long-drawn phrases of the English poetry, and an arrangement of sentences by which the metrical limits of the line were generally disguised, the Norse alliterative poetry adopted a mode of speech that allowed the line to ring out clearly, and gave full force to the natural emphasis of the rhythm. These two opposite rhetorical tendencies are illustrated also by the several variations upon the common rhythm that found favour in one region and the other. Where an English or a German alliterative poet wishes to vary from the common metre, he uses the lengthened line, an expansion of the simple line, which, from its volume, is less suitable for pointed expression, and more capable of pathos or solemnity, than the ordinary form of verse. The long line of the Saxon and English poets is not used in the Norse poetry; there the favourite verse, where the ordinary narrative line is discarded, is in the form of gnomic couplets, in which, as in the classical elegiac measure, a full line is succeeded by a truncated or broken rhythm, and with the same effect of clinching the meaning of the first line as is commonly given by the Greek or Latin pentameter. Of this favourite Northern measure there are only one or two casual and sporadic instances in English poetry; in the short dramatic lyric of the _Exeter Book_, interpreted so ingeniously by Mr. Bradley and Mr. Gollancz, and in the gnomic verses of the same collection. This difference of taste goes very far to explain the difference between English and Norse epic; to appreciate the difference of style is to understand the history of the early poetry. It was natural that the more equable form of the English and the Continental German narrative poetry should prove itself fit for extended and continuous epic narrative; it was inevitable that the Norse intolerance of tame expression, and of everything unimpassioned or unemphatic, should prevent the growth of any of the larger and slower kinds of poetry. The triumphs of alliterative poetry in the first or English kind are the long swelling passages of tragic monologue, of which the greatest is in the Saxon _Genesis_,--the speech of Satan after the fall from heaven. The best of the Northern poetry is all but lyrical; the poem of the Sibyl, the poems of Sigrun, Gudrun, Hervor. The nature of the two forms of poetry is revealed in their respective manners of going wrong. The decline of the old English poetry is shown by an increase of diffuseness and insipidity. The old Norse poetry was attacked by an evil of a different sort, the malady of false wit and over-decoration. The English poetry, when it loses strength and self-control, is prone to monotonous lamentation; the Norse poetry is tempted to overload itself with conceits. In the one there is excess of sentiment, in the other the contrary vice of frigidity, and a premeditated and ostentatious use of figurative expressions. The poem of _Beowulf_ has known the insidious approach and temptation of diffuse poetic melancholy. The Northern poems are corrupted by the vanity of metaphor. To evade the right term for everything has been the aim of many poetic schools; it has seldom been attained more effectually than in the poetry of the Norwegian tongue. Periphrastic epithets are part of the original and common stock of the Teutonic poetry. They form a large part of the vocabulary of common phrases which bear witness to the affinity existing among the remains of this poetry in all the dialects.[33] [Footnote 33: Compare the index to Sievers's edition of the _Hêliand_ for illustrations of this community of poetical diction in old Saxon, English, Norse, and High German; and J. Grimm, _Andreas und Elene_ (1840), pp. xxv.-xliv.] But this common device was differently applied in the end, by the two literatures, English and Icelandic, in which the old forms of verse held their ground longest against the rhyming forms. The tendency in England was to make use of the well-worn epithets, to ply the _Gradus_: the duller kind of Anglo-Saxon poetry is put together as Latin verses are made in school,--an old-fashioned metaphor is all the more esteemed for its age. The poets, and presumably their hearers, are best content with familiar phrases. In Iceland, on the other hand, there was an impatience of the old vocabulary, and a curiosity and search for new figures, that in the complexity and absurdity of its results is not approached by any school of "false wit" in the whole range of literature. Already in the older forms of Northern poetry it is plain that there is a tendency to lyrical emphasis which is unfavourable to the chances of long narrative in verse. Very early, also, there are symptoms of the familiar literary plague, the corruption of metaphor. Both these tendencies have for their result the new school of poetry peculiar to the North and the courts of the Northern kings and earls,--the Court poetry, or poetry of the Scalds, which in its rise and progress involved the failure of true epic. The German and English epic failed by exhaustion in the competition with Latin and Romance literature, though not without something to boast of before it went under. The Northern epic failed, because of the premature development of lyrical forms, first of all within itself, and then in the independent and rival modes of the Scaldic poetry. The Scaldic poetry, though later in kind than the poems of _Codex Regius_, is at least as old as the tenth century;[34] the latest of the epic poems, _Atlamál_ (the Greenland poem of Attila), and others, show marks of the influence of Court poetry, and are considerably later in date than the earliest of the Scalds. [Footnote 34: See _Bidrag til den ældste Skaldedigtnings Historie_, by Dr. Sophus Bugge (1894).] The Court poetry is lyric, not epic. The aim of the Court poets was not the narrative or the dramatic presentation of the greater heroic legends; it was the elaborate decoration of commonplace themes, such as the praise of a king, by every possible artifice of rhyme and alliteration, of hard and exact construction of verse, and, above all, of far-sought metaphorical allusions. In this kind of work, in the praise of kings alive or dead, the poet was compelled to betake himself to mythology and mythical history, like the learned poets of other nations with their mythology of Olympus. In the mythology of Asgard were contained the stores of precious names and epithets by means of which the poems might be made to glitter and blaze.[35] It was for the sake of poets like these that Snorri wrote his _Edda_, and explained the mythical references available for the modern poetry of his time, though fortunately his spirit and talent were not limited to this didactic end, nor to the pedantries and deadly brilliance of fashionable verse. By the time of Snorri the older kind of poetry had become very much what Chaucer was to the Elizabethan sonneteers, or Spenser to the contemporaries of Pope. It was regarded with some amount of honour, and some condescension, but it had ceased to be the right kind of poetry for a "courtly maker." [Footnote 35: Compare _C.P.B._, ii. 447, Excursus on the Figures and Metaphors of old Northern Poetry.] The Northern poetry appears to have run through some of the same stages as the poetry of Greece, though with insufficient results in most of them. The epic poetry is incomplete, with all its nobility. The best things of the old poetry are dramatic--lyrical monologues, like the song of the Sibyl, and Gudrun's story to Theodoric, or dialogues like those of Helgi and Sigrun, Hervor and Angantyr. Before any adequate large rendering had been accorded to those tragic histories, the Northern poetry, in its impatience of length, had discovered the idyllic mode of expression and the dramatic monologue, in which there was no excuse for weakness and tameness, and, on the contrary, great temptation to excess in emphatic and figurative language. Instead of taking a larger scene and a more complex and longer story, the poets seem to have been drawn more and more to cut short the story and to intensify the lyrical passion of their dialogue or monologue. Almost as if they had known the horror of infinite flatness that is all about the literature of the Middle Ages, as if there had fallen upon them, in that Aleïan plain, the shadow of the enormous beast out of Aristotle's _Poetics_, they chose to renounce all superfluity, and throw away the makeshift wedges and supports by which an epic is held up. In this way they did great things, and _Volospá_ (the _Sibyl's Prophecy_) is their reward. To write out in full the story of the Volsungs and Niblungs was left to the prose compilers of the _Volsunga Saga_, and to the Austrian poet of the _Nibelungenlied_. The _Volospá_ is as far removed from the courtly odes and their manner and ingenuity as the _Marriage Hymn_ of Catullus from the _Coma Berenices_. The _Volospá_, however, has this in common with the mechanical odes, that equally with these it stands apart from epic, that equally with these it fuses epic material into an alien form. The sublimity of this great poem of the _Doom_ is not like the majesty or strength of epic. The voice is not the voice of a teller of stories. And it is here, not in true epic verse, that the Northern poetry attains its height. It is no ignoble form of poetry that is represented by the _Sibyl's Song_ and the _Lament of Gudrun_. But it was not enough for the ambition of the poets. They preferred the composition of correct and elaborate poems in honour of great men, with much expenditure of mythology and without passion;[36] one of the forms of poetry which may be truly said to leave nothing to be desired, the most artificial and mechanical poetry in the world, except possibly the closely-related kinds in the traditional elaborate verse of Ireland or of Wales. [Footnote 36: These may be found in the second volume of the _Corpus Poeticum Boreale_.] It was still possible to use this modern and difficult rhetoric, occasionally, for subjects like those of the freer epic; to choose a subject from heroic tradition and render it in the fashionable style. The _Death-Song of Ragnar Lodbrok_[37] is the chief of those secondary dramatic idylls. It is marked off by difference of verse, for one thing, from the _Hamðismál_ and the _Atlakviða_; and, besides this, it has the characteristic of imitative and conventional heroic literature--the unpersuasive and unconvincing force of the heroic romance, the rhetoric of Almanzor. The end of the poem is fine, but it does not ring quite true:-- The gods will welcome me; there is nothing to bewail in death. I am ready to go; they are calling me home, the maidens whom Odin has sent to call me. With gladness will I drink the ale, set high among the gods. The hours of life are gone over; laughing will I die. [Footnote 37: _C.P.B._, ii. 339.] It is not like the end of the sons of Gudrun; it is not of the same kind as the last words of Sorli, which are simpler, and infinitely more imaginative and true:-- We have fought; if we die to-day, if we die to-morrow, there is little to choose. No man may speak when once the Fates have spoken (_Hamðismál_, s.f.). It is natural that the _Song of Ragnar Lodbrok_ should be appreciated by modern authors. It is one of the documents responsible for the conventional Valkyria and Valhalla of the Romantic School, and for other stage properties, no longer new. The poem itself is in spirit rather more nearly related to the work of Tegnér or Oehlenschläger than to the _Volospá_. It is a secondary and literary version, a "romantic" version of ideas and images belonging to a past time, and studied by an antiquarian poet with an eye for historical subjects.[38] [Footnote 38: Translated in Percy's _Runic Poetry_ (1763), p. 27, and often since.] The progress of epic was not at an end in the rise of the new Court poetry that sounded sweeter in the ears of mortals than the old poems of _Sigurd_ and _Brynhild_. The conceits and the hard correctness of the Scalds did not satisfy all the curiosity or the imaginative appetite of their patrons. There still remained a desire for epic, or at least for a larger and freer kind of historical discourse. This was satisfied by the prose histories of the great men of Iceland, of the kings of Norway and the lords of the Isles; histories the nearest to true epic of all that have ever been spoken without verse. That the chief of all the masters of this art should have been Snorri Sturluson, the exponent and practitioner of the mystery of the Court poets, is among the pleasantest of historical paradoxes. The development of the Court poetry to all extremes of "false wit," and of glaring pretence and artificiality of style, makes the contrast all the more vivid between its brocaded stiffness and the ease and freedom of the Sagas. But even apart from the Court poetry, it is clear that there was little chance for any development of the Northern heroic poetry into an Homeric fulness of detail. In the Norse poetry, as in Greek, the primitive forms of heroic dirges or hymns give place to narrative poetry; and that again is succeeded by a new kind of lyric, in which the ancient themes of the _Lament_ and the _Song of Praise_ are adorned with the new ideas and the new diction of poets who have come to study novelty, and have entered, though with far other arms and accoutrements, on the same course as the Greek lyric authors of dithyrambs and panegyrical odes. In this progress of poetry from the unknown older songs, like those of which Tacitus speaks, to the epic form as it is preserved in the "Elder Edda," and from the epic form to the lyrical form of the Scalds, the second stage is incomplete; the epic form is uncertain and half-developed. The rise of the Court poetry is the most obvious explanation of this failure. The Court poetry, with all its faults, is a completed form which had its day of glory, and even rather more than its share of good fortune. It is the characteristic and successful kind of poetry in Iceland and Norway, just as other kinds of elaborate lyric were cultivated, to the depreciation of epic, in Provence and in Italy. It was to the Court poet that the prizes were given; the epic form was put out of favour, generations before the fragments of it were gathered together and preserved by the collector from whose books they have descended to the extant manuscripts and the editions of the "Elder Edda." But at the same time it may be represented that the Court poetry was as much effect as cause of the depreciation of epic. The lyrical strain declared itself in the Northern epic poetry too strongly for any such epic work as either _Beowulf_ or the _Hêliand_. The bent was given too early, and there was no recovery possible. The Court poetry, in its rhetorical brilliance and its allusive phrases, as well as in the hardness and correctness of its verse, is carrying out to completion certain tastes and principles whose influence is manifest throughout the other orders of old Northern poetry; and there is no need to go to the Court poetry to explain the difference between the history of Northern and of English alliterative verse, though it is by means of the Court poetry that this difference may be brought into the strongest light. The contrast between the English liking for continuous discourse and the Norse liking for abrupt emphasis is already to be discerned in the oldest literary documents of the two nations. V THE PROGRESS OF EPIC VARIOUS RENDERINGS OF THE SAME STORY Due (1) to accidents of tradition and impersonal causes: (2) to calculation and selection of motives by the poets, and intentional modification of traditional matter. _Beowulf_, as the poem stands, is quite a different sort of thing from the poems in the Copenhagen manuscript. It is given out by its scribes in all the glory of a large poem, handsomely furnished with a prelude, a conclusion, and divisions into several books. It has the look of a substantial epic poem. It was evidently regarded as something considerable, as a work of eminent virtue and respectability. The Northern poems, treasured and highly valued as they evidently were, belong to a different fashion. In the _Beowulf_ of the existing manuscript the fluctuation and variation of the older epic tradition has been controlled by editors who have done their best to establish a text of the poem. The book has an appearance of authority. There is little of this in the Icelandic manuscript. The Northern poems have evidently been taken as they were found. Imperfections of tradition, which in _Beowulf_ would have been glossed over by an editorial process, are here left staring at the reader. The English poem pretends to be a literary work of importance--a book, in short; while the Icelandic verses are plainly gathered from all quarters, and in such a condition as to defy the best intentions of the editor, who did his best to understand what he heard, but had no consistent policy of improvement or alteration, to correct the accidental errors and discrepancies of the oral communications. Further, and apart from the accidents of this particular book, there is in the poems, even when they are best preserved, a character of fluctuation and uncertainty, belonging to an older and less literary fashion of poetry than that of _Beowulf_. _Beowulf_ has been regarded by some as a composite epic poem made out of older and shorter poems. _Codex Regius_ shows that this hypothesis is dealing with an undoubted _vera causa_ when it talks of short lays on heroic subjects, and of the variations of treatment to be found in different lays on one and the same theme, and of the possibilities of contamination. Thus, in considering the story of Beowulf's descent under water, and the difficulties and contradictions of that story as it stands, Ten Brink has been led to suppose that the present text is made up of two independent versions, run together by an editor in a hazardous way without regard to the differences in points of detail, which still remain to the annoyance of the careful reader. There is no great risk in the assumption that there were different versions of the fight with Grendel's mother, which may have been carelessly put together into one version in spite of their contradictions. In the _Codex Regius_ there are three different versions of the death of the Niblungs, the _Atlakviða_, _Atlamál_, and the _Lament of Oddrun_. The _Lament of Oddrun_ is vitally different from the other two poems, and these differ from one another, with regard to the motive of Atli's feud with Gunnar. It is possible for the human mind to imagine an editor, a literary man, capable of blending the poems in order to make a larger book. This would be something like the process which Ten Brink has suspected in the composition of this part of _Beowulf_. It is one thing, however, to detect the possibility of such misdemeanours; and quite another thing to suppose that it is by methods such as these that the bulk of the larger epic is swollen beyond the size of common lays or ballads. It is impossible, at any rate, by any reduction or analysis of _Beowulf_, to get rid of its stateliness of narrative; it would be impossible by any fusion or aggregation of the Eddic lays to get rid of their essential brevity. No accumulation of lays can alter the style from its trick of detached and abrupt suggestions to the slower and more equable mode. That there was a growth of epic among the Teutonic nations is what is proved by all the documents. This growth was of the same general kind as the progress of any of the great forms of literature--the Drama, the Novel. Successive generations of men, speaking the same or similar forms of language, made poetical experiments in a common subject-manner, trying different ways of putting things, and changing their forms of poetry according to local and personal variations of taste; so that the same story might be told over and over again, in different times, with different circumstances. In one region the taste might be all for compression, for increase of the tension, for suppression of the tamer intervals in the story. In another it might run to greater length and ease, and favour a gradual explication of the plot. The "Elder Edda" shows that contamination was possible. It shows that there might be frequent independent variations on the same theme, and that, apart from any editorial work, these versions might occasionally be shuffled and jumbled by mere accidents of recollection. Thus there is nothing contrary to the evidence in the theory that a redactor of _Beowulf_ may have had before him different versions of different parts of the poem, corresponding to one another, more or less, as _Atlamál_ corresponds to the _Atlakviða_. This hypothesis, however, does not account for the difference in form between the English and the Northern poems. No handling of the _Atlamál_ or the _Atlakviða_ could produce anything like the appearance of _Beowulf_. The contaminating editor may be useful as an hypothesis in certain particular cases. But the heroic poetry got on very well without him, generally speaking. It grew by a free and natural growth into a variety of forms, through the ambitions and experiments of poets. Variety is evident in the poems that lie outside the Northern group; _Finnesburh_ is of a different order from _Waldere_. It is in the Northern collection, however, that the variety is most evident. There the independent versions of the same story are brought together, side by side. The experiments of the old school are ranged there; and the fact that experiments were made, that the old school was not satisfied with its conventions, is perhaps the most legitimate inference, and one of the most significant, to be made by a reader of the poems. Variations on similar themes are found in all popular poetry; here again the poems of the _Edda_ present themselves as akin to ballads. Here again they are distinguished from ballads by their greater degree of ambition and self-consciousness. For it will not do to dismiss the Northern poems on the Volsung story as a mere set of popular variations on common themes. The more carefully they are examined, the less will be the part assigned to chance and imperfect recollection in producing the variety of the poems. The variation, where there are different presentations of the same subject, is not produced by accident or the casual and faulty repetition of a conventional type of poem, but by a poetical ambition for new forms. _Codex Regius_ is an imperfect monument of a time of poetical energy in which old forms were displaced by new, and old subjects refashioned by successive poets. As in the Athenian or the English drama the story of Oedipus or of Lear might be taken up by one playwright after another, so in the North the Northern stories were made to pass through changes in the minds of different poets. The analogy to the Greek and the English drama need not be forced. Without any straining of comparisons, it may be argued that the relation of the _Atlamál_ and _Atlakviða_ is like the relation of Euripides to Aeschylus, and not so much like the variations of ballad tradition, in this respect, that the _Atlamál_ is a careful, deliberate, and somewhat conceited attempt to do better in a new way what has been done before by an older poet. The idylls of the heroines, Brynhild, Gudrun, Oddrun, are not random and unskilled variations; they are considerate and studied poems, expressing new conceptions and imaginations. It is true that this poetry is still, in many respects, in the condition of popular poetry and popular traditional stories. The difference of plot in some versions of the same subject appears to be due to the ordinary causes that produce the variants of popular tales,--defective memory, accidental loss of one point in the story, and change of emphasis in another. To causes such as these, to the common impersonal accidents of tradition, may perhaps be referred one of the strangest of all the alterations in the bearing of a story--the variation of plot in the tradition of the Niblungs. In the "Elder Edda" the death of the Niblungs is laid to the charge of Attila; their sister Gudrun does her best to save them; when she fails in this, she takes vengeance for them on her husband. In the German tradition, as in the version known to Saxo in the _Nibelungenlied_, in the Danish ballad of _Grimild's Revenge_ (which is borrowed from the German), the lines are laid quite differently. There it is their sister who brings about the death of the kings; it is the wife of Sigfred, of Sigfred whom they have killed, that exacts vengeance from her brothers Gunther and Hagene. Attila is here put aside. Gudrun's slaughter of her children is unrecorded; there is no motive for it when all her anger is turned against her brothers. This shifting of the centre of a story is not easy to explain. But, whatever the explanation may be, it seems probable that it lies somewhere within the range of popular tradition, that the change is due to some of the common causes of the transformation of stories, and not to a definite and calculated poetical modification. The tragical complications are so many in the story of the Niblungs that there could not fail to be variations in the traditional interpretation of motives, even without the assistance of the poets and their new readings of character. In some of the literary documents there may be found two kinds of variation from an original form of story,--variation due to those popular and indefinite causes, the variation of failing memory, on the one hand; and on the other, variation due to the ambition or conceit of an author with ideas of his own. A comparison of the _Atlakviða_, the _Atlamál_, and the _Lamentation of Oddrun_ may at first suggest that we have here to deal with just such variants as are common wherever stories are handed on by oral tradition. Further consideration will more and more reduce the part allotted to oral maltreatment, and increase the part of intentional and artistic modification, in the variations of story to be found in these poems. All three poems are agreed in their ignorance of the variation which makes the wife of Sigfred into the avenger of his death. In all three it is Attila who brings about the death of the brothers of Gudrun. It seems to have been a constant part of the traditional story, as known to the authors of these three poems, that Attila, when he had the brothers of Gudrun in his power, gave order to cut out the heart of Hogni, and thereafter to throw Gunnar into the serpents' den. The _Atlakviða_ presents an intelligible explanation of this; the other two poems leave this part of the action rather vague. In the _Atlakviða_ the motive of Attila's original hatred is left at first unexplained, but comes out in the circumstances of the death of the Niblungs. When the Burgundian kings are seized and bound, they are called upon to buy themselves off with gold. It is understood in Gunnar's reply, that the gold of the Niblung treasure is what is sought for. He asks that the heart of Hogni may be brought to him. They bring him, instead, the heart of Hialli, which Gunnar detects at once as the heart of a coward. Then at last the heart of Hogni is cut out and brought to Gunnar; and then he defies the Huns, and keeps his secret. Now is the hoard of the Niblungs all in my keeping alone, for Hogni is dead: there was doubt while we two lived, but now there is doubt no more. Rhine shall bear rule over the gold of jealousy, the eager river over the Niblung's heritage; the goodly rings shall gleam in the whirling water, they shall not pass to the children of the Huns. Gunnar was thrown among the snakes, and there he harped upon his harp before his death came on him. The end of Gunnar is not told explicitly; the story goes on to the vengeance of Gudrun. In the _Oddrúnargrátr_ there is another motive for Attila's enmity to Gunnar: not the gold of the Niblungs, but the love that was between Gunnar and Oddrun (Oddrun was the sister of Attila and Brynhild). The death of Brynhild is alluded to, but that is not the chief motive. The gold of the Niblungs is not mentioned. Still, however, the death of Hogni precedes the death of Gunnar,--"They cut out the heart of Hogni, and his brother they set in the serpents' close." Gunnar played upon his harp among the serpents, and for a long time escaped them; but the old serpent came out at last and crawled to his heart. It is implied that the sound of his music is a charm for the serpents; but another motive is given by Oddrun, as she tells the story: Gunnar played on his harp for Oddrun, to be heard by her, so that she could come to help him. But she came too late. It might be inferred from this poem that the original story of the death of Hogni has been imperfectly recollected by the poet who touches lightly on it and gives no explanation here. It is fairer to suppose that it was passed over because it was irrelevant. The poet had chosen for his idyll the love of Gunnar and Oddrun, a part of the story which is elsewhere referred to among these poems, namely in the _Long Lay of Brynhild_ (l. 58). By his choice of this, and his rendering of it in dramatic monologue, he debarred himself from any emphatic use of the motive for Hogni's death. It cannot be inferred from his explanation of Gunnar's harp-playing that the common explanation was unknown to him. On the contrary, it is implied here, just as much as in _Atlakviða_, that the serpents are kept from him by the music, until the old sleepless one gives him his death. But the poet, while he keeps this incident of the traditional version, is not particularly interested in it, except as it affords him a new occasion to return to his main theme of the love story. Gunnar's music is a message to Oddrun. This is an imaginative and dramatic adaptation of old material, not a mere lapse of memory, not a mere loss of the traditional bearings of the story. The third of these poems, the _Atlamál_, is in some respects the most remarkable of them all. In its plot it has more than the others, at the first reading, the appearance of a faulty recollection; for, while it makes a good deal of play with the circumstances of the death of Hogni, it misses, or appears to miss, the point of the story; the motive of Gunnar, which is evident and satisfactory in the _Atlakviða_, is here suppressed or dropped. The gold of the Niblungs is not in the story at all; the motive of Attila appears to be anger at the death of his sister Brynhild, Gunnar's wife, but his motive is not much dwelt on. It is as if the author had forgotten the run of events, like a blundering minstrel. On the other hand, the poem in its style is further from all the manners of popular poetry, more affected and rhetorical, than any of the other pieces in the book. It is written in the _málaháttr_, a variety of the common epic measure, with a monotonous cadence; the sort of measure that commends itself to an ambitious and rhetorical poet with a fancy for correctness and regularity. The poem has its origin in an admiration for the character of Gudrun, and a desire to bring out more fully than in the older poems the tragic thoughts and passion of the heroine. Gudrun's anxiety for her brothers' safety, and her warning message to them not to come to the Court of the Huns, had been part of the old story. In the _Atlakviða_ she sends them a token, a ring with a wolf's hair twisted round it, which is noticed by Hogni but not accepted by Gunnar. In the _Atlamál_ something more is made of this; her message here is written in runes, and these are falsified on the way by Attila's messenger, so that the warning is at first unread. But the confusion of the runes is detected by the wife of Hogni, and so the story opens with suspense and forebodings of the doom. The death of Hogni and Gunnar is explained in a new way, and always with the passion of Gudrun as the chief theme. In this story the fight of the Niblungs and the Huns is begun outside the doors of the hall. Gudrun hears the alarm and rushes out with a welcome to her brothers,--"that was their last greeting,"--and a cry of lamentation over their neglect of her runes. Then she tries to make peace, and when she fails in that, takes up a sword and fights for her brothers. It is out of rage and spite against Gudrun, and in order to tame her spirit, that Attila has the heart of Hogni cut out of him, and sends Gunnar to the serpents. All this change in the story is the result of meditation and not of forgetfulness. Right or wrong, the poet has devised his story in his own way, and his motives are easily discovered. He felt that the vengeance of Gudrun required to be more carefully and fully explained. Her traditional character was not quite consistent with the horrors of her revenge. In the _Atlamál_ the character of Gudrun is so conceived as to explain her revenge,--the killing of her children follows close upon her fury in the battle, and the cruelty of Attila is here a direct challenge to Gudrun, not, as in the _Atlakviða_, a mere incident in Attila's search for the Niblung treasure. The cruelty of the death of Hogni in the _Atlakviða_ is purely a matter of business; it is not of Attila's choosing, and apparently he favours the attempt to save Hogni by the sacrifice of Hialli the feeble man. In the _Atlamál_ it is to save Hogni from Attila that Hialli the cook is chased into a corner and held under the knife. This comic interlude is one of the liveliest passages of the poem. It serves to increase the strength of Hogni. Hogni begs them to let the creature go,--"Why should we have to put up with his squalling?" It may be observed that in this way the poet gets out of a difficulty. It is not in his design to have the coward's heart offered to Gunnar; he has dropped that part of the story entirely. Gunnar is not asked to give up the treasure, and has no reason to protect his secret by asking for the death of his brother; and there would be no point in keeping the incident for the benefit of Attila. That Gunnar should first detect the imposture, and should then recognise the heart of his brother, is a fine piece of heroic imagination of a primitive kind. It would have been wholly inept and spiritless to transfer this from Gunnar to Attila. The poet of _Atlamál_ shows that he understands what he is about. The more his work is scrutinised, the more evident becomes the sobriety of his judgment. His dexterity in the disposing of his incidents is proved in every particular. While a first reading of the poem and a first comparison with the story of _Atlakviða_ may suggest the blundering and irresponsible ways of popular reciters, a very little attention will serve to bring out the difference and to justify this poet. He is not an improviser; his temptations are of another sort. He is the poet of a second generation, one of those who make up by energy of intelligence for their want of original and spontaneous imagination. It is not that he is cold or dull; but there is something wanting in the translation of his thoughts into speech. His metres are hammered out; the precision of his verse is out of keeping with the fury of his tragic purport. The faults are the faults of overstudy, the faults of correctness and maturity. The significance of the _Atlamál_ is considerable in the history of the Northern poetry. It may stand for the furthest mark in one particular direction; the epic poetry of the North never got further than this. If _Beowulf_ or _Waldere_ may perhaps represent the highest accomplishment of epic in old English verse, the _Atlamál_ has, at least, as good a claim in the other language. The _Atlamál_ is not the finest of the old poems. That place belongs, without any question, to the _Volospá_, the Sibyl's Song of the judgment; and among the others there are many that surpass the _Atlamál_ in beauty. But the _Atlamál_ is complete; it is a work of some compass, diligently planned and elaborated. Further, although it has many of the marks of the new rhetoric, these do not change its character as a narrative poem. It is a narrative poem, not a poem of lyrical allusions, not an heroic ode. It is at once the largest and the most harmonious in construction of all the poems. It proves that the change of the Northern poetry, from narrative to the courtly lyric, was a change not made without fair opportunity to the older school to show what it was worth. The variety of the three poems of Attila, ending in the careful rhetoric of the _Atlamál_, is proof sufficient of the labour bestowed by different poets in their use of the epic inheritance. Great part of the history of the North is misread, unless account is taken of the artistic study, the invention, the ingenuity, that went to the making of those poems. This variety is not the confusion of barbarous tradition, or the shifts and experiments of improvisers. The prosody and the rhetorical furniture of the poems might prevent that misinterpretation. It might be prevented also by an observation of the way the matter is dealt with, even apart from the details of the language and the style. The proof from these two quarters, from the matter and from the style, is not easily impugned. So the first impression is discredited, and so it appears that the "Elder Edda," for all its appearance of disorder, haste, and hazard, really contains a number of specimens of art, not merely a heap of casual and rudimentary variants. The poems of the Icelandic manuscript assert themselves as individual and separate works. They are not the mere makings of an epic, the mere materials ready to the hand of an editor. It still remains true that they are defective, but it is true also that they are the work of artists, and of a number of artists with different aims and ideals. The earliest of them is long past the stage of popular improvisation, and the latest has the qualities of a school that has learned more art than is good for it. The defect of the Northern epic is that it allowed itself to be too soon restricted in its scope. It became too minute, too emphatic, too intolerant of the comfortable dilutions, the level intervals, between the critical moments.[39] It was too much affected by the vanities of the rival Scaldic poetry; it was overcome by rhetoric. But it cannot be said that it went out tamely. [Footnote 39: There is a natural affinity to Gray's poetry in the Icelandic poetry that he translated--compressed, emphatic, incapable of laxity.] VI _BEOWULF_ The poem of _Beowulf_ has been sorely tried; critics have long been at work on the body of it, to discover how it is made. It gives many openings for theories of agglutination and adulteration. Many things in it are plainly incongruous. The pedigree of Grendel is not authentic; the Christian sentiments and morals are not in keeping with the heroic or the mythical substance of the poem; the conduct of the narrative is not always clear or easy to follow. These difficulties and contradictions have to be explained; the composition of the poem has to be analysed; what is old has to be separated from what is new and adventitious; and the various senses and degrees of "old" and "new" have to be determined, in the criticism of the poem. With all this, however, the poem continues to possess at least an apparent and external unity. It is an extant book, whatever the history of its composition may have been; the book of the adventures of Beowulf, written out fair by two scribes in the tenth century; an epic poem, with a prologue at the beginning, and a judgment pronounced on the life of the hero at the end; a single book, considered as such by its transcribers, and making a claim to be so considered. Before any process of disintegration is begun, this claim should be taken into account; the poem deserves to be appreciated as it stands. Whatever may be the secrets of its authorship, it exists as a single continuous narrative poem; and whatever its faults may be, it holds a position by itself, and a place of some honour, as the one extant poem of considerable length in the group to which it belongs. It has a meaning and value apart from the questions of its origin and its mode of production. Its present value as a poem is not affected by proofs or arguments regarding the way in which it may have been patched or edited. The patchwork theory has no power to make new faults in the poem; it can only point out what faults exist, and draw inferences from them. It does not take away from any dignity the book may possess in its present form, that it has been subjected to the same kind of examination as the _Iliad_. The poem may be reviewed as it stands, in order to find out what sort of thing passed for heroic poetry with the English at the time the present copy of the poem was written. However the result was obtained, _Beowulf_ is, at any rate, the specimen by which the Teutonic epic poetry must be judged. It is the largest monument extant. There is nothing beyond it, in that kind, in respect of size and completeness. If the old Teutonic epic is judged to have failed, it must be because _Beowulf_ is a failure. Taking the most cursory view of the story of _Beowulf_, it is easy to recognise that the unity of the plot is not like the unity of the _Iliad_ or the _Odyssey_. One is inclined at first to reckon _Beowulf_ along with those epics of which Aristotle speaks, the _Heracleids_ and _Theseids_, the authors of which "imagined that because Heracles was one person the story of his life could not fail to have unity."[40] [Footnote 40: _Poet._ 1451 a.] It is impossible to reduce the poem of _Beowulf_ to the scale of Aristotle's _Odyssey_ without revealing the faults of structure in the English poem:-- A man in want of work goes abroad to the house of a certain king troubled by Harpies, and having accomplished the purification of the house returns home with honour. Long afterwards, having become king in his own country, he kills a dragon, but is at the same time choked by the venom of it. His people lament for him and build his tomb. Aristotle made a summary of the Homeric poem, because he wished to show how simple its construction really was, apart from the episodes. It is impossible, by any process of reduction and simplification, to get rid of the duality in _Beowulf_. It has many episodes, quite consistent with a general unity of action, but there is something more than episodes, there is a sequel. It is as if to the _Odyssey_ there had been added some later books telling in full of the old age of Odysseus, far from the sea, and his death at the hands of his son Telegonus. The adventure with the dragon is separate from the earlier adventures. It is only connected with them because the same person is involved in both. It is plain from Aristotle's words that the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ were in this, as in all respects, above and beyond the other Greek epics known to Aristotle. Homer had not to wait for _Beowulf_ to serve as a foil to his excellence. That was provided in the other epic poems of Greece, in the cycle of Troy, in the epic stories of Theseus and Heracles. It seems probable that the poem of _Beowulf_ may be at least as well knit as the _Little Iliad_, the Greek cyclic poem of which Aristotle names the principal incidents, contrasting its variety with the simplicity of the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_.[41] [Footnote 41: [Greek: toigaroun ek men Iliados kai Odysseias mia tragôidia poieitai hekateras ê duo monai, ek de Kypriôn pollai kai tês mikras Iliados pleon oktô, hoion hoplôn krisis, Philoktêtês, Neoptolemos, Eurypylos, ptôcheia, Lakainai, Iliou persis, kai apoplous kai Sinôn kai Trôiades] (1459 b).] Indeed it is clear that the plan of _Beowulf_ might easily have been much worse, that is, more lax and diffuse, than it is. This meagre amount of praise will be allowed by the most grudging critics, if they will only think of the masses of French epic, and imagine the extent to which a French company of poets might have prolonged the narrative of the hero's life--the _Enfances_, the _Chevalerie_--before reaching the _Death of Beowulf_. At line 2200 in _Beowulf_ comes the long interval of time, the fifty years between the adventure at Heorot and the fight between Beowulf and the dragon. Two thousand lines are given to the first story, a thousand to the _Death of Beowulf_. Two thousand lines are occupied with the narrative of Beowulf's expedition, his voyage to Denmark, his fight with Grendel and Grendel's mother, his return to the land of the Gauts and his report of the whole matter to King Hygelac. In this part of the poem, taken by itself, there is no defect of unity. The action is one, with different parts all easily and naturally included between the first voyage and the return. It is amplified and complicated with details, but none of these introduce any new main interests. _Beowulf_ is not like the _Heracleids_ and _Theseids_. It transgresses the limits of the Homeric unity, by adding a sequel; but for all that it is not a mere string of adventures, like the bad epic in Horace's _Art of Poetry_, or the innocent plays described by Sir Philip Sidney and Cervantes. A third of the whole poem is detached, a separate adventure. The first two-thirds taken by themselves form a complete poem, with a single action; while, in the orthodox epic manner, various allusions and explanations are introduced regarding the past history of the personages involved, and the history of other people famous in tradition. The adventure at Heorot, taken by itself, would pass the scrutiny of Aristotle or Horace, as far as concerns the lines of its composition. There is variety in it, but the variety is kept in order and not allowed to interfere or compete with the main story. The past history is disclosed, and the subordinate novels are interpolated, as in the _Odyssey_, in the course of an evening's conversation in hall, or in some other interval in the action. In the introduction of accessory matter, standing in different degrees of relevance to the main plot, the practice of _Beowulf_ is not essentially different from that of classical epic. In the _Iliad_ we are allowed to catch something of the story of the old time before Agamemnon,--the war of Thebes, Lycurgus, Jason, Heracles,--and even of things less widely notable, less of a concern to the world than the voyage of Argo, such as, for instance, the business of Nestor in his youth. In _Beowulf_, in a similar way, the inexhaustible world outside the story is partly represented by means of allusions and digressions. The tragedy of Finnesburh is sung by the harper, and his song is reported at some length, not merely referred to in passing. The stories of Thrytho, of Heremod, of Sigemund the Wælsing and Fitela his son (Sigmund and Sinfiotli), are introduced like the stories of Lycurgus or of Jason in Homer. They are illustrations of the action, taken from other cycles. The fortunes of the Danish and Gautish kings, the fall of Hygelac, the feuds with Sweden, these matters come into closer relation with the story. They are not so much illustrations taken in from without, as points of attachment between the history of _Beowulf_ and the untold history all round it, the history of the persons concerned, along with Beowulf himself, in the vicissitudes of the Danish and Gautish kingdoms. In the fragments of _Waldere_, also, there are allusions to other stories. In _Waldere_ there has been lost a poem much longer and fuller than the _Lay of Hildebrand_, or any of the poems of the "Elder Edda"--a poem more like _Beowulf_ than any of those now extant. The references to Weland, to Widia Weland's son, to Hama and Theodoric, are of the same sort as the references in _Beowulf_ to the story of Froda and Ingeld, or the references in the _Iliad_ to the adventures of Tydeus. In the episodic passages of _Beowulf_ there are, curiously, the same degrees of relevance as in the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_. Some of them are necessary to the proper fulness of the story, though not essential parts of the plot. Such are the references to Beowulf's swimming-match; and such, in the _Odyssey_, is the tale told to Alcinous. The allusions to the wars of Hygelac have the same value as the references in the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ to such portions of the tale of Troy, and of the return of the Greek lords, as are not immediately connected with the anger of Achilles, or the return of Odysseus. The tale of _Finnesburh_ in _Beowulf_ is purely an interlude, as much as the ballad of _Ares and Aphrodite_ in the _Odyssey_. Many of the references to other legends in the _Iliad_ are illustrative and comparative, like the passages about Heremod or Thrytho in _Beowulf_. "Ares suffered when Otus and Ephialtes kept him in a brazen vat, Hera suffered and Hades suffered, and were shot with the arrows of the son of Amphitryon" (_Il._ v. 385). The long parenthetical story of Heracles in a speech of Agamemnon (_Il._ xx. 98) has the same irrelevance of association, and has incurred the same critical suspicions, as the contrast of Hygd and Thrytho, a fairly long passage out of a wholly different story, introduced in _Beowulf_ on the very slightest of suggestions. Thus in _Beowulf_ and in the Homeric poems there are episodes that are strictly relevant and consistent, filling up the epic plan, opening out the perspective of the story; also episodes that without being strictly relevant are rightly proportioned and subordinated, like the interlude of Finnesburh, decoration added to the structure, but not overloading it, nor interfering with the design; and, thirdly, episodes that seem to be irrelevant, and may possibly be interpolations. All these kinds have the effect of increasing the mass as well as the variety of the work, and they give to _Beowulf_ the character of a poem which, in dealing with one action out of an heroic cycle, is able, by the way, to hint at and partially represent a great number of other stories. It is not in the episodes alone that _Beowulf_ has an advantage over the shorter and more summary poems. The frequent episodes are only part of the general liberality of the narrative. The narrative is far more cramped than in _Homer_; but when compared with the short method of the Northern poems, not to speak of the ballads, it comes out as itself Homeric by contrast. It succeeds in representing pretty fully and continuously, not by mere allusions and implications, certain portions of heroic life and action. The principal actions in _Beowulf_ are curiously trivial, taken by themselves. All around them are the rumours of great heroic and tragic events, and the scene and the personages are heroic and magnificent. But the plot in itself has no very great poetical value; as compared with the tragic themes of the Niblung legend, with the tale of Finnesburh, or even with the historical seriousness of the _Maldon_ poem, it lacks weight. The largest of the extant poems of this school has the least important subject-matter; while things essentially and in the abstract more important, like the tragedy of Froda and Ingeld, are thrust away into the corners of the poem. In the killing of a monster like Grendel, or in the killing of a dragon, there is nothing particularly interesting; no complication to make a fit subject for epic. _Beowulf_ is defective from the first in respect of plot. The story of Grendel and his mother is one that has been told in myriads of ways; there is nothing commoner, except dragons. The killing of dragons and other monsters is the regular occupation of the heroes of old wives' tales; and it is difficult to give individuality or epic dignity to commonplaces of this sort. This, however, is accomplished in the poem of _Beowulf_. Nothing can make the story of Grendel dramatic like the story of Waldere or of Finnesburh. But the poet has, at any rate, in connexion with this simple theme, given a rendering, consistent, adequate, and well-proportioned, of certain aspects of life and certain representative characters in an heroic age. The characters in _Beowulf_ are not much more than types; not much more clearly individual than the persons of a comedy of Terence. In the shorter Northern poems there are the characters of Brynhild and Gudrun; there is nothing in _Beowulf_ to compare with them, although in _Beowulf_ the personages are consistent with themselves, and intelligible. Hrothgar is the generous king whose qualities were in Northern history transferred to his nephew Hrothulf (Hrolf Kraki), the type of peaceful strength, a man of war living quietly in the intervals of war. Beowulf is like him in magnanimity, but his character is less uniform. He is not one of the more cruel adventurers, like Starkad in the myth, or some of the men of the Icelandic Sagas. But he is an adventurer with something strange and not altogether safe in his disposition. His youth was like that of the lubberly younger sons in the fairy stories. "They said that he was slack." Though he does not swagger like a Berserk, nor "gab" like the Paladins of Charlemagne, he is ready on provocation to boast of what he has done. The pathetic sentiment of his farewell to Hrothgar is possibly to be ascribed, in the details of its rhetoric, to the common affection of Anglo-Saxon poetry for the elegiac mood; but the softer passages are not out of keeping with the wilder moments of _Beowulf_, and they add greatly to the interest of his character. He is more variable, more dramatic, than the king and queen of the Danes, or any of the secondary personages. Wealhtheo, the queen, represents the poetical idea of a noble lady. There is nothing complex or strongly dramatic in her character. Hunferth, the envious man, brought in as a foil to Beowulf, is not caricatured or exaggerated. His sourness is that of a critic and a politician, disinclined to accept newcomers on their own valuation. He is not a figure of envy in a moral allegory. In the latter part of the poem it is impossible to find in the character of Wiglaf more than the general and abstract qualities of the "loyal servitor." Yet all those abstract and typical characters are introduced in such a way as to complete and fill up the picture. The general impression is one of variety and complexity, though the elements of it are simple enough. With a plot like that of _Beowulf_ it might seem that there was danger of a lapse from the more serious kind of heroic composition into a more trivial kind. Certainly there is nothing in the plain story to give much help to the author; nothing in Grendel to fascinate or tempt a poet with a story made to his hand. The plot of _Beowulf_ is not more serious than that of a thousand easy-going romances of chivalry, and of fairy tales beyond all number. The strength of what may be called an epic tradition is shown in the superiority of _Beowulf_ to the temptations of cheap romantic commonplace. Beowulf, the hero, is, after all, something different from the giant-killer of popular stories, the dragon-slayer of the romantic schools. It is the virtue and the triumph of the poet of _Beowulf_ that when all is done the characters of the poem remain distinct in the memory, that the thoughts and sentiments of the poem are remembered as significant, in a way that is not the way of the common romance. Although the incidents that take up the principal part of the scene of _Beowulf_ are among the commonest in popular stories, it is impossible to mistake the poem for one of the ordinary tales of terror and wonder. The essential part of the poem is the drama of characters; though the plot happens to be such that the characters are never made to undergo a tragic ordeal like that of so many of the other Teutonic stories. It is not incorrect to say of the poem of _Beowulf_ that the main story is really less important to the imagination than the accessories by which the characters are defined and distinguished. It is the defect of the poem this should be so. There is a constitutional weakness in it. Although the two stories of _Beowulf_ are both commonplace, there is a difference between the story of Grendel and the story of the dragon. The story of the dragon is more of a commonplace than the other. Almost every one of any distinction, and many quite ordinary people in certain periods of history have killed dragons; from Hercules and Bellerophon to Gawain, who, on different occasions, narrowly escaped the fate of Beowulf; from Harald Hardrada (who killed two at least) to More of More Hall who killed the dragon of Wantley. The latter part of _Beowulf_ is a tissue of commonplaces of every kind: the dragon and its treasure; the devastation of the land; the hero against the dragon; the defection of his companions; the loyalty of one of them; the fight with the dragon; the dragon killed, and the hero dying from the flame and the venom of it; these are commonplaces of the story, and in addition to these there are commonplaces of sentiment, the old theme of this transitory life that "fareth as a fantasy," the lament for the glory passed away; and the equally common theme of loyalty and treason in contrast. Everything is commonplace, while everything is also magnificent in its way, and set forth in the right epic style, with elegiac passages here and there. Everything is commonplace except the allusions to matters of historical tradition, such as the death of Ongentheow, the death of Hygelac. With these exceptions, there is nothing in the latter part of _Beowulf_ that might not have been taken at almost any time from the common stock of fables and appropriate sentiments, familiar to every maker or hearer of poetry from the days of the English conquest of Britain, and long before that. It is not to be denied that the commonplaces here are handled with some discretion; though commonplace, they are not mean or dull.[42] [Footnote 42: It has been shown recently by Dr. Edward Sievers that Beowulf's dragon corresponds in many points to the dragon killed by Frotho, father of Haldanus, in Saxo, Book II. The dragon is not wholly commonplace, but has some particular distinctive traits. See _Berichte der Königl. Sächs. Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften_, 6 Juli 1895.] The story of Grendel and his mother is also common, but not as common as the dragon. The function of this story is considerably different from the other, and the class to which it belongs is differently distributed in literature. Both are stories of the killing of monsters, both belong naturally to legends of heroes like Theseus or Hercules. But for literature there is this difference between them, that dragons belong more appropriately to the more fantastic kinds of narrative, while stories of the deliverance of a house from a pestilent goblin are much more capable of sober treatment and verisimilitude. Dragons are more easily distinguished and set aside as fabulous monsters than is the family of Grendel. Thus the story of Grendel is much better fitted than the dragon story for a composition like _Beowulf_, which includes a considerable amount of the detail of common experience and ordinary life. Dragons are easily scared from the neighbourhood of sober experience; they have to be looked for in the mountains and caverns of romance or fable. Whereas Grendel remains a possibility in the middle of common life, long after the last dragon has been disposed of. The people who tell fairy stories like the _Well of the World's End_, the _Knight of the Red Shield_, the _Castle East o' the Sun and West o' the Moon_, have no belief, have neither belief nor disbelief, in the adventures of them. But the same people have other stories of which they take a different view, stories of wonderful things more near to their own experience. Many a man to whom the _Well of the World's End_ is an idea, a fancy, has in his mind a story like that of Grendel which he believes, which makes him afraid. The bogle that comes to a house at night and throttles the goodman is a creature more hardy than the dragon, and more persevering. Stories like that of Beowulf and Grendel are to be found along with other popular stories in collections; but they are to be distinguished from them. There are popular heroes of tradition to this day who are called to do for lonely houses the service done by Beowulf for the house of Hrothgar. Peer Gynt (not Ibsen's Peer Gynt, who is sophisticated, but the original Peter) is a lonely deer-stalker on the fells, who is asked by his neighbour to come and keep his house for him, which is infested with trolls. Peer Gynt clears them out,[43] and goes back to his deer-stalking. The story is plainly one that touches the facts of life more nearly than stories of _Shortshanks_ or the _Blue Belt_. The trolls are a possibility. [Footnote 43: Asbjörnsen, _Norske Huldre-Eventyr og Folkesagn_. _At renske Huset_ is the phrase--"to cleanse the house." Cf. _Heorot is gefælsod_, "Heorot is cleansed," in _Beowulf_.] The story of Uistean Mor mac Ghille Phadrig is another of the same sort.[44] It is not, like the _Battle of the Birds_ or _Conal Gulban_, a thing of pure fantasy. It is a story that may pass for true when the others have lost everything but their pure imaginative value as stories. Here, again, in the West Highlands, the champion is called upon like Beowulf and Peer Gynt to save his neighbours from a warlock. And it is matter of history that Bishop Gudmund Arason of Hólar in Iceland had to suppress a creature with a seal's head, Selkolla, that played the game of Grendel.[45] [Footnote 44: J.F. Campbell, _Tales of the West Highlands_, ii. p. 99. The reference to this story in _Catriona_ (p. 174) will be remembered.] [Footnote 45: _Biskupa Sögur_, i. p. 604.] There are people, no doubt, for whom Peer Gynt and the trolls, Uistean Mor and the warlock, even Selkolla that Bishop Gudmund killed, are as impossible as the dragon in the end of the poem of _Beowulf_. But it is certain that stories like those of Grendel are commonly believed in many places where dragons are extinct. The story of Beowulf and Grendel is not wildly fantastic or improbable; it agrees with the conditions of real life, as they have been commonly understood at all times except those of peculiar enlightenment and rationalism. It is not to be compared with the Phaeacian stories of the adventures of Odysseus. Those stories in the _Odyssey_ are plainly and intentionally in a different order of imagination from the story of the killing of the suitors. They are pure romance, and if any hearer of the _Odyssey_ in ancient times was led to go in search of the island of Calypso, he might come back with the same confession as the seeker for the wonders of Broceliande,--_fol i alai_. But there are other wonderful things in the _Iliad_ and the _Odyssey_ which are equally improbable to the modern rationalist and sceptic; yet by no means of the same kind of wonder as Calypso or the Sirens. Probably few of the earliest hearers of the _Odyssey_ thought of the Sirens or of Calypso as anywhere near them, while many of them must have had their grandmothers' testimony for things like the portents before the death of the suitors. Grendel in the poem of _Beowulf_ is in the same order of existence as these portents. If they are superstitions, they are among the most persistent; and they are superstitions, rather than creatures of romance. The fight with Grendel is not of the same kind of adventure as Sigurd at the hedge of flame, or Svipdag at the enchanted castle. And the episode of Grendel's mother is further from matter of fact than the story of Grendel himself. The description of the desolate water is justly recognised as one of the masterpieces of the old English poetry; it deserves all that has been said of it as a passage of romance in the middle of epic. Beowulf's descent under the water, his fight with the warlock's mother, the darkness of that "sea dingle," the light of the mysterious sword, all this, if less admirably worked out than the first description of the dolorous mere, is quite as far from Heorot and the report of the table-talk of Hrothgar, Beowulf, and Hunferth. It is also a different sort of thing from the fight with Grendel. There is more of supernatural incident, more romantic ornament, less of that concentration in the struggle which makes the fight with Grendel almost as good in its way as its Icelandic counterpart, the wrestling of Grettir and Glam. The story of _Beowulf_, which in the fight with Grendel has analogies with the plainer kind of goblin story, rather alters its tone in the fight with Grendel's mother. There are parallels in _Grettis Saga_, and elsewhere, to encounters like this, with a hag or ogress under water; stories of this sort have been found no less credible than stories of haunting warlocks like Grendel. But this second story is not told in the same way as the first. It has more of the fashion and temper of mythical fable or romance, and less of matter of fact. More particularly, the old sword, the sword of light, in the possession of Grendel's dam in her house under the water, makes one think of other legends of mysterious swords, like that of Helgi, and the "glaives of light" that are in the keeping of divers "gyre carlines" in the _West Highland Tales_. Further, the whole scheme is a common one in popular stories, especially in Celtic stories of giants; after the giant is killed his mother comes to avenge him. Nevertheless, the controlling power in the story of _Beowulf_ is not that of any kind of romance or fantastic invention; neither the original fantasy of popular stories nor the literary embellishments of romantic schools of poetry. There are things in _Beowulf_ that may be compared to things in the fairy tales; and, again, there are passages of high value for their use of the motive of pure awe and mystery. But the poem is made what it is by the power with which the characters are kept in right relation to their circumstances. The hero is not lost or carried away in his adventures. The introduction, the arrival in Heorot, and the conclusion, the return of Beowulf to his own country, are quite unlike the manner of pure romance; and these are the parts of the work by which it is most accurately to be judged. The adventure of Grendel is put in its right proportion when it is related by Beowulf to Hygelac. The repetition of the story, in a shorter form, and in the mouth of the hero himself, gives strength and body to a theme that was in danger of appearing trivial and fantastic. The popular story-teller has done his work when he has told the adventures of the giant-killer; the epic poet has failed, if he has done no more than this. The character and personage of Beowulf must be brought out and impressed on the audience; it is the poet's hero that they are bound to admire. He appeals to them, not directly, but with unmistakable force and emphasis, to say that they have beheld ("as may unworthiness define") the nature of the hero, and to give him their praises. The beauty and the strength of the poem of _Beowulf_, as of all true epic, depend mainly upon its comprehensive power, its inclusion of various aspects, its faculty of changing the mood of the story. The fight with Grendel is an adventure of one sort, grim, unrelieved, touching close upon the springs of mortal terror, the recollection or the apprehension of real adversaries possibly to be met with in the darkness. The fight with Grendel's mother touches on other motives; the terror is further away from human habitations, and it is accompanied with a charm and a beauty, the beauty of the Gorgon, such as is absent from the first adventure. It would have loosened the tension and broken the unity of the scene, if any such irrelevances had been admitted into the story of the fight with Grendel. The fight with Grendel's mother is fought under other conditions; the stress is not the same; the hero goes out to conquer, he is beset by no such apprehension as in the case of the night attack. The poet is at this point free to make use of a new set of motives, and here it is rather the scene than the action that is made vivid to the mind. But after this excursion the story comes back to its heroic beginning; and the conversation of Beowulf with his hosts in Denmark, and the report that he gives to his kin in Gautland, are enough to reduce to its right episodic dimensions the fantasy of the adventure under the sea. In the latter part of the poem there is still another distribution of interest. The conversation of the personages is still to be found occasionally carried on in the steady tones of people who have lives of their own, and belong to a world where the tunes are not all in one key. At the same time, it cannot be denied that the story of the _Death of Beowulf_ is inclined to monotony. The epic variety and independence are obliterated by the too obviously pathetic intention. The character of this part of the poem is that of a late school of heroic poetry attempting, and with some success, to extract the spirit of an older kind of poetry, and to represent in one scene an heroic ideal or example, with emphasis and with concentration of all the available matter. But while the end of the poem may lose in some things by comparison with the stronger earlier parts, it is not so wholly lost in the charms of pathetic meditation as to forget the martial tone and the more resolute air altogether. There was a danger that Beowulf should be transformed into a sort of Amadis, a mirror of the earlier chivalry; with a loyal servitor attending upon his death, and uttering the rhetorical panegyric of an abstract ideal. But this danger is avoided, at least in part. Beowulf is still, in his death, a sharer in the fortunes of the Northern houses; he keeps his history. The fight with the dragon is shot through with reminiscences of the Gautish wars: Wiglaf speaks his sorrow for the champion of the Gauts; the virtues of Beowulf are not those of a fictitious paragon king, but of a man who would be missed in the day when the enemies of the Gauts should come upon them. The epic keeps its hold upon what went before, and on what is to come. Its construction is solid, not flat. It is exposed to the attractions of all kinds of subordinate and partial literature,--the fairy story, the conventional romance, the pathetic legend,--and it escapes them all by taking them all up as moments, as episodes and points of view, governed by the conception, or the comprehension, of some of the possibilities of human character in a certain form of society. It does not impose any one view on the reader; it gives what it is the proper task of the higher kind of fiction to give--the play of life in different moods and under different aspects. CHAPTER III THE ICELANDIC SAGAS I ICELAND AND THE HEROIC AGE The epic poetry of the Germans came to an end in different ways and at different seasons among the several nations of that stock. In England and the Continent it had to compete with the new romantic subjects and new forms of verse. In Germany the rhyming measures prevailed very early, but the themes of German tradition were not surrendered at the same time. The rhyming verse of Germany, foreign in its origin, continued to be applied for centuries in the rendering of German myths and heroic stories, sometimes in a style with more or less pretence to courtliness, as in the _Nibelungenlied_ and _Kudrun_; sometimes in open parade of the travelling minstrel's "public manners" and simple appetites. England had exactly the opposite fortune in regard to verse and subject-matter. In England the alliterative verse survived the changes of inflexion and pronunciation for more than five hundred years after _Maldon_, and uttered its last words in a poem written like the _Song of Byrhtnoth_ on a contemporary battle,--the poem of _Scottish Field_.[46] [Footnote 46: Ed. Robson, Chetham Society, 1855, from the Lyme MS.; ed. Furnivall and Hales, _Percy Folio Manuscript_, 1867.] There was girding forth of guns, with many great stones; Archers uttered out their arrows and eagerly they shotten; They proched us with spears and put many over; That the blood outbrast at their broken harness. There was swinging out of swords, and swapping of heads, We blanked them with bills through all their bright armour, That all the dale dinned of the derf strokes. But while this poem of Flodden corresponds in its subject to the poem of _Maldon_, there is no such likeness between any other late alliterative poem and the older poems of the older language. The alliterative verse is applied in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries to every kind of subject except those of Germanic tradition. England, however, has the advantage over Germany, that while Germany lost the old verse, England did not lose the English heroic subjects, though, as it happens, the story of King Horn and the story of Havelock the Dane are not told in the verse that was used for King Arthur and Gawain, for the tale of Troy and the wars of Alexander. The recent discovery of a fragment of the _Song of Wade_ is an admonition to be cautious in making the extant works of Middle English literature into a standard for all that has ceased to exist. But no new discovery, even of a Middle English alliterative poem of Beowulf or of Walter of Aquitaine, would alter the fact that the alliterative measure of English poetry in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, like the ancient themes of the German rhyming poems, is a survival in an age when the chief honours go to other kinds of poetry. The author of _Piers Plowman_ is a notable writer, and so are the poets of _Gawain_, and of the _Mort Arthure_, and of the _Destruction of Troy_; but Chaucer and not Langland is the poetical master of that age. The poems of the _Nibelungen_ and of _Kudrun_ are rightly honoured, but it was to the author of _Parzival_, and to the courtly lyrics of Walther von der Vogelweide, that the higher rank was given in the age of the Hohenstaufen, and the common fame is justified by history, so often as history chooses to have any concern with such things. In the lands of the old Northern speech the old heroic poetry was displaced by the new Court poetry of the Scalds. The heroic subjects were not, however, allowed to pass out of memory. The new poetry could not do without them, and required, and obtained, its heroic dictionary in the _Edda_. The old subjects hold their own, or something of their own, with every change of fashion. They were made into prose stories, when prose was in favour; they were the subjects of _Rímur_, rhyming Icelandic romances, when that form came later into vogue.[47] In Denmark they were paraphrased, many of them, by Saxo in his _History_; many of them became the subjects of ballads, in Denmark, Norway, Sweden, and the Faroes. [Footnote 47: See below, p. 283.] In this way some of the inheritance of the old German world was saved in different countries and languages, for the most part in ballads and chapbooks, apart from the main roads of literature. But these heirlooms were not the whole stock of the heroic age. After the failure and decline of the old poetry there remained an unexhausted piece of ground; and the great imaginative triumph of the Teutonic heroic age was won in Iceland with the creation of a new epic tradition, a new form applied to new subjects. Iceland did something more than merely preserve the forms of an antiquated life whose day was over. It was something more than an island of refuge for muddled and blundering souls that had found the career of the great world too much for them. The ideas of an old-fashioned society migrated to Iceland, but they did not remain there unmodified. The paradox of the history of Iceland is that the unsuccessful old ideas were there maintained by a community of people who were intensely self-conscious and exceptionally clear in mind. Their political ideas were too primitive for the common life of medieval Christendom. The material life of Iceland in the Middle Ages was barbarous when compared with the life of London or Paris, not to speak of Provence or Italy, in the same centuries. At the same time, the modes of thought in Iceland, as is proved by its historical literature, were distinguished by their freedom from extravagances,--from the extravagance of medieval enthusiasm as well as from the superstitions of barbarism. The life of an heroic age--that is, of an older stage of civilisation than the common European medieval form--was interpreted and represented by the men of that age themselves with a clearness of understanding that appears to be quite unaffected by the common medieval fallacies and "idolisms." This clear self-consciousness is the distinction of Icelandic civilisation and literature. It is not vanity or conceit. It does not make the Icelandic writers anxious about their own fame or merits. It is simply clear intelligence, applied under a dry light to subjects that in themselves are primitive, such as never before or since have been represented in the same way. The life is their own life; the record is that of a dispassionate observer. While the life represented in the Sagas is more primitive, less civilised, than the life of the great Southern nations in the Middle Ages, the record of that life is by a still greater interval in advance of all the common modes of narrative then known to the more fortunate or more luxurious parts of Europe. The conventional form of the Saga has none of the common medieval restrictions of view. It is accepted at once by modern readers without deduction or apology on the score of antique fashion, because it is in essentials the form with which modern readers are acquainted in modern story-telling; and more especially because the language is unaffected and idiomatic, not "quaint" in any way, and because the conversations are like the talk of living people. The Sagas are stories of characters who speak for themselves, and who are interesting on their own merits. There are good and bad Sagas, and the good ones are not all equally good throughout. The mistakes and misuses of the inferior parts of the literature do not, however, detract from the sufficiency of the common form, as represented at its best. The invention of the common form of the Saga is an achievement which deserves to be judged by the best in its kind. That kind was not exempt, any more than the Elizabethan drama or the modern novel, from the impertinences and superfluities of trivial authors. Further, there were certain conditions and circumstances about its origin that sometimes hindered in one way, while they gave help in another. The Saga is a compromise between opposite temptations, and the compromise is not always equitable. II MATTER AND FORM It is no small part of the force of the Sagas, and at the same time a difficulty and an embarrassment, that they have so much of reality behind them. The element of history in them, and their close relation to the lives of those for whom they were made, have given them a substance and solidity beyond anything else in the imaginative stories of the Middle Ages. It may be that this advantage is gained rather unfairly. The art of the Sagas, which is so modern in many things, and so different from the medieval conventions in its selection of matter and its development of the plot, is largely indebted to circumstances outside of art. In its rudiments it was always held close to the real and material interests of the people; it was not like some other arts which in their beginning are fanciful, or dependent on myth or legend for their subject-matter, as in the medieval schools of painting or sculpture generally, or in the medieval drama. Its imaginative methods were formed through essays in the representation of actual life; its first artists were impelled by historical motives, and by personal and local interests. The art of the Sagas was from the first "immersed in matter"; it had from the first all the advantage that is given by interests stronger and more substantial than those of mere literature; and, conversely, all the hindrance that such irrelevant interests provide, when "mere literature" attempts to disengage itself and govern its own course. The local history, the pedigrees of notable families, are felt as a hindrance, in a greater or less degree, by all readers of the Sagas; as a preliminary obstacle to clear comprehension. The Sagas differ in value, according to their use and arrangement of these matters, in relation to a central or imaginative conception of the main story and the characters engaged in it. The best Sagas are not always those that give the least of their space to historical matters, to the genealogies and family memoirs. From these the original life of the Sagas is drawn, and when it is cut off from these the Saga withers into a conventional and insipid romance. Some of the best Sagas are among those which make most of the history and, like _Njála_ and _Laxdæla_, act out their tragedies in a commanding way that carries along with it the whole crowd of minor personages, yet so that their minor and particular existences do not interfere with the story, but help it and give it substantiality. The tragedy of _Njal_, or of the _Lovers of Gudrun_, may be read and judged, if one chooses, in abstraction from the common background of Icelandic history, and in forgetfulness of its bearing upon the common fortunes of the people of the land; but these Sagas are not rightly understood if they are taken only and exclusively in isolation. The tragedies gain a very distinct additional quality from the recurrence of personages familiar to the reader from other Sagas. The relation of the Sagas to actual past events, and to the whole range of Icelandic family tradition, was the initial difficulty in forming an adequate method of story-telling; the particulars were too many, and also too real. But the reality of them was, at the same time, the initial impulse of the Sagas; and the best of the Sagas have found a way of saving the particulars of the family and local histories, without injury to the imaginative and poetical order of their narratives. The Sagas, with all the differences between them, have common features, but among these is not to be reckoned an equal consideration for the unity of action. The original matter of the oral traditions of Iceland, out of which the written Sagas were formed, was naturally very much made up of separate anecdotes, loosely strung together by associations with a district or a family. Some of the stories, no doubt, must have had by nature a greater unity and completeness than the rest:--history in the rough has very often the outlines of tragedy in it; it presents its authors with dramatic contrasts ready made (Richard II. and Bolingbroke, Lewis XI. and Charles the Bold, Elizabeth and Mary Queen of Scots); it provides real heroes. But there are many interesting things which are not well proportioned, and which have no respect for the unities; the hero is worth talking about whether his story is symmetrical or not. The simplest form of heroic narrative is that which puts together a number of adventures, such as may easily be detached and repeated separately, adventures like that of David and Goliath, Wallace with his fishing-rod, or Bruce in the robbers' house. Many of the Sagas are mere loose strings of adventures, of short stories, or idylls, which may easily be detached and remembered out of connexion with the rest of the series. In the case of many of these it is almost indifferent at what point they may be introduced in the Saga; they merely add some particulars without advancing the plot, if there be any plot. There are all varieties of texture in the Sagas, from the extreme laxity of those that look like mere collections of the anecdotes of a countryside (_Eyrbyggja_), to the definite structure of those in which all the particulars contribute to the main action (_Hrafnkels Saga_, _Bandamanna_, _Gísla Saga_). The loose assemblage of stories current in Iceland before the Sagas were composed in writing must, of course, have been capable of all kinds of variation. The written Sagas gave a check to oral variations and rearrangements; but many of them in extant alternative versions keep the traces of the original story-teller's freedom of selection, while all the Sagas together in a body acknowledge themselves practically as a selection from traditional report. Each one, the most complete as well as the most disorderly, is taken out of a mass of traditional knowledge relating to certain recognisable persons, of whom any one may be chosen for a time as the centre of interest, and any one may become a subordinate character in some one else's adventures. One Saga plays into the others, and introduces people incidentally who may be the heroes of other stories. As a result of this selective practice of the Sagas, it sometimes happens that an important or an interesting part of the record may be dropped by one Saga and picked up casually by another. Thus in the written Sagas, one of the best stories of the two Foster-brothers (or rather "Brothers by oath," _fratres jurati_) Thorgeir and Thormod the poet, is preserved not by their own proper history, _Fóstbræðra Saga_, but in the story of Grettir the Strong; how they and Grettir lived a winter through in the same house without quarrelling, and how their courage was estimated by their host.[48] [Footnote 48: "Is it true, Thorgils, that you have entertained those three men this winter, that are held to be the most regardless and overbearing, and all of them outlaws, and you have handled them so that none has hurt another?" Yes, it was true, said Thorgils. Skapti said: "That is something for a man to be proud of; but what do you think of the three, and how are they each of them in courage?" Thorgils said: "They are all three bold men to the full; yet two of them, I think, may tell what fear is like. It is not in the same way with both; for Thormod fears God, and Grettir is so afraid of the dark that after dark he would never stir, if he had his own way; but I do not know that Thorgeir, my kinsman, is afraid of anything."--"You have read them well," says Skapti; and so their talk ended (_Grettis Saga_, c. 51).] This solidarity and interconnexion of the Sagas needs no explanation. It could not be otherwise in a country like Iceland; a community of neighbours (in spite of distances and difficulties of travelling) where there was nothing much to think about or to know except other people's affairs. The effect in the written Sagas is to give them something like the system of the _Comédie Humaine_. There are new characters in each, but the old characters reappear. Sometimes there are discrepancies; the characters are not always treated from the same point of view. On the whole, however, there is agreement. The character of Gudmund the Great, for example, is well drawn, with zest, and some irony, in his own Saga (_Ljósvetninga_); he is the prosperous man, the "rich glutton," fond of praise and of influence, but not as sound as he looks, and not invulnerable. His many appearances in other Sagas all go to strengthen this impression of the full-blown great man and his ambiguous greatness. So also Snorri the Priest, whose rise and progress are related in _Eyrbyggja_, appears in many other Sagas, and is recognised whenever he appears with the same certainty and the same sort of interest as attaches to the name of Rastignac, when that politician is introduced in stories not properly his own. Each separate mention of Snorri the Priest finds its place along with all the rest; he is never unequal to himself. It is in the short story, the episodic chapter, that the art of Icelandic narrative first defines itself. This is the original unity; it is here, in a limited, easily comprehensible subject-matter, that the lines are first clearly drawn. The Sagas that are least regular and connected are made up of definite and well-shaped single blocks. Many of the Sagas are much improved by being taken to pieces and regarded, not as continuous histories, but as collections of separate short stories. _Eyrbyggja_, _Vatnsdæla_, and _Ljósvetninga_ are collections of this sort--"Tales of the Hall." There is a sort of unity in each of them, but the place of Snorri in _Eyrbyggja_, of Ingimund in _Vatnsdæla_, and of Gudmund the Great in the history of the House of Ljósavatn, is not that of a tragic or epic hero who compels the episodes to take their right subordinate rank in a larger story. These Sagas break up into separate chapters, losing thereby none of the minor interests of story-telling, but doing without the greater tragic or heroic interest of the fables that have one predominant motive. Of more coherent forms of construction there are several different examples among the Sagas. In each of these cases it is the tragic conception, the tragic idea, of the kind long familiar to the Teutonic nations, that governs the separate passages of the traditional history. Tragic situations are to be found all through the Icelandic literature, only they are not always enough to make a tragedy. There is Nemesis in the end of Gudmund the Great, when his murdered enemy haunts him; but this is not enough to make his Saga an organic thing. The tragic problem of Alboin recurs, as was pointed out by the editors of _Corpus Poeticum Boreale_, in the prelude to _Vatnsdæla Saga_; but it stands by itself as one of the separate chapters in that history, which contains the plots of other tragedies also, without adopting any one of them as its single and overruling motive. These are instances of the way in which tragic imagination, or at any rate the knowledge and partial appreciation of tragic plots, may come short of fulfilment, and may be employed in a comparatively futile and wasteful form of literature. In the greater works, where the idea is fully realised, there is no one formal type. The Icelandic Sagas have different forms of success in the greater works, as well as different degrees of approximation to success in the more desultory and miscellaneous histories. _Njála_, which is the greatest of all the Sagas, does not make its effect by any reduction of the weight or number of its details. It carries an even greater burden of particulars than _Eyrbyggja_; it has taken up into itself the whole history of the south country of Iceland in the heroic age. The unity of _Njála_ is certainly not the unity of a restricted or emaciated heroic play. Yet with all its complexity it belongs to quite a different order of work from _Eyrbyggja_. It falls into three divisions, each of these a story by itself, with all three combining to form one story, apart from which they are incomplete. The first, the story of Gunnar, which is a tragedy by itself, is a necessary part of the whole composition; for it is also the story of the wisdom of Njal and the dignity of Bergthora, without which the second part would be insipid, and the great act of the burning of Njal's house would lose its depth and significance. The third part is the payment of a debt to Njal, Bergthora, and Skarphedinn, for whom vengeance is required; but it is also due even more to Flosi their adversary. The essence of the tragic situation lies in this, that the good man is in the wrong, and his adversary in the right. The third part is required to restore the balance, in order that the original wrong, Skarphedinn's slaughter of the priest of Whiteness, should not be thought to be avoided in the death of its author. _Njála_ is a work of large scale and liberal design; the beauty of all which, in the story, is that it allows time for the characters to assert themselves and claim their own, as they could not do in a shorter story, where they would be whirled along by the plot. The vengeance and reconciliation in the third part of _Njála_ are brought about by something more than a summary poetical justice of fines and punishments for misdeeds. It is a more leisurely, as well as a more poetical justice, that allows the characters to assert themselves for what they really are; the son of Lambi "filthy still," and Flosi the Burner not less true in temper than Njal himself. _Njála_ and _Laxdæla_ are examples of two different ways in which inconvenient or distracting particulars of history or tradition might be reduced to serve the ends of imagination and the heroic design. _Njála_ keeps up, more or less, throughout, a continuous history of a number of people of importance, but always with a regard for the principal plot of the story. In _Laxdæla_ there is, on the other hand, a gradual approach to the tragedy of Kjartan, Bolli, and Gudrun; an historical prologue of the founding of Laxdale, and the lives of Kjartan's father and grandfather, before the chief part of the story begins. In _Njála_ the main story opens as soon as Njal appears; of prologue there is little more than is needed to prepare for the mischief of Hallgerda, who is the cause of the strain between the two houses of Lithend and Bergthorsknoll, and thereby the touchstone of the generosity of Njal. In _Laxdæla_, although the prologue is not irrelevant, there is a long delay before the principal personages are brought together. There is no mistake about the story when once it begins, and no question about the unity of the interest; Gudrun and Fate may divide it between them, if it be divisible. It is purely the stronger quality of this part of the book, in comparison with the earlier, that saves _Laxdæla_ from the defects of its construction; by the energy of the story of Kjartan, the early story of Laxdale is thrown back and left behind as a mere prelude, in spite of its length. The story of Egil Skallagrimsson, the longest of the biographical Sagas, shows exactly the opposite proportions to those of _Laxdæla_. The life of Egil is prefaced by the history of his grandfather, father, and uncle, Kveldulf, Skallagrim (Grim the Bald), and Thorolf. Unhappily for the general effect of the book, the life of Egil is told with less strength and coherence than the fate of his uncle. The most commanding and most tragic part of _Egla_ is that which represents Skallagrim and Thorolf in their relations to the tyranny of Harald the king; how Thorolf's loyalty was ill paid, and how Skallagrim his brother went in defiance to speak to King Harald. This, though it is only a prelude to the story of Egil, is one of the finest imaginative passages in the whole literature. The Saga has here been able to express, in a dramatic and imaginative form, that conflict of principles between the new monarchy and the old liberty which led to the Icelandic migration. The whole political situation, it might be said the whole early history of Iceland and Norway, is here summed up and personified in the conflict of will between the three characters. Thorolf, Harald the king, and Skallagrim play the drama of the Norwegian monarchy, and the founding of the Icelandic Commonwealth. After this compact and splendid piece of work the adventures of Egil Skallagrimsson appear rather ineffectual and erratic, in spite of some brilliant episodes. What was an author to do when his hero died in his bed, or survived all his feuds and enmities? or when a feud could not be wound up in one generation? _Vápnfirðinga Saga_ gives the history of two generations of feud, with a reconciliation at the end, thus obtaining a rounded unity, though at some cost of the personal interest in its transference from fathers to sons. _Víga-Glúms Saga_ is a story which, with the best intentions in the world, could not attain to tragedy like that of Gisli or of Grettir, because every one knew that Glum was a threatened man who lived long, and got through without any deadly injury. Glum is well enough fitted for the part of a tragic hero. He has the slow growth, the unpromising youth, the silence and the dangerous laughter, such as are recorded in the lives of other notable personages in heroic literature:-- Glum turned homeward; and a fit of laughing came on him. It took him in this way, that his face grew pale, and there ran tears from his eyes like hailstones: it was often so with him afterwards, when bloodshed was in his mind. But although there are several feuds in the story of Glum or several incidents in a feud, somehow there is no tragedy. Glum dies quietly, aged and sightless. There is a thread of romantic destiny in his story; he keeps his good luck till he parts with the gifts of his grandfather Vigfus--the cloak, the spear, and the sword that Vigfus had given him in Norway. The prayer for Glum's discomfiture, which one of his early adversaries had offered to Frey, then takes effect, when the protecting luck has been given away. The fall of Glum is, however, nothing incurable; the change in his fortune is merely that he has to give up the land which he had extorted from his adversary long before, and that he ceases to be the greatest man in Eyjafirth, though continuing to be a man of importance still. His honour and his family are not hard hit, after all. The history of Glum, with its biographical unity, its interest of character, and its want of tragedy, is a form of story midway between the closer knit texture of _Gísla Saga_ and the laxity of construction in the stories without a hero, or with more than one, such as _Ljósvetninga_ or _Vatnsdæla_. It is a biography with no strong crisis in it; it might have been extended indefinitely. And, in fact, the existing form of the story looks as if it were rather carelessly put together, or perhaps abridged from a fuller version. The story in _Reykdæla_ of Viga Skuta, Glum's son-in-law and enemy, contains a better and fuller account of their dealings than _Glúma_, without any discrepancy, though the _Reykdæla_ version alludes to divergencies of tradition in certain points. The curious thing is that the _Reykdæla_ version supplies information about Glum's character which supplements what is told more baldly in his own Saga. Both accounts agree about Glum's good nature, which is practised on by Skuta. Glum is constant and trustworthy whenever he is appealed to for help. The _Reykdæla_ version gives a pretty confirmation of this view of Glum's character (c. 24), where Glum protects the old Gaberlunzie man, with the result that the old man goes and praises his kindness, and so lets his enemies know of his movements, and spoils his game for that time. This episode is related to _Glúma_, as the foster-brother episode of Grettir (c. 51), quoted above, is related to _Fóstbræðra Saga_. If _Glúma_ is interesting and even fairly compact, in spite of its want of any great dramatic moment, on the other hand the tragic ending is not always enough to save a story from dissipation of interest. In the story of Glum's antagonist, Viga Skuta, in the second part of _Reykdæla Saga_, there is no proportion or composition; his adventures follow one upon the other, without development, a series of hazards and escapes, till he is brought down at last. In the earlier part of the same Saga (the story of Vemund, Skuta's cousin, and Askel, Skuta's father) there is more continuity in the chronicle of wrongs and revenges, and, if this story be taken by itself, more form and definite design. The two rivals are well marked out and opposed to one another, while the mischief-making Vemund is well contrasted with his uncle Askel, the just man and the peacemaker, who at the end is killed in one of his nephew's feuds, in the fight by the frozen river from which Vemund escapes, while his enemy is drowned and his best friend gets a death wound. There are two Sagas in which a biographical theme is treated in such a way that the story produces one single impressive and tragical effect, leaving the mind with a sense of definite and necessary movement towards a tragic conclusion,--the story of Grettir the Strong, and the story of Gisli the Outlaw. These stories have analogies to one another, though they are not cast in quite the same manner. In the life of Grettir there are many detached episodes, giving room for theories of adulteration such as are only too inevitable and certain in regard to the imbecile continuation of the story after Grettir's death and his brother's vengeance. The episodes in the main story are, however, not to be dismissed quite so easily as the unnecessary romance of the Lady Spes (_Grettis Saga_, cc. 90-95). While many of the episodes do little to advance the story, and some of them seem to have been borrowed from other Sagas without sufficient reason (cc. 25-27, from the _Foster-brothers_), most of them serve to accentuate the character of Grettir, or to deepen the sense of the mystery surrounding his life. The tragedy of Grettir is one of those which depend on Accident, interpreted by the author as Fate. The hero is a doomed man, like Gisli, who sees things clearly coming on, but is unable to get out of their way. In both _Gisli_ and _Grettir_ there is an accompaniment of mystery and fantasy--for Gisli in the songs of the dream woman, for Grettir in various touches unlike the common prose of the Sagas. The hopelessness of his ill fortune is brought out in a sober way in his dealings with the chiefs who are unable to protect him, and in the cheerless courage of his relations with the foster-brothers, when the three are all together in the house of Thorgils Arason. It is illustrated in a quite different and more fantastic way in the scenes of his wanderings among the mountains, in the mysterious quiet of Thorisdal, in his alliance with strange deliverers, outside of the common world and its society, in the curse of Glam under the moonlight. This last is one of the few scenes in the Sagas, though not the only one, when the effect depends on something more than the persons engaged in it. The moon with the clouds driving over counts for more than a mere indication of time or weather; it is essential to the story, and lends itself to the malignity of the adversary in casting the spell of fear upon Grettir's mind. The solitude of Drangey, in the concluding chapters of _Grettis Saga_, the cliffs, the sea and the storms are all much less exceptional; they are necessary parts of the action, more closely and organically related to the destiny of the hero. There, in the final scenes, although there is witchcraft practised against Grettir, it is not that, but the common and natural qualities of the foolishness of the thrall and the heroism of Grettir and his young brother on which the story turns. These are the humanities of Drangey, a strong contrast, in the art of narrative, to the moonlight spell of Glam. The notable thing is that the romantic and fantastic passages in Grettir are not obscurations of the tragedy, not irrelevant, but rather an expression by the way, and in an exceptional mood, of the author's own view of the story and his conviction that it is all one coherent piece. This certainly is the effect of the romantic interludes in _Gisli_, which is perhaps the most tragic of all the Sagas, or at any rate the most self-conscious of its tragic aim. In the story of Gisli there is an introduction and preparation, but there is no very great expense of historical preliminaries. The discrepancies here between the two extant redactions of the Saga seem to show that introductory chapters of this sort were regarded as fair openings for invention and decoration by editors, who had wits enough to leave the essential part of the story very much to itself. Here, when once the action has begun, it goes on to the end without a fault. The chief characters are presented at the beginning; Gisli and Thorkell his brother; Thorgrim the Priest and Vestein, their two brothers-in-law. A speech foretelling their disunion is reported to Gisli, and leads him to propose the oath of fellowship between the four; which proposal, meant to avert the omen, brings about its fulfilment. And so the story goes on logically and inevitably to the death of Gisli, who slew Thorgrim, and the passionate agony of Thordis, Thorgrim's wife and Gisli's sister. _Hrafnkels Saga_ is a tragic idyll, complete and rounded. It is different in its design from _Njála_ or _Laxdæla_, from the stories of Grettir and Gisli. It is a short story, well concentrated. For mere symmetry of design it might compete with any of the greater Icelandic works, not to speak of any modern fiction. Hrafnkel, the proud man, did a cruel thing "for his oath's sake"; killed his shepherd Einar for riding on Freyfaxi, the horse that belonged to Frey the god, and to Hrafnkel his priest. To the father of Einar he made offers of compensation which were not accepted. Then the story, with much admirable detail (especially in the scenes at the Althing), goes on to show how Hrafnkel's pride was humbled by Einar's cousin. All through, however, Hrafnkel is represented as guilty of tragic terror, not of wickedness; he is punished more than is due, and in the end the balance is redressed, and his arrogant conqueror is made to accept Hrafnkel's terms. It is a story clearly and symmetrically composed; it would be too neat, indeed, if it were not that it still leaves some accounts outstanding at the end: the original error is wasteful, and the life of an innocent man is sacrificed in the clearing of scores between Hrafnkel and his adversary. The theory of a conglomerate epic may be applied to the Icelandic Sagas with some effect. It is plain on the face of them that they contain short stories from tradition which may correspond to the short lays of the epic theory, which do in fact resemble in many things certain of the lays of the "Elder Edda." Many of the Sagas, like _Eyrbyggja_, _Vatnsdæla_, _Svarfdæla_, are ill compacted, and easily broken up into separate short passages. On the other hand, these broken and variegated Sagas are wanting in dignity and impressiveness compared with some others, while those others have attained their dignity, not by choosing their episodic chapters merely, but by forcing their own original and commanding thought upon all their matter. This is the case, whether the form be that of the comprehensive, large, secure, and elaborate _Njála_; of _Laxdæla_, with its dilatory introduction changing to the eagerness and quickness of the story of Gudrun; of _Grettir_ and _Gisli_, giving shape in their several ways to the traditional accumulation of a hero's adventures; or, not less remarkable, the precision of _Hrafnkels Saga_ and _Bandamanna_,[49] which appear to have discovered and fixed for themselves the canons of good imaginative narrative in short compass, and to have freed themselves, in a more summary way than _Njála_, from the encumbrances of traditional history, and the distracting interests of the antiquarian and the genealogist. These two stories, with that of Howard of Icefirth[50] and some others, might perhaps be taken as corresponding in Icelandic prose to the short epic in verse, such as the _Atlakviða_. They show, at any rate, that the difficulties of reluctant subject-matter and of the manifold deliverances of tradition were not able, in all cases, to get the better of that sense of form which was revealed in the older poetic designs. [Footnote 49: See below, pp. 229 _sqq._] [Footnote 50: p. 216.] In their temper also, and in the quality of their heroic ideal, the Sagas are the inheritors of the older heroic poetry. III THE HEROIC IDEAL In the material conditions of Icelandic life in the "Saga Age" there was all the stuff that was required for heroic narrative. This was recognised by the story-tellers, and they made the most of it. It must be admitted that there is some monotony in the circumstances, but it may be contended that this is of no account in comparison with the results that are produced in the best Sagas out of trivial occasions. "Greatly to find quarrel in a straw" is the rule of their conduct. The tempers of the men are easily stirred; they have a general name[51] for the trial of a man's patience, applied to anything that puts a strain on him, or encroaches on his honour. The trial may come from anything--horses, sheep, hay, women, merchandise. From these follow any number of secondary or retaliatory insults, trespasses, and manslaughters. Anything almost is enough to set the play going. What the matter in dispute may be, is almost indifferent to the author of the story. Its value depends on the persons; it is what they choose to make it. [Footnote 51: _Skapraun_, lit. _test of condition_.] The Sagas differ from all other "heroic" literatures in the larger proportion that they give to the meannesses of reality. Their historical character, and their attempts to preserve an accurate memory of the past, though often freely modified by imagination, yet oblige them to include a number of things, gross, common, and barbarous, because they are part of the story. The Sagas differ one from another in this respect. The characters are not all raised to the height of Gunnar, Njal, Skarphedinn, Flosi, Bolli, Kjartan, Gisli. In many of the Sagas, and in many scenes, the characters are dull and ungainly. At the same time their perversity, the naughtiness, for example, of Vemund in _Reykdæla_, or of Thorolf the crank old man in _Eyrbyggja_, belongs to the same world as the lives of the more heroic personages. The Sagas take an interest in misconduct, when there is nothing better to be had, and the heroic age is frequently represented by them rather according to the rules of modern unheroic story-telling than of Bossu _on the Epic Poem_. The inequitable persons (_újafnaðarmenn_) in the Sagas are not all of them as lordly as Agamemnon. For many readers this is an advantage; if the Sagas are thereby made inferior to Homer, they are all the closer to modern stories of "common life." The people of Iceland seem always to have been "at the auld work of the marches again," like Dandie Dinmont and Jock o' Dawstoncleugh, and many of their grievances and wrongs might with little change have been turned into subjects for Crabbe or Mr. Hardy. It requires no great stretch of fancy to see Crabbe at work on the story of Thorolf Bægifot and his neighbour in _Eyrbyggja_; the old Thorolf, "curst with age," driven frantic by his homely neighbour's greater skill in the weather, and taking it out in a vicious trespass on his neighbour's hay; the neighbour's recourse to Thorolf's more considerate son Arnkell; Arnkell's payment of the damage, and summary method of putting accounts square again by seizure of his father's oxen; with the consequences of all this, which perhaps are somewhat too violent to be translated literally into the modern language of Suffolk or Wessex. Episodes of this type are common in the Sagas, and it is to them in a great measure that the Sagas owe their distinction from the common run of medieval narrative. But no appreciation of this "common life" in the Sagas can be just, if it ignores the essentially "heroic" nature of the moral laws under which the Icelandic narratives are conducted. Whether with good results or bad, is another question; but there can be no doubt that the Sagas were composed under the direction of an heroic ideal, identical in most respects with that of the older heroic poetry. This ideal view is revealed in different ways, as the Sagas have different ways of bringing their characters before the audience. In the best passages, of course, which are the most dramatic, the presuppositions and private opinions of the author are not immediately disclosed in the speeches of the characters. But the Sagas are not without their chorus; the general judgment of people about their leaders is often expressed; and although the action of the Sagas is generally sufficient to make its own impression and explain itself, the author's reading of his characters is frequently added. From the action and the commentary together, the heroic ideal comes out clearly, and it is plain that its effect on the Sagas was not merely an implicit and unconscious influence. It had risen into the consciousness of the authors of the Sagas; it was not far from definite expression in abstract terms. In this lay the danger. An ideal, defined or described in set terms, is an ideal without any responsibility and without any privilege. It may be picked up and traded on by any fool or hypocrite. Undefined and undivulged, it belongs only to those who have some original strength of imagination or will, and with them it cannot go wrong. But a definite ideal, and the terms of its definition, may belong to any one and be turned to any use. So the ideal of Petrarch was formulated and abused by the Petrarchists. The formula of Amadis of Gaul is derived from generations of older unformulated heroes, and implies the exhaustion of the heroic strain, in that line of descent. The Sagas have not come as far as that, but the latter days, that have seen Amadis, and the mechanical repetitions of Amadis, may find in the Sagas some resemblances and anticipations of the formal hero, though not yet enough to be dangerous. In all sound heroic literature there are passages that bring up the shadow of the sceptic,--passages of noble sentiment, whose phrases are capable of being imitated, whose ideas may make the fortune of imitators and pretenders. In the Teutonic epic poetry, as in Homer, there are many noble speeches of this sort, speeches of lofty rhetoric, about which the spirit of depreciation prompts a suspicion that perhaps they may be less weighty and more conventional than we think. False heroics are easy, and unhappily they have borrowed so much of the true, that the truth itself is sometimes put out of countenance by the likeness. In the English and the Icelandic heroic poetry there is some ground for thinking that the process of decline and the evolution of the false heroic went to some length before it was stopped. The older poems laid emphasis on certain qualities, and made them an example and an edification. "So ought a man to do," is a phrase common to the English and the Northern schools of epic. The point of honour comes to be only too well understood--too well, that is, for the work of the imagination. Possibly the latter part of _Beowulf_ is more abstract than it ought to be; at any rate, there are many of the secondary Anglo-Saxon poems which, like the old Saxon _Hêliand_, show an excessive use of the poetic formulas of courage and loyalty. The Icelandic poetry had also its spurious heroic phrases, by which something is taken away from the force of their more authentic originals. In the Sagas, as in the _Iliad_, in the _Song of Maldon_, in the _Death of Ermanaric_, there is a rhetorical element by which the ideas of absolute courage are expressed. Unhappily it is not always easy to be sure whether the phrases are of the first or the second growth; in most cases, the better opinion perhaps will be that they belong to a time not wholly unsophisticated, yet not in the stage of secondary and abstract heroic romance. The rhetoric of the Sagas, like the rhetoric of the "Poetic Edda," was taken too seriously and too greedily by the first modern discoverers of the old Northern literature. It is not, any more than the rhetoric of Homer, the immediate expression of the real life of an heroic age; for the good reason that it is literature, and literature just on the autumnal verge, and plainly capable of decay. The best of the Sagas were just in time to escape that touch of over-reflexion and self-consciousness which checks the dramatic life and turns it into matter of edification or sentiment. The best of them also give many indications to show how near they were to over-elaboration and refinement. Kjartan, for example, in _Laxdæla_ is represented in a way that sometimes brings him dangerously near the ideal hero. The story (like many of the other Sagas) plays about between the two extremes, of strong imagination applied dramatically to the subject-matter, on the one hand, and abstract ethical reflexion on the other. In the scene of Kjartan's encounter with Olaf Tryggvason in Norway[52] there is a typical example of the two kinds of operation. The scene and the dialogue are fully adequate to the author's intention, about which there can be no mistake. What he wishes to express is there expressed, in the most lively way, with the least possible encumbrance of explanation or chorus: the pride of Kjartan, his respect for his unknown antagonist in the swimming-match, his anxiety to keep clear of any submission to the king, with the king's reciprocal sense of the Icelander's magnanimity; no stroke in all this is other than right. While also it may be perceived that the author has brought into his story an ingredient of rhetoric. In this place it has its use and its effect; and, nevertheless, it is recognisable as the dangerous essence of all that is most different from sound narrative or drama. [Footnote 52: Translated in Appendix, Note B.] Then said the king, "It is well seen that Kjartan is used to put more trust in his own might than in the help of Thor and Odin." This rings as true as the noble echo of it in the modern version of the _Lovers of Gudrun_:-- If neither Christ nor Odin help, why then Still at the worst we are the sons of men. No amount of hacking work can take away the eloquence of this phrasing. Yet it is beyond question, that these phrases, like that speech of Sarpedon which has been borrowed by many a hero since, are of a different stuff from pure drama, or any pure imaginative work. By taking thought, they may be more nearly imitated than is possible in the case of any strong dramatic scene. The words of the king about Kjartan are like the words that are used to Earl Hakon, by Sigmund of the Faroes;[53] they are on their way to become, or they have already become, an ethical commonplace. In the place where they are used, in the debate between Kjartan and King Olaf, they have received the strong life of the individual persons between whom they pass, just as an actor may give life and character to any words that are put in his mouth. Yet elsewhere the phrase may occur as a commonplace formula--_hann trúði á mátt sinn ok megin_ (he trusted in his own might and main)--applied generally to those Northern pagans who were known to be _securi adversus Deos_ at the time of the first preaching of Christendom in the North. [Footnote 53: "Tell me what faith you are of," said the earl. "I believe in my own strength," said Sigmund (_Færeyinga Saga_).] All is well, however, so long as this heroic ideal is kept in its right relation, as one element in a complex work, not permitted to walk about by itself as a personage. This right subordination is observed in the Sagas, whereby both the heroic characters are kept out of extravagance (for neither Gunnar, Kari, nor Kjartan is an abstract creature), and the less noble or the more complex characters are rightly estimated. The Sagas, which in many things are ironical or reticent, do not conceal their standard of measurement or value, in relation to which characters and actions are to be appraised. They do not, on the other hand, allow this ideal to usurp upon the rights of individual characters. They are imaginative, dealing in actions and characters; they are not ethical or sentimental treatises, or mirrors of chivalry. IV TRAGIC IMAGINATION In their definite tragical situations and problems, the Sagas are akin to the older poetry of the Teutonic race. The tragical cases of the earlier heroic age are found repeated, with variations, in the Sagas. Some of the chief of these resemblances have been found and discussed by the editors of _Corpus Poeticum Boreale_. Also in many places where there is no need to look for any close resemblance in detail, there is to be seen the same mode of comprehending the tragical stress and contradiction as is manifested in the remains of the poetry. As in the older Germanic stories, so in the Sagas, the plot is often more than mere contest or adventure. As in _Finnesburh_ and _Waldere_, so in _Gísla Saga_ and _Njála_ and many other Icelandic stories, the action turns upon a debate between opposite motives of loyalty, friendship, kindred. Gisli kills his sister's husband; it is his sister who begins the pursuit of Gisli, his sister who, after Gisli's death, tries to avenge him. Njal has to stand by his sons, who have killed his friend. Gunnlaug and Hrafn, Kjartan and Bolli, are friends estranged by "Fate and their own transgression," like Walter and Hagena. The Sagas, being prose and having an historical tradition to take care of, are unable to reach the same intensity of passion as some of the heroic poems, the poems of _Helgi_ and of _Sigurd_. They are all the more epic, perhaps, on that account; more equable in their course, with this compensation for their quieter manner, that they have more room and more variety than the passionate heroic poems. These histories have also, as a rule, to do without the fantasies of such poetry as _Hervor and Angantyr_, or _Helgi and Sigrun_. The vision of the Queens of the Air, the return of Helgi from the dead, the chantings of Hervor "between the worlds," are too much for the plain texture of the Sagas. Though, as has already been seen in _Grettir_ and _Gisli_, this element of fantastic beauty is not wholly absent; the less substantial graces of mythical romance, "fainter and flightier" than those of epic, are sometimes to be found even in the historical prose; the historical tragedies have their accompaniment of mystery. More particularly, the story of the _Death of Thidrandi whom the Goddesses slew_, is a prose counterpart to the poetry of Sigrun and Hervor.[54] [Footnote 54: It is summarised in Dasent's _Njal_, i. p. xx., and translated in Sephton's _Olaf Tryggvason_ (1895), pp. 339-341.] There are many other incidents in the Sagas which have the look of romance about them. But of a number of these the distinction holds good that has been already put forward in the case of _Beowulf_: they are not such wonders as lie outside the bounds of common experience, according to the estimate of those for whom the stories were told. Besides some wonderful passages that still retain the visionary and fantastic charm of myth and mythical romance, there are others in which the wonders are more gross and nearer to common life. Such is the story of the hauntings at Froda, in _Eyrbyggja_; the drowned man and his companions coming home night after night and sitting in their wet clothes till daybreak; such is the ghastly story of the funeral of Víga-Styrr in _Heiðarvíga Saga_. Things of that sort are no exceptions to common experience, according to the Icelandic judgment, and do not stand out from the history as something different in kind; they do not belong to the same order as the dream-poetry of Gisli or the vision of Thidrandi. The self-denial of the Icelandic authors in regard to myth and pure romance has secured for them, in exchange, everything that is essential to strong dramatic stories, independent of mythological or romantic attractions. Some of the Sagas are a reduction of heroic fable to the temper and conditions of modern prose. _Laxdæla_ is an heroic epic, rewritten as a prose history under the conditions of actual life, and without the help of any supernatural "machinery." It is a modern prose version of the Niblung tragedy, with the personages chosen from the life of Iceland in the heroic age, and from the Icelandic family traditions. It is not the only work that has reduced the Niblung story to terms of matter of fact. The story of Sigurd and Brynhild has been presented as a drama by Ibsen in his _Warriors in Helgeland_, with the names changed, with new circumstances, and with nothing remaining of the mythical and legendary lights that play about the fortunes of Sigurd in the Northern poems. The play relies on the characters, without the mysteries of Odin and the Valkyria. An experiment of the same sort had been made long before. In _Laxdæla_, Kjartan stands for Sigurd: Gudrun daughter of Osvifr, wife of Bolli, is in the place of Brynhild wife of Gunnar, driving her husband to avenge her on her old lover. That the authors of the Sagas were conscious at least in some cases of their relation to the poems is proved by affinities in the details of their language. In _Gísla Saga_, Thordis, sister of Gisli, has to endure the same sorrow as the wife of Sigurd in the poems; her husband, like Sigurd, is killed by her brother. One of the verses put in the mouth of Gisli in the story contrasts her with Gudrun, daughter of Giuki, who killed her husband (Attila) to avenge her brothers; whereas Thordis was waking up the pursuers of her brother Gisli to avenge her husband. With this verse in his head, it is impossible that the writer of the Saga can have overlooked the resemblance which is no less striking than the contrast between the two cases. The relation of the Sagas to the older poetry may be expressed in this way, perhaps, that they are the last stage in a progress from the earliest mythical imagination, and the earliest dirges and encomiums of the great men of a tribe, to a consistent and orderly form of narrative literature, attained by the direction of a critical faculty which kept out absurdities, without impairing the dramatic energy of the story. The Sagas are the great victory of the Humanities in the North, at the end of a long process of education. The Northern nations, like others, had to come to an understanding with themselves about their inherited myths, their traditional literary forms. One age after another helped in different ways to modify their beliefs, to change their literary taste. Practically, they had to find out what they were to think of the gods; poetically, what they were to put into their songs and stories. With problems of this sort, when a beginning has once been made, anything is possible, and there is no one kind of success. Every nation that has ever come to anything has had to go to school in this way. None has ever been successful right through; while, on the other hand, success does not mean the attainment of any definite end. There is a success for every stage in the progress, and one nation or literature differs from another, not by reason of an ultimate victory or defeat, but in the number of prizes taken by the way. As far as can be made out, the people of the Northern tongue got the better of the Western Teutons, in making far more than they out of the store of primeval fancies about the gods and the worlds, and in giving to their heroic poems both an intenser passion of expression and a more mysterious grace and charm. The Western Teutons in their heroic poetry seem, on the other hand, to have been steadier and less flighty. They took earlier to the line of reasonable and dignified narrative, reducing the lyrical element, perhaps increasing the gnomic or reflective proportions of their work. So they succeeded in their own way, with whatever success belongs to _Beowulf_, _Waldere_, _Byrhtnoth_, not to speak of the new essays they made with themes taken from the Church, in the poems of _Andreas_, _Judith_, and all the rest. Meanwhile the Northerners were having their own difficulties and getting over them, or out of them. They knew far more about the gods, and made poems about them. They had no patience, so that they could not dilute and expand their stories in the Western way. They saw no good in the leisurely methods; they must have everything emphatic, everything full of poetical meaning; hence no large poetry, but a number of short poems with no slackness in them. With these they had good reason to be content, as a good day's work in their day. But whatever advantage the fiery Northern poems may have over the slower verse of the Anglo-Saxons, they do not correspond to the same intellectual wants, and they leave out something which seems to have been attained in the Western poetry. The North had still to find out what could be done with simpler materials, and without the magical light of the companions of Sigrun. The Icelandic prose histories are the solution of this new problem, a problem which the English had already tried and solved in their own manner in the quieter passages of their epic poetry, and, above all, in the severity of the poem of _Maldon_. The Sagas are partly indebted to a spirit of negative criticism and restraint; a tendency not purely literary, corresponding, at any rate, to a similar tendency in practical life. The energy, the passion, the lamentation of the Northern poetry, the love of all the wonders of mythology, went along with practical and intellectual clearness of vision in matters that required cool judgment. The ironical correction of sentiment, the tone of the _advocatus diaboli_, is habitual with many of the Icelandic writers, and many of their heroes. "To see things as they really are," so that no incantation could transform them, was one of the gifts of an Icelandic hero,[55] and appears to have been shared by his countrymen when they set themselves to compose the Sagas. [Footnote 55: _Harðar Saga_, c. xi.] The tone of the Sagas is generally kept as near as may be to that of the recital of true history. Nothing is allowed any preponderance over the story and the speeches in it. It is the kind of story furthest removed from the common pathetic fallacies of the Middle Ages. The rationalist mind has cleared away all the sentimental and most of the superstitious encumbrances and hindrances of strong narrative. The history of the early Northern rationalism and its practical results is part of the general history of religion and politics. In some respects it may have been premature; in many cases it seems (as might be expected) to have gone along with hardness and sterility of mind, and to have left an inheritance of vacuity behind it. The curious and elaborate hardness of the Icelandic Court poetry may possibly be a sign of this same temper; in another way, the prevalent coolness of Northern piety, even before the Reformation, is scarcely to be dissociated from the coolness of the last days of heathendom. The spirited acuteness of Snorri the Priest and his contemporaries was succeeded by a moderate and unenthusiastic fashion of religion, for the most part equally remote from the extravagances and the glories of the medieval Church. But with these things the Sagas have little to do; where they are in relation to this common rationalist habit of mind, it is all to their good. The Sagas are not injured by any scepticism or coolness in the minds of their authors. The positive habit of mind in the Icelanders is enough to secure them against a good deal of the conventional dulness of the Middle Ages. It made them dissatisfied with anything that seemed wanting in vividness or immediate force; it led them to select, in their histories, such things as were interesting in themselves, and to present them definitely, without any drawling commonplaces, or any makeshift rhetorical substitutes for accurate vision and clear record. It did not hinder, but it directed and concentrated the imagination. The self-repression in the Sagas is bracing. It gives greater clearness, greater resonance; it does not cut out or renounce anything that is really worth keeping. If not the greatest charm of the Sagas, at any rate that which is perhaps most generally appreciated by modern readers is their economy of phrasing in the critical passages, the brevity with which the incidents and speeches are conveyed, the restriction of all commentary to the least available compass. Single phrases in the great scenes of the Sagas are full-charged with meaning to a degree hardly surpassed in any literature, certainly not in the literatures of medieval Europe. Half a dozen words will carry all the force of the tragedy of the Sagas, or render all the suspense and terror of their adventurous moments, with an effect that is like nothing so much as the effect of some of the short repressed phrases of Shakespeare in _Hamlet_ or _King Lear_. The effect is attained not by study of the central phrase so much as by the right arrangement and selection of the antecedents; that is, by right proportion in the narrative. It is in this way that the killing of Gunnar's dog, in the attack on Lithend, is made the occasion for one of the great strokes of narrative. The words of Gunnar, when he is roused by the dog's howl--"Sore art thou handled, Sam, my fosterling, and maybe it is meant that there is not to be long between thy death and mine!"--are a perfect dramatic indication of everything the author wishes to express--the coolness of Gunnar, and his contempt for his enemies, as well as his pity for his dog. They set everything in tune for the story of Gunnar's death which follows. It is in this way that the adventures of the Sagas are raised above the common form of mere reported "fightings and flockings," the common tedious story of raids and reprisals. This is one of the kinds of drama to be found in the Sagas, and not exclusively in the best of them. One of the conditions of this manner of composition and this device of phrasing is that the author shall be able to keep himself out of the story, and let things make their own impression. This is the result of the Icelandic habit of restraint. The intellectual coolness of the Sagas is a pride that keeps them from pathetic effusions; it does not impede the dramatic passion, it merely gives a lesson to the sensibilities and sympathies, to keep them out of the way when they are not wanted. This is one notable difference of temper and rhetoric between the Sagas and the old English poems. One of the great beauties of the old English poetry is its understanding of the moods of lamentation--the mood of Ossian it might be called, without much error in the name. The transience and uncertainty of the world, the memory of past good fortune, and of things lost,--with themes like these the Anglo-Saxon poets make some of their finest verse; and while this fashion of meditation may seem perhaps to have come too readily, it is not the worst poets who fall in with it. In the Icelandic poetry the notes of lamentation are not wanting, and it cannot be said that the Northern elegies are less sweet or less thrilling in their grief than those of England in the kindred forms of verse. It is enough to think of _Gudrun's Lament_ in the "Elder Edda," or of _Sonatorrek_, Egil Skallagrimsson's elegy on the death of his two sons. It was not any congenital dulness or want of sense that made the Sagas generally averse to elegy. No mere writer of Sagas was made of stronger temper than Egil, and none of them need have been ashamed of lamentation after Egil had lamented. But they saw that it would not do, that the fabric of the Saga was not made for excessive decoration of any kind, and least of all for parenthesis of elegy. The English heroic poetry is more relenting. _Beowulf_ is invaded by pathos in a way that often brings the old English verse very nearly to the tone of the great lament for Lancelot at the end of the _Morte d'Arthur_; which, no doubt, is justification enough for any lapse from the pure heroic. In the Sagas the sense of all the vanity of human wishes is expressed in a different way: the lament is turned into dramatic action; the author's sympathy is not shown in direct effusions, but in his rendering of the drama.[56] The best instance of this is the story of Howard of Icefirth. [Footnote 56: The pathos of Asdis, Grettir's mother, comes nearest to the tone of the old English laments, or of the Northern elegiac poetry, and may be taken as a contrast to the demeanour of Bjargey in _Hávarðar Saga_, and an exception to the general rule of the Sagas in this respect.] Howard's son Olaf, a high-spirited and generous young man, comes under the spite of a domineering gentleman, all the more because he does some good offices of his own free will for this tyrannical person. Olaf is attacked and killed by the bully and his friends; then the story goes on to tell of the vengeance of his father and mother. The grief of the old man is described as a matter of fact; he was lame and feeble, and took to his bed for a long time after his son's death. Then he roused himself, and he and his wife went to look for help, and finally were able to bring down their enemy. In all this there is no reflexion or commentary by the author. The pathos is turned into narrative; it is conveyed by means of the form of the story, the relation of the incidents to one another. The passion of the old people turns into resolute action, and is revealed in the perseverance of Bjargey, Olaf's mother, tracking out her enemy and coming to her kinsmen to ask for help. She rows her boat round her enemy's ship and finds out his plans; then she goes to her brothers' houses, one after another, and "borrows" avengers for her son. The repression and irony of the Icelandic character are shown in the style of her address to her brothers. "I have come to borrow your nets," she says to one, and "I have come to borrow your turf-spade," to another; all which is interpreted aright by the brothers, who see what her meaning is. Then she goes home to her husband; and here comes in, not merely irony, but an intentional rebuke to sentiment. Her husband is lying helpless and moaning, and she asks him whether he has slept. To which he answers in a stave of the usual form in the Sagas, the purport of which is that he has never known sleep since the death of Olaf his son. "'Verily that is a great lie,' says she, 'that thou hast never slept once these three years. But now it is high time to be up and play the man, if thou wilt have revenge for Olaf thy son; because never in thy days will he be avenged, if it be not this day.' And when he heard his wife's reproof he sprang out of bed on to the floor, and sang this other stave,"--of which the substance is still lamentation, but greatly modified in its effect by the action with which it is accompanied. Howard seems to throw off his age and feebleness as time goes on, and the height of his passion is marked by a note of his cheerfulness and gladness after he has killed his enemy. This is different from the method of _Beowulf_, where the grief of a father for his son is rendered in an elegy, with some beauty and some irrelevance, as if the charm of melancholy were too much for the story-teller. The hardness of the Sagas is sometimes carried too far for the taste of some readers, and there is room for some misgiving that in places the Sagas have been affected by the contrary vice from that of effusive pathos, namely, by a pretence of courage and endurance. In some of the Northern poetry, as in _Ragnar's Death-Song_,[57] there may be detected the same kind of insincere and exaggerated heroism as in the modern romantic imitations of old Northern sentiment, now fortunately less common than in the great days of the Northern romantic movement at the beginning of this century. The old Northern poetry seems to have become at one stage too self-conscious of the literary effect of magnanimity, too quick to seize all the literary profit that was to be made out of the conventional Viking. The Viking of the modern romantic poets has been the affliction of many in the last hundred years; none of his patrons seem to have guessed that he had been discovered, and possibly had begun to be a bore, at a time when the historical "Viking Age" had scarcely come to its close. There is little in the Icelandic Sagas to show any affinity with his forced and ostentatious bravery; but it may be suspected that here and there the Sagas have made some use of the theatrical Viking, and have thrown their lights too strongly on their death scenes. Some of the most impressive passages of the Sagas are those in which a man receives a death-wound with a quaint remark, and dies forthwith, like Atli in the story of Grettir, who was thrust through as he stood at his door, and said, "Those broad spears are in fashion now," as he went down. This scene is one of the best of its kind; there is no fault to be found with it. But there are possibly too many scenes and speeches of the same sort; enough to raise the suspicion that the situation and the form of phrase were becoming a conventional device, like some of the "machines" in the secondary Sagas, and in the too-much-edited parts of the better ones. This suspicion is not one that need be scouted or choked off. The worser parts and baser parts of the literature are to be detected by any means and all means. It is well in criticism, however, to supplement this amputating practice by some regard for the valid substances that have no need of it, and in this present case to look away from the scenes where there is suspicion of journey work and mechanical processes to the masterpieces that set the standard; more especially to the story of the burning of Njal, which more than any other is full of the peculiar strength and quality of the Sagas. [Footnote 57: _Vide supra_, p. 140, and _infra_, p. 295.] The beauty of _Njála_, and especially of the chapters about Njal's death, is the result of a harmony between two extremes of sentiment, each of which by itself was dangerous, and both of which have here been brought to terms with each other and with the whole design of the work. The ugliness of Skarphedinn's demeanour might have turned out to be as excessive as the brutalities of _Svarfdæla_ or _Ljósvetninga Saga_; the gentleness of Njal has some affinities with the gentleness of the martyrs. Some few passages have distinctly the homiletic or legendary tone about them:-- Then Flosi and his men made a great pile before each of the doors, and then the women-folk who were inside began to weep and to wail. Njal spoke to them, and said: "Keep up your hearts, nor utter shrieks, for this is but a passing storm, and it will be long before you have another such; and put your faith in God, and believe that He is so merciful that He will not let us burn both in this world and the next." Such words of comfort had he for them all, and others still more strong (c. 128, Dasent's translation). It is easy to see in what school the style of this was learned, and of this other passage, about Njal after his death:-- Then Hjallti said, "I shall speak what I say with all freedom of speech. The body of Bergthora looks as it was likely she would look, and still fair; but Njal's body and visage seem to me so bright that I have never seen any dead man's body so bright as this" (c. 131). At the other extreme are the heathenish manners of Skarphedinn, who, in the scene at the Althing, uses all the bad language of the old "flytings" in the heroic poetry,[58] who "grins" at the attempts to make peace, who might easily, by a little exaggeration and change of emphasis, have been turned into one of the types of the false heroic. [Footnote 58: Pp. 96, 113, above.] Something like this has happened to Egil, in another Saga, through want of balance, want of comprehensive imagination in the author. In _Njála_, where no element is left to itself, the picture is complete and full of variety. The prevailing tone is neither that of the homily nor that of the robustious Viking; it is the tone of a narrative that has command of itself and its subject, and can play securely with everything that comes within its scope. In the death of Njal the author's imagination has found room for everything,--for the severity and the nobility of the old Northern life, for the gentleness of the new religion, for the irony in which the temper of Skarphedinn is made to complement and illustrate the temper of Njal. Then Flosi went to the door and called out to Njal, and said he would speak with him and Bergthora. Now Njal does so, and Flosi said: "I will offer thee, master Njal, leave to go out, for it is unworthy that thou shouldst burn indoors." "I will not go out," said Njal, "for I am an old man, and little fitted to avenge my sons, but I will not live in shame." Then Flosi said to Bergthora: "Come thou out, housewife, for I will for no sake burn thee indoors." "I was given away to Njal young," said Bergthora, "and I have promised him this, that we should both share the same fate." After that they both went back into the house. "What counsel shall we now take?" said Bergthora. "We will go to our bed," says Njal, "and lay us down; I have long been eager for rest." Then she said to the boy Thord, Kari's son: "Thee will I take out, and thou shalt not burn in here." "Thou hast promised me this, grandmother," says the boy, "that we should never part so long as I wished to be with thee; but methinks it is much better to die with thee and Njal than to live after you." Then she bore the boy to her bed, and Njal spoke to his steward and said:-- "Now shalt thou see where we lay us down, and how I lay us out, for I mean not to stir an inch hence, whether reek or burning smart me, and so thou wilt be able to guess where to look for our bones." He said he would do so. There had been an ox slaughtered, and the hide lay there. Njal told the steward to spread the hide over them, and he did so. So there they lay down both of them in their bed, and put the boy between them. Then they signed themselves and the boy with the cross, and gave over their souls into God's hand, and that was the last word that men heard them utter. Then the steward took the hide and spread it over them, and went out afterwards. Kettle of the Mark caught hold of him and dragged him out; he asked carefully after his father-in-law Njal, but the steward told him the whole truth. Then Kettle said:-- "Great grief hath been sent on us, when we have had to share such ill-luck together." Skarphedinn saw how his father laid him down and how he laid himself out, and then he said:-- "Our father goes early to bed, and that is what was to be looked for, for he is an old man." The harmonies of _Laxdæla_ are somewhat different from those of the history of Njal, but here again the elements of grace and strength, of gentleness and terror, are combined in a variety of ways, and in such a way as to leave no preponderance to any one exclusively. Sometimes the story may seem to fall into the exemplary vein of the "antique poet historicall"; sometimes the portrait of Kjartan may look as if it were designed, like the portrait of Amadis or Tirant the White, "to fashion a gentleman or noble person in vertuous and gentle discipline." Sometimes the story is involved in the ordinary business of Icelandic life, and Kjartan and Bolli, the Sigurd and Gunnar of the tragedy, are seen engaged in common affairs, such as make the alloy of heroic narrative in the _Odyssey_. The hero is put to the proof in this way, and made to adapt himself to various circumstances. Sometimes the story touches on the barbarism and cruelty, which were part of the reality familiar to the whole of Iceland in the age of the Sturlungs, of which there is more in the authentic history of the Sturlungs than in the freer and more imaginative story of Kjartan. At one time the story uses the broad and fluent form of narrative, leaving scene after scene to speak for itself; at other times it allows itself to be condensed into a significant phrase. Of these emphatic phrases there are two especially, both of them speeches of Gudrun, and the one is the complement of the other: the one in the tone of irony, Gudrun's comment on the death of Kjartan, a repetition of Brynhild's phrase on the death of Sigurd;[59] the other Gudrun's confession to her son at the end of the whole matter. [Footnote 59: Then Brynhild laughed till the walls rang again: "Good luck to your hands and swords that have felled the goodly prince" (_Brot Sgkv._ 10; cf. p. 103 above).] Gudrun meets her husband coming back, and says: "A good day's work and a notable; I have spun twelve ells of yarn, and you have slain Kjartan Olaf's son." Bolli answers: "That mischance would abide with me, without thy speaking of it." Said Gudrun: "I reckon not that among mischances; it seemed to me thou hadst greater renown that winter Kjartan was in Norway, than when he came back to Iceland and trampled thee under foot. But the last is best, that Hrefna will not go laughing to bed this night." Then said Bolli in great wrath: "I know not whether she will look paler at this news than thou, and I doubt thou mightest have taken it no worse if we had been left lying where we fought, and Kjartan had come to tell of it." Gudrun saw that Bolli was angry, and said: "Nay, no need of words like these; for this work I thank thee; there is an earnest in it that thou wilt not thwart me after." This is one of the crises of the story, in which the meaning of Gudrun is brought out in a short passage of dialogue, at the close of a section of narrative full of adventure and incident. In all that precedes, in the relations of Gudrun to Kjartan before and after her marriage with Bolli, as after the marriage of Kjartan and Hrefna, the motives are generally left to be inferred from the events and actions. Here it was time that Gudrun should speak her mind, or at least the half of her mind. Her speech at the end of her life is equally required, and the two speeches are the complement of one another. Bolli her son comes to see her and sits with her. The story tells that one day Bolli came to Helgafell; for Gudrun was always glad when he came to see her. Bolli sat long with his mother, and there was much talk between them. At last Bolli said: "Mother, will you tell me one thing? It has been in my mind to ask you, who was the man you loved best?" Gudrun answers: "Thorkell was a great man and a lordly; and no man was goodlier than Bolli, nor of gentler breeding; Thord Ingwin's son was the most discreet of them all, a wise man in the law. Of Thorvald I make no reckoning." Then says Bolli: "All this is clear, all the condition of your husbands as you have told; but it has not yet been told whom you loved best. You must not keep it secret from me longer." Gudrun answers: "You put me hard to it, my son; but if I am to tell any one, I will rather tell you than another." Bolli besought her again to tell him. Then said Gudrun: "I did the worst to him, the man that I loved the most." "Now may we believe," says Bolli, "that there is no more to say." He said that she had done right in telling him what he asked. Gudrun became an old woman, and it is said that she lost her sight. She died at Helgafell, and there she rests. This is one of the passages which it is easy to quote, and also dangerous. The confession of Gudrun loses incalculably when detached from the whole story, as also her earlier answer fails, by itself, to represent the meaning and the art of the Saga. They are the two keys that the author has given; neither is of any use by itself, and both together are of service only in relation to the whole story and all its fabric of incident and situation and changing views of life. V COMEDY The Poetical Justice of Tragedy is observed, and rightly observed, in many of the Sagas and in the greater plots. Fate and Retribution preside over the stories of Njal and his sons, and the _Lovers of Gudrun_. The story of Gisli works itself out in accordance with the original forebodings, yet without any illicit process in the logic of acts and motives, or any intervention of the mysterious powers who accompany the life of Gisli in his dreams. Even in less consistent stories the same ideas have a part; the story of Gudmund the Mighty, which is a series of separate chapters, is brought to an end in the Nemesis for Gudmund's injustice to Thorkell Hake. But the Sagas claim exemption from the laws of Tragedy, when poetical Justice threatens to become tyrannical. Partly by the nature of their origin, no doubt, and their initial dependence on historical recollections of actual events,[60] they are driven to include a number of things that might disappoint a well-educated gallery of spectators; the drama is not always worked out, or it may be that the meaning of a chapter or episode lies precisely in the disappointment of conventional expectations. [Footnote 60: _Vide supra_, p. 193 (the want of tragedy in _Víga-Glúms Saga_).] There is only one comedy, or at most two, among the Sagas--the story of the Confederates (_Bandamanna Saga_) with an afterpiece, the short story of Alecap (_Olkofra Þáttr_). The composition of the Sagas, however, admits all sorts of comic passages and undignified characters, and it also quietly unravels many complications that seem to be working up for a tragic ending. The dissipation of the storm before it breaks is, indeed, so common an event that it almost becomes itself a convention of narrative in the Sagas, by opposition to the common devices of the feud and vengeance. There is a good instance of this paradoxical conclusion in _Arons Saga_ (c. 12), an authentic biography, apparently narrating an actual event. The third chapter of _Glúma_ gives another instance of threatened trouble passing away. Ivar, a Norwegian with a strong hatred of Icelanders, seems likely to quarrel with Eyolf, Glum's father, but being a gentleman is won over by Eyolf's bearing. This is a part of the Saga where one need not expect to meet with any authentic historical tradition. The story of Eyolf in Norway is probably mere literature, and shows the working of the common principles of the Saga, as applied by an author of fiction. The sojourn of Grettir with the two foster-brothers is another instance of a dangerous situation going off without result. The whole action of _Vápnfirðinga Saga_ is wound up in a reconciliation, which is a sufficient close; but, on the other hand, the story of Glum ends in a mere exhaustion of the rivalries, a drawn game. One of the later more authentic histories, the story of Thorgils and Haflidi, dealing with the matters of the twelfth century and not with the days of Gunnar, Njal, and Snorri the Priest, is a story of rivalry passing away, and may help to show how the composers of the Sagas were influenced by their knowledge and observation of things near their own time in their treatment of matters of tradition. Even more striking than this evasion of the conventional plot of the blood-feud, is the freedom and variety in respect of the minor characters, particularly shown in the way they are made to perplex the simple-minded spectator. To say that all the characters in the Sagas escape from the limitations of mere typical humours might be to say too much; but it is obvious that simple types are little in favour, and that the Icelandic authors had all of them some conception of the ticklish and dangerous variability of human dispositions, and knew that hardly any one was to be trusted to come up to his looks, for good or evil. Popular imagination has everywhere got at something of this sort in its views of the lubberly younger brother, the ash-raker and idler who carries off the princess. Many of the heroes of the Sagas are noted to have been slow in their growth and unpromising, like Glum, but there are many more cases of change of disposition in the Sagas than can be summed up under this old formula. There are stories of the quiet man roused to action, like Thorarin in _Eyrbyggja_, where it is plain that the quietness was strength from the first. A different kind of courage is shown by Atli, the poor-spirited prosperous man in _Hávarðar Saga_, who went into hiding to escape being dragged into the family troubles, but took heart and played the man later on. One of the most effective pieces of comedy in the Sagas is the description of his ill-temper when he is found out, and his gradual improvement. He comes from his den half-frozen, with his teeth chattering, and nothing but bad words for his wife and her inconvenient brother who wants his help. His wife puts him to bed, and he comes to think better of himself and the world; the change of his mind being represented in the unobtrusive manner which the Sagas employ in their larger scenes. One of the most humorous and effective contradictions of the popular judgment is that episode in _Njála_, where Kari has to trust to the talkative person whose wife has a low opinion of him. It begins like farce: any one can see that Bjorn has all the manners of the swaggering captain; his wife is a shrew and does not take him at his own valuation. The comedy of Bjorn is that he proves to be something different both from his own Bjorn and his wife's Bjorn. He is the idealist of his own heroism, and believes in himself as a hero. His wife knows better; but the beauty of it all is that his wife is wrong. His courage, it is true, is not quite certain, but he stands his ground; there is a small particle of a hero in him, enough to save him. His backing of Kari in the fight is what many have longed to see, who have found little comfort in the discomfiture of Bobadil and Parolles, and who will stand to it that the chronicler has done less than justice to Sir John Falstaff both at Gadshill and Shrewsbury. Never before Bjorn of _Njála_ was there seen on any theatre the person of the comfortable optimist, with a soul apparently damned from the first to a comic exposure and disgrace, but escaping this because his soul has just enough virtue to keep him steady. The ordeal of Bjorn contains more of the comic spirit than all the host of stage cowards from Pyrgopolinices to Bob Acres, precisely because it introduces something more than the simple humour, an essence more spiritual and capricious. Further, the partnership of Kari and Bjorn, and Kari's appreciation of his idealist companion, go a long way to save Kari from a too exclusive and limited devotion to the purpose of vengeance. There is much to be said on behalf of this Bjorn. His relations with Kari prevent the hero of the latter part of the book from turning into a mere hero. The humorous character of the squire brings out something new in the character of the knight, a humorous response; all which goes to increase the variety of the story, and to widen the difference between this story and all the monotonous and abstract stories of chivalrous adventures. The Sagas have comedy in them, comic incidents and characters, because they have no notion of the dignity of abstract and limited heroics; because they cannot understand the life of Iceland otherwise than in full, with all its elements together. The one intentionally comic history, _Bandamanna Saga_, "The Confederates," which is exceptional in tone and plot, is a piece of work in which what may be called the form or spirit or idea of the heroic Saga is brought fully within one's comprehension by means of contrast and parody. _Bandamanna Saga_ is a complete work, successful in every detail; as an artistic piece of composition it will stand comparison with any of the Sagas. But it is comedy, not tragedy; it is a mock-heroic, following the lines of the heroic model, consistently and steadily, and serving as a touchstone for the vanity of the heroic age. It is worth study, for Comedy is later and therefore it would seem more difficult than Tragedy, and this is the first reasonable and modern comedy in the history of modern Europe. Further, the method of narrative, and everything in it except the irony, belong to all the Sagas in common; there is nothing particularly new or exceptional in the style or the arrangement of the scenes; it is not so much a parody or a mock-heroic, as an heroic work inspired with comic irony. It is not a new kind of Saga, it is the old Saga itself put to the ordeal by the Comic Muse, and proving its temper under the severest of all strains. This is the story of the Confederates.--There was a man named Ufeig who lived in Midfirth, a free-handed man, not rich, who had a son named Odd. The father and son disagreed, and Odd, the son, went off to make his own fortune, and made it, without taking any further notice of his father. The two men are contrasted; Ufeig being an unsuccessful man and a humorist, too generous and too careless to get on in the world, while Odd, his son, is born to be a prosperous man. The main plot of the story is the reconciliation of the respectable son and the prodigal father, which is brought about in the most perfect and admirable manner. Odd got into trouble. He had a lawsuit against Uspak, a violent person whom he had formerly trusted, who had presumed too much, had been disgraced, and finally had killed the best friend of Odd in one of the ways usual in such business in the Sagas. In the course of the lawsuit a slight difficulty arose--one of Odd's jurymen died, and another had to be called in his place. This was informal, but no one at first made anything of it; till it occurred to a certain great man that Odd was becoming too strong and prosperous, and that it was time to put him down. Whereupon he went about and talked to another great man, and half persuaded him that this view was the right one; and then felt himself strong enough to step in and break down the prosecution by raising the point about the formation of the jury. Odd went out of the court without a word as soon as the challenge was made. While he was thinking it over, and not making much of it, there appeared an old, bent, ragged man, with a flapping hat and a pikestaff; this was Ufeig, his father, to whom he had never spoken since he left his house. Ufeig now is the principal personage in the story. He asks his son about the case and pretends to be surprised at his failure. "Impossible! it is not like a gentleman to try to take in an old man like me; how could you be beaten?" Finally, after Odd had been made to go over all the several points of his humiliation, he is reduced to trust the whole thing to his father, who goes away with the comforting remark that Odd, by leaving the court when he did, before the case was finished, had made one good move in the game, though he did not know it. Ufeig gets a purse full of money from his son; goes back to the court, where (as the case is not yet closed) he makes an eloquent speech on the iniquity of such a plea as has been raised. "To let a man-slayer escape, gentlemen! where are your oaths that you swore? Will you prefer a paltry legal quibble to the plain open justice of the case?" and so on, impressively and emotionally, in the name of Equity, while all the time (equity + _x_) he plays with the purse under his cloak, and gets the eyes of the judges fixed upon it. Late in the day, Odd is brought back to hear the close of the case, and Uspak is outlawed. Then the jealousy of the great men comes to a head, and a compact is formed among eight of them to make an end of Odd's brand-new prosperity. These eight are the Confederates from whom the Saga is named, and the story is the story of Ufeig's ingenuity and malice as applied to these noble Pillars of Society. To tell it rightly would be to repeat the Saga. The skill with which the humorist plays upon the strongest motives, and gets the conspirators to betray one another, is not less beautifully represented than the spite which the humorist provokes among the subjects of his experiments. The details are finished to the utmost; most curiously and subtly in some of the indications of character and disposition in the eight persons of quality. The details, however, are only the last perfection of a work which is organic from the beginning. Ufeig, the humorist, is the servant and deputy of the Comic Muse, and there can be no doubt of the validity of his credentials, or of the soundness of his procedure. He is the ironical critic and censor of the heroic age; his touch is infallible, as unerring as that of Figaro, in bringing out and making ridiculous the meanness of the nobility. The decline and fall of the noble houses is recorded in _Sturlunga Saga_; the essence of that history is preserved in the comedy of the _Banded Men_. But, however the material of the heroic age may be handled in this comedy, the form of heroic narrative comes out unscathed. There is nothing for the comic spirit to fix upon in the form of the Sagas. The Icelandic heroes may be vulnerable, but Comedy cannot take advantage of them except by using the general form of heroic narrative in Iceland, a form which proves itself equally capable of Tragedy and Comedy. And as the more serious Icelandic histories are comprehensive and varied, so also is this comic history. It is not an artificial comedy, nor a comedy of humours, nor a purely satirical comedy. It is no more exclusive or abstract in its contents than _Njála_; its strict observance of limit and order is not the same thing as monotony; its unity of action is consistent with diversities of motive. Along with, and inseparable from, the satirical criticism of the great world, as represented by the eight discomfited noble Confederates, there is the even more satisfactory plot of the Nemesis of Respectability in the case of Odd; while the successful malice and craft of Ufeig are inseparable from the humanity, the constancy, and the imaginative strength, which make him come out to help his prosaic son, and enable him, the bent and thriftless old man, to see all round the frontiers of his son's well-defined and uninteresting character. Also the variety of the Saga appears in the variety of incident, and that although the story is a short one. As the solemn histories admit of comic passages, so conversely this comic history touches upon the tragic. The death of Vali, slain by Uspak, is of a piece with the most heroic scenes in Icelandic literature. Vali the friend of Odd goes along with him to get satisfaction out of Uspak the mischief-maker. Vali is all for peace; he is killed through his good nature, and before his death forgives and helps his assailant. And when with the spring the days of summons came on, Odd rode out with twenty men, till he came near by the garth of Svalastead. Then said Vali to Odd: "Now you shall stop here, and I will ride on and see Uspak, and find out if he will agree to settle the case now without more ado." So they stopped, and Vali went up to the house. There was no one outside; the doors were open and Vali went in. It was dark within, and suddenly there leapt a man out of the side-room and struck between the shoulders of Vali, so that he fell on the spot. Said Vali: "Look out for yourself, poor wretch! for Odd is coming, hard by, and means to have your life. Send your wife to him; let her say that we have made it up; and you have agreed to everything, and that I have gone on about my own gear down the valley!" Then said Uspak: "This is an ill piece of work; this was meant for Odd and not for you." This short heroic scene in the comedy has an effect corresponding to that of the comic humours in the Icelandic tragedies; it redresses the balance, it qualifies and diversifies what would otherwise be monotonous. Simple and clear in outline as the best of the short Icelandic stories are, they are not satisfied unless they have introduced something, if only a suggestion, of worlds different from their own immediate interests, a touch to show where their proper story branches out into the history of other characters and fortunes. This same story of the Confederates is wound up at the end, after the reconciliation of the father and son, by a return to the adventures of Uspak and to the subordinate tragic element in the comedy. The poetical justice of the story leaves Uspak, the slayer of Vali, dead in a cave of the hills; discovered there, alone, by shepherds going their autumn rounds. VI THE ART OF NARRATIVE The art of the Sagas will bear to be tested in every way: not that every Saga or every part of one is flawless, far from it; but they all have, though in different measure, the essentials of the fine art of story-telling. Except analysis, it is hardly possible to require from a story anything which will not be found supplied in some form or other in the Sagas. The best of them have that sort of unity which can hardly be described, except as a unity of life--the organic unity that is felt in every particular detail. It is absurd to take separately the details of a great work like _Njála_, or of less magnificent but not less perfect achievements such as the story of Hrafnkel. There is no story in the world that can surpass the _Bandamanna Saga_ in the liveliness with which each particular reveals itself as a moment in the whole story, inseparable from the whole, and yet in its own proper space appearing to resume and absorb the life of the whole. Where the work is elaborated in this way, where every particular is organic, it is not possible to do much by way of illustration, or to exhibit piecemeal what only exists as a complete thing, and can only be understood as such. It is of some importance in the history of literature that the rank and general character of these Icelandic works should be asserted and understood. It would be equally laborious and superfluous to follow each of them with an exposition of the value of each stroke in the work. There are difficulties enough in the language, and in the history, without any multiplication of commentaries on the obvious; and there is little in the art of the Sagas that is of doubtful import, however great may be the lasting miracle that such things, of such excellence, should have been written there and then. There is one general quality or characteristic of the Sagas which has not yet been noticed, one which admits of explanation and illustration, while it represents very well the prevailing mode of imagination in the Sagas. The imaginative life of the Sagas (in the best of them) is intensely strong at each critical point of the story, with the result that all abstract, makeshift explanations are driven out; the light is too strong for them, and the events are made to appear in the order of their appearance, with their meaning gradually coming out as the tale rolls on. No imagination has ever been so consistently intolerant of anything that might betray the author's knowledge before the author's chosen time. That everything should present itself first of all as appearance, before it becomes appearance with a meaning, is a common rule of all good story-telling; but no historians have followed this rule with so complete and sound an instinct as the authors of the Sagas. No medieval writers, and few of the modern, have understood the point of view as well as the authors of the story of Njal or of Kjartan. The reserve of the narrator in the most exciting passages of the Sagas is not dulness or want of sensibility; it is a consistent mode of procedure, to allow things to make their own impression; and the result is attained by following the order of impressions in the mind of one of the actors, or of a looker-on. "To see things as they are" is an equivocal formula, which may be claimed as their own privilege by many schools and many different degrees of intelligence. "To see things as they become," the rule of Lessing's _Laocoon_, has not found so many adherents, but it is more certain in meaning, and more pertinent to the art of narrative. It is a fair description of the aim of the Icelandic authors and of their peculiar gift. The story for them is not a thing finished and done with; it is a series of pictures rising in the mind, succeeding, displacing, and correcting one another; all under the control of a steady imagination, which will not be hurried, and will not tell the bearing of things till the right time comes. The vivid effect of the Saga, if it be studied at all closely, will be found to be due to this steadiness of imagination which gives first the blurred and inaccurate impression, the possibility of danger, the matter for surmises and suspicions, and then the clearing up. Stated generally in this way, the rule is an elementary one, but it is followed in the Sagas with a singular consistency and success, and with something more than a compulsory obedience. That both the narrators and their audience in that country had their whole lives filled with momentous problems in the interpretation of appearances may well be understood. To identify a band of riders in the distance, or a single man seen hurrying on the other side of the valley, was a problem which might be a matter of life or death any day; but so it has been in many places where there is nothing like the narrative art of Iceland. The Icelandic historian is like no other in putting into his work the thrill of suspense at something indistinctly seen going on in the distance--a crowd of men moving, not known whether friends or enemies. So it was in _Thorgils Saga_ (one of the later more authentic histories, of the Sturlung cycle), when Thorgils and his men came down to the Althing, and Bard and Aron were sent on ahead to find out if the way was clear from the northern passes across the plain of the Thing. Bard and Aron, as they came down past Armannsfell, saw a number of horses and men on the plain below just where Haflidi, the enemy, might have been expected to block the way. They left some of their band to wait behind while they themselves went on. From that point a chapter and more is taken up with the confused impression and report brought back by the scouts to the main body. They saw Bard and Aron ride on to the other people, and saw the others get up to meet them, carrying weapons; and then Bard and Aron went out of sight in the crowd, but the bearers of the report had no doubt that they were prisoners. And further, they thought they made out a well-known horse, Dapplecheek, and a gold-mounted spear among the strangers, both of which had belonged to Thorgils, and had been given away by him to one of his friends. From which it is inferred that his friend has been robbed of the horse and the spear. The use of all this, which turns out to be all made up of true eyesight and wrong judgment, is partly to bring out Thorgils; for his decision, against the wish of his companions, is to ride on in any event, so that the author gets a chapter of courage out of the mistake. Apart from that, there is something curiously spirited and attractive in the placing of the different views, with the near view last of all. In the play between them, between the apprehension of danger, the first report of an enemy in the way, the appearance of an indistinct crowd, the false inference, and the final truth of the matter, the Saga is faithful to its vital principle of variety and comprehensiveness; no one appearance, not even the truest, must be allowed too much room to itself. This indirect description is really the most vivid of all narrative forms, because it gives the point of view that is wanting in an ordinary continuous history. It brings down the story-teller from his abstract and discursive freedom, and makes him limit himself to one thing at a time, with the greatest advantage to himself and all the rest of his story. In that way the important things of the story may be made to come with the stroke and flash of present reality, instead of being prosed away by the historian and his good grammar. There is a very remarkable instance of the use of this method in the Book of Kings. Of Jehoram, son of Ahab, king of Israel, it is told formally that "he wrought evil in the sight of the Lord," with the qualification that his evil was not like that of Ahab and Jezebel. This is impressive in its formal and summary way. It is quite another mode of narrative, and it is one in which the spectator is introduced to vouch for the matter, that presents the king of Israel, once for all, in a sublime and tragic protest against the sentence of the historian himself, among the horrors of the famine of Samaria. So we boiled my son, and did eat him: and I said unto her on the next day, Give thy son, that we may eat him; and she hath hid her son. And it came to pass, when the king heard the words of the woman, that he rent his clothes; and he passed by upon the wall, and the people looked, and, behold, he had sackcloth within upon his flesh. No more than this is told of the unavailing penance of Jehoram the son of Ahab. There is no preparation; all the tragedy lies in this notice of something casually seen, and left without a commentary, for any one to make his own story about, if he chooses. There is perhaps nothing anywhere in narrative quite so sudden as this. The Northern writers, however, carry out consistently the same kind of principles, putting their facts or impressions forward in a right order and leaving them to take care of themselves; while in the presentation of events the spectator within the story has a good deal given him to do. Naturally, where the author does not make use of analysis and where he trusts to the reader's intellect to interpret things aright, the "facts" must be fairly given; in a lucid order, with a progressive clearness, from the point of view of those who are engaged in the action. There is another and somewhat different function of the spectator in the Sagas. In some cases, where there is no problem, where the action is straightforward, the spectator and his evidence are introduced merely to give breadth and freedom to the presentment, to get a foreground for the scene. This is effected best of all, as it happens, in a passage that called for nothing less than the best of the author's power and wit; namely, the chapter of the death of Kjartan in _Laxdæla_. And with this talk of Gudrun, Bolli was made to magnify his ill-will and his grievance against Kjartan; and took his weapons and went along with the others. They were nine altogether; five sons of Osvifr, that is to say, Ospak and Helgi, Vandrad, Torrad, and Thorolf; Bolli was the sixth, Gunnlaug the seventh, sister's son of Osvifr, a comely man; the other two were Odd and Stein, sons of Thorhalla the talkative. They rode to Svinadal and stopped at the gully called Hafragil; there they tied their horses and sat down. Bolli was silent all the day, and laid him down at the edge of the gully, above. Kjartan and his companions had come south over the pass, and the dale was opening out, when Kjartan said that it was time for Thorkell and his brother to turn back. Thorkell said they would ride with him to the foot of the dale. And when they were come south as far as the bothies called the North Sheilings, Kjartan said to the brothers that they were not to ride further. "Thorolf, the thief, shall not have this to laugh at, that I was afraid to ride on my way without a host of men." Thorkell Whelp makes answer: "We will give in to you and ride no further; but sorry shall we be if we are not there and you are in want of men this day." Then said Kjartan: "Bolli my kinsman will not try to have my life, and for the sons of Osvifr, if they lie in wait for me, it remains to be seen which of us shall tell the tale afterwards, for all that there may be odds against me." After that the brothers and their men rode west again. Now Kjartan rides southward down the valley, he and the two others, An the Swart and Thorarinn. At Hafratindr in Svinadal lived a man called Thorkell. There is no house there now. He had gone to look after his horses that day, and his shepherd along with him. They had a view of both companies; the sons of Osvifr lying in wait, and Kjartan's band of three coming down along the dale. Then said the herd lad that they should go and meet Kjartan; it would be great luck if they could clear away the mischief that was waiting for them. "Hold your tongue," said Thorkell; "does the fool think he can give life to a man when his doom is set? It is but little I grudge them their good pleasure, though they choose to hurt one another to their hearts' content. No! but you and I, we will get to a place where there will be no risk, where we can see all their meeting and have good sport out of their play. They all say that Kjartan has more fighting in him than any man; maybe he will need it all, for you and I can see that the odds are something." And so it had to be as Thorkell wished. The tragic encounter that follows, the last meeting of the two friends, Kjartan throwing away his weapons when he sees Bolli coming against him, Bolli's repentance when he has killed his friend, when he sits with his knee under Kjartan's head,--all this is told as well as may be; it is one of the finest passages in all the Sagas. But even this passage has something to gain from the episode of the churl and his more generous servant who looked on at the fight. The scene opens out; the spaces of the valley are shown as they appear to a looker-on; the story, just before the critical moment, takes us aside from the two rival bands and gives us the relation between them, the gradually-increasing danger as the hero and his companions come down out of the distance and nearer to the ambush. In this piece of composition, also, there goes along with the pictorial vividness of the right point of view a further advantage to the narrative in the character of the spectator. Two of the most notable peculiarities of the Icelandic workmanship are thus brought together,--the habit of presenting actions and events as they happen, from the point of view of an immediate witness; and the habit of correcting the heroic ideal by the ironical suggestion of the other side. Nothing is so deeply and essentially part of the nature of the Icelandic story, as its inability to give a limited or abstract rendering of life. It is from this glorious incapacity that there are derived both the habit of looking at events as appearances, before they are interpreted, and the habit of checking heroics by means of unheroic details, or, as here, by a suggestion of the way it strikes a vulgar contemporary. Without this average man and his commentary the story of the death of Kjartan would lose much. There is first of all the comic value of the meanness and envy in the mind of the boor, his complacency at the quarrels and mutual destruction of the magnificent people. His intrusion on the scene, his judgment of the situation, is proof of the variety of the life from which the Saga is drawn. More than that, there is here a rather cruel test of the heroics of _Laxdæla_, of the story itself; the notable thing about this spectator and critic is that his boorish judgment is partly right, as the judgment of Thersites is partly right--"too much blood and too little brains." He is vulgar common sense in the presence of heroism. In his own way a critic of the heroic ideals, his appearance in Svinadal as a negative and depreciatory chorus in the tragedy of Kjartan is a touch of something like the mood of _Bandamanna Saga_ in its criticism of the nobles and their rivalries; although the author of _Laxdæla_ is careful not to let this dangerous spirit penetrate too far. It is only enough to increase the sense of the tragic vanity of human wishes in the life and death of Kjartan Olafsson. Everything in the Sagas tends to the same end; the preservation of the balance and completeness of the history, as far as it goes; the impartiality of the record. The different sides are not represented as fully as in _Clarissa Harlowe_ or _The Ring and the Book_, but they are allowed their chance, according to the rules, which are not those of analytical psychology. The Icelandic imagination is content if the character is briefly indicated in a few dramatic speeches. The brevity and externality of the Saga method might easily provoke from admirers of Richardson a condemnation like that of Dr. Johnson on those who know the dial-plate only and not the works. The psychology of the Sagas, however, brief and superficial as it may be, is yet of the sort that may be tested; the dials keep time, though the works are not exposed. It may be doubtful at any moment how Skarphedinn will act, but when his history is in progress, and when it is finished, the reader knows that Skarphedinn is rightly rendered, and furthermore that it is impossible to deal with him except as an individual character, impressing the mind through a variety of qualities and circumstances that are inexplicably consistent. It is impossible to take his character to pieces. The rendering is in one sense superficial, and open to the censures of the moralist--"from without inwards"--like the characters of Scott. But as in this latter case, the superficiality and slightness of the work are deceptive. The character is given in a few strokes and without elaboration, but it is given inevitably and indescribably; the various appearances of Skarphedinn, different at different times, are all consistent with one another in the unity of imagination, and have no need of psychological analysis to explain them. The characters in the best of the Sagas grow upon the mind with each successive appearance, until they are known and recognised at a hint. In some cases it looks almost as if the author's dramatic imagination were stronger and more just than his deliberate moral opinions; as if his characters had taken the matter into their own hands, against his will. Or is it art, and art of the subtlest order, which in Kjartan Olafsson, the glorious hero, still leaves something of lightness, of fickleness, as compared both with the intensity of the passion of Gudrun and the dogged resolution of Bolli? There is another Saga in which a hero of the likeness of Kjartan is contrasted with a dark, malevolent, not ignoble figure,--the story of the Faroes, of Sigmund Brestisson and Thrond of Gata. There, at the end of the story, when Thrond of Gata has taken vengeance for the murder of his old enemy, it is not Sigmund, the glorious champion of King Olaf, who is most thought of, but Thrond the dark old man, his opponent and avenger. The character of Thrond is too strong to be suppressed, and breaks through the praise and blame of the chronicler, as, in another history, the character of Saul asserts itself against the party of David. The charge of superficiality or externality falls away to nothing in the mind of any one who knows by what slight touches of imagination a character may be brought home to an audience, if the character is there to begin with. It is not by elaborate, continuous analysis, but by a gesture here and a sentence there, that characters are expressed. The Sagas give the look of things and persons at the critical moments, getting as close as they can, by all devices, to the vividness of things as they appear, as they happen; brief and reserved in their phrasing, but the reverse of abstract or limited in their regard for the different modes and aspects of life, impartial in their acknowledgment of the claims of individual character, and unhesitating in their rejection of conventional ideals, of the conventional romantic hero as well as the conventional righteous man. The Sagas are more solid and more philosophical than any romance or legend. VII EPIC AND HISTORY In the close of the heroic literature of Iceland a number of general causes are to be found at work. The period of the Sagas comes to an end partly by a natural progress, culmination, and exhaustion of a definite form of literary activity, partly through external influences by which the decline is hastened. After the material of the early heroic traditions had been all used up, after the writers of the thirteenth century had given their present shapes to the stories of the tenth and the eleventh centuries, two courses were open, and both courses were taken. On the one hand the form of the Saga was applied to historical matter near the writer's own time, or actually contemporary, on the other hand it was turned to pure fiction. The literature divides into history and romance. The authentic history, the Sturlung cycle in particular, is the true heir and successor of the heroic Saga. The romantic Sagas are less intimately related to the histories of Njal or Gisli, though those also are representative of some part of the essence of the Saga, and continue in a shadowy way something of its original life. The Northern literatures in the thirteenth century were invaded from abroad by the same romantic forces as had put an end to the epic literature of France; translations of French romances became popular, and helped to change the popular taste in Norway and Iceland. At the same time the victory of Romance was not entirely due to these foreigners; they found allies in the more fanciful parts of the native literature. The schools of Northern prose romance, which took the place of the older Sagas, were indebted almost as much to the older native literature as to Tristram or Perceval; they are the product of something that had all along been part, though hardly the most essential part, of the heroic Sagas. The romantic story of Frithiof and the others like it have disengaged from the complexity of the older Sagas an element which contributes not a little, though by no means everything, to the charm of _Njála_ and _Laxdæla_. The historical work contained in the _Sturlunga Saga_ is a more comprehensive and thorough modification of the old form. Instead of detaching one of the elements and using it in separation from the rest, as was done by the author of _Frithiof_, for example, the historian of the Sturlungs kept everything that he was not compelled to drop by the exigencies of his subject. The biographical and historical work belonging to the _Sturlunga Saga_ falls outside the order to which _Njal_ and _Gisli_ belong; it is epic, only in the sense that a history may be called epic. Nevertheless it is true that this historical work shows, even better than the heroic Sagas themselves, what the nature of the heroic literature really is. In dealing with a more stubborn and less profitable subject it brings out the virtues of the Icelandic form of narrative. The relation of the Saga to authentic history had always been close. The first attempt to give shape, in writing, to the traditions of the heroic age was made by Ari Thorgilsson (_ob._ 1148), especially in his _Landnámabók_, a history exact and positive, a record in detail of all the first settlers of the island, with notes of the substance of the popular stories by which their fame was transmitted. This exact history, this positive work, precedes the freer and more imaginative stories, and supplies some of them with a good deal of their matter, which they work up in their own way. The fashion of writing, the example of a written form of narrative, was set by Ari; though the example was not followed closely nor in all points by the writers of the Sagas: his form is too strict for them. It was too strict for his greatest successor in historical writing in Iceland. Snorri Sturluson is the author of _Lives of the Kings of Norway_, apparently founded upon Ari's _Book of Kings_, which has been lost as an independent work. Snorri's _Lives_ themselves are extant in a shape very far from authentic; one has to choose between the abridged and inconvenient shape of _Heimskringla_, in which Snorri's work appears to have been cut down and trimmed, and the looser form presented by such compilations as the longer Saga of Olaf Tryggvason, where more of Snorri appears to have been retained than in _Heimskringla_, though it has to be extricated from all sorts of irrelevant additions and interpolations. But whatever problems may still remain unsolved, it is certain enough that Snorri worked on his historical material with no intention of keeping to the positive lines of Ari, and with the fullest intention of giving to his history of Norway all the imaginative force of which he was capable. This was considerable, as is proved by the stories of the gods in his _Edda_; and in the histories of Olaf Tryggvason and of Saint Olaf, kings of Norway, he has given companions to the very noblest of the Sagas dealing with the Icelandic chiefs. Between the more scientific work of Ari and the more imaginative work of Snorri comes, half-way, the _Life of King Sverre_ (_ob._ 1202), written at the king's own dictation by the Abbot Karl of Thingeyri. Ari collected the historical materials, both for Iceland and Norway, and put them together in the extant _Landnámabók_ and the lost _Kings' Lives_. Snorri Sturluson treated the _Kings' Lives_ in the spirit of the greater Icelandic Sagas; his _Lives_ belong to heroic literature, if there is any meaning in that name. The _Life of Sverre_ is not so glorious as the _Life_ of either Olaf. Abbot Karl had not the same interests or the same genius as Snorri, and his range was determined, in most of the work, by the king himself. King Sverre, though he could quote poetry to good effect when he liked, was mainly practical in his ideas. The Sturlung history, which is the close of the heroic literature of Iceland, has resemblances to the work of all three of the historians just named. It is like Ari in its minuteness and accuracy; like _Sverris Saga_, it has a contemporary subject to treat of; and it shares with Snorri his spirit of vivid narrative and his sympathy with the methods of the greater Sagas of Iceland. If authors were to be judged by the difficulty of their undertakings, then Sturla, the writer of the Sturlung history, would certainly come out as the greatest of them all. For he was limited by known facts as much, or even more than Ari; while he has given to his record of factions, feuds, and anarchy almost as much spirit as Snorri gave to his lives of the heroic kings, and more than Abbot Karl could give to the history of Sverre and his political success. At the same time, however, the difficulty of Sturla's work had been a good deal reduced in the gradual progress of Icelandic literature. He had to represent modern history, the history of his own time, in the form and with the vividness of the imaginative Sagas. In undertaking this he was helped by some examples of the same sort of thing, in Sagas written before his time, and forming an intermediate stage between the group of which _Njála_ is the head, and Sturla's history of his own family. The biographies of Icelanders in the twelfth century, like that of Thorgils and Haflidi quoted above, which form an introduction to the Sturlung history, are something more authentic than the heroic Sagas, but not much less spirited. It is difficult to draw a decided line anywhere between the different classes; or, except by the date of its subject, to mark off the story of the heroic age from the story of the rather less heroic age that followed it. There was apparently an accommodation of the Saga form to modern subjects, effected through a number of experiments, with a result, complete and admirable, in Sturla's history of the Sturlung fortunes. It may be said, also, that something of the work was done ready to the author's hand; there was a natural fitness and correspondence between the Icelandic reality, even when looked at closely by contemporary eyes in the broad daylight, and the Icelandic form of representation. The statue was already part shapen in the block, and led the hand of the artist as he worked upon it. It is dangerous, no doubt, to say after the work has been done, after the artist has conquered his material and finished off his subject, that there was a natural affinity between the subject and the author's mind. In the case of Iceland, however, this pre-existent harmony is capable of being proved. The conditions of life in Iceland were, and still are, such as to exclude a number of the things that in other countries prevent the historian from writing epic. There were none of the large, abstract considerations and problems that turn the history into a dissertation on political forces, on monarchy, on democracy, on diplomacy; there were none of the large, vague multitudes of the people that impose themselves on the historian's attention, to the detriment of his individual characters. The public history of Iceland lies all in the lives of private characters; it is the life of a municipality, very much spread out, it is true, but much more like the life of a country town or a group of country neighbours, than the society of a complex state of any kind that has ever existed in Europe. Private interests and the lives of individual men were what they had to think about and talk about; and just in so far as they were involved in gossip, they were debarred from the achievements of political history, and equally inclined to that sort of record in which individual lives are everything. If their histories were to have any life at all, it must be the life of the drama or the dramatic narrative, and not that of the philosophical history, or even of those medieval chronicles, which, however unphilosophical, are still obliged by the greatness of their subject to dwarf the individual actors in comparison with the greatness of Kingdoms, Church, and Empire. Of those great impersonalities there was little known in Iceland; and if the story of Iceland was not to be (what it afterwards became) a mere string of trivial annals, it must be by a deepening of the personal interest, by making the personages act and talk, and by following intently the various threads of their individual lives. So far the work was prepared for authors like Sturla, who had to enliven the contemporary record of life in Iceland; it was prepared to this extent, that any other kind of work was unpromising or even hopeless. The present life in Sturla's time was, like the life of the heroic age, a perpetual conflict of private wills, with occasional and provisional reconciliations. The mode of narrative that was suitable for the heroic stories could hardly fail to be the proper mode for the contemporary factions of chiefs, heroic more or less, and so it was proved by Sturla. _Sturlunga Saga_ contains some of the finest passages of narrative in the whole of Icelandic literature. The biographical Sagas, with which it is introduced or supported, are as good as all but the best of the heroic Sagas, while they are not out of all comparison even with _Njála_ or _Gísla_, with _Hrafnkels Saga_ or _Bandamanna_, in the qualities in which these excel. The story of Thorgils and Haflidi has already been referred to in illustration of the Icelandic method of narrative at its best. It is a good story, well told, with the unities well preserved. The plot is one that is known to the heroic Sagas--the growth of mischief and ill-will between two honourable gentlemen, out of the villainy of a worthless beast who gets them into his quarrels. Haflidi has an ill-conditioned nephew whom, for his brother's sake, he is loth to cast off. Thorgils takes up one of many cases in which this nephew is concerned, and so is brought into disagreement with Haflidi. The end is reconciliation, effected by the intervention of Bishop Thorlak Runolfsson and Ketill the priest, aided by the good sense of the rivals at a point where the game may be handsomely drawn, with no dishonour to either side. The details are given with great liveliness. One of the best scenes is that which has already been referred to (p. 238); another may be quoted of a rather different sort from an earlier year. In the year 1120 at the Althing, Thorgils was with difficulty dissuaded from breaking the peace as they stood, both parties, by the door of the Thingvalla church on St. Peter's Day. Thorgils' friend Bodvar had to use both arguments and unction to make him respect the sanctity of the Althing, of the Church, and of the Saint to whom the day belonged. Afterwards Thorgils said to his friend, "You are more pious than people think." Bodvar answered: "I saw that we were penned between two bands of them at the church door, and that if it broke into a fight we should be cut to pieces. But for that I should not have cared though Haflidi had been killed in spite of the peace of Church and Parliament." The intervention at the end is very well given, particularly Ketill the priest's story of his own enemy. _Sturlu Saga_, the story of the founder of the great Sturlung house, the father of the three great Sturlung brothers, of whom Snorri the historian was one, is longer and more important than the story of Thorgils and Haflidi. The plot is a simple one: the rivalry between Sturla and Einar, son of Thorgils. The contest is more deadly and more complicated than that of Thorgils himself against Haflidi; that was mainly a case of the point of honour, and the opponents were both of them honourable men, while in this contest Sturla is politic and unscrupulous, and his adversary "a ruffian by habit and repute." There is a considerable likeness between the characters of Sturla and of Snorri the priest, as that is presented in _Eyrbyggja_ and elsewhere. A comparison of the rise of Snorri, as told in _Eyrbyggja_, with the life of Sturla will bring out the unaltered persistence of the old ways and the old standards, while the advantage lies with the later subject in regard to concentration of interest. The _Life of Sturla_ is not so varied as _Eyrbyggja_, but it is a more orderly piece of writing, and at the same time more lively, through the unity of its plot. Nor are the details spoiled by any tameness. Notable is the company of rogues maintained by Einar; they and their ways are well described. There was Geir the thief, son of Thorgerda the liar; he was hanged by the priest Helgi. There was Vidcuth, son of stumpy Lina (these gentry have no father's name to them); he was a short man and a nimble. The third was Thorir the warlock, a little man from the North country. This introduction serves to bring on the story of a moonlight encounter with the robbers in snow; and in this sort of thing the history of Sturla is as good as the best. It is worth while to look at the account of the last decisive match with Einar--another snow piece. It may be discovered there that the closer adhesion to facts, and the nearer acquaintance with the persons, were no hindrance to the Icelandic author who knew his business. It was not the multitude and confusion of real details that could prevent him from making a good thing out of his subject, if only his subject contained some opportunity for passion and conflict, which it generally did. In this scene of the midnight raid in which the position of the two rivals is decided, there is nothing at all heightened or exaggerated, yet the proportions are such, the relations of the incidents are given in such a way, as could not be bettered by any modern author dealing with a critical point in a drama of private life. The style is that of the best kind of subdued and sober narrative in which the excitement of the situations is not spent in rhetoric. It fell at Hvamm in the winter nights (about Hallowmass) of the year 1171 that a man passed through, an old retainer of Sturla's; and Sturla did not like his manner. As it turned out, this man went west to Stadarhol, the house of Sturla's enemy, and told Einar all the state of Sturla's house, how there were few men there. There was dancing at Hvamm that night, and it was kept up late. The night was still, and every now and then some would look out and listen, but they could hear no one stirring. The night after that Einar set out. He avoided Hvamm, but came down on another steading, the house of Sturla's son-in-law Ingjald, and drove off the cows and sheep, without any alarm; it was not till the morning that one of the women got up and found the beasts gone. The news was brought at once to Hvamm. Sturla had risen at daybreak and was looking to his haystacks; it was north wind, and freezing. Ingjald came up, and, "Now he is coming to ask me to buy his wethers," says Sturla; for Sturla had warned him that he was in danger of being raided, and had tried to get Ingjald to part with his sheep. Ingjald told him of the robbery. Sturla said nothing, but went in and took down his axe and shield. Gudny his wife was wakened, and asked what the news was. "Nothing so far; only Einar has driven all Ingjald's beasts." Then Gudny sprang up and shouted to the men: "Up, lads! Sturla is out, and his weapons with him, and Ingjald's gear is gone!" Then follows the pursuit over the snow, and the fight, in which Ingjald is killed, and Einar wounded and driven to beg for quarter. After which it was the common saying that Einar's strength had gone over to Sturla. It is a piece of clean and exact description, and particularly of the succession of scenes and moods in life. The revels go on through the calm night with an accompaniment of suspense and anxiety. There is no better note in any chronicle of the anxieties of a lawless time, and the steady flow of common pleasures in spite of the troubles; all the manners of an heroic or a lawless time are summed up in the account of the dance and its intermittent listening for the sound of enemies. Sturla in the early light sees his son-in-law coming to him, and thinks he knows what his errand is,--the author here, as usual, putting the mistaken appearance first, and the true interpretation second. In the beginning of the pursuit there is the silence and the repression of a man in a rage, and the vehement call of his wife who knows what he is about, and finds words for his anger and his purpose. The weather of the whole story is just enough to play into the human life--the quiet night, the north wind, and the frosty, sunless morning. The snow is not all one surface; the drifts on the hill-sides, the hanging cornice over a gully, these have their place in the story, just enough to make the movements clear and intelligible. This is the way history was written when the themes were later by two centuries than those of the heroic Sagas. There is not much difference, except in the "soothfastness"; the author is closer to his subject, his imagination is confronted with something very near reality, and is not helped, as in the older stories, by traditional imaginative modifications of his subject. It is the same kind of excellence that is found in the other subsidiary parts of _Sturlunga_, hardly less than in the main body of that work. There is no reason for depressing these histories below the level of any but the strongest work in the heroic Sagas. The history of Bishop Gudmund and the separate lives of his two friends, Hrafn and Aron, are not less vivid than the stories of the men of Eyre or the men of Vatzdal. The wanderings of Aron round Iceland are all but as thrilling as those of the outlaw Gisli or Grettir, whose adventures and difficulties are so like his own. It is not easy to specify any element in the one that is not in the other, while the handling of the more authentic stories is not weak or faltering in comparison with the others. No single incident in any of the Sagas is much better in its way, and few are more humane than the scene in which Eyjolf Karsson gets Aron to save himself, while he, Eyjolf, goes back into danger.[61] [Footnote 61: Translated in Appendix, Note C.] The _Islendinga_ or _Sturlunga Saga_ of Sturla Thordarson, which is the greatest of the pure historical works, is in some things inferior to stories like those of the older Sturla, or of Hrafn and Aron. There is no hero; perhaps least of all that hero, namely the nation itself, which gives something like unity to the Shakespearean plays of the Wars of the Roses. Historically there is much resemblance between the Wars of the Roses and the faction fights in Iceland in which the old constitution went to pieces and the old spirit was exhausted. But the Icelandic tragedy had no reconciliation at the end, and there was no national strength underneath the disorder, fit to be called out by a peacemaker or a "saviour of society" like Henry VII. There was nothing but the family interests of the great houses, and the _Sturlunga Saga_ leaves it impossible to sympathise with either side in a contest that has no principles and no great reformer to distinguish it. The anarchy is worse than in the old days of the Northern rovers; the men are more formal and more vain. Yet the history of these tumults is not without its brightness of character. The generous and lawless Bishop Gudmund belongs to the story; so do his champions Eyjolf, Hrafn, and Aron. The figure of Snorri Sturluson is there, though he is rather disappointing in his nephew's view of him. His enemy, Gizur the earl, is a strong man, whose strength is felt in the course of the history; and there are others. The beauty of _Sturlunga_ is that it gives a more detailed and more rational account than is to be found elsewhere in the world of the heroic age going to the bad, without a hero. The kind of thing represented may be found in countless other places, but not Froissart has rendered it so fully or with such truth, nor the _Paston Letters_ with more intimate knowledge and experience. It is a history and not an epic; the title of epic which may be claimed for _Njála_ and _Laxdæla_, and even in a sense transferred to the later biographies, does not rightly belong to Sturla's history of Iceland. It is a record from year to year; it covers two generations; there is nothing in it but faction. But it is descended from the epic school; it has the gift of narrative and of vision. It represents, as no prosaic historian can, the suspense and the shock of events, the alarm in the night, the confusion of a house attacked, the encounter of enemies in the open, the demeanour of men going to their death. The scenes are epic at least, though the work as a whole is merely historical. There is a return in this to the original nature of the Saga, in some respects. It was in the telling of adventures that the Sagas began, separate adventures attaching to great names of the early days. The separate adventures of Gisli were known and were told about before his history was brought into the form and unity which it now possesses, where the end is foreknown from the beginning. Many of the heroic Sagas have remained in what must be very like their old oral form--a string of episodes. _Eyrbyggja_, _Vatnsdæla_, _Flóamanna_, _Svarfdæla_, are of this sort. _Sturlunga_, has not more unity than _Eyrbyggja_, perhaps not as much, unless the rise of Gizur may be reckoned to do for it what is done for the older story by the rise of Snorri the Priest. But while the scenes thus fall apart in _Sturlunga_, they are more vivid than in any other Icelandic book. In no other is the art of description so nearly perfect. The scenes of _Sturlunga_ come into rivalry with the best of those in the heroic Sagas. No one will ever be able to say, much less to convince any one else, whether the burning of Njal's house or the burning of Flugumyri is the better told or the more impressive. There is no comparison between the personages in the two stories. But in pure art of language and in the certainty of its effect the story of Flugumyri is not less notable than the story of Bergthorsknoll. It may be repeated here, to stand as the last words of the great Icelandic school; the school which went out and had no successor till all its methods were invented again, independently, by the great novelists, after ages of fumbling and helpless experiments, after all the weariness of pedantic chronicles and the inflation of heroic romance. Sturla had given his daughter Ingibjorg in marriage to Hall, son of Gizur, and had come to the wedding at Flugumyri, Gizur's house at the foot of the hills of Skagafjord, with steep slopes behind and the broad open valley in front, a place with no exceptional defences, no fortress. It was here, just after the bridal, and after the bride's father had gone away, that Gizur's enemy, Eyjolf, came upon him, as he had threatened openly in men's hearing. Sturla, who had left the house just before, tells the story with the details that came to him from the eye-witnesses, with exact particular descriptions. But there is no drag in the story, and nothing mean in the style, whatever may have been the brutal reality. It is, once again, the great scene of Epic poetry repeated, the defence of a man's life and of his own people against surrounding enemies; it is the drama of Gunnar or of Njal played out again at the very end of the Northern heroic age, and the prose history is quick to recognise the claims upon it. This is the end of the wedding at Flugumyri, in October of the year 1253, as told by Sturla:-- THE BURNING OF FLUGUMYRI Eyjolf saw that the attack was beginning to flag, and grew afraid that the countryside might be raised upon them; so they brought up the fire. John of Bakki had a tar-pin with him; they took the sheepskins from the frames that stood outside there, and tarred them and set them on fire. Some took hay and stuffed it into the windows and put fire to it; and soon there was a great smoke in the house and a choking heat. Gizur lay down in the hall by one of the rows of pillars, and kept his nose on the floor. Groa his wife was near him. Thorbjorn Neb was lying there too, and he and Gizur had their heads close together. Thorbjorn could hear Gizur praying to God in many ways and fervently, and thought he had never before heard praying like it. As for himself, he could not have opened his mouth for the smoke. After that Gizur stood up and Groa supported him, and he went to the south porch. He was much distressed by the smoke and heat, and thought to make his way out rather than be choked inside. Gizur Glad was standing at the door, talking to Kolbein Grön, and Kolbein was offering him quarter, for there was a pact between them, that if ever it came to that, they should give quarter to one another, whichever of them had it in his power. Gizur stood behind Gizur Glad, his namesake while they were talking, and got some coolness the while. Gizur Glad said to Kolbein, "I will take quarter for myself, if I may bring out another man along with me." Kolbein agreed to this at once, excepting only Gizur and his sons. Then Ingibjorg, Sturla's daughter, came to Groa at the door; she was in her nightgown, and barefoot. She was then in her fourteenth year, and tall and comely to see. Her silver belt had tangled round her feet as she came from her bedroom. There was on it a purse with many gold rings of hers in it; she had it there with her. Groa was very glad to see her, and said that there should be one lot for both of them, whatever might befall. When Gizur had got himself cooled a little, he gave up his thought of dashing out of the house. He was in linen clothes, with a mail-coat over them, and a steel cap on his head, and his sword _Corselet-biter_ in his hand. Groa was in her nightgown only. Gizur went to Groa and took two gold rings out of his girdle-pocket and put them into her hand, because he thought that she would live through it, but not he himself. One ring had belonged to Bishop Magnus his uncle, and the other to his father Thorvald. "I wish my friends to have the good of these," he says, "if things go as I would have them." Gizur saw that Groa took their parting much to heart. Then he felt his way through the house, and with him went Gudmund the Headstrong, his kinsman, who did not wish to lose sight of him. They came to the doors of the ladies' room; and Gizur was going to make his way out there. Then he heard outside the voices of men cursing and swearing, and turned back from there. Now in the meantime Groa and Ingibjorg had gone to the door. Groa asked for freedom for Ingibjorg. Kolbein heard that, her kinsman, and asked Ingibjorg to come out to him. She would not, unless she got leave to take some one out along with her. Kolbein said that was too much to ask. Groa besought her to go. "I have to look after the lad Thorlak, my sister's son," says she. Thorlak was a boy of ten, the son of Thorleif the Noisy. He had jumped out of the house before this, and his linen clothes were all ablaze when he came down to the ground: he got safe to the church. Some men say that Thorstein Genja pushed Groa back into the fire; she was found in the porch afterwards. Kolbein dashed into the fire for Ingibjorg, and carried her out to the church. Then the house began to blaze up. A little after, Hall Gizur's son [the bridegroom] came to the south door, and Arni the Bitter, his henchman, with him. They were both very hard put to it, and distressed by the heat. There was a board across the doorway, half-way up. Hall did not stop to look, but jumped straight out over the hatch. He had a sword in one hand, and no weapon besides. Einar Thorgrimsson was posted near where he leapt out, and hewed at his head with a sword, and that was his death-wound. As he fell, another man cut at his right leg below the knee and slashed it nearly off. Thorleif the monk from Thverá, the brewer, had got out before, and was in the yard; he took a sheepskin and put it under Hall when Einar and the others went away; then he rolled all together, Hall and the sheepskin, along to the church when they were not looking. Hall was lightly clad, and the cold struck deep into his wounds. The monk was barefoot, and his feet were frostbitten, but he brought himself and Hall to the church at last. Arni leapt out straight after Hall; he struck his foot on the hatch (he was turning old) and fell as he came out. They asked who that might be, coming in such a hurry. "Arni the Bitter is here," says he; "and I will not ask for quarter. I see one lying not far away makes me like it well enough if I travel the same road with him." Then said Kolbein: "Is there no man here remembers Snorri Sturluson?"[62] [Footnote 62: Arni Beiskr (the Bitter) in company with Gizur murdered Snorri Sturluson the historian at his house of Reykholt, 22nd September 1241.] They both had a stroke at him, Kolbein and Ari Ingimund's son, and more of them besides hewed at him, and he came by his death there. Then the hall fell in, beginning from the north side into the loft above the hall. Now all the buildings began to flare up, except that the guest-house did not burn, nor the ladies' room, nor the dairy. Now to go back to Gizur: he made his way through the house to the dairy, with Gudmund, his kinsman, after him. Gizur asked him to go away, and said that one man might find a way of escape, if fate would have it so, that would not do for two. Then Parson John Haldorsson came up; and Gizur asked them both to leave him. He took off his coat of mail and his morion, but kept his sword in his hand. Parson John and Gudmund made their way from the dairy to the south door, and got quarter. Gizur went into the dairy and found a curd-tub standing on stocks; there he thrust the sword into the curds down over the hilts. He saw close by a vat sunk in the earth with whey in it, and the curd-tub stood over it and nearly hid the sunken vat altogether. There was room for Gizur to get into it, and he sat down in the whey in his linen clothes and nothing else, and the whey came up to his breast. It was cold in the whey. He had not been long there when he heard voices, and their talk went thus, that three men were meant to have the hewing of him; each man his stroke, and no hurry about it, so as to see how he took it. The three appointed were Hrani and Kolbein and Ari. And now they came into the dairy with a light, and searched about everywhere. They came to the vat that Gizur was in, and thrust into it three or four times with spears. Then there was a wrangle among them; some said there was something in the vat, and others said no. Gizur kept his hand over his belly, moving gently, so that they might be as long as possible in finding out that there was anything there. He had grazes on his hands, and all down to his knees skin wounds, little and many. Gizur said afterwards that before they came in he was shaking with cold, so that it rippled in the vat, but after they came in he did not shiver at all. They made two searches through the dairy, and the second time was like the first. After that they went out and made ready to ride away. Those men that still had life in them were spared, to wit, Gudmund Falkason, Thord the Deacon, and Olaf, who was afterwards called Guest, whose life Einar Thorgrimsson had attempted before. By that time it was dawn. There is one passage in the story of Flugumyri, before the scene of the burning, in which the narrative is heightened a little, as if the author were conscious that his subject was related to the matter of heroic poetry, or as if it had at once, like the battle of Maldon, begun to be magnified by the popular memory into the likeness of heroic battles. It is in the description of the defence of the hall (_skáli_) at Flugumyri, before the assailants were driven back and had to take to fire, as is told above. Eyjolf and his companions made a hard assault on the hall. Now was there battle joined, and sharp onset, for the defence was of the stoutest. They kept at it far into the night, and struck so hard (say the men who were there) that fire flew, as it seemed, when the weapons came together. Thorstein Gudmund's son said afterwards that he had never been where men made a braver stand; and all are agreed to praise the defence of Flugumyri, both friends and enemies. The fire of the swords which is here referred to by the way, and with something like an apology for exaggeration, is in the poem of _Finnesburh_ brought out with emphasis, as a proper part of the composition:-- swurdléoma stód, Swylce eall Finnesburh fýrenu wáere. The sword-light rose, as though all Finnsburgh were aflame. It is characteristic of the Icelandic work that it should frequently seem to reflect the incidents of epic poetry in a modified way. The Sagas follow the outlines of heroic poetry, but they have to reduce the epic magnificence, or rather it would be truer to say that they present in plain language, and without extravagance, some of the favourite passages of experience that have been at different times selected and magnified by epic poets. Thus the death of Skarphedinn is like a prose rendering of the death of Roland; instead of the last stroke of the hero in his agony, cleaving the rock with Durendal, it is noted simply that Skarphedinn had driven his axe into the beam before him, in the place where he was penned in, and there the axe was found when they came to look for him after the burning. The moderation of the language here does not conceal the intention of the writer that Skarphedinn's last stroke is to be remembered. It is by touches such as these that the heroic nature of the Sagas is revealed. In spite of the common details and the prose statement, it is impossible to mistake their essential character. They are something loftier than history, and their authors knew it. When history came to be written as it was written by Sturla, it still retained this distinction. It is history governed by an heroic spirit; and while it is closely bound to the facts, it is at the same time controlled and directed by the forms of an imaginative literature that had grown up in greater freedom and at a greater distance from its historical matter. Sturla uses, for contemporary history, a kind of narrative created and perfected for another purpose, namely for the imaginative reconstruction and representation of tradition, in the stories of Njal, Grettir, and Gisli. There is no distortion or perversion in this choice and use of his instrument, any more than in Fielding's adaptation of the method of _Joseph Andrews_ to the matter of the _Voyage to Lisbon_. In the first place, the imaginative form of narrative obliges the author to take his subject seriously and treat it with dignity; he cannot leave it crude and unformed. In the second place, there is a real affinity, in Iceland, between the subject-matters of the true history and the heroic Saga; the events are of the same kind, the personages are not unlike. The imaginative treatment of the stories of Njal and Gisli had been founded on real knowledge of life; in _Sturlunga_ the history of real life is repaid for its loan. In Sturla's book, the contemporary alarms and excursions, the midnight raids, the perils and escapes, the death of the strong man, the painful ending of the poor-spirited, all the shocks and accidents of his own time, are comprehended by the author in the light of the traditional heroics, and of similar situations in the imaginative Sagas; and so these matters of real life, and of the writer's own experience, or near it, come to be co-ordinated, represented, and made intelligible through imagination. _Sturlunga_ is something more than a bare diary, or a series of pieces of evidence. It has an author, and the author understands and appreciates the matter in hand, because it is illuminated for him by the example of the heroic literature. He carries an imaginative narrative design in his head, and things as they happen fall into the general scheme of his story as if he had invented them. How much this imaginative kind of true history is bound and indebted to its native land, how little capable of transportation, is proved in a very striking and interesting way by Sturla's other work, his essay in foreign history, the _Life of King Hacon of Norway_. The _Hákonar Saga_, as compared with _Sturlunga_, is thin, grey, and abstract. It is a masterly book in its own kind; fluent and clear, and written in the inimitable Icelandic prose. The story is parallel to the history of Iceland, contemporary with _Sturlunga_. It tells of the agonies of Norway, a confusion no less violent and cruel than the anarchy of Iceland in the same sixty years; while the Norwegian history has the advantage that it comes to an end in remedy, not in exhaustion. There was no one in Iceland like King Hacon to break the heads of the disorderly great men, and thus make peace in an effective way. _Sturlunga_, in Iceland, is made up of mere anarchy; _Hákonar Saga_ is the counterpart of _Sturlunga_, exhibiting the cure of anarchy in Norway under an active king. But while the political import of Sturla's _Hacon_ is thus greater, the literary force is much less, in comparison with the strong work of _Sturlunga_. There is great dexterity in the management of the narrative, great lucidity; but the vivid imagination shown in the story of Flugumyri, and hardly less in other passages of _Sturlunga_, is replaced in the life of Hacon by a methodical exposition of facts, good enough as history, but seldom giving any hint of the author's reserve of imaginative force. It is not that Sturla does not understand his subject. The tragedy of Duke Skule does not escape him; he recognises the contradiction in the life of Hacon's greatest rival, between Skule's own nobility and generosity of temper, and the hopelessness of the old scrambling misrule of which he is the representative. But the tragedy of the _Rival Kings_ (_Kongsemnerne_) is left for Ibsen to work out in full; the portraits of Skule and Hacon are only given in outline. In the part describing Hacon's childhood among the veterans of the Old Guard (Sverre's men, the "ancient Birchlegs"), and in a few other places, there is a lapse into the proper Icelandic manner. Elsewhere, and in the more important parts of the history especially, it would seem as if the author had gone out of his way to find a sober and colourless pattern of work, instead of the full and vivid sort of story that came natural to him. After Sturla, and after the fall of the Commonwealth of Iceland, although there were still some interesting biographies to be written--the _Life of Bishop Arne_, the _Life of Bishop Laurence_--it may be reckoned that the heroic strain is exhausted. After that, it is a new world for Iceland, or rather it is the common medieval world, and not the peculiar Icelandic version of an heroic age. After the fourteenth century the historical schools die out into meagre annals; and even the glorious figure of Jón Arason, and the tragic end of the Catholic bishop, the poet, the ruler, who along with his sons was beheaded in the interests of the Reformed Religion and its adherents, must go without the honours that were freely paid in the thirteenth century to bishops and lords no more heroic, no more vehement and self-willed. The history of Jón Arason has to be made out and put together from documents; his Saga was left unwritten, though the facts of his life and death may seem to prove that the old spirit lived long after the failure of the old literature. The thirteenth century, the century of Snorri Sturluson and of Sturla his nephew, is also the age of Villehardouin and Joinville. That is to say, the finished historical work of the Icelandic School is contemporary with the splendid improvisations and first essays of French historical prose. The fates of the two languages are an instance of "the way that things are shared" in this world, and may raise some grudges against the dispensing fortune that has ordered the _Life of St. Louis_ to be praised, not beyond its deserts, by century after century, while the Northern masterpieces are left pretty much to their own island and to the antiquarian students of the Northern tongues. This, however, is a consideration which does not touch the merits of either side. It is part of the fate of Icelandic literature that it should not be influential in the great world, that it should fall out of time, and be neglected, in the march of the great nations. It is in this seclusion that its perfection is acquired, and there is nothing to complain of. A comparison of the two contemporaries, Sturla and Joinville, brings out the difference between two admirable varieties of history, dealing with like subjects. The scenery of the _Life of St. Louis_ is different from that of _Sturlunga_, but there is some resemblance in parts of their themes, in so far as both narrate the adventures of brave men in difficult places, and both are told by authors who were on the spot themselves, and saw with their own eyes, or heard directly from those who had seen. As a subject for literature there is not much to choose between St. Louis in Egypt in 1250 and the burning of Flugumyri three years later, though the one adventure had all the eyes of the world upon it, and the other was of no more practical interest to the world than floods or landslips or the grinding of rocks and stones in an undiscovered valley. Nor is there much to choose between the results of the two methods; neither Sturla nor Joinville has anything to fear from a comparison between them. Sometimes, in details, there is a very close approximation of the French and the Icelandic methods. Joinville's story, for example, of the moonlight adventure of the clerk of Paris and the three robbers might go straight into Icelandic. Only, the seneschal's opening of the story is too personal, and does not agree with the Icelandic manner of telling a story:-- As I went along I met with a wagon carrying three dead men that a clerk had slain, and I was told they were being brought for the king to see. When I heard this I sent my squire after them, to know how it had fallen out. The difference between the two kinds is that Joinville, being mainly experimental and without much regard for the older precedents and models of historical writing, tells his story in his own way, as memoirs, in the order of events as they come within his view, revealing his own sentiments and policy, and keeping a distinction between the things he himself saw and the things he did not see. Whereas Sturla goes on the lines that had been laid down before him, and does not require to invent his own narrative scheme; and further, the scheme he receives from his masters is the opposite of Joinville's personal memories. Though Sturla in great part of his work is as near the reality as Joinville, he is obliged by the Icelandic custom to keep himself out of the story, except when he is necessary; and then he only appears in the third person on the same terms as the other actors, with nothing except perhaps a greater particularity in description to show that the author is there himself in the thick of it. To let the story take care of itself is the first rule of the Icelandic authors. If they have any emotion or sentiment of their own, it must go into the story impersonally; it must inform or enliven the characters and their speeches; it must quicken the style unobtrusively, or else it must be suppressed. The parts of the Sagas that are most touching, such as the death of Njal, and the parting of Grettir and his mother, though they give evidence of the author's sensibility, never allow him a word for himself. The method is the method of Homer--[Greek: dolôi d' ho ge dakrya keuthen]--"he would not confess that he wept." In Joinville, on the contrary, all the epic matter of the story is surveyed and represented not as a drama for any one to come and look at, and make his own judgment about it, but as the life of himself, the Sire de Joinville, Seneschal of Champagne, known and interpreted to himself first of all. It is barely possible to conceive the _Life of St. Louis_ transposed into the mood of the _Odyssey_ or of _Njála_. It is hard to see who would be a gainer thereby--certainly not St. Louis himself. He would be deprived, for instance, of what is at once the most heroic and the most trifling of all the passages in his story, which belongs altogether to Joinville, and is worth nothing except as he tells it, and because he tells it. The story of Joinville's misunderstanding of the king, and the king's way of taking it, on occasion of the Council at Acre and the question whether to return or to stay and recover the prisoners from the Saracens, is not only the whole _Life of St. Louis_ summed up and put into one chapter, but it is also one of those rarest passages of true history in which a character whom we thought we knew is presented with all his qualities intensified in a momentary act or speech. It is as if the dulness of custom were magically broken, and the familiar character stood out, not different from himself, but with a new expression. In this great scene the Barons were for returning home, and put forward Guy Malvoisin their foreman to state their opinion. Joinville took the other side, remembering the warning of a kinsman of his own not to return in a hurry and forget the Lord's poor servants (_le peuple menu Nostre Signour_). There was no one there but had friends in prison among the Saracens, "so they did not rebuke me," says Joinville; but only two ventured to speak on his side, and one of these was shouted at (_mout felonessement_) by his uncle, the good knight Sir Jehan de Beaumont, for so doing. The king adjourned the Council for a week. What follows is a kind of narrative impossible under the Homeric or the Icelandic conditions--no impersonal story, but a record of Joinville's own changes of mind as he was played upon by the mind of the king; an heroic incident, but represented in a way quite different from any epic manner. Joinville describes the breaking up of the Council, and how he was baited by them all: "The king is a fool, Sire de Joinville, if he does not take your advice against all the council of the realm of France"; how he sat beside the king at dinner, but the king did not speak to him; how he, Joinville, thought the king was displeased; and how he got up when the king was hearing grace, and went to a window in a recess and stuck his arms out through the bars, and leant there gazing out and brooding over the whole matter, making up his mind to stay, whatever happened to all the rest; till some one came behind him and put his hands on his head at the window and held him there, and Joinville thought it was one of the other side beginning to bother him again (_et je cuidai que ce fust mes sires Phelippes d'Anemos, qui trop d'ennui m'avoit fait le jour pour le consoil que je li avoie donnei_), till as he was trying to get free he saw, by a ring on the hand, that it was the king. Then the king asked him how it was that he, a young man, had been bold enough to set his opinion against all the wisdom of France; and before their talk ended, let him see that he was of the same mind as Joinville. This personal kind of story, in which an heroic scene is rendered through its effect on one particular mind, is quite contrary to the principles of the Icelandic history, except that both kinds are heroic, and both are alive. Joinville gives the succession of his own emotions; the Icelandic narrators give the succession of events, either as they might appear to an impartial spectator, or (on occasion) as they are viewed by some one in the story, but never as they merely affect the writer himself, though he may be as important a personage as Sturla was in the events of which he wrote the Chronicle. The subject-matter of the Icelandic historian (whether his own experience or not) is displayed as something in which he is not more nearly concerned than other people; his business is to render the successive moments of the history so that any one may form a judgment about them such as he might have formed if he had been there. Joinville, while giving his own changes of mind very clearly, is not as careful as the Icelandic writers are about the proper order of events. Thus an Icelander would not have written, as Joinville does, "the king came and put his hands on my head"; he would have said, "John found that his head was being held"; and the discovery by means of the ring would have been the first direct intimation who it was. The story as told by Joinville, though it is so much more intimate than any of the Sagas, is not as true to the natural order of impressions. He follows out his own train of sentiment; he is less careful of the order of perception, which the Icelanders generally observe, and sometimes with extraordinary effect. Joinville's history is not one of a class, and there is nothing equal to it; but some of the qualities of his history are characteristic of the second medieval period, the age of romance. His prose, as compared with that of Iceland, is unstudied and simple, an apparently unreserved confession. The Icelandic prose, with its richness of contents and its capability of different moods, is by comparison resolute, secure, and impartial; its authors are among those who do not give their own opinion about their stories. Joinville, for all his exceptional genius in narrative, is yet like all the host of medieval writers except the Icelandic school, in his readiness to give his opinion, to improve the occasion, and to add to his plain story something like the intonation of the preacher. Inimitable as he is, to come from the Icelandic books to Joinville is to discover that he is "medieval" in a sense that does not apply to those; that his work, with all its sobriety and solidity, has also the incalculable and elusive touch of fantasy, of exaltation, that seems to claim in a special way the name of Romance. VIII THE NORTHERN PROSE ROMANCES The history of the Sturlungs is the last great work of the classical age of Icelandic literature, and after it the end comes pretty sharply, as far as masterpieces are concerned. There is, however, a continuation of the old literature in a lower degree and in degenerate forms, which if not intrinsically valuable, are yet significant, as bringing out by exaggeration some of the features and qualities of the older school, and also as showing in a peculiar way the encroachments of new "romantic" ideas and formulas. One of the extant versions of the _Foster-brothers' Story_ is remarkable for its patches of euphuistic rhetoric, which often appear suddenly in the course of plain, straightforward narrative. These ornamental additions are not all of the same kind. Some of them are of the alliterative antithetical kind which is frequently found in the old Northern ecclesiastical prose,[63] and which has an English counterpart in the alliterative prose of Ælfric. Others are more unusual; they are borrowed not from the Latin ecclesiastical school of prose, but from the terms of the Northern poetry, and their effect is often very curious. For instance, on page 13 there is a sudden break from the common, unemphatic narrative of a storm at sea ("they were drenched through, and their clothes froze on them") into the incongruous statement that "the daughters of Ran (the sea-goddess) came and wooed them and offered them rest in their embraces,"--a conceit which might possibly be mistaken by a modern reader for the fancy of Hans Andersen, but which is really something quite different, not "pathetic fallacy," but an irruption of metaphorical rhetoric from the poetical dictionary. There is another metaphorical flare-up on the next page, equally amazing, in its plain context:-- She gave orders to take their clothes and have them thawed. After that they had supper and were shown to bed. They were not long in falling asleep. Snow and frost held all the night through; _all that night the Dog (devourer) of the elder-tree howled with unwearying jaws and worried the earth with grim fangs of cold_. And when it began to grow light towards daybreak, a man got up to look out, and when he came in Thorgeir asked what sort of weather it was outside; and so on in the ordinary sober way. It is not surprising that an editor should have been found to touch up the plain text of a Saga with a few ornamental phrases here and there. Considering the amount of bad taste and false wit in the contemporary poetry, the wonder is that there should be such a consistent exclusion of all such things from the prose of the Sagas. The _Fóstbræðra_ variations show the beginning of a process of decay, in which the lines of separation between prose and poetry are cut through. [Footnote 63: _Fóstbr._ (1852) p. 8: "Því at ekki var hjarta hans seen fóarn í fugli: ekki var þat blóðfullt svá at þat skylfi af hræzlu, heldr var þat herdt af enum hæsta höfuðsmið í öllum hvatleik." ("His heart was not fashioned like the crop in a fowl: it was not gorged with blood that it should flutter with fear, but was tempered by the High Headsmith in all alacrity.")] Except, however, as an indication of a general decline of taste, these diversions in _Fóstbræðra Saga_ do not represent the later and secondary schools of Icelandic narrative. They remain as exceptional results of a common degeneracy of literature; the prevailing forms are not exactly of this special kind. Instead of embroidering poetical diction over the plain text of the old Sagas, the later authors preferred to invent new stories of their own, and to use in them the machinery and vocabulary of the old Sagas. Hence arose various orders of romantic Saga, cut off from the original sources of vitality, and imitating the old forms very much as a modern romanticist might intimate them. One of the best, and one of the most famous, of these romantic Sagas is the story of Frithiof the Bold, which was chosen by Tegnér as the groundwork of his elegant romantic poem, a brilliant example of one particular kind of modern medievalism. The significance of Tegnér's choice is that he went for his story to the secondary order of Sagas. The original _Frithiof_ is almost as remote as Tegnér himself from the true heroic tradition; and, like Tegnér's poem, makes up for this want of a pedigree by a study and imitation of the great manner, and by a selection and combination of heroic traits from the older authentic literature. Hence Tegnér's work, an ingenious rhetorical adaptation of all the old heroic motives, is already half done for him by the earlier romanticist; the original prose Frithiof is the same romantic hero as in the Swedish poem, and no more like the men of the Icelandic histories than Raoul de Bragelonne is like D'Artagnan. At the same time, it is easy to see how the authentic histories have supplied materials for the romance; as has been shown already, there are passages in the older Sagas that contain some suggestions for the later kind of stories, and the fictitious hero is put together out of reminiscences of Gunnar and Kjartan. The "romantic movement" in the old Northern literature was greatly helped by foreign encouragement from the thirteenth century onward, and particularly by a change of literary taste at the Court of Norway. King Sverre at the end of the twelfth century quotes from the old Volsung poem; he perhaps kept the Faroese memory for that kind of poetry from the days of his youth in the islands. Hakon Hakonsson, two generations later, had a different taste in literature and was fond of French romances. It was in his day that the work of translation from the French began; the results of which are still extant in _Strengleikar_ (the Lays of Marie de France), in _Karlamagnus Saga_, in the Norwegian versions of Tristram, Perceval, Iwain, and other books of chivalry.[64] These cargoes of foreign romance found a ready market in the North; first of all in Norway, but in Iceland also. They came to Iceland just at the time when the native literature, or the highest form of it at any rate, was failing; the failure of the native literature let in these foreign competitors. The Norwegian translations of French romances are not the chief agents in the creation of the secondary Icelandic School, though they help. The foreigners have contributed something to the story of Frithiof and the story of Viglund. The phrase _náttúra amorsins_ (= _natura amoris_) in the latter work shows the intrusion even of the Romance vocabulary here, as under similar conditions in Germany and England. But while the old Northern literature in its decline is affected by the vogue of French romance, it still retains some independence. It went to the bad in its own way; and the later kinds of story in the old Northern tongue are not wholly spurious and surreptitious. They have some claim upon _Njála_ and _Laxdæla_; there is a strain in them that distinguishes them from the ordinary professional medieval romance in French, English, or German. [Footnote 64: "The first romantic Sagas"--_i.e._ Sagas derived from French romance--"date from the reign of King Hakon Hakonsson (1217-1263), when the longest and best were composed, and they appear to cease at the death of King Hakon the Fifth (1319), who, we are expressly told, commanded many translations to be made" (G. Vigfusson, Prol. § 25).] When the Icelandic prose began to fail, and the slighter forms of Romance rose up in the place of Epic history, there were two modes in which the older literature might be turned to profit. For one thing, there was plenty of romantic stuff in the old heroic poetry, without going to the French books. For another thing, the prose stories of the old tradition had in them all kinds of romantic motives which were fit to be used again. So there came into existence the highly-interesting series of Mythical Romances on the themes of the old Northern mythical and heroic poetry, and another series besides, which worked up in its own way a number of themes and conventional motives from the older prose books. Mythical sagas had their beginning in the classical age of the North. Snorri, with his stories of the adventures of the gods, is the leader in the work of getting pure romance, for pure amusement, out of what once was religious or heroic myth, mythological or heroic poetry. Even Ari the Wise, his great predecessor, had done something of the same sort, if the _Ynglinga Saga_ be his, an historical abstract of Northern mythical history; though his aim, like that of Saxo Grammaticus, is more purely scientific than is the case with Snorri. The later mythical romances are of different kinds. The _Volsunga Saga_ is the best known on account of its subject. The story of Heidrek, instead of paraphrasing throughout like the Volsung book, inserts the poems of Hervor and Angantyr, and of their descendants, in a consecutive prose narrative. _Halfs Saga_ follows the same method. The story of _Hrolf Kraki_, full of interest from its connexion with the matter of _Beowulf_ and of Saxo Grammaticus, is more like _Volsunga Saga_ in its procedure.[65] [Footnote 65: The Mythical Sagas are described and discussed by Vigfusson, Prol. § 34.] The other class[66] contains the Sagas of _Frithiof_ and _Viglund_, and all the fictitious stories which copy the style of the proper Icelandic Sagas. Their matter is taken from the adventures of the heroic age; their personages are idealised romantic heroes; romantic formulas, without substance. [Footnote 66: _Ibid._ § 11, "Spurious Icelandic Sagas" (_Skrök-Sögur_). For _Frithiof_, see § 34.] Among the original Sagas there are some that show the beginning of the process by which the substance was eliminated, and the romantic _eidolon_ left to walk about by itself. The introductions of many of the older Sagas, of _Gisli_ and _Grettir_ for example, giving the adventures of the hero's ancestors, are made up in this way; and the best Sagas have many conventional passages--Viking exploits, discomfiture of berserkers, etc.--which the reader learns to take for granted, like the tournaments in the French books, and which have no more effect than simple adjectives to say that the hero is brave or strong. Besides these stock incidents, there are ethical passages (as has already been seen) in which the hero is in some danger of turning into a figure of romance. Grettir, Gisli, Kjartan, Gunnlaug the Wormtongue, Gunnar of Lithend, are all in some degree and at some point or other in danger of romantic exaggeration, while Kari has to thank his humorous squire, more than anything in himself, for his preservation. Also in the original Sagas there are conventions of the main plot, as well as of the episodes, such as are repeated with more deliberation and less skill in the romantic Sagas. The love-adventures of Viglund are like those of Frithiof, and they have a common likeness, except in their conclusion, to the adventures of Kormak and Steingerd in _Kormaks Saga_. Kormak was too rude and natural for romance, and the romancers had to make their heroes better-looking, and to provide a happy ending. But the story of the poet's unfortunate love had become a commonplace. The plot of _Laxdæla_, the story of the _Lovers of Gudrun_, which is the Volsung story born again, became a commonplace of the same sort. It certainly had a good right to the favour it received. The plot of _Laxdæla_ is repeated in the story of Gunnlaug and Helga, even to a repetition of the course of events by which Kjartan is defrauded. The true lover is left in Norway and comes back too late; the second lover, the dull, persistent man, contrasted with a more brilliant but less single-minded hero, keeps to his wooing and spreads false reports, and wins his bride without her goodwill. Compared with the story of Kjartan and Gudrun, the story of Gunnlaug and Helga is shallow and sentimental; the likeness to _Frithiof_ is considerable. The device of a false report, in order to carry off the bride of a man absent in Norway, is used again in the story of _Thorstein the White_, where the result is more summary and more in accordance with poetical justice than in _Laxdæla_ or _Gunnlaug_. This is one of the best of the Icelandic short stories, firmly drawn, with plenty of life and variety in it. It is only in its use of what seems like a stock device for producing agony that it resembles the more pretentious romantic Sagas. Another short story of the same class and the same family tradition (Vopnafjord), the story of _Thorstein Staffsmitten_, looks like a clever working-up of a stock theme--the quiet man roused.[67] The combat in it is less like the ordinary Icelandic fighting than the combats in the French poems, more especially that of Roland and Oliver in _Girart de Viane_; and on the whole there is no particular reason, except its use of well-known East-country names, to reckon this among the family histories rather than the romances. [Footnote 67: Translated by Mr. William Morris and Mr. E. Magnússon, in the same volume as _Gunnlaug_, _Frithiof_, and _Viglund_ (_Three Northern Love Stories_, etc., 1875).] Romantic Sagas of different kinds have been composed in Iceland, century after century, in a more or less mechanical way, by the repetition of old adventures, situations, phrases, characters, or pretences of character. What the worst of them are like may be seen by a reference to Mr. Ward's Catalogue of MS. Romances in the British Museum, which contains a number of specimens. There is fortunately no need to say anything more of them here. They are among the dreariest things ever made by human fancy. But the first and freshest of the romantic Sagas have still some reason in them and some beauty; they are at least the reflection of something living, either of the romance of the old mythology, or of the romantic grace by which the epic strength of _Njal_ and _Gisli_ is accompanied. There are some other romantic transformations of the old heroic matters to be noticed, before turning away from the Northern world and its "twilight of the gods" to the countries in which the course of modern literature first began to define itself as something distinct from the older unsuccessful fashions, Teutonic or Celtic. The fictitious Sagas were not the most popular kind of literature in Iceland in the later Middle Ages. The successors of the old Sagas, as far as popularity goes, are to be found in the _Rímur_, narrative poems, of any length, in rhyming verse; not the ballad measures of Denmark, nor the short couplets of the French School such as were used in Denmark and Sweden, in England, and in High and Low Germany, but rhyming verse derived from the medieval Latin rhymes of the type best known from the works of Bishop Golias.[68] This rhyming poetry was very industrious, and turned out all kinds of stories; the native Sagas went through the mill in company with the more popular romances of chivalry. [Footnote 68: Vigfusson, Prol. p. cxxxviii. _C.P.B._, ii. 392. The forms of verse used in the _Rímur_ are analysed in the preface to _Riddara Rímur_, by Theodor Wisén (1881).] They were transformed also in another way. The Icelandic Sagas went along with other books to feed the imagination of the ballad-singers of the Faroes. Those islands, where the singing of ballads has always had a larger share of importance among the literary and intellectual tastes of the people than anywhere else in the world, have relied comparatively little on their own traditions or inventions for their ballad themes. Natural and popular as it is, the ballad poetry of the Faroes is derived from Icelandic literary traditions. Even Sigmund Brestisson, the hero of the islands, might have been forgotten but for the _Færeyinga Saga_; and Icelandic books, possibly near relations of _Codex Regius_, have provided the islanders with what they sing of the exploits of Sigurd and his horse Grani, as other writings brought them the story of Roncesvalles. From Iceland also there passed to the Faroes, along with the older legends, the stories of Gunnar and of Kjartan; they have been turned into ballad measures, together with _Roland_ and _Tristram_, in that refuge of the old songs of the world. CHAPTER IV THE OLD FRENCH EPIC (_Chansons de Geste_) It appears to be generally the case in all old epic literature, and it is not surprising, that the existing specimens come from the end of the period of its greatest excellence, and generally represent the epic fashion, not quite at its freshest and best, but after it has passed its culmination, and is already on the verge of decline. This condition of things is exemplified in _Beowulf_; and the Sagas also, here and there, show signs of over-refinement and exhaustion. In the extant mass of old French epic this condition is enormously exaggerated. The _Song of Roland_ itself, even in its earliest extant form, is comparatively late and unoriginal; while the remainder of French epic poetry, in all its variety, is much less authentic than _Roland_, sensibly later, and getting rapidly and luxuriantly worse through all the stages of lethargy. It is the misfortune of French epic that so much should have been preserved of its "dotages," so little of the same date and order as the _Song of Roland_, and nothing at all of the still earlier epic--the more original _Roland_ of a previous generation. The exuberance, however, of the later stages of French epic, and its long persistence in living beyond its due time, are proof of a certain kind of vitality. The French epic in the twelfth century, long after its best days were over, came into the keenest and closest rivalry with the younger romantic schools in their first vigour. Fortune has to some extent made up for the loss of the older French poems by the preservation of endless later versions belonging in date to the exciting times of the great romantic revolution in literature. Feeble and drowsy as they often are, the late-born hosts of the French epic are nevertheless in the thick of a great European contest, matched not dishonourably against the forces of Romance. They were not the strongest possible champions of the heroic age, but they were _there_, in the field, and in view of all spectators. At this distance of time, we can see how much more fully the drift of the old Teutonic world was caught and rendered by the imagination of Iceland; how much more there is in Grettir or Skarphedinn than in Ogier the Dane, or Raoul de Cambrai, or even Roland and Oliver. But the Icelandic work lay outside of the consciousness of Europe, and the French epic was known everywhere. There are no such masterpieces in the French epic as in the Icelandic prose. The French epic, to make up for that, has an exciting history; it lived by antagonism, and one may look on and see how the _chansons de geste_ were fighting for their life against the newer forms of narrative poetry. In all this there is the interest of watching one of the main currents of history, for it was nothing less than the whole future imaginative life of Europe that was involved in the debate between the stubborn old epic fashion and the new romantic adventurers. The _chansons de geste_ stand in a real, positive, ancestral relation to all modern literature; there is something of them in all the poetry of Europe. The Icelandic histories can make no such claim. Their relation to modern life is slighter, in one sense; more spiritual, in another. They are not widely known, they have had no share in establishing the forms or giving vogue to the commonplaces of modern literature. Now that they are published and accessible to modern readers, their immediate and present worth, for the friends of Skarphedinn and Gunnar, is out of all proportion to their past historical influence. They have anticipated some of the literary methods which hardly became the common property of Europe till the nineteenth century; even now, when all the world reads and writes prose stories, their virtue is unexhausted and unimpaired. But this spiritual affinity with modern imaginations and conversations, across the interval of medieval romance and rhetoric, is not due to any direct or overt relation. The Sagas have had no influence; that is the plain historical fact about them. The historical influence and importance of the _chansons de geste_, on the other hand, is equally plain and evident. Partly by their opposition to the new modes of fiction, and partly by compliance with their adversaries, they belong to the history of those great schools of literature in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries from which all modern imaginations in prose and rhyme are descended. The "dolorous rout" of Roncesvalles, and not the tragedy of the Niblungs, still less the history of Gunnar or of Njal, is the heroic origin of modern poetry; it is remembered and renowned, [Greek: pasi melousa], among the poets who have given shape to modern imaginative literature, while the older heroics of the Teutonic migration are forgotten, and the things of Iceland are utterly unknown. French epic has some great advantages in comparison with the epic experiments of Teutonic verse. For one thing, it exists in great quantity; there is no want of specimens, though they are not all of the best sort or the best period. Further, it has no difficulty, only too much ease, in keeping a long regular course of narrative. Even _Beowulf_ appears to have attained to its epic proportions by a succession of efforts, and with difficulty; it labours rather heavily over the longer epic course. _Maldon_ is a poem that runs freely, but here the course is shorter, and it carries much less weight. The Northern poems of the "Elder Edda" never attain the right epic scale at all; their abrupt and lyrical manner is the opposite of the epic mode of narration. It is true that the _chansons de geste_ are far from the perfect continuity of the Homeric narrative. _Roland_ is described by M. Gaston Paris in terms not unlike those that are applied by Ten Brink in his criticism of _Beowulf_:-- "On peut dire que la _Chanson de Roland_ (ainsi que toutes nos plus anciennes chansons de geste) se développe non pas, comme les poèmes homériques, par un courant large et ininterrompu, non pas, comme le _Nibelungenlied_, par des battements d'ailes égaux et lents, mais par un suite d'explosions successives, toujours arrêtées court et toujours reprenant avec soudaineté" (_Litt. fr. au moyen âge_, p. 59). _Roland_ is a succession of separate scenes, with no gradation or transition between them. It still bears traces of the lyrical origins of epic. But the narrative, though broken, is neither stinted nor laboured; it does not, like _Beowulf_, give the impression that it has been expanded beyond the convenient limits, and that the author is scant of breath. And none of the later _chansons de geste_ are so restricted and reserved in their design as _Roland_; most of them are diffuse and long. The French and the Teutonic epics are at opposite extremes of style. The French epics are addressed to the largest conceivable audience.[69] They are plain and simple, as different as possible from the allusive brevity of the Northern poems. Even the plainest of the old English poems, even _Maldon_, has to employ the poetical diction, the unprosaic terms and figures of the Teutonic School. The alliterative poetry down to its last days has a vocabulary different from that of prose, and much richer. The French epic language is not distinguished and made difficult in this way; it is "not prismatic but diaphanous." Those who could understand anything could understand it, and the _chansons de geste_ easily found currency in the market-place, when they were driven by the new romances from their old place of honour in "bower and hall." The Teutonic poetry, even at its simplest, must have required more attention in its hearers than the French, through the strangeness and the greater variety of its vocabulary. It is less familiar, less popular. Whatever dignity may be acquired by the French epic is not due to any special or elaborate convention of phrase. Where it is weak, its poverty is not disguised, as in the weaker portions of Teutonic poetry, by the ornaments and synonyms of the _Gradus_. The commonplaces of French epic are not imposing.[70] With this difference between the French and the Teutonic conventions, there is all the more interest in a comparison of the two kinds, where they come into comparison through any resemblance of their subjects or their thought, as in _Byrhtnoth_ and _Roland_. [Footnote 69: G. Paris, Preface to _Histoire de la littérature française_, edited by L. Petit de Julleville.] [Footnote 70: See the preface to _Raoul de Cambrai_, ed. Paul Meyer (Anc. Textes), for examples of such _chevilles_; and also _Aimeri de Narbonne_, p. civ.] The French epics have generally a larger political field, more numerous armies, and more magnificent kings, than the Teutonic. In the same degree, their heroism is different from that of the earlier heroic age. The general motives of patriotism and religion, France and Christendom, prevent the free use of the simpler and older motives of individual heroism. The hero of the older sort is still there, but his game is hindered by the larger and more complex political conditions of France; or if these are evaded, still the mere size of the country and numbers of the fighting-men tell against his importance; he is dwarfed by his surroundings. The limitation of the scenes in the poems of _Beowulf_, _Ermanaric_, and _Attila_ throws out the figures in strong relief. The mere extent of the stage and the number of the supernumeraries required for the action of most of the French stories appear to have told against the definiteness of their characters; as, on the other hand, the personages in _Beowulf_, without much individual character of their own, seem to gain in precision and strength from the smallness of the scene in which they act. There is less strict economy in the _chansons de geste_. Apart from this, there is real and essential vagueness in their characters; their drama is rudimentary. The simplicity of the French epic style, which is addressed to a large audience and easily intelligible, is not capable of much dramatic subtlety. It can be made to express a variety of actions and a variety of moods, but these are generally rendered by means of common formulas, without much dramatic insight or intention. While the fragments of Teutonic epic seem to give evidence of a growing dramatic imagination, and the Northern poems, especially, of a series of experiments in character, the French epic imagination appears to have remained content with its established and abstract formulas for different modes of sentiment and passion. It would not be easy to find anything in French epic that gives the same impression of discovery and innovation, of the search for dramatic form, of the absorption of the poet's mind in the pursuit of an imaginary character, as is given, again and again, by the Northern poems of the Volsung cycle. Yet the _chansons de geste_ are often true and effective in their outlines of character, and include a quantity of "humours and observation," though their authors seem to have been unable to give solidity to their sketches. The weakness of the drama in the French epics, even more than their compliance with foreign romance in the choice of incidents or machinery, is against their claim to be reckoned in the higher order of heroic narrative. They are romantic by the comparative levity of their imagination; the story, with them, is too much for the personages. But it is still the problem of heroic character that engages them, however feebly or conventionally they may deal with it. They rely, like the Teutonic epic and the Sagas, on situations that test the force of character, and they find those situations in the common conditions of an heroic age, subject of course to the modifications of the comparatively late period and late form of society to which they belong. _Roland_ is a variation on the one perpetual heroic theme; it has a grander setting, a grander accompaniment, than _Byrhtnoth_ or _Waldere_, but it is essentially the old story of the heroic age,--no knight-errantry, but the last resistance of a man driven into a corner. The greatness of the poem of _Roland_ is that of an author who knows his own mind, who has a certain mood of the heroic imagination to express, and is at no loss for his instrument or for the lines of his work. The poem, as has been already noted, has a general likeness in its plan to the story of Finnesburh as told in _Beowulf_, and to the poems of the death of Attila. The plot falls into two parts, the second part being the vengeance and expiation. Although the story is thus not absolutely simple, like the adventures of Beowulf, no epic has a more magnificent simplicity of effect. The other personages, Charlemagne, Ganelon, Oliver, King Marsile, have to Roland nothing like the importance of Agamemnon, Ajax, Diomede, or Hector, as compared with Achilles in the _Iliad_. The poem is almost wholly devoted to the praise and glorification of a single hero; it retains very much of the old manners of the earlier stages of epic poetry, before it ceased to be lyric. It is a poem in honour of a chieftain. At the same time, this lyrical tone in _Roland_ and this pathetic concentration of the interest on one personage do not interfere with the epic plan of the narrative, or disturb the lines of the composition. The central part of the poem is on the Homeric scale; the fighting, the separate combats, are rendered in an Homeric way. _Byrhtnoth_ and _Roland_ are the works that have given the best medieval counterpart to the battles of Homer. There is more of a crisis and a climax in _Roland_ than in the several battles of the _Iliad_, and a different sort of climax from that of _Byrhtnoth_. Everything leads to the agony and heroic death of Roland, and to his glory as the unyielding champion of France and Christendom. It is not as in the _Iliad_, where different heroes have their day, or as at Maldon, where the fall of the captain leads to the more desperate defence and the more exalted heroism of his companions. Roland is the absolute master of the _Song of Roland_. No other heroic poetry conveys the same effect of pre-eminent simplicity and grandeur. There is hardly anything in the poem except the single mood; its simplicity is overpowering, a type of heroic resistance for all the later poets of Europe. This impressive effect is aided, it is true, by an infusion of the lyrical tone and by playing on the pathetic emotions. Roland is ideal and universal, and the story of his defeat, of the blast of his horn, and the last stroke of Durendal, is a kind of funeral march or "heroic symphony" into which a meaning may be read for every new hero, to the end of the world; for any one in any age whose _Mood is the more as the Might lessens_. Yet although Roland has this universal or symbolical or musical meaning--unlike the more individual personages in the Sagas, who would resent being made into allegories--the total effect is mainly due to legitimate epic means. There is no stinting of the epic proportions or suppression of the epic devices. The _Song of Roland_ is narrative poetry, a model of narrative design, with the proper epic spaces well proportioned, well considered, and filled with action. It may be contrasted with the _Death-Song of Ragnar Lodbrok_, which is an attempt to get the same sort of moral effect by a process of lyrical distillation from heroic poetry; putting all the strongest heroic motives into the most intense and emphatic form. There is something lyrical in _Roland_, but the poem is not governed by lyrical principles; it requires the deliberation and the freedom of epic; it must have room to move in before it can come up to the height of its argument. The abruptness of its periods is not really an interruption of its even flight; it is an abruptness of detail, like a broken sea with a larger wave moving under it; it does not impair or disguise the grandeur of the movement as a whole. There are other poems among the _chansons de geste_ which admit of comparison with _Roland_, though _Roland_ is supreme; other epics in which the simple motives of heroism and loyalty are treated in a simple and noble way, without any very strong individual character among the personages. Of these rather abstract expositions of the heroic ideal, some of the finest are to be found in the cycle of William of Orange, more especially in the poems relating the exploits of William and his nephew Vivian, and the death of Vivian in the battle against the Moors-- En icel jor que la dolor fu grans Et la bataille orible en Aliscans. Like _Roland_, the poem of _Aliscans_ is rather lyrical in its effect, reiterating and reinforcing the heroic motives, making an impression by repetition of one and the same mood; a poem of the glorification of France. It shows, at the same time, how this motive might be degraded by exaggeration and amplification. There are too many Moors in it (as also in _Roland_), and the sequel is reckless and extravagant, where William of Orange rides to the king's court for help and discovers an ally in the enormous scullion of the king's kitchen, Rainouart, the Morgante of French epic. Rainouart, along with William of Orange, was seen by Dante in Paradise. In his gigantic and discourteous way he was one of the champions of Christendom, and his manners are interesting as a variation from the conventional heroic standards. But he takes up too much room; he was not invented by the wide and comprehensive epic imagination which finds a place for many varieties of mankind in its story, but by some one who felt that the old epic forms were growing thin and unsatisfactory, and that there was need of some violent diversion to keep the audiences awake. This new device is not abandoned till Rainouart has been sent to Avalon--the epic form and spirit losing themselves in a misappropriation of Romance. These excursions are of course not to be ascribed to the central authors of the cycle of William of Orange; but already even in the most heroic parts of the cycle there are indications of the flagging imagination, the failure of the old motives, which gave an opening to these wild auxiliary forces. Where the epic came to trust too much to the mere heroic sentiment, to the moral of _Roland_, to the contrast of knight and infidel, there was nothing for it but either to have recourse to the formal heroics of Camoens or Tasso,--for which the time had not yet come,--or to be dissolved altogether in a medley of adventures, and to pass from its old station in the front of literature to those audiences of the market-place that even now, in some parts of the world, have a welcome for Charlemagne and his peers.[71] [Footnote 71: _Historia Verdadera de Carlo Magno y los doce Pares de Francia_: Madrid, 4to (1891), a chap-book of thirty-two pages.] Those of the French epics in which the motives of _Roland_ are in some form or other repeated, in which the defence of Christendom is the burden, are rightly considered the best representatives of the whole body. But there are others in which with less dignity of theme there is more freedom, and in which an older epic type, more akin to the Teutonic, nearer in many ways to the Icelandic Sagas, is preserved, and for a long time maintains itself distinct from all the forms of romance and the romantic schools. It is not in _Roland_ or in _Aliscans_ that the epic interest in character is most pronounced and most effective. Those among the _chansons de geste_ which make least of the adventures in comparison with the personages, which think more of the tragic situation than of rapid changes of scene and incident, are generally those which represent the feuds and quarrels between the king and his vassals, or among the great houses themselves; the anarchy, in fact, which belongs to an heroic age and passes from experience into heroic literature. There is hardly any of the _chansons de geste_ in which this element of heroic anarchy is not to be found in a greater or less degree. In _Roland_, for example, though the main action is between the French and the Moors, it is jealousy and rivalry that bring about the catastrophe, through the treason of Ganelon. This sort of jealousy, which is subordinate in _Roland_, forms the chief motive of some of the other epics. These depend for their chief interest on the vicissitudes of family quarrels almost as completely as the Sagas. These are the French counterparts of _Eyrbyggja_, and of the stories of Glum or Gisli. In France, as in Iceland, the effect of the story is produced as much by the energy of the characters as by the interest of adventures. Only in the French epic, while they play for larger stakes, the heroes are incomparably less impressive. The imagination which represents them is different in kind from the Icelandic, and puts up with a very indefinite and general way of denoting character. Though the extant poems are late, some of them have preserved a very elementary psychology and a very simple sort of ethics, the artistic formulas and devices of a rudimentary stage which has nothing to correspond to it in the extant Icelandic prose. _Raoul de Cambrai_ in its existing form is a late poem; it has gone through the process of translation from assonance into rhyme, and like _Huon of Bordeaux_, though by a different method, it has been fitted with a romantic continuation. But the first part of the poem apparently keeps the lines of an older and more original version. The story is not one of the later cyclic fabrications; it has an historical basis and is derived from the genuine epic tradition of that tenth-century school which unfortunately is only known through its descendants and its influence. _Raoul de Cambrai_, though in an altered verse and later style, may be taken as presenting an old story still recognisable in most of its original features, especially in its moral. Raoul de Cambrai, a child at his father's death, is deprived of his inheritance. To make up for this he is promised, later, the first fief that falls vacant, and asserts his claim in a way that brings him into continual trouble,--a story with great opportunities for heroic contrasts and complications. The situation is well chosen; it is better than that of the story of Glum, which is rather like it[72]--the right is not all on one side. Raoul has a just cause, but cannot make it good; he is driven to be unjust in order to come by his own. Violence and excess in a just cause will make a tragic history; there is no fault to be found with the general scheme or principle in this case. It is in the details that the barbarous simplicity of the author comes out. For example, in the invasion of the lands on which he has a claim, Raoul attacks and burns a nunnery, and in it the mother of his best friend and former squire, Bernier. The injured man, his friend, is represented as taking it all in a helpless dull expostulatory way. The author has no language to express any imaginative passion; he can only repeat, in a muffled professional voice, that it was really a very painful and discreditable affair. The violent passions here are those of the heroic age in its most barbarous form; more sudden and uncontrolled even than the anger of Achilles. But with all their vehemence and violence there is no real tragic force, and when the hero is killed by his friend, and the friend is sorry afterwards, there is nothing but the mere formal and abstract identity of the situation to recall to mind the tragedy of Kjartan and Bolli. [Footnote 72: Glum, like Raoul, is a widow's son deprived of his rights.] _Garin le Loherain_ is a story with a similar plot,--the estrangement and enmity of old friends, "sworn companions." Though no earlier than _Raoul de Cambrai_, though belonging in date to the flourishing period of romance, it is a story of the older heroic age, and its contents are epic. Its heroes are unsophisticated, and the incidents, sentiments, and motives are primitive and not of the romantic school. The story is much superior to _Raoul de Cambrai_ in speed and lightness; it does not drag at the critical moments; it has some humour and some grace. Among other things, its gnomic passages represent very fairly the dominant heroic ideas of courage and good temper; it may be appealed to for the humanities of the _chansons de geste_, expressed in a more fluent and less emphatic shape than _Roland_. The characters are taken very lightly, but at least they are not obtuse and awkward. If there is not much dramatic subtlety, there is a recognition and appreciation of different aspects of the same character. The story proceeds like an Icelandic Saga, through different phases of a long family quarrel, springing from a well-marked origin; foreshadowed and accompanied, as in many of the Sagas, by the hereditary felonious character of the one party, which yet is not blackened too much nor wholly unrelieved. As in many of the Icelandic stories, there is a stronger dramatic interest in the adversary, the wrong side, than in the heroes. As with Kari and Flosi in _Njála_, as with Kjartan and Bolli in _Laxdæla_, and with Sigmund and Thrond of Gata in _Færeyinga Saga_, so in the story of Garin it is Fromont the enemy whose case is followed with most attention, because it is less simple than that of the heroes, Garin of Lorraine and Begon his brother. The character of Fromont shows the true observation, as well as the inadequate and sketchy handling, of the French epic school. Fromont is in the wrong; all the trouble follows from his original misconduct, when he refused to stand by Garin in a war of defence against the Moors:-- Iluec comence li grans borroflemens. But Fromont's demeanour afterwards is not that of a traitor and a felon, such as his father was. He belongs to a felonious house; he is the son of Hardré, one of the notorious traitors of French epic tradition; but he is less than half-hearted in his own cause, always lamentable, perplexed, and peevish, always trying to be just, and always dragged further into iniquity by the mischief-makers among his friends. This idea of a distracted character is worked out as well as was possible for a poet of that school, in a passage of narrative which represents more than one of the good qualities of French epic poetry,--the story of the death of Begon, and the vengeance exacted for him by his brother Garin. This episode shows how the French poets could deal with matter like that of the Sagas. The story is well told, fluently and clearly; it contains some fine expressions of heroic sentiment, and a good fight, as well as the ineffectual sorrows and good intentions of the anti-hero Fromont, with all the usual tissue of violence which goes along with a feud in heroic narrative, when the feud is regarded as something impersonal and fatal, outside the wishes of the agents in it. It may be said here that although the story of Garin and of the feud between the house of Lorraine and their enemies is long drawn out and copious in details, it is not confused, but falls into a few definite episodes of warfare, with intervals of truce and apparent reconciliation. Of these separate acts in the tragedy, the _Death of Begon_ is the most complete in itself; the most varied, as well as the most compact. The previous action is for a modern taste too much occupied with the commonplaces of epic warfare, Homeric combats in the field, such as need the heroic motives of Maldon or Roncesvalles to make them interesting. In the story of the _Death of Begon_ there is a change of scene from the common epic battlefield; the incidents are not taken from the common stock of battle-poetry, and the Homeric supernumeraries are dismissed. This episode[73] begins after an interval in the feud, and tells how Begon one day thought of his brother Garin whom he had not seen for seven years and more (the business of the feud having been slack for so long), and how he set out for the East country to pay his brother a visit, with the chance of a big boar-hunt on the way. The opening passage is a very complete and lively selection from the experience and the sentiments of the heroic age; it represents the old heroic temper and the heroic standard of value, with, at the same time, a good deal of the gentler humanities. [Footnote 73: _Garin le Loherain_, ed. Paulin Paris (1833-35), vol. ii. pp. 217-272.] One day Begon was in his castle of Belin; at his side was the Duchess Beatrice, and he kissed her on the mouth: he saw his two sons coming through the hall (so the story runs). The elder was named Gerin and the younger Hernaudin; the one was twelve and the other was ten years old, and with them went six noble youths, running and leaping with one another, playing and laughing and taking their sport. The Duke saw them and began to sigh, and his lady questioned him:-- "Ah, my Lord Duke, why do you ponder thus? Gold and silver you have in your coffers; falcons on their perch, and furs of the vair and the grey, and mules and palfreys; and well have you trodden down your enemies: for six days' journey round you have no neighbour so stout but he will come to your levy." Said the Duke: "Madame, you have spoken true, save in one thing. Riches are not in the vair and the grey, nor in money, nor in mules and horses, but riches are in kinsmen and friends: the heart of a man is worth all the gold in the land. Do you not remember how I was assailed and beset at our home-coming? and but for my friends how great had been my shame that day! Pepin has set me in these marches where I have none of my near friends save Rigaut and Hervi his father; I have no brother but one, Garin the Lothering, and full seven years are past and gone that I have not seen him, and for that I am grieved and vexed and ill at ease. Now I will set off to see my brother Garin, and the child Girbert his son that I have never seen. Of the woods of Vicogne and of St. Bertin I hear news that there is a boar there; I will run him down, please the Lord, and will bring the head to Garin, a wonder to look upon, for of its like never man heard tell." Begon's combined motives are all alike honest, and his rhetoric is as sound as that of Sarpedon or of Gunnar. Nor is there any reason to suppose, any more than in the case of Byrhtnoth, that what is striking in the poem is due to its comparative lateness, and to its opportunities of borrowing from new discoveries in literature. If that were so, then we might find similar things among the newer fashions of the contemporary twelfth-century literature; but in fact one does not find in the works of the romantic school the same kind of humanity as in this scene. The melancholy of Begon at the thought of his isolation--"Bare is back without brother behind it"--is an adaptation of a common old heroic motive which is obscured by other more showy ideas in the romances. The conditions of life are here essentially those of the heroic age, an age which has no particular ideas of its own, which lives merely on such ideas as are struck out in the collision of lawless heavy bodies, in that heroic strife which is the parent of all things, and, among the rest, of the ideas of loyalty, fellowship, fair dealing, and so on. There is nothing romantic or idealist in Begon; he is merely an honest country gentleman, rather short of work. He continues in the same strain, after the duchess has tried to dissuade him. She points out to him the risk he runs by going to hunt on his enemy's marches,-- C'est en la marche Fromont le poësti, --and tells him of her foreboding that he will never return alive. His answer is like that of Hector to Polydamas:-- Diex! dist il, dame, merveilles avez dit: Ja mar croiroie sorciere ne devin; Par aventure vient li biens el païs, Je ne lairoie, por tot l'or que Diex fist, Que je n'i voise, que talens m'en est prins. The hunting of the boar is as good as anything of its kind in history, and it is impossible to read it without wishing that it had been printed a few years earlier to be read by Sir Walter Scott. He would have applauded as no one else can this story of the chase and of the hunter separated from his companions in the forest. There is one line especially in the lament for Begon after his death which is enough by itself to prove the soundness of the French poet's judgment, and his right to a welcome at Abbotsford: "This was a true man; his dogs loved him":-- Gentis hons fu, moult l'amoient si chien. Begon came by his death in the greenwood. The forester found him there and reported him to Fromont's seneschal, who called out six of his men to go and take the poacher; and along with them went Thibaut, Fromont's nephew, an old rival of Begon. Begon set his back to an aspen tree and killed four of the churls and beat off the rest, but was killed himself at last with an arrow. The four dead men were brought home and Begon's horse was led away:-- En une estable menerent le destrier Fronce et hennit et si grate des pies Que nus de char ne li ouse aprochier. Begon was left lying where he fell and his three dogs came back to him:-- Seul ont Begon en la forest laissié: Et jouste lui revindrent si trois chien, Hulent et braient com fuissent enragié. This most spirited passage of action and adventure shows the poet at his best; it is the sort of thing that he understands, and he carries it through without a mistake. It is followed by an attempt at another theme where something more is required of the author, and his success is not so perfect. He is drawn into the field of tragic emotion. Here, though his means are hardly sufficient for elaborate work, he sketches well. The character of Fromont when the news of his opponent's death is brought to him comes out as something of a different value from the sheer barbarism of _Raoul de Cambrai_. The narrative is light and wanting in depth, but there is no untruth and no dulness in the conception, and the author's meaning is perfectly clear. Fromont is different from the felons of his own household. Fromont is the adversary, but he is a gentleman. Even when he knows no more of the event than that a trespasser has been killed in the forest, he sends his men to bring in the body;-- Frans hons de l'autre doient avoir pitié --and when he sees who it is (_vif l'ot véu, mort le reconnut bien_) he breaks out into strong language against the churls who have killed the most courteous knight that ever bore arms. Mingled with this sentiment is the thought of all the trouble to come from the revival of the feud, but his vexation does not spring from mere self-interest. Fromondin his son is also angry with Thibaut his cousin; Thibaut ought to be flayed alive for his foul stroke. But while Fromondin is thinking of the shame of the murder which will be laid to the account of his father's house, Fromont's thought is more generous, a thought of respect and regret for his enemy. The tragedy of the feud continues after this; as before, Fromont is involved by his irrepressible kinsmen, and nothing comes of his good thoughts and intentions. Our wills and fates do so contrary run, Our thoughts are ours, the ends none of our own. This moral axiom is understood by the French author, and in an imaginative, not a didactic way, though his imagination is not strong enough to make much of it. In this free, rapid, and unforced narrative, that nothing might be wanting of the humanities of the French heroic poetry, there is added the lament for Begon, by his brother and his wife. Garin's lament is what the French epic can show in comparison with the famous lament for Lancelot at the end of the _Mort d'Arthur_:-- Ha! sire Begues, li Loherains a dit Frans chevaliers, corajeus et hardis! Fel et angris contre vos anemis Et dols et simples a trestoz vos amis! Tant mar i fustes, biaus frères, biaus amis! Here the advantage is with the English romantic author, who has command of a more subtle and various eloquence. On the other hand, the scene of the grief of the Duchess Beatrice, when Begon is brought to his own land, and his wife and his sons come out to meet him, shows a different point of view from romance altogether, and a different dramatic sense. The whole scene of the conversation between Beatrice and Garin is written with a steady hand; it needs no commentary to bring out the pathos or the dramatic truth of the consolation offered by Garin. She falls fainting, she cannot help herself; and when she awakens her lamenting is redoubled. She mourns over her sons, Hernaudin and Gerin: "Children, you are orphans; dead is he that begot you, dead is he that was your stay!"--"Peace, madame," said Garin the Duke, "this is a foolish speech and a craven. You, for the sake of the land that is in your keeping, for your lineage and your lordly friends--some gentle knight will take you to wife and cherish you; but it falls to me to have long sorrow. The more I have of silver and fine gold, the more will be my grief and vexation of spirit. Hernaudin and Gerin are my nephews; it will be mine to suffer many a war for them, to watch late, and to rise up early."--"Thank you, uncle," said Hernaudin: "Lord! why have I not a little habergeon of my own? I would help you against your enemies!" The Duke hears him, and takes him in his arms and kisses the child. "By God, fair nephew, you are stout and brave, and like my brother in face and mouth, the rich Duke, on whom God have mercy!" When this was said, they go to bury the Duke in the chapel beyond Belin; the pilgrims see it to this day, as they come back from Galicia, from St. James.[74] [Footnote 74: One of the frequent morals of French epic (repeated also by French romance) is the vanity of overmuch sorrow for the dead. [Greek: alla chrê ton men katathaptein hos ke thanêsin nêlea thymon echontas, ep' êmati dakrysantas.] (Odysseus speaking) _Il._ xix. 228. "Laissiez ester," li quens Guillaumes dit; "Tout avenra ce que doit avenir; Li mort as mors, li vif voissent as vis; Duel sor dolor et joie sor joïr Ja nus frans hons nel devroit maintenir." Les cors enportent, les out en terre mis. _Garin_, i. p. 262.] _Roland_, _Raoul de Cambrai_, and _Garin le Loherain_ represent three kinds of French heroic poetry. _Roland_ is the more purely heroic kind, in which the interest is concentrated on the passion of the hero, and the hero is glorified by every possible means of patriotism, religion, and the traditional ethics of battle, with the scenery and the accompaniments all chosen so as to bring him into relief and give him an ideal or symbolical value, like that of the statues of the gods. _Raoul_ and _Garin_, contrasted with _Roland_, are two varieties of another species; namely, of the heroic poetry which (like the _Odyssey_ and the Icelandic stories) represents the common life of an heroic age, without employing the ideal motives of great causes, religious or patriotic, and without giving to the personages any great representative or symbolical import. The subjects of _Raoul_ and _Garin_ belong to the same order. The difference between them is that the author of the first is only half awake to the chances offered by his theme. The theme is well chosen, not disabled, like so many romantic plots, by an inherent fallacy of ethics or imagination; a story that shapes itself naturally, if the author has the wit to see it. The author of _Raoul de Cambrai_, unhappily, has "no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man," and leaves his work encumbered with his dulness of perception; an evidence of the fertility of the heroic age in good subjects, and of the incompetence of some of the artists. _Garin_, on the other hand, shows how the common subject-matter might be worked up by a man of intelligence, rather discursive than imaginative, but alive to the meaning of his story, and before everything a continuous narrator, with the gift of natural sequence in his adventures. He relates as if he were following the course of events in his own memory, with simplicity and lucidity, qualities which were not beyond the compass of the old French verse and diction. He does not stop to elaborate his characters; he takes them perhaps too easily. But his lightness of spirit saves him from the untruth of _Raoul de Cambrai_; and while his ethics are the commonplaces of the heroic age, these commonplaces are not mere formulas or cant; they are vividly realised. There is no need to multiply examples in order to prove the capacity of French epic for the same kind of subjects as those of the Sagas; that is, for the representation of strenuous and unruly life in a comprehensive and liberal narrative, noble in spirit and not much hampered by conventional nobility or dignity. _Roland_ is the great achievement of French epic, and there are other poems, also, not far removed from the severity of _Roland_ and inspired by the same patriotic and religious ardour. But the poem of _Garin of Lorraine_ (which begins with the defence of France against the infidels, but very soon passes to the business of the great feud--its proper theme), though it is lacking in the political motives, not to speak of the symbolical imagination of _Roland_, is significant in another way, because though much later in date, though written at a time when Romance was prevalent, it is both archaic in its subject and also comprehensive in its treatment. It has something like the freedom of movement and the ease which in the Icelandic Sagas go along with similar antique subjects. The French epic poetry is not all of it made sublime by the ideas of _Roland_; there is still scope for the free representation of life in different moods, with character as the dominant interest. It should not be forgotten that the French epic has room for comedy, not merely in the shape of "comic relief," though that unhappily is sometimes favoured by the _chansons de geste_, and by the romances as well, but in the "humours" inseparable from all large and unpedantic fiction. A good deal of credit on this account may be claimed for Galopin, the reckless humorist of the party of Garin of Lorraine, and something rather less for Rigaut the Villain Unwashed, another of Garin's friends. This latter appears to be one of the same family as Hreidar the Simple, in the Saga of Harald Hardrada; a figure of popular comedy, one of the lubbers who turn out something different from their promise. Clumsy strength and good-nature make one of the most elementary compounds, and may easily be misused (as in _Rainouart_) where the author has few scruples and no dramatic consistency. Galopin is a more singular humorist, a ribald and a prodigal, yet of gentle birth, and capable of good service when he can be got away from the tavern. There are several passages in the _chansons de geste_ where, as with _Rainouart_, the fun is of a grotesque and gigantic kind, like the fun to be got out of the giants in the Northern mythology, and the trolls in the Northern popular tales. The heathen champion Corsolt in the _Coronemenz Looïs_ makes good comedy of this sort, when he accosts the Pope: "Little man! why is your head shaved?" and explains to him his objection to the Pope's religion: "You are not well advised to talk to me of God: he has done me more wrong than any other man in the world," and so on.[75] [Footnote 75: Respont li reis: "N'iés pas bien enseigniez, Qui devant mei oses de Deu plaidier; C'est l'om el mont qui plus m'a fait irier: Mon pere ocist une foldre del ciel: Tot i fu ars, ne li pot l'en aidier. Quant Deus l'ot mort, si fist que enseigniez; El ciel monta, ça ne voit repairier; Ge nel poeie sivre ne enchalcier, Mais de ses omes me sui ge puis vengiez; De cels qui furent levé et baptisié Ai fait destruire plus de trente miliers, Ardeir en feu et en eve neier; Quant ge la sus ne puis Deu guerreier, Nul de ses omes ne vueil ça jus laissier, Et mei et Deu n'avons mais que plaidier: Meie est la terre et siens sera li ciels." _l.c._, l. 522. The last verse expresses the same sentiment as the answer of the Emperor Henry when he was told to beware of God's vengeance: "Celum celi Domino, terram autem dedit filiis hominum" (Otton. Frising. _Gesta Frid._ i. 11).] Also, in a less exaggerated way, there is some appreciation of the humour to be found in the contrast between the churl and the knight, and their different points of view; as in the passage of the _Charroi de Nismes_ where William of Orange questions the countryman about the condition of the city under its Saracen masters, and is answered with information about the city tolls and the price of bread.[76] It must be admitted, however, that this slight passage of comedy is far outdone by the conversation in the romance of _Aucassin and Nicolette_, between Aucassin and the countryman, where the author of that story seems to get altogether beyond the conventions of his own time into the region of Chaucer, or even somewhere near the forest of Arden. The comedy of the _chansons de geste_ is easily satisfied with plain and robust practical jokes. Yet it counts for something in the picture, and it might be possible, in a detailed criticism of the epics, to distinguish between the comic incidents that have an artistic value and intention, and those that are due merely to the rudeness of those common minstrels who are accused (by their rivals in epic poetry) of corrupting and debasing the texts. [Footnote 76: Li cuens Guillaumes li comença à dire: --Diva, vilain, par la loi dont tu vives Fus-tu a Nymes, la fort cité garnie? --Oïl, voir, sire, le paaige me quistrent; Ge fui trop poures, si nel poi baillier mie. Il me lessèrent por mes enfanz qu'il virent. --Di moi, vilain, des estres de la vile. Et cil respont:--Ce vos sai-ge bien dire Por un denier .ii. granz pains i véismes; La denerée vaut .iii. en autre vile: Moult par est bone, se puis n'est empirie. --Fox, dist Guillaume, ce ne demant-je mie, Mès des paiens chevaliers de la vile, Del rei Otrant et de sa compaignie. _l.c._, ll. 903-916.] There were many ways in which the French epic was degraded at the close of its course--by dilution and expansion, by the growth of a kind of dull parasitic, sapless language over the old stocks, by the general failure of interest, and the transference of favour to other kinds of literature. Reading came into fashion, and the minstrels lost their welcome in the castles, and had to betake themselves to more vulgar society for their livelihood. At the same time, epic made a stand against the new modes and a partial compliance with them; and the _chansons de geste_ were not wholly left to the vagrant reciters, but were sometimes copied out fair in handsome books, and held their own with the romances. The compromise between epic and romance in old French literature is most interesting where romance has invaded a story of the simpler kind like _Raoul de Cambrai_. Stories of war against the infidel, stories like those of William of Orange, were easily made romantic. The poem of the _Prise d'Orange_, for example, an addition to this cycle, is a pure romance of adventure, and a good one, though it has nothing of the more solid epic in it. Where the action is carried on between the knights of France and the Moors, one is prepared for a certain amount of wonder; the palaces and dungeons of the Moors are the right places for strange things to happen, and the epic of the defence of France goes easily off into night excursions and disguises: the Moorish princess also is there, to be won by the hero. All this is natural; but it is rather more paradoxical to find the epic of family feuds, originally sober, grave, and business-like, turning more and more extravagant, as it does in the _Four Sons of Aymon_, which in its original form, no doubt, was something like the more serious parts of _Raoul de Cambrai_ or of the _Lorrains_, but which in the extant version is expanded and made wonderful, a story of wild adventures, yet with traces still of its origin among the realities of the heroic age, the common matters of practical interest to heroes. The case of _Huon of Bordeaux_ is more curious, for there the original sober story has been preserved, and it is one of the best and most coherent of them all,[77] till it is suddenly changed by the sound of Oberon's horn and passes out of the real world altogether. [Footnote 77: Cf. Auguste Longnon, "L'élément historique de Huon de Bordeaux," _Romania_, viii.] The lines of the earlier part of the story are worth following, for there is no better story among the French poems that represent the ruder heroic age--a simple story of feudal rivalries and jealousies, surviving in this strange way as an introduction to the romance of _Oberon_. The Emperor Charlemagne, one hundred and twenty-five years old, but not particularly reverend, holds a court at Paris one Whitsuntide and asks to be relieved of his kingdom. His son Charlot is to succeed him. Charlot is worthless, the companion of traitors and disorderly persons; he has made enough trouble already in embroiling Ogier the Dane with the Emperor. Charlemagne is infatuated and will have his son made king:-- Si m'aït Diex, tu auras si franc fiet Com Damediex qui tot puet justicier Tient Paradis de regne droiturier! Then the traitor Amaury de la Tor de Rivier gets up and brings forward the case of Bordeaux, which has rendered no service for seven years, since the two brothers, Huon and Gerard, were left orphans. Amaury proposes that the orphans should be dispossessed. Charlemagne agrees at once, and withdraws his assent again (a painful spectacle!) when it is suggested to him that Huon and his brother have omitted their duties in pure innocence, and that their father Sewin was always loyal. Messengers are sent to bring Huon and Gerard to Paris, and every chance is to be given them of proving their good faith to the Emperor. This is not what Amaury the traitor wants; he goes to Charlot and proposes an ambuscade to lie in wait for the two boys and get rid of them; his real purpose being to get rid of the king's son as well as of Huon of Bordeaux. The two boys set out, and on the way fall in with the Abbot of Clugni, their father's cousin, a strong-minded prelate, who accompanies them. Outside Paris they come to the ambush, and the king's son is despatched by Amaury to encounter them. What follows is an admirable piece of narrative. Gerard rides up to address Charlot; Charlot rides at him as he is turning back to report to Huon and the Abbot, and Gerard who is unarmed falls severely wounded. Then Huon, also unarmed, rides at Charlot, though his brother calls out to him: "I see helmets flashing there among the bushes." With his scarlet mantle rolled round his arm he meets the lance of Charlot safely, and with his sword, as he passes, cuts through the helmet and head of his adversary. This is good enough for Amaury, and he lets Huon and his party ride on to the city, while he takes up the body of Charlot on a shield and follows after. Huon comes before the Emperor and tells his story as far as he knows it; he does not know that the felon he has killed is the Emperor's son. Charlemagne gives solemn absolution to Huon. Then appears Amaury with a false story, making Huon the aggressor. Charlemagne forgets all about the absolution and snatches up a knife, and is with difficulty calmed by his wise men. The ordeal of battle has to decide between the two parties; there are elaborate preparations and preliminaries, obviously of the most vivid interest to the audience. The demeanour of the Abbot of Clugni ought not to be passed over: he vows that if Heaven permits any mischance to come upon Huon, he, the Abbot, will make it good on St. Peter himself, and batter his holy shrine till the gold flies. In the combat Huon is victorious; but unhappily a last treacherous effort of his enemy, after he has yielded and confessed, makes Huon cut off his head in too great a hurry before the confession is heard by the Emperor or any witnesses:-- Le teste fist voler ens el larris: Hues le voit, mais ce fu sans jehir. The head went flying over the lea, but it had no more words to speak. Huon is not forgiven by the Emperor; the Emperor spares his life, indeed, but sends him on a hopeless expedition. And there the first part of the story ends. The present version is dated in the early part of the reign of St. Louis; it is contemporary with Snorri Sturluson and Sturla his nephew, and exhibits, though not quite in the Icelandic manner, the principal motives of early unruly society, without much fanciful addition, and with a very strong hold upon the tragic situation, and upon the types of character. As in _Raoul de Cambrai_, right and wrong are mixed; the Emperor has a real grievance against Huon, and Huon, with little fault of his own, is put apparently in the wrong. The interests involved are of the strongest possible. There was not a single lord among those to whom the minstrel repeated his story who did not know that he might have to look out for encroachments and injustice--interference at any rate--from the king, and treachery from his neighbours. No one hoped to leave his castles and lands in peace to his son, who did not also fear that his son might be left defenceless and his lands exposed to competition; a fear most touchingly expressed in the lament of William of Poitiers, when he set out on the first Crusade.[78] [Footnote 78: "Pos de chantar m'es pres talens:"--Raynouard, _Choix des poésies des Troubadours_, iv. p. 83; Bartsch, _Chrestomathie provençale_.] Whatever general influences of law or politics or social economy are supposed to be at work in the story of _Huon of Bordeaux_,--and all this earlier part of it is a story of feudal politics and legal problems,--these influences were also present in the real world in which the maker and the hearers of the poem had their life. It is plain and serious dealing with matter of fact. But after the ordeal of battle in which Huon kills the traitor, the tone changes with great abruptness and a new story begins. The commission laid upon Huon by the implacable and doting Emperor is nothing less than that which afterwards was made a byword for all impossible enterprises--"to take the Great Turk by the beard." He is to go to Babylon and, literally, to beard the Admiral there, and carry off the Admiral's daughter. The audience is led away into the wide world of Romance. Huon goes to the East by way of Rome and Brindisi--naturally enough--but the real world ends at Brindisi; beyond that everything is magical. CHAPTER V ROMANCE AND THE OLD FRENCH ROMANTIC SCHOOLS Romance in many varieties is to be found inherent in Epic and in Tragedy; for some readers, possibly, the great and magnificent forms of poetry are most attractive when from time to time they forget their severity, and when the tragic strength is allowed to rest, as in the fairy interludes of the _Odyssey_, or the similes of the clouds, winds, and mountain-waters in the _Iliad_. If Romance be the name for the sort of imagination that possesses the mystery and the spell of everything remote and unattainable, then Romance is to be found in the old Northern heroic poetry in larger measure than any epic or tragic solemnity, and in no small measure also even in the steady course of the Icelandic histories. Possibly Romance is in its best place here, as an element in the epic harmony; perhaps the romantic mystery is most mysterious when it is found as something additional among the graver and more positive affairs of epic or tragic personages. The occasional visitations of the dreaming moods of romance, in the middle of a great epic or a great tragedy, are often more romantic than the literature which is nothing but romance from beginning to end. The strongest poets, Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare, have along with their strong reasoning enough of the lighter and fainter grace and charm to be the despair of all the "romantic schools" in the world. In the Icelandic prose stories, as has been seen already, there is a similar combination. These stories contain the strongest imaginative work of the Middle Ages before Dante. Along with this there is found in them occasionally the uncertain and incalculable play of the other, the more airy mode of imagination; and the romance of the strong Sagas is more romantic than that of the medieval works which have no other interest to rely upon, or of all but a very few. One of the largest and plainest facts of medieval history is the change of literature in the twelfth century, and the sudden and exuberant growth and progress of a number of new poetical forms; particularly the courtly lyric that took shape in Provence, and passed into the tongues of Italy, France, and Germany, and the French romance which obeyed the same general inspiration as the Provençal poetry, and was equally powerful as an influence on foreign nations. The French Romantic Schools of the twelfth century are among the most definite and the most important appearances even in that most wonderful age; though it is irrational to contrast them with the other great historical movements of the time, because there is no real separation between them. French romance is part of the life of the time, and the life of the twelfth century is reproduced in French romance. The rise of these new forms of story makes an unmistakable difference between the age that preceded them and everything that comes after. They are a new, fresh, and prosperous beginning in literature, and they imply the failure of the older manner of thought, the older fashion of imagination, represented in the epic literature of France, not to speak of the various Teutonic forms of heroic verse and prose that are related to the epic of France only by a remote common ancestry, and a certain general likeness in the conditions of "heroic" life. The defeat of French epic, as has been noted already, was slow and long resisted; but the victory of romance was inevitable. Together with the influence of the Provençal lyric idealism, it determined the forms of modern literature, long after the close of the Middle Ages. The change of fashion in the twelfth century is as momentous and far-reaching in its consequences as that to which the name "Renaissance" is generally appropriated. The later Renaissance, indeed, in what concerns imaginative literature, makes no such abrupt and sudden change of fashion as was made in the twelfth century. The poetry and romance of the Renaissance follow naturally upon the literature of the Middle Ages; for the very good reason that it was the Middle Ages which began, even in their dark beginnings, the modern study of the humanities, and in the twelfth century made a remarkable and determined effort to secure the inheritance of ancient poetry for the advantage of the new tongues and their new forms of verse. There is no such line of division between Ariosto and Chrestien of Troyes as there is between Chrestien and the primitive epic. The romantic schools of the twelfth century are the result and evidence of a great unanimous movement, the origins of which may be traced far back in the general conditions of education and learning, in the influence of Latin authors, in the interchange of popular tales. They are among the most characteristic productions of the most impressive, varied, and characteristic period in the Middle Ages; of that century which broke, decisively, with the old "heroic" traditions, and made the division between the heroic and the chivalric age. When the term "medieval" is used in modern talk, it almost always denotes something which first took definite shape in the twelfth century. The twelfth century is the source of most of the "medieval" influences in modern art and literature, and the French romances of that age are the original authorities for most of the "Gothic" ornaments adopted in modern romantic schools. The twelfth-century French romances form a definite large group, with many ranks and divisions, some of which are easily distinguished, while all are of great historical interest. One common quality, hardly to be mistaken, is that which marks them all as belonging to a romantic _school_, in almost all the modern senses of that term. That is to say, they are not the spontaneous product of an uncritical and ingenuous imagination; they are not the same sort of thing as the popular stories on which many of them are founded; they are the literary work of authors more or less sophisticated, on the look-out for new sensations and new literary devices. It is useless to go to those French books in order to catch the first fresh jet of romantic fancy, the "silly sooth" of the golden age. One might as well go to the _Légende des Siècles_. Most of the romance of the medieval schools is already hot and dusty and fatigued. It has come through the mills of a thousand active literary men, who know their business, and have an eye to their profits. Medieval romance, in its most characteristic and most influential form, is almost as factitious and professional as modern Gothic architecture. The twelfth-century dealers in romantic commonplaces are as fully conscious of the market value of their goods as any later poet who has borrowed from them their giants and enchanters, their forests and their magic castles; and these and similar properties are used in the twelfth century with the same kind of literary sharpness, the same attention to the demands of the "reading public," as is shown by the various poets and novelists who have waited on the successes, and tried to copy the methods, of Goethe, Scott, or Victor Hugo. Pure Romance, such as is found in the old Northern poems, is very rare in the French stories of the twelfth century; the magical touch and the sense of mystery, and all the things that are associated with the name romance, when that name is applied to the _Ancient Mariner_, or _La Belle Dame sans Merci_, or the _Lady of Shalott_, are generally absent from the most successful romances of the great medieval romantic age, full though they may be of all the forms of chivalrous devotion and all the most wonderful romantic machines. Most of them are as different from the true irresistible magic of fancy as _Thalaba_ from _Kubla Khan_. The name "romantic school" is rightly applicable to them and their work, for almost the last thing that is produced in a "romantic school" is the infallible and indescribable touch of romance. A "romantic school" is a company for the profitable working of Broceliande, an organised attempt to "open up" the Enchanted Ground; such, at least, is the appearance of a great deal of the romantic literature of the early part of the nineteenth century, and of its forerunner in the twelfth. There is this difference between the two ages, that the medieval romanticists are freer and more original than the moderns who made a business out of tales of terror and wonder, and tried to fatten their lean kine on the pastures of "Gothic" or of Oriental learning. The romance-writers of the twelfth century, though they did much to make romance into a mechanic art, though they reduced the game to a system and left the different romantic combinations and conventions within the reach of almost any 'prentice hand, were yet in their way original explorers. Though few of them got out of their materials the kind of effect that appeals to us now most strongly, and though we think we can see what they missed in their opportunities, yet they were not the followers of any great man of their own time, and they chose their own way freely, not as bungling imitators of a greater artist. It is a disappointment to find that romance is rarely at its finest in the works that technically have the best right in the world to be called by that name. Nevertheless, the work that is actually found there is interesting in its own way, and historically of an importance which does not need to be emphasised. The true romantic interest is very unequally distributed over the works of the Middle Ages, and there is least of it in the authors who are most representative of the "age of chivalry." There is a disappointment prepared for any one who looks in the greater romantic authors of the twelfth century for the music of the _Faery Queene_ or _La Belle Dame sans Merci_. There is more of the pure romantic element in the poems of Brynhild, in the story of Njal, in the _Song of Roland_, than in the famous romances of Chrestien of Troyes or any of his imitators, though they have all the wonders of the Isle of Britain at their command, though they have the very story of Tristram and the very mystery of the Grail to quicken them and call them out. Elegance, fluency, sentiment, romantic adventures are common, but for words like those of Hervor at the grave of her father, or of the parting between Brynhild and Sigurd, or of Helgi and Sigrun, it would be vain to search in the romances of Benoit de Sainte More or of Chrestien. Yet these are the masters of the art of romance when it was fresh and strong, a victorious fashion. If the search be continued further, the search for that kind of imaginative beauty which these authors do not give, it will not be unsuccessful. The greater authors of the twelfth century have more affinity to the "heroic romance" of the school of the _Grand Cyrus_ than to the dreams of Spenser or Coleridge. But, while this is the case with the most distinguished members of the romantic school, it is not so with all the rest. The magic that is wanting to the clear and elegant narrative of Benoit and Chrestien will be found elsewhere; it will be found in one form in the mystical prose of the _Queste del St. Graal_--a very different thing from Chrestien's _Perceval_--it will be found, again and again, in the prose of Sir Thomas Malory; it will be found in many ballads and ballad burdens, in _William and Margaret_, in _Binnorie_, in the _Wife of Usher's Well_, in the _Rime of the Count Arnaldos_, in the _Königskinder_; it will be found in the most beautiful story of the Middle Ages, _Aucassin and Nicolette_; one of the few perfectly beautiful stories in the world, about which there is no need, in England at any rate, to say anything in addition to the well-known passages in which it has been praised. _Aucassin and Nicolette_ cannot be made into a representative medieval romance: there is nothing else like it; and the qualities that make it what it is are the opposite of the rhetorical self-possession, the correct and deliberate narrative of Chrestien and his school. It contains the quintessence of romantic imagination, but it is quite unlike the most fashionable and successful romances. There are several stages in the history of the great Romantic School, as well as several distinct sources of interest. The value of the best works of the school consists in their representation of the passion of love. They turn the psychology of the courtly amatory poets into narrative. Chaucer's address to the old poets,--"Ye lovers that can make of sentiment,"--when he complains that they have left little for him to glean in the field of poetry, does not touch the lyrical poets only. The narrative poetry of the courteous school is equally devoted to the philosophy of love. Narrative poets like Chrestien, when they turn to lyric, can change their instrument without changing the purport of their verse; lyric or narrative, it has the same object, the same duty. So also, two hundred years later, Chaucer himself or Froissart may use narrative or lyric forms indifferently, and observe the same "courteous" ideal in both. In the twelfth-century narratives, besides the interest of the love-story and all its science, there was the interest of adventure, of strange things; and here there is a great diversity among the authors, and a perceptible difference between earlier and later usage. Courteous sentiment, running through a succession of wonderful adventures, is generally enough to make a romance; but there are some notable varieties, both in the sentiment and in the incidents. The sentiment comes later in the history of literature than the adventures; the conventional romantic form of plot may be said to have been fixed before the romantic sentiment was brought to its furthest refinement. The wonders of romantic story are more easily traced to their origin, or at least to some of their earlier forms, than the spirit of chivalrous idealism which came in due time to take possession of the fabulous stories, and gave new meanings to the lives of Tristram and Lancelot. Variety of incident, remoteness of scene, and all the incredible things in the world, had been at the disposal of medieval authors long before the French Romantic Schools began to define themselves. The wonders of the East, especially, had very early come into literature; and the Anglo-Saxon _Epistle of Alexander_ seems to anticipate the popular taste for Eastern stories, just as the Anglo-Saxon version of _Apollonius of Tyre_ anticipates the later importation of Greek romance, and the appropriation of classical rhetoric, in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries; as the grace and brightness of the old English poems of St. Andrew or St. Helen seem to anticipate the peculiar charm of some of the French poems of adventures. In French literature before the vogue of romance can be said to have begun, and before the epic form had lost its supremacy, the poem of the _Pilgrimage of Charlemagne_, one of the oldest extant poems of the heroic cycle, is already far gone in subjection to the charm of mere unqualified wonder and exaggeration--rioting in the wonders of the East, like the Varangians on their holiday, when they were allowed a free day to loot in the Emperor's palace.[79] The poem of Charlemagne's journey to Constantinople is unrefined enough, but the later and more elegant romances deal often in the same kind of matter. Mere furniture counts for a good deal in the best romances, and they are full of descriptions of riches and splendours. The story of Troy is full of details of various sorts of magnificence; the city of Troy itself and "Ylion," its master-tower, were built by Priam out of all kinds of marble, and covered with sculpture all over. Much further on in Benoit's poem (l. 14,553) Hector is brought home wounded to a room which is described in 300 lines, with particulars of its remarkable decorations, especially its four magical images. The tomb of Penthesilea (l. 25,690) is too much for the author:-- Sepolture ot et monument Tant que se _Plenius_ fust vis Ou _cil qui fist Apocalis_ Nel vos sauroient il retraire: Por ço si m'en dei gie bien taire: N'en dirai plus, que n'oseroie; Trop halte chose envaïroie. [Footnote 79: See the account of the custom in the _Saga of Harald Hardrada_, c. 16. "Harald entrusted to Jarizleif all the gold that he had sent from Micklegarth, and all sorts of precious things: so much wealth all together, as no man of the North Lands had ever seen before in one man's hands. Harald had thrice come in for the palace-sweeping (_Polotasvarf_) while he was in Micklegarth. It is the law there that when the Greek king dies, the Varangians shall have a sweep of the palace; they go over all the king's palaces where his treasures are, and every man shall have for his own what falls to his hand" (_Fornmanna Sögur_, vi. p. 171).] Pliny and the author of the Apocalypse are here acknowledged as masters and authorities in the art of description. In other places of the same work there is a very liberal use of natural history such as is common in many versions of the history of Alexander. There is, for example, a long description of the precious clothes of Briseide (Cressida) at her departure, especially of her mantle, which had been given to Calchas by an Indian poet in Upper India. It was made by nigromancy, of the skin of the beast _Dindialos_, which is hunted in the shadowless land by the savage people whose name is _Cenocefali_; and the fringes of the mantle were not of the sable, but of a "beast of price" that dwells in the water of Paradise:-- Dedans le flum de Paradis Sont et conversent, ço set l'on Se c'est vrais que nos en lison. Calchas had a tent which had belonged to Pharaoh:-- Diomedes tant la conduit Qu'il descendi al paveillon Qui fu al riche Pharaon, Cil qui noa en la mer roge. In such passages of ornamental description the names of strange people and of foreign kings have the same kind of value as the names of precious stones, and sometimes they are introduced on their own account, apart from the precious work of Arabian or Indian artists. Of this sort is the "dreadful sagittary," who is still retained in Shakespeare's _Troilus and Cressida_ on the ultimate authority (when it comes to be looked into) of Benoit de Sainte More.[80] [Footnote 80: Il ot o lui un saietaire Qui molt fu fels et deputaire: Des le nombril tot contreval Ot cors en forme de cheval: Il n'est riens nule s'il volsist Que d'isnelece n'ateinsist: Cors, chiere, braz, a noz semblanz Avoit, mes n'ert pas avenanz. l. 12,207.] A quotation by M. Gaston Paris (_Hist. litt. de la France_, xxx. p. 210), from the unpublished romance of _Ider_ (Edeyrn, son of Nudd), shows how this fashion of rich description and allusion had been overdone, and how it was necessary, in time, to make a protest against it. Kings' pavilions were a favourite subject for rhetoric, and the poet of _Ider_ explains that he does not approve of this fashion, though he has pavilions of his own, and can describe them if he likes, as well as any one:-- Tels diz n'a fors savor de songe, Tant en acreissent les paroles: Mes jo n'ai cure d'iperboles: _Yperbole_ est chose non voire, Qui ne fu et qui n'est a croire, C'en est la difinicion: Mes tant di de cest paveillon Qu'il n'en a nul soz ciel qu'il vaille. Many poets give themselves pains to describe gardens and pavilions and other things, and think they are beautifying their work, but this is all dreaming and waste of words; I will have no such hyperbole. (_Hyperbole_ means by definition that which is untrue and incredible.) I will only say of this pavilion that there was not its match under heaven. The author, by his definition of _hyperbole_[81] in this place, secures an ornamental word with which he consoles himself for his abstinence in other respects. This piece of science is itself characteristic of the rhetorical enterprise of the Romantic School; of the way in which Pliny, Isidore, and other encyclopaedic authors were turned into decorations. The taste for such things is common in the early and the later Middle Ages; all that the romances did was to give a certain amount of finish and neatness to the sort of work that was left comparatively rude by the earlier pedants. There many be discovered in some writers a preference for classical subjects in their ornamental digressions, or for the graceful forms of allegory, such as in the next century were collected for the Garden of the Rose, and still later for the _House of Fame_. Thus Chrestien seems to assert his superiority of taste and judgment when, instead of Oriental work, he gives Enid an ivory saddle carved with the story of Aeneas and Dido (_Erec_, l. 5337); or when, in the same book, Erec's coronation mantle, though it is fairy work, bears no embroidered designs of Broceliande or Avalon, but four allegorical figures of the quadrivial sciences, with a reference by Chrestien to Macrobius as his authority in describing them. One function of this Romantic School, though not the most important, is to make an immediate literary profit out of all accessible books of learning. It was a quick-witted school, and knew how to turn quotations and allusions. Much of its art, like the art of _Euphues_, is bestowed in making pedantry look attractive. [Footnote 81: Chaucer, who often yields to the temptations of "Hyperbole" in this sense of the word, lays down the law against impertinent decorations, in the rhetorical instruction of Pandarus to Troilus, about Troilus's letter to Cressida (B. ii. l. 1037):-- Ne jompre eek no discordaunt thing yfere As thus, to usen termes of phisyk; In loves termes hold of thy matere The forme alwey, and do that it be lyk; For if a peyntour wolde peynte a pyk With asses feet, and hede it as an ape, It cordeth naught; so nere it but a jape.] The narrative material imported and worked up in the Romantic School is, of course, enormously more important than the mere decorations taken out of Solinus or Macrobius. It is not, however, with the principal masters the most important part of their study. Chrestien, for example, often treats his adventures with great levity in comparison with the serious psychological passages; the wonder often is that he should have used so much of the common stuff of adventures in poems where he had a strong commanding interest in the sentiments of the personages. There are many irrelevant and unnecessary adventures in his _Erec_, _Lancelot_, and _Yvain_, not to speak of his unfinished _Perceval_; while in _Cliges_ he shows that he did not rely on the commonplaces of adventure, on the regular machinery of romance, and that he might, when he chose, commit himself to a novel almost wholly made up of psychology and sentiment. Whatever the explanation be in this case, it is plain enough both that the adventures are of secondary value as compared with the psychology, in the best romances, and that their value, though inferior, is still considerable, even in some of the best work of the "courtly makers." The greatest novelty in the twelfth-century narrative materials was due to the Welsh; not that the "matter of Britain" was quite overwhelming in extent, or out of proportion to the other stores of legend and fable. "The matter of Rome the Great" (not to speak again of the old epic "matter of France" and its various later romantic developments) included all known antiquity, and it was recruited continually by new importations from the East. The "matter of Rome," however, the tales of Thebes and Troy and the wars of Alexander, had been known more or less for centuries, and they did not produce the same effect as the discovery of the Celtic stories. Rather, it may be held that the Welsh stories gave a new value to the classical authorities, and suggested new imaginative readings. As Chaucer's _Troilus_ in our own time has inspired a new rendering of the _Life and Death of Jason_, so (it would seem) the same story of Jason got a new meaning in the twelfth century when it was read by Benoit de Sainte More in the light of Celtic romance. Then it was discovered that Jason and Medea were no more, and no less, than the adventurer and the wizard's daughter, who might play their parts in a story of Wales or Brittany. The quest of the Golden Fleece and the labours of Jason are all reduced from the rhetoric of Ovid, from their classical dignity, to something like what their original shape may have been when the story that now is told in Argyll and Connaught of the _King's Son of Ireland_ was told or chanted, ages before Homer, of a king's son of the Greeks and an enchantress beyond sea. Something indeed, and that of the highest consequence, as will be seen, was kept by Benoit from his reading of the _Metamorphoses_; the passion of Medea, namely. But the story itself is hardly distinguishable in kind from _Libeaux Desconus_. It is not easy to say how far this treatment of Jason may be due to the Welsh example of similar stories, and how far to the general medieval disrespect for everything in the classics except their matter. The Celtic precedents can scarcely have been without influence on this very remarkable detection of the "Celtic element" in the voyage of the Argonauts, while at the same time Ovid ought not to be refused his share in the credit of medieval romantic adventure. Virgil, Ovid, and Statius are not to be underrated as sources of chivalrous adventure, even in comparison with the unquestioned riches of Wales or Ireland. There is more than one distinct stage in the progress of the Celtic influence in France. The culmination of the whole thing is attained when Chrestien makes the British story of the capture and rescue of Guinevere into the vehicle of his most finished and most courtly doctrine of love, as shown in the examples of Lancelot and the Queen. Before that there are several earlier kinds of Celtic romance in French, and after that comes what for modern readers is more attractive than the typical work of Chrestien and his school,--the eloquence of the old French prose, with its languor and its melancholy, both in the prose _Lancelot_ and in the _Queste del St. Graal_ and _Mort Artus_. In Chrestien everything is clear and positive; in these prose romances, and even more in Malory's English rendering of his "French book," is to be heard the indescribable plaintive melody, the sigh of the wind over the enchanted ground, the spell of pure Romance. Neither in Chrestien of Troyes, nor yet in the earlier authors who dealt more simply than he with their Celtic materials, is there anything to compare with this later prose. In some of the earlier French romantic work, in some of the lays of Marie de France, and in the fragments of the poems about Tristram, there is a kind of simplicity, partly due to want of skill, but in its effect often impressive enough. The plots made use of by the medieval artists are some of them among the noblest in the world, but none of the poets were strong enough to bring out their value, either in translating _Dido_ and _Medea_, or in trying to educate Tristram and other British heroes according to the manners of the Court of Champagne. There are, however, differences among the misinterpretations and the failures. No French romance appears to have felt the full power of the story of Tristram and Iseult; no French poet had his mind and imagination taken up by the character of Iseult as more than one Northern poet was possessed by the tragedy of Brynhild. But there were some who, without developing the story as Chaucer did with the story of Troilus, at least allowed it to tell itself clearly. The Celtic magic, as that is described in Mr. Arnold's _Lectures_, has scarcely any place in French romance, either of the earlier period or of the fully-developed and successful chivalrous order, until the time of the prose books. The French poets, both the simpler sort and the more elegant, appear to have had a gift for ignoring that power of vagueness and mystery which is appreciated by some of the prose authors of the thirteenth century. They seem for the most part to have been pleased with the incidents of the Celtic stories, without appreciating any charm of style that they may have possessed. They treated them, in fact, as they treated Virgil and Ovid; and there is about as much of the "Celtic spirit" in the French versions of _Tristram_, as there is of the genius of Virgil in the _Roman d'Eneas_. In each case there is something recognisable of the original source, but it has been translated by minds imperfectly responsive. In dealing with Celtic, as with Greek, Latin, or Oriental stories, the French romancers were at first generally content if they could get the matter in the right order and present it in simple language, like tunes played with one finger. One great advantage of this procedure is that the stories are intelligible; the sequence of events is clear, and where the original conception has any strength or beauty it is not distorted, though the colours may be faint. This earlier and more temperate method was abandoned in the later stages of the Romantic School, when it often happened that a simple story was taken from the "matter of Britain" and overlaid with the chivalrous conventional ornament, losing its simplicity without being developed in respect of its characters or its sentiment. As an example of the one kind may be chosen the _Lay of Guingamor_, one of the lays of Marie de France;[82] as an example of the other, the Dutch romance of Gawain (_Walewein_), which is taken from the French and exhibits the results of a common process of adulteration. Or, again, the story of _Guinglain_, as told by Renaud de Beaujeu with an irrelevant "courtly" digression, may be compared with the simpler and more natural versions in English (_Libeaux Desconus_) and Italian (_Carduino_), as has been done by M. Gaston Paris; or the _Conte du Graal_ of Chrestien with the English _Sir Perceval of Galles_. [Footnote 82: Not included in the editions of her works (Roquefort, Warnke); edited by M. Gaston Paris in the eighth volume of _Romania_ along with the lays of _Doon_, _Tidorel_, and _Tiolet_.] _Guingamor_ is one of the best of the simpler kind of romances. The theme is that of an old story, a story which in one form and another is extant in native Celtic versions with centuries between them. In essentials it is the story of Ossian in the land of youth; in its chief motive, the fairy-bride, it is akin to the old Irish story of Connla. It is different from both in its definite historical manner of treating the subject. The story is allowed to count for the full value of all its incidents, with scarcely a touch to heighten the importance of any of them. It is the argument of a story, and little more. Even an argument, however, may present some of the vital qualities of a fairy story, as well as of a tragic plot, and the conclusion, especially, of _Guingamor_ is very fine in its own way, through its perfect clearness. There was a king in Britain, and Guingamor was his nephew. The queen fell in love with him, and was driven to take revenge for his rejection of her; but being less cruel than other queens of similar fortune, she planned nothing worse than to send him into the _lande aventureuse_, a mysterious forest on the other side of the river, to hunt the white boar. This white boar of the adventurous ground had already taken off ten knights, who had gone out to hunt it and had never returned. Guingamor followed the boar with the king's hound. In his wanderings he came on a great palace, with a wall of green marble and a silver shining tower, and open gates, and no one within, to which he was brought back later by a maiden whom he met in the forest. The story of their meeting was evidently, in the original, a story like that of Weland and the swan-maidens, and those of other swan or seal maidens, who are caught by their lovers as Weland caught his bride. But the simplicity of the French story here is in excess of what is required even by the illiterate popular versions of similar incidents. Guingamor, after two days in the rich palace (where he met the ten knights of the king's court, who had disappeared before), on the third day wished to go back to bring the head of the white boar to the king. His bride told him that he had been there for three hundred years, and that his uncle was dead, with all his retinue, and his cities fallen and destroyed. But she allowed him to go, and gave him the boar's head and the king's hound; and told him after he had crossed the river into his own country to eat and drink nothing. He was ferried across the river, and there he met a charcoal-burner and asked for news of the king. The king had been dead for three hundred years, he was told; and the king's nephew had gone hunting in the forest and had never been seen again. Guingamor told him his story, and showed him the boar's head, and turned to go back. Now it was after nones and turning late. He saw a wild apple-tree and took three apples from it; but as he tasted them he grew old and feeble and fell from his horse. The charcoal-burner had followed him and was going to help him, when he saw two damsels richly dressed, who came to Guingamor and reproached him for his forgetfulness. They put him gently on a horse and brought him to the river, and ferried him over, along with his hound. The charcoal-burner went back to his own house at nightfall. The boar's head he took to the king of Britain that then was, and told the story of Guingamor, and the king bade turn it into a lay. The simplicity of all this is no small excellence in a story. If there is anything in this story that can affect the imagination, it is there unimpaired by anything foreign or cumbrous. It is unsupported and undeveloped by any strong poetic art, but it is sound and clear. In the Dutch romance of _Walewein_, and doubtless in its French original (to show what is gained by the moderation and restriction of the earlier school), another story of fairy adventures has been dressed up to look like chivalry. The story of Walewein is one that appears in collections of popular tales; it is that of Mac Iain Direach in Campbell's _West Highland Tales_ (No. xlvi.), as well as of Grimm's _Golden Bird_. The romance observes the general plot of the popular story; indeed, it is singular among the romances in its close adherence to the order of events as given in the traditional oral forms. Though it contains 11,200 lines, it begins at the beginning and goes on to the end without losing what may be considered the original design. But while the general economy is thus retained, there are large digressions, and there is an enormous change in the character of the hero. While Guingamor in the French poem has little, if anything, to distinguish him from the adventurer of popular fairy stories, the hero in this Dutch romance is Gawain,--Gawain the Courteous, in splendid armour, playing the part of Mac Iain Direach. The discrepancy is very great, and there can be little doubt that the story as told in Gaelic fifty years ago by Angus Campbell, quarryman, is, in respect of the hero's condition and manners, more original than the medieval romance. Both versions are simple enough in their plot, and their plot is one and the same: the story of a quest for something wonderful, leading to another quest and then another, till the several problems are solved and the adventurer returns successful. In each story (as in Grimm's version also) the Fox appears as a helper. Mac Iain Direach is sent to look for the Blue Falcon; the giant who owns the Falcon sends him to the big Women of the Isle of Jura to ask for their white glaive of light. The Women of Jura ask for the bay filly of the king of Erin; the king of Erin sends him to woo for him the king's daughter of France. Mac Iain Direach wins all for himself, with the help of the Fox. Gawain has to carry out similar tasks: to find and bring back to King Arthur a magical flying Chessboard that appeared one day through the window and went out again; to bring to King Wonder, the owner of the Chessboard, "the sword of the strange rings"; to win for the owner of the sword the Princess of the Garden of India. Some things in the story, apart from the hero, are different from the popular versions. In _Walewein_ there appears quite plainly what is lost in the Gaelic and the German stories, the character of the strange land in which the quests are carried out. Gawain has to pass through or into a hill to reach the land of King Wonder; it does not belong to the common earth. The three castles to which he comes have all of them water about them; the second of them, Ravensten, is an island in the sea; the third is beyond the water of Purgatory, and is reached by two perilous bridges, the bridge of the sword and the bridge under water, like those in Chrestien's _Lancelot_. There is a distinction here, plain enough, between the human world, to which Arthur and his Court belong, and the other world within the hill, and the castles beyond the waters. But if this may be supposed to belong to an older form of the story not evident in the popular versions, a story of adventures in the land of the Dead, on the other hand the romance has no conception of the meaning of these passages, and gets no poetical result from the chances here offered to it. It has nothing like the vision of Thomas of Erceldoune; the waters about the magic island are tame and shallow; the castle beyond the Bridge of Dread is loaded with the common, cheap, pedantic "hyperboles," like those of the _Pèlerinage_ or of Benoit's _Troy_. Gawain is too heavily armoured, also, and even his horse Gringalet has a reputation of his own; all inconsistent with the lightness of the fairy tale. Gawain in the land of all these dreams is burdened still by the heavy chivalrous conventions. The world for him, even after he has gone through the mountain, is still very much the old world with the old stale business going on; especially tournaments and all their weariness. One natural result of all this is that the Fox's part is very much reduced. In the Gaelic story, Mac Iain Direach and his friend Gille Mairtean (the Lad of March, the Fox) are a pair of equals; they have no character, no position in the world, no station and its duties. They are quite careless, and they move freely. Gawain is slow, and he has to put in a certain amount of the common romantic business. The authors of that romantic school, if ever they talked shop, may have asked one another, "Where do you put your Felon Red Knight? Where do you put your doing away of the Ill Custom? or your tournaments?" and the author of _Walewein_ would have had an answer ready. Everything is there all right: that is to say, all the things that every one else has, all the mechanical business of romance. The Fox is postponed to the third adventure, and there, though he has not quite grown out of his original likeness to the Gille Mairtean, he is evidently constrained. Sir Gawain of the romance, this courteous but rather dull and middle-aged gentleman in armour, is not his old light-hearted companion. Still, though this story of _Gawain_ is weighed down by the commonplaces of the Romantic School, it shows through all its encumbrances what sort of story it was that impressed the French imagination at the beginning of the School. It may be permitted to believe that the story of _Walewein_ existed once in a simpler and clearer form, like that of _Guingamor_. The curious sophistication of _Guinglain_ by Renaud de Beaujeu has been fully described and criticised by M. Gaston Paris in one of his essays (_Hist. litt. de la France_, xxx. p. 171). His comparison with the English and Italian versions of the story brings out the indifference of the French poets to their plot, and their readiness to sacrifice the unities of action for the sake of irrelevant sentiment. The story is as simple as that of Walewein; an expedition, this time, to rescue a lady from enchantment. She is bewitched in the form of a serpent, and freed by a kiss (_le fier basier_). There are various adventures on the journey; it has some resemblance to that of Gareth in the _Morte d'Arthur_, and of the Red Cross Knight in Spenser, which is founded upon Malory's _Gareth_.[83] One of the adventures is in the house of a beautiful sorceress, who treats Guinglain with small consideration. Renaud de Beaujeu, in order to get literary credit from his handling of this romantic episode, brings Guinglain back to this enchantress after the real close of the story, in a kind of sentimental show-piece or appendix, by which the story is quite overweighted and thrown off its balance for the sake of a rhetorical demonstration. This of course belongs to the later period of romance, when the simpler methods had been discredited; but the simpler form, much nearer the fashion of popular stories, is still kept more or less by the English and the Italian rhymes of "Sir Lybeaux." [Footnote 83: Britomart in the House of Busirane has some resemblance to the conclusion of _Libius Disconius_.] The most remarkable examples of the earlier French romantic methods are presented by the fragments remaining of the old Anglo-Norman poems on Tristram and Yseult, by Béroul and Thomas, especially the latter;[84] most remarkable, because in this case there is the greatest contradiction between the tragic capabilities of the story and the very simple methods of the Norman poets. It is a story that might test the tragic strength and eloquence of any poet in any age of the world; the poetical genius of Thomas is shown in his abstinence from effort. Hardly anything could be simpler. He does very little to fill out or to elaborate the story; he does nothing to vitiate his style; there is little ornament or emphasis. The story itself is there, as if the poet thought it an impertinence to add any harmonies of his own. If it were only extant as a whole, it would be one of the most notable of poems. Where else is there anything like it, for sincerity and for thinness? [Footnote 84: Fr. Michel: _Tristan._ London, 1835. _Le Roman de Tristan_ (Thomas) ed. Bédier; (Béroul) ed. Muret, _Anc. Textes_, 1902-1905. Cf. Gaston Paris, _Poëmes et Légendes_.] This poet of _Tristram_ does not represent the prevalent fashion of his time. The eloquence and the passion of the amorous romances are commonly more effusive, and seldom as true. The lost _Tristram_ of Chrestien would probably have made a contrast with the Anglo-Norman poem in this respect. Chrestien of Troyes is at the head of the French Romantic School, and his interest is in the science of love; not in ancient rude and passionate stories, such as the story of Tristram--for it is rude and ancient, even in the French of Thomas--not in the "Celtic magic," except for decorative and incidental purposes, but in psychology and analysis of the emotions, and in the appropriate forms of language for such things. It is impossible (as M. Gaston Paris has shown) to separate the spirit of French romance from the spirit of the Provençal lyric poetry. The romances represent in a narrative form the ideas and the spirit which took shape as lyric poetry in the South; the romances are directly dependent upon the poetry of the South for their principal motives. The courtesy of the Provençal poetry, with its idealism and its pedantry, its psychological formalism, its rhetoric of antithesis and conceits, is to be found again in the narrative poetry of France in the twelfth century, just as, in the thirteenth, all the floods of lyrical idealism are collected in the didactic reservoir of the _Romaunt of the Rose_. The dominant interest in the French romances is the same as in the Provençal lyric poetry and in the _Romaunt of the Rose_; namely, the idealist or courteous science of love. The origins of this mode of thought are difficult to trace fully. The inquiry belongs more immediately to the history of Provence than of France, for the romancers are the pupils of the Provençal school; not independent practitioners of the same craft, but directly indebted to Provence for some of their main ideas and a good deal of their rhetoric. In Provence itself the origins are partly to be found in the natural (_i.e._ inexplicable) development of popular love-poetry, and in the corresponding progress of society and its sentiments; while among the definite influences that can be proved and explained, one of the strongest is that of Latin poetry, particularly of the _Art of Love_. About this there can be no doubt, however great may seem to be the interval between the ideas of Ovid and those of the Provençal lyrists, not to speak of their greater scholars in Italy, Dante and Petrarch. The pedantry of Ovid was taken seriously, for one thing, in an age when everything systematic was valuable just because it was a system; when every doctrine was profitable. For another thing, they found in Ovid the form, at least, of devotion, and again the _Art of Love_ was not their only book. There were other writings of Ovid and works of other poets from whom the Middle Ages learned their lesson of chivalrous service; not for the most part, it must be confessed, from the example of "Paynim Knights," but far more from the classical "Legend of Good Women," from the passion of Dido and the other heroines. It is true that there were some names of ancient heroes that were held in honour; the name of Paris is almost inseparable from the name of Tristram, wherever a medieval poet has occasion to praise the true lovers of old time, and Dante followed the common form when he brought the names together in his fifth canto. But what made by far the strongest impression on the Middle Ages was not the example of Paris or of Leander, nor yet the passion of Catullus and Propertius, who were then unknown, but the poetry of the loyalty of the heroines, the fourth book of the _Aeneid_, the _Heroides_ of Ovid, and certain parts of the _Metamorphoses_. If anything literary can be said to have taken effect upon the temper of the Middle Ages, so as to produce the manners and sentiments of chivalry, this is the literature to which the largest share of influence must be ascribed. The ladies of Romance all owe allegiance, and some of them are ready to pay it, to the queens of the Latin poets.[85] Virgil's Dido and Ovid's Medea taught the eloquence of love to the French poets, and the first chivalrous lovers are those who have learned to think poorly of the recreant knights of antiquity. [Footnote 85: A fine passage is quoted from the romance of _Ider_ in the essay cited above, where Guenloïe the queen finds Ider near death and thinks of killing herself, like Phyllis and other ladies of the old time, who will welcome her. It is the "Saints' Legend of Cupid," many generations before Chaucer, in the form of an invocation to Love, the tyrant:-- Bel semblant ço quit me feront Les cheitives qui a toi sont Qui s'ocistrent par druerie D'amor; mout voil lor compainie: D'amor me recomfortera La lasse Deïanira, Qui s'encroast, et Canacé, Eco, Scilla, Fillis, Pronné, Ero, Biblis, Dido, Mirra, Tisbé, la bele Hypermnestra, Et des autres mil et cinc cenz. Amor! por quoi ne te repenz De ces simples lasses destruire? Trop cruelment te voi deduire: Pechié feiz que n'en as pitié; Nuls deus fors toi ne fait pechié! De ço est Tisbé al dessus, Que por lié s'ocist Piramus; Amors, de ço te puet loer Car a ta cort siet o son per; Ero i est o Leander: Si jo i fusse avec Ider, Aise fusse, ço m'est avis, Com alme qu'est en paraïs.] The French romantic authors were scholars in the poetry of the Provençal School, but they also knew a good deal independently of their Provençal masters, and did not need to be told everything. They read the ancient authors for themselves, and drew their own conclusions from them. They were influenced by the special Provençal rendering of the common ideas of chivalry and courtesy; they were also affected immediately by the authors who influenced the Provençal School. Few things are more instructive in this part of literature than the story of Medea in the _Roman de Troie_ of Benoit de Sainte More. It might even claim to be the representative French romance, for it contains in an admirable form the two chief elements common to all the dominant school--adventure (here reduced from Ovid to the scale of a common fairy story, as has been seen already) and sentimental eloquence, which in this particular story is very near its original fountain-head. It is to be noted that Benoit is not in the least troubled by the Latin rhetoric when he has to get at the story. Nothing Latin, except the names, and nothing rhetorical remains to show that the story came from Ovid, and not from Blethericus or some other of his fellow-romancers in Wales,[86] so long, that is, as the story is merely concerned with the Golden Fleece, the Dragon, the Bulls, and all the tasks imposed on Jason. But one essential thing is retained by Benoit out of the Latin which is his authority, and that is the way in which the love of Medea for Jason is dwelt upon and described. [Footnote 86: Blethericus, or Bréri, is the Welsh authority cited by Thomas in his _Tristan_. Cf. Gaston Paris, _Romania_, viii. p. 427.] This is for medieval poetry one of the chief sources of the psychology in which it took delight,--an original and authoritative representation of the beginning and growth of the passion of love, not yet spoilt by the pedantry which later displayed itself unrestrained in the following generations of amatory poets, and which took its finest form in the poem of Guillaume de Lorris; but yet at the same time giving a starting-point and some encouragement to the later pedants, by its study of the different degrees of the passion, and by the success with which they are explained and made interesting. This is one of the masterpieces and one of the standards of composition in early French romance; and it gives one of the most singular proofs of the dependence of modern on ancient literature, in certain respects. It would not be easy to prove any real connexion between Homer and the Sagas, in order to explain the resemblances of temper, and even of incident, between them; but in the case of the medieval romances there is this direct and real dependence. The Medea of Apollonius Rhodius is at the beginning of medieval poetry, in one line of descent (through Virgil's Dido as well as Ovid's Medea); and it would be hard to overestimate the accumulated debt of all the modern poets whose rhetoric of passion, whether they knew it or not, is derived somehow from the earlier medieval masters of Dante or Chaucer, Boccaccio or Spenser. The "medieval" character of the work of Chrestien and his contemporaries is plain enough. But "medieval" and other terms of the same sort are too apt to impose themselves on the mind as complete descriptive formulas, and in this case the term "medieval" ought not to obscure the fact that it is modern literature, in one of its chief branches, which has its beginning in the twelfth century. No later change in the forms of fiction is more important than the twelfth-century revolution, from which all the later forms and constitutions of romance and novel are in some degree or other derived. It was this revolution, of which Chrestien was one of the first to take full advantage, that finally put an end to the old local and provincial restrictions upon narrative. The older schools of epic are bound to their own nation or tribe, and to the family traditions. These restrictions are no hindrance to the poetry of Homer, nor to the plots and conversations of the Sagas. Within these local restrictions the highest form of narrative art is possible. Nevertheless the period of these restrictions must come to an end; the heroic age cannot last for ever. The merit of the twelfth-century authors, Benoit, Chrestien, and their followers, is that they faced the new problems and solved them. In their productions it may be seen how the Western world was moving away from the separate national traditions, and beginning the course of modern civilisation with a large stock of ideas, subjects, and forms of expression common to all the nations. The new forms of story might be defective in many ways, thin or formal or extravagant in comparison with some of the older modes; but there was no help for it, there was no progress to be made in any other way. The first condition of modern progress in novel-writing, as in other more serious branches of learning, was that the author should be free to look about him, to reflect and choose, to pick up his ideas and his matter anyhow. He was turned out of the old limited region of epic tradition. The nations had several centuries to themselves, in the Dark Ages, in which they were at liberty to compose Homeric poems ("if they had a mind"), but by the twelfth century that time was over. The romancers of the twelfth century were in the same position as modern authors in regard to their choice of subjects. Their subjects were not prescribed to them by epic tradition. They were more or less reflective and self-conscious literary men, citizens of the universal world, ready to make the most of their education. They are the sophists of medieval literature; emancipated, enlightened and intelligent persons, with an apparatus of rhetoric, a set of abstract ideas, a repertory of abstract sentiments, which they could apply to any available subject. In this sophistical period, when the serious interest of national epic was lost, and when stories, collected from all the ends of the earth, were made the receptacles of a common, abstract, sentimental pathos, it was of some importance that the rhetoric should be well managed, and that the sentiment should be refined. The great achievement of the French poets, on account of which they are to be remembered as founders and benefactors, is that they went to good masters for instruction. Solid dramatic interpretation of character was beyond them, and they were not able to make much of the openings for dramatic contrast in the stories on which they worked. But they were caught and held by the language of passion, the language of Dido and Medea; language not dramatic so much as lyrical or musical, the expression of universal passion, such as might be repeated without much change in a thousand stories. In this they were happily guided. The greater drama, the stronger characters, appeared in due time; but the dramas and the novels of Europe would not have been what they are, without the medieval elaboration of the simple motives, and the practice of the early romantic schools in executing variations on Love and Jealousy. It may be remarked that there were sources more remote and even more august, above and beyond the Latin poets from whom the medieval authors copied their phrasing; in so far as the Latin poets were affected by Athenian tragedy, directly or indirectly, in their great declamatory passages, which in turn affected the Middle Ages. The history of this school has no end, for it merges in the history of the romantic schools that are still flourishing, and will be continued by their successors. One of the principal lines of progress may be indicated, to conclude this discourse on Epic Poetry. The twelfth-century romances are in most things the antithesis to Homer, in narrative. They are fanciful, conceited, thin in their drama, affected in their sentiments. They are like the "heroic romances" of the seventeenth century, their descendants, as compared with the strong imagination of Cervantes or Shakespeare, who are the representatives, if not of the Homeric line, at any rate of the Homeric principles, in their intolerance of the formally pathetic or heroic, and who have all the great modern novelists on their side. But the early romantic schools, though they are generally formal and sentimental, and not dramatic, have here and there the possibilities of a stronger drama and a truer imagination, and seem at times almost to have worked themselves free from their pedantry. There is sentiment and sentiment: and while the pathos of medieval romance, like some of the effusion of medieval lyric, is often merely formal repetition of phrases, it is sometimes more natural, and sometimes the mechanical fancy seems to quicken into true poetical vision, or at least to make room for a sane appreciation of real life and its incidents. Chrestien of Troyes shows his genius most unmistakably in his occasional surprising intervals of true description and natural feeling, in the middle of his rhetoric; while even his sustained rhetorical dissertations, like those of the _Roman de la Rose_ in the next century, are not absolutely untrue, or uncontrolled by observation of actual manners. Often the rhetorical apparatus interferes in the most annoying way with the clear vision. In the _Chevalier au Lion_, for example, there is a pretty sketch of a family party--a girl reading a romance to her father in a garden, and her mother coming up and listening to the story--from which there is a sudden and annoying change to the common impertinences of the amatory professional novelist. This is the passage, with the two kinds of literature in abrupt opposition:-- Messire Yvain goes into the garden, and his people follow; and he sees a goodly gentleman reclining on a cloth of silk and leaning on his elbow; and a maiden was sitting before him reading out of a romance, I know not whose the story. And to listen to the romance a lady had drawn near; that was her mother, and he was her father, and well might they be glad to look on her and listen to her, for they had no other child. She was not yet sixteen years old, and she was so fair and gentle that the God of Love if he had seen her would have given himself to be her slave, and never would have bestowed the love of her on any other than himself. For her sake, to serve her, he would have made himself man, would have put off his deity, and would have stricken himself with the dart whose wound is never healed, except a disloyal physician tend it. It is not right that any should recover from that wound, unless there be disloyalty in it; and whoever is otherwise healed, he never loved with loyalty. _Of this wound I could talk to you without end_, if it pleased you to listen; but I know that some would say that all my talk was idleness, for the world is fallen away from true love, and men know not any more how to love as they ought, for the very talk of love is a weariness to them! (ll. 5360-5396). This short passage is representative of Chrestien's work, and indeed of the most successful and influential work of the twelfth-century schools. It is not, like some affected kinds of romance, entirely cut off from reality. But the glimpses of the real world are occasional and short; there is a flash of pure daylight, a breath of fresh air, and then the heavy-laden, enchanted mists of rhetoric and obligatory sentiment come rolling down and shut out the view. It is possible to trace out in some detail a line of progress in medieval romance, in which there is a victory in the end for the more ingenuous kind of sentiment; in which the rhetorical romantic forms are altered and strengthened to bear the weight of true imagination. This line of progress is nothing less than the earlier life of all the great modern forms of novel; a part of European history which deserves some study from those who have leisure for it. The case may be looked at in this way. The romantic schools, following on the earlier heroic literature, generally substituted a more shallow, formal, limited set of characters for the larger and freer portraits of the heroic age, making up for this defect in the personages by extravagance in other respects--in the incidents, the phrasing, the sentimental pathos, the rhetorical conceits. The great advantage of the new school over the old was that it was adapted to modern cosmopolitan civilisation; it left the artist free to choose his subject anywhere, and to deal with it according to the laws of good society, without local or national restrictions. But the earlier work of this modern enlightenment in the Middle Ages was generally very formal, very meagre in imagination. The progress of literature was to fill out the romantic forms, and to gain for the new cosmopolitan schemes of fiction the same sort of substantial contents, the same command of human nature and its variety, as belong (with local or national restrictions) to some at any rate of the earlier epic authors. This being so, one of the interests of the study of medieval romance must be the discovery of those places in which it departs from its own dominant conventions, and seems to aim at something different from its own nature: at the recovery of the fuller life of epic for the benefit of romance. Epic fulness of life within the limits of romantic form--that might be said to be the ideal which is _not_ attained in the Middle Ages, but towards which many medieval writers seem to be making their way. Chrestien's story of _Geraint and Enid_ (Geraint has to take the name of _Erec_ in the French) is one of his earlier works, but cannot be called immature in comparison with what he wrote afterwards. In Chrestien's _Enid_ there is not a little superfluity of the common sort of adventure. The story of Enid in the _Idylls of the King_ (founded upon the Welsh _Geraint_, as given in Lady Charlotte Guest's _Mabinogion_) has been brought within compass, and a number of quite unnecessary adventures have been cut out. Yet the story here is the same as Chrestien's, and the drama of the story is not the pure invention of the English poet. Chrestien has all the principal motives, and the working out of the problem is the same. In one place, indeed, where the Welsh romance, the immediate source of Tennyson's _Enid_, has shortened the scene of reconciliation between the lovers, the Idyll has restored something like the proportions of the original French. Chrestien makes Erec speak to Enid and renounce all his ill-will, after the scene in which "the brute Earl" is killed; the Welsh story, with no less effect, allows the reconciliation to be taken for granted when Geraint, at this point in the history, with no speech of his reported, lifts Enid on his own horse. The Idyll goes back (apparently without any direct knowledge of Chrestien's version) to the method of Chrestien. The story of Enid in Chrestien is very unlike the other stories of distressed and submissive wives; it has none of the ineradicable falsity of the story of Griselda. How much is due to Chrestien for this can hardly be reckoned, in our ignorance of the materials he used. But taking into account the other passages, like that of the girl reading in the garden, where Chrestien shows a distinct original appreciation of certain aspects of life, it cannot be far wrong to consider Chrestien's picture of Enid as mainly his own; and, in any case, this picture is one of the finest in medieval romance. There is no comparison between Chrestien of Troyes and Homer, but it is not impious to speak of Enid along with Nausicaa, and there are few other ladies of romance who may claim as much as this. The adventure of the Sparrowhawk, one of the finest pieces of pure romance in the poetry of this century, is also one of the finest in the old French, and in many ways very unlike the commonplaces of chivalry, in the simplicity of the household where Enid waits on her father's guest and takes his horse to the stable, in the sincerity and clearness with which Chrestien indicates the gentle breeding and dignity of her father and mother, and the pervading spirit of grace and loyalty in the whole scene.[87] [Footnote 87: The Welsh version has the advantage here in noting more fully than Chrestien the beauty of age in Enid's mother: "And he thought that there could be no woman fairer than she must have been in the prime of her youth." Chrestien says merely (at the end of his story, l. 6621):-- Bele est Enide et bele doit Estre par reison et par droit, Que bele dame est mout sa mere Bel chevalier a an son pere.] In the story of Enid, Chrestien has a subject which recommends itself to modern readers. The misunderstanding between Enid and her husband, and the reconciliation, are not peculiarly medieval, though the adventures through which their history is worked out are of the ordinary romantic commonplace. Indeed the relation of husband and wife in this story is rather exceptionally divergent from the current romantic mode, and from the conventional law that true love between husband and wife was impossible. Afterwards, in his poem of _Lancelot_ (_le Chevalier de la Charrette_), Chrestien took up and worked out this conventional and pedantic theory, and made the love of Lancelot and the Queen into the standard for all courtly lovers. In his _Enid_, however, there is nothing of this. At the same time, the courtly and chivalrous mode gets the better of the central drama in his _Enid_, in so far as he allows himself to be distracted unduly from the pair of lovers by various "hyperboles" of the Romantic School; there are a number of unnecessary jousts and encounters, and a mysterious exploit of Erec in a magic garden, which is quite out of connexion with the rest of the story. The final impression is that Chrestien wanted strength of mind or inclination to concentrate himself on the drama of the two lovers. The story is taken too lightly. In _Cliges_, his next work, the dramatic situation is much less valuable than in _Enid_, but the workmanship is far more careful and exact, and the result is a story which may claim to be among the earliest of modern novels, if the Greek romances, to which it has a close relation, are not taken into account. The story has very little "machinery"; there are none of the marvels of the Faerie in it. There is a Thessalian witch (the heroine's nurse), who keeps well within the limits of possible witchcraft, and there is the incident of the sleeping-draught (familiar in the ballad of the _Gay Goshawk_), and that is all. The rest is a simple love-story (or rather a double love-story, for there is the history of the hero's father and mother, before his own begins), and the personages are merely true lovers, undistinguished by any such qualities as the sulkiness of Erec or the discretion of Enid. It is all pure sensibility, and as it happens the sensibility is in good keeping--not overdriven into the pedantry of the more quixotic troubadours and minnesingers, and not warped by the conventions against marriage. It is explained at the end that, though Cliges and Fenice are married, they are lovers still:-- De s'amie a feite sa fame, Mais il l'apele amie et dame, Que por ce ne pert ele mie Que il ne l'aint come s'amie, Et ele lui autresi Con l'an doit feire son ami: Et chascun jor lor amors crut, N'onques cil celi ne mescrut, Ne querela de nule chose. _Cliges_, l. 6753. This poem of Chrestien's is a collection of the finest specimens of medieval rhetoric on the eternal theme. There is little incident, and sensibility has it all its own way, in monologues by the actors and digressions by the author, on the nature of love. It is rather the sentiment than the passion that is here expressed in the "language of the heart"; but, however that may be, there are both delicacy and eloquence in the language. The pensive Fenice, who debates with herself for nearly two hundred lines in one place (4410-4574), is the ancestress of many later heroines. Meis Fenice est sor toz pansive; Ele ne trueve fonz ne rive El panser dont ele est anplie, Tant li abonde et mouteplie. _Cliges_, l. 4339. In the later works of Chrestien, in _Yvain_, _Lancelot_, and _Perceval_, there are new developments of romance, more particularly in the story of Lancelot and Guinevere. But these three later stories, unlike _Cliges_, are full of the British marvels, which no one would wish away, and yet they are encumbrances to what we must regard as the principal virtue of the poet--his skill of analysis in cases of sentiment, and his interest in such cases. _Cliges_, at any rate, however far it may come short of the _Chevalier de la Charrette_ and the _Conte du Graal_ in variety, is that one of Chrestien's poems, it might be said that one of the twelfth-century French romances, which best corresponds to the later type of novel. It is the most modern of them; and at the same time it does not represent its own age any the worse, because it also to some extent anticipates the fashions of later literature. In this kind of romance, which reduces the cost of the "machinery," and does without enchanters, dragons, magic mists, and deadly castles, there are many other examples besides _Cliges_. A hundred years after Chrestien, one of his cleverest pupils wrote the Provençal story of _Flamenca_,[88] a work in which the form of the novel is completely disengaged from the unnecessary accidents of romance, and reaches a kind of positive and modern clearness very much at variance in some respects with popular ideas of what is medieval. The Romance of the medieval Romantic School attains one of its highest and most distinctive points in _Flamenca_, and shows what it had been aiming at from the beginning--namely, the expression in an elegant manner of the ideas of the _Art of Love_, as understood in the polite society of those times. _Flamenca_ is nearly contemporary with the _Roman de la Rose_ of Guillaume de Lorris. Its inspiring ideas are the same, and though its influence on succeeding authors is indiscernible, where that of the _Roman de la Rose_ is widespread and enduring, _Flamenca_ would have as good a claim to be considered a representative masterpiece of medieval literature, if it were not that it appears to be breaking loose from medieval conventions where the _Roman de la Rose_ makes all it can out of them. _Flamenca_ is a simple narrative of society, with the indispensable three characters--the husband, the lady, and the lover. The scene of the story is principally at the baths of Bourbon, in the then present day; and of the miracles and adventures of the more marvellous and adventurous romances there is nothing left but the very pleasant enumeration of the names of favourite stories in the account of the minstrelsy at Flamenca's wedding. The author knew all that was to be known in romance, of Greek, Latin, or British invention--Thebes and Troy, Alexander and Julius Caesar, Samson and Judas Maccabeus, Ivain and Gawain and Perceval, Paris and Tristram, and all Ovid's _Legend of Good Women_--but out of all these studies he has retained only what suited his purpose. He does not compete with the Greek or the British champions in their adventures among the romantic forests. Chrestien of Troyes is his master, but he does not try to copy the magic of the Lady of the Fountain, or the Bridge of the Sword, or the Castle of the Grail. He follows the doctrine of love expounded in Chrestien's _Lancelot_, but his hero is not sent wandering at random, and is not made to display his courtly emotions among the ruins and shadows of the lost Celtic mythology, like Lancelot in Chrestien's poem. The life described in _Flamenca_ is the life of the days in which it was composed; and the hero's task is to disguise himself as a clerk, so as to get a word with the jealously-guarded lady in church on Sundays, while giving her the Psalter to kiss after the Mass. _Flamenca_, is really the triumph of Ovid, with the _Art of Love_, over all his Gothic competitors out of the fairy tales. The Provençal poet has discarded everything but the essential dominant interests, and in so doing has gone ahead of his master Chrestien, who (except in _Cliges_) allowed himself to be distracted between opposite kinds of story, between the school of Ovid and the school of Blethericus; and who, even in _Cliges_, was less consistently modern than his Provençal follower. [Footnote 88: Ed. Paul Meyer, 1865, and, again, 1901.] _Flamenca_ is the perfection and completion of medieval romance in one kind and in one direction. It is all sentiment; the ideal courtly sentiment of good society and its poets, made lively by the author's knowledge of his own time and its manners, and his decision not to talk about anything else. It is perhaps significant that he allows his heroine the romance of _Flores and Blanchefleur_ for her reading, an older story of true lovers, after the simpler pattern of Greek romance, which the author of _Flamenca_ apparently feels himself entitled to refer to with the condescension of a modern and critical author towards some old-fashioned prettiness. He is completely self-possessed and ironical with regard to his story. His theme is the idle love whose origin is explained by Ovid; his personages are nothing to him but the instruments of the symphony which he composes and directs: _sopra lor vanità che par persona_, over and through their graceful inanity, passes the stream of sentiment, the shifting, flickering light which the Provençal author has borrowed from Ovid and transferred for his own purposes to his own time. It is perhaps the first complete modern appropriation of classical examples in literary art; for the poem of _Flamenca_ is classical in more than one sense of the term--classical, not only because of its comprehension of the spirit of the Latin poet and his code of manners and sentiment, but because of its clear proportions and its definite abstract lines of composition; because of the self-possession of the author and his subordination of details and rejection of irrelevances. Many things are wanting to _Flamenca_ which it did not suit the author to bring in. It was left to other greater writers to venture on other and larger schemes with room for more strength and individuality of character, and more stress of passion, still keeping the romantic framework which had been designed by the masters of the twelfth century, and also very much of the sentimental language which the same masters had invented and elaborated. The story of the _Chastelaine de Vergi_[89] (dated by its editor between 1282 and 1288) is an example of a different kind from _Flamenca_; still abstract in its personages, still sentimental, but wholly unlike _Flamenca_ in the tragic stress of its sentiment and in the pathos of its incidents. There is no plot in _Flamenca_, or only just enough to display the author's resources of eloquence; in the _Chastelaine de Vergi_ there is no rhetorical expansion or effusion, but instead of that the coherent closely-reasoned argument of a romantic tragedy, with nothing in it out of keeping with the conditions of "real life." It is a moral example to show the disastrous result of breaking the first law of chivalrous love, which enjoins loyal secrecy on the lover; the tragedy in this case arises from the strong compulsion of honour under which the commandment is transgressed. [Footnote 89: Ed. G. Raynaud, _Romania_, xxi. p. 145.] There was a knight who was the lover of the Chastelaine de Vergi, unknown to all the world. Their love was discovered by the jealous machinations of the Duchess of Burgundy, whom the knight had neglected. The Duchess made use of her knowledge to insult the Chastelaine; the Chastelaine died of a broken heart at the thought that her lover had betrayed her; the knight found her dead, and threw himself on his sword to make amends for his unwilling disloyalty. Even a summary like this may show that the plot has capabilities and opportunities in it; and though the scheme of the short story does not allow the author to make use of them in the full detailed manner of the great novelists, he understands what he is about, and his work is a very fine instance of sensitive and clearly-executed medieval narrative, which has nothing to learn (in its own kind, and granting the conditions assumed by the author) from any later fiction. The story of the _Lady of Vergi_ was known to Boccaccio, and was repeated both by Bandello and by Queen Margaret of Navarre. It is time to consider how the work of the medieval romantic schools was taken up and continued by many of the most notable writers of the period which no longer can be called medieval, in which modern literature makes a new and definite beginning; especially in the works of the two modern poets who have done most to save and adapt the inheritance of medieval romance for modern forms of literature--Boccaccio and Chaucer. The development of romance in these authors is not always and in all respects a gain. Even the pathetic stories of the _Decameron_ (such as the _Pot of Basil_, _Tancred and Gismunda_, _William of Cabestaing_) seem to have lost something by the adoption of a different kind of grammar, a more learned rhetoric, in comparison with the best of the simple French stories, like the _Chastelaine de Vergi_. This is the case in a still greater degree where Boccaccio has allowed himself a larger scale, as in his version of the old romance of _Flores and Blanchefleur_ (_Filocolo_), while his _Teseide_ might be taken as the first example in modern history of the pernicious effect of classical studies. The _Teseide_ is the story of Palamon and Arcita. The original is lost, but it evidently was a French romance, probably not a long one; one of the favourite well-defined cases or problems of love, easily understood as soon as stated, presenting the rivalry of the two noble kinsmen for the love of the lady Emily. It might have been made into one of the stories of the _Decameron_, but Boccaccio had other designs for it. He wished to write a classical epic in twelve books, and not very fortunately chose this simple theme as the groundwork of his operations. The _Teseide_ is the first of the solemn row of modern epics; "reverend and divine, abiding without motion, shall we say that they have being?" Everything is to be found in the _Teseide_ that the best classical traditions require in epic--Olympian machinery, catalogues of armies, descriptions of works of art to compete with the Homeric and Virgilian shields, elaborate battles, and epic similes, and funeral games. Chaucer may have been at one time tempted by all this magnificence; his final version of the story, in the _Knight's Tale_, is a proof among other things of his critical tact. He must have recognised that the _Teseide_, with all its ambition and its brilliancy of details, was a failure as a story; that this particular theme, at any rate, was not well fitted to carry the epic weight. These personages of romance were not in training for the heavy classical panoply. So he reduced the story of Palamon and Arcita to something not very different from what must have been its original scale as a romance. His modifications of Boccaccio here are a lesson in the art of narrative which can hardly be overvalued by students of that mystery. Chaucer's procedure in regard to his romantic subjects is often very difficult to understand. How firm and unwavering his critical meditations and calculations were may be seen by a comparison of the _Knight's Tale_ with its Italian source. At other times and in other stories he appears to have worked on different principles, or without much critical study at all. The _Knight's Tale_ is a complete and perfect version of a medieval romance, worked out with all the resources of Chaucer's literary study and reflexion; tested and considered and corrected in every possible way. The story of _Constance_ (the _Man of Law's Tale_) is an earlier work in which almost everything is lacking that is found in the mere workmanship of the _Knight's Tale_; though not, of course, the humanity, the pathos, of Chaucer. The story of _Constance_ appears to have been taken by Chaucer from one of the least artificial specimens of medieval romance, the kind of romance that worked up in a random sort of way the careless sequence of incidents in a popular traditional tale. Just as the tellers of the stories in Campbell's _Highland Tales_, and other authentic collections, make no scruple about proportion where their memory happens to fail them or their irrelevant fancy to distract them, but go on easily, dropping out a symmetrical adventure here and there, and repeating a favourite "machine" if necessary or unnecessary; so the story of _Constance_ forgets and repeats itself. The voice is the voice of Chaucer, and so are the thoughts, but the order or disorder of the story is that of the old wives' tales when the old wives are drowsy. All the principal situations occur twice over; twice the heroine is persecuted by a wicked mother-in-law, twice sent adrift in a rudderless boat, twice rescued from a churl, and so on. In this story the poetry of Chaucer appears as something almost independent of the structure of the plot; there has been no such process of design and reconstruction as in the _Knight's Tale_. It is almost as strange to find Chaucer in other stories, as in the _Franklin's Tale_ and the _Clerk's Tale_, putting up with the most abstract medieval conventions of morality; the Point of Honour in the _Franklin's Tale_, and the unmitigated virtue of Griselda, are hopelessly opposed to anything like dramatic truth, and very far inferior as motives to the ethical ideas of many stories of the twelfth century. The truth of _Enid_ would have given no opportunity for the ironical verses in which Chaucer takes his leave of the Clerk of Oxford and his heroine. In these romances Chaucer leaves some old medieval difficulties unresolved and unreconciled, without attempting to recast the situation as he found it in his authorities, or to clear away the element of unreason in it. He takes the framework as he finds it, and embroiders his poetry over it, leaving an obvious discrepancy between his poetry and its subject-matter. In some other stories, as in the _Legend of Good Women_, and the tale of Virginia, he is content with pathos, stopping short of vivid drama. In the _Knight's Tale_ he seems to have deliberately chosen a compromise between the pathetic mood of pure romance and a fuller dramatic method; he felt, apparently, that while the contrast between the two rivals admitted of drama, the position of the lady Emily in the story was such as to prevent a full dramatic rendering of all the characters. The plot required that the lady Emily should be left without much share of her own in the action. The short and uncompleted poem of _Anelida_ gains in significance and comes into its right place in Chaucer's works, when it is compared with such examples of the older school as the _Chastelaine de Vergi_. It is Chaucer's essay in that delicate abstract fashion of story which formed one of the chief accomplishments of the French Romantic School. It is his acknowledgment of his debt to the artists of sensibility, the older French authors, "that can make of sentiment," and it proves, like all his writings, how quick he was to save all he could from the teaching of his forerunners, for the profit of "that fair style that has brought him honour." To treat a simple problem, or "case," of right and wrong in love, was a favourite task of medieval courtly poetry, narrative and lyric. Chaucer in his _Anelida_ takes up this old theme again, treating it in a form between narrative and lyric, with the pure abstract melody that gives the mood of the actors apart from any dramatic individuality. He is one of the Extractors of Quintessence, and his _Anelida_ is the formal spirit, impalpable yet definite, of the medieval courtly romance. It is not here, but in a poem the opposite of this in fulness and richness of drama, that Chaucer attains a place for himself above all other authors as the poet who saw what was needed to transform medieval romance out of its limitations into a new kind of narrative. Chaucer's _Troilus and Criseyde_ is the poem in which medieval romance passes out of itself into the form of the modern novel. What Cervantes and what Fielding did was done first by Chaucer; and this was the invention of a kind of story in which life might be represented no longer in a conventional or abstract manner, or with sentiment and pathos instead of drama, but with characters adapting themselves to different circumstances, no longer obviously breathed upon by the master of the show to convey his own ideas, but moving freely and talking like men and women. The romance of the Middle Ages comes to an end, in one of the branches of the family tree, by the production of a romance that has all the freedom of epic, that comprehends all good and evil, and excludes nothing as common or unclean which can be made in any way to strengthen the impression of life and variety. Chaucer was not tempted by the phantasm of the Epic Poem like Boccaccio, and like so many of the great and wise in later generations. The substance of Epic, since his time, has been appropriated by certain writers of history, as Fielding has explained in his lectures on that science in _Tom Jones_. The first in the line of these modern historians is Chaucer with his _Troilus and Criseyde_, and the wonder still is as great as it was for Sir Philip Sidney:-- Chaucer undoubtedly did excellently in his _Troylus_ and _Cresseid_; of whom, truly I know not whether to mervaile more, either that he in that mistie time could see so clearely, or that wee in this cleare age walke so stumblingly after him. His great work grew out of the French Romantic School. The episode of Troilus and Briseide in Benoit's _Roman de Troie_ is one of the best passages in the earlier French romance; light and unsubstantial like all the work of that School, but graceful, and not untrue. It is all summed up in the monologue of Briseide at the end of her story (l. 20,308):-- Dex donge bien a Troylus! Quant nel puis amer ne il mei A cestui[90] me done et otrei. Molt voldreie aveir cel talent Que n'eüsse remembrement Des ovres faites d'en arriere: Ço me fait mal à grant manière! [Footnote 90: _i.e._ Diomede.] Boccaccio took up this story, from the Latin version of the Tale of Troy, the _Historia Trojana_ of Guido. His _Filostrato_ is written on a different plan from the _Teseide_; it is one of his best works. He did not make it into an epic poem; the _Filostrato_, Boccaccio's _Troilus and Cressida_, is a romance, differing from the older French romantic form not in the design of the story, but in the new poetical diction in which it is composed, and its new poetical ideas. There is no false classicism in it, as there is in his _Palamon and Arcita_; it is a novel of his own time, a story of the _Decameron_, only written at greater length, and in verse. Chaucer, the "great translator," took Boccaccio's poem and treated it in his own way, not as he had dealt with the _Teseide_. The _Teseide_, because there was some romantic improbability in the story, he made into a romance. The story of Troilus he saw was strong enough to bear a stronger handling, and instead of leaving it a romance, graceful and superficial as it is in Boccaccio, he deepened it and filled it with such dramatic imagination and such variety of life as had never been attained before his time by any romancer; and the result is a piece of work that leaves all romantic convention behind. The _Filostrato_ of Boccaccio is a story of light love, not much more substantial, except in its new poetical language, than the story of _Flamenca_. In Chaucer the passion of Troilus is something different from the sentiment of romance; the changing mind of Cressida is represented with an understanding of the subtlety and the tragic meaning of that life which is "Time's fool." Pandarus is the other element. In Boccaccio he is a personage of the same order as Troilus and Cressida; they all might have come out of the Garden of the _Decameron_, and there is little to choose between them. Chaucer sets him up with a character and a philosophy of his own, to represent the world outside of romance. The Comic Genius claims a share in the tragedy, and the tragedy makes room for him, because the tragic personages, "Tragic Comedians" as they are, can bear the strain of the contrast. The selection of personages and motives is made in another way in the romantic schools, but this poem of Chaucer's is not romance. It is the fulfilment of the prophecy of Socrates, just before Aristophanes and the tragic poet had to be put to bed at the end of the _Symposium_, that the best author of tragedy is the best author of comedy also. It is the freedom of the imagination, beyond all the limits of partial and conventional forms. NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS APPENDIX NOTE A (p. 133) _Rhetoric of the Western and Northern Alliterative Poems_ Any page of the Anglo-Saxon poets, and of the "Elder Edda," will show the difference between the "continuous" and the "discrete"--the Western and the Northern--modes of the alliterative verse. It may be convenient to select some passages here for reference. (1) As an example of the Western style ("the sense variously drawn out from one verse to another"), the speech of the "old warrior" stirring up vengeance for King Froda (_Beowulf_, l. 2041 _sq._; see above, p. 70):-- þonne cwið æt beore se ðe beah gesyhð, eald æscwiga, se ðe eall geman garcwealm gumena (him bið grim sefa) onginneð geomormod geongum cempan þurh hreðra gehygd higes cunnian, wigbealu weccean, ond þæt word acwyð: "Meaht ðu, min wine, mece gecnawan, þone þin fæder to gefeohte bær under heregriman, hindeman siðe, dyre iren, þær hine Dene slogon, weoldon wælstowe, syððan Wiðergyld læg æfter hæleþa hryre, hwate Scyldingas? Nu her þara banena byre nathwylces, frætwum hremig, on flet gæð, mordres gylpeð ond þone maðþum byreð þone þe þu mid rihte rædan sceoldest!" (The "old warrior"--no less a hero than Starkad himself, according to Saxo--bears a grudge on account of the slaying of Froda, and cannot endure the reconciliation that has been made. He sees the reconciled enemies still wearing the spoils of war, arm-rings, and even Froda's sword, and addresses Ingeld, Froda's son):-- Over the ale he speaks, seeing the ring, the old warrior, that remembers all, the spear-wrought slaying of men (his thought is grim), with sorrow at heart begins with the young champion, in study of mind to make trial of his valour, to waken the havoc of war, and thus he speaks: "Knowest thou, my lord? nay, well thou knowest the falchion that thy father bore to the fray, wearing his helmet of war, in that last hour, the blade of price, where the Danes him slew, and kept the field, when Withergyld was brought down after the heroes' fall; yea, the Danish princes slew him! See now, a son of one or other of the men of blood, glorious in apparel, goes through the hall, boasts of the stealthy slaying, and bears the goodly heirloom that thou of right shouldst have and hold!" (2) The Northern arrangement, with "the sense concluded in the couplet," is quite different from the Western style. There is no need to quote more than a few lines. The following passage is from the last scene of _Helgi and Sigrun_ (_C.P.B._, i. p. 143; see p. 72 above--"Yet precious are the draughts," etc.):-- Vel skolom drekka dýrar veigar þótt misst hafim munar ok landa: skal engi maðr angr-lióð kveða, þótt mer á briósti benjar líti. Nú ero brúðir byrgðar í haugi, lofða dísir, hjá oss liðnom. The figure of _Anadiplosis_ (or the "Redouble," as it is called in the _Arte of English Poesie_) is characteristic of a certain group of Northern poems. See the note on this, with references, in _C.P.B._, i. p. 557. The poems in which this device appears are the poems of the heroines (Brynhild, Gudrun, Oddrun), the heroic idylls of the North. In these poems the repetition of a phrase, as in the Greek pastoral poetry and its descendants, has the effect of giving solemnity to the speech, and slowness of movement to the line. So in the _Long Lay of Brynhild_ (_C.P.B._, i. p. 296):-- svárar sifjar, svarna eiða, eiða svarna, unnar trygðir; and (_ibid._)-- hann vas fyr utan eiða svarna, eiða svarna, unnar trygðir; and in the _Old Lay of Gudrun_ (_C.P.B._, i. p. 319)-- Hverr vildi mer hnossir velja hnossir velja, ok hugat mæla. There are other figures which have the same effect:-- Gott es at ráða Rínar malmi, ok unandi auði styra, ok sitjandi sælo nióta. _C.P.B._, i. p. 296. But apart from these emphatic forms of phrasing, all the sentences are so constructed as to coincide with the divisions of the lines, whereas in the Western poetry, Saxon and Anglo-Saxon, the phrases are made to cut across the lines, the sentences having their own limits, independent of the beginnings and endings of the verses. NOTE B (p. 205) _The Meeting of Kjartan and King Olaf Tryggvason_ (_Laxdæla Saga_, c. 40) Kjartan rode with his father east from Hjardarholt, and they parted in Northwaterdale; Kjartan rode on to the ship, and Bolli, his kinsman, went along with him. There were ten men of Iceland all together that followed Kjartan out of goodwill; and with this company he rides to the harbour. Kalf Asgeirsson welcomes them all. Kjartan and Bolli took a rich freight with them. So they made themselves ready to sail, and when the wind was fair they sailed out and down the Borg firth with a gentle breeze and good, and so out to sea. They had a fair voyage, and made the north of Norway, and so into Throndheim. There they asked for news, and it was told them that the land had changed its masters; Earl Hacon was gone, and King Olaf Tryggvason come, and the whole of Norway had fallen under his sway. King Olaf was proclaiming a change of law; men did not take it all in the same way. Kjartan and his fellows brought their ship into Nidaros. At that time there were in Norway many Icelanders who were men of reputation. There at the wharves were lying three ships all belonging to men of Iceland: one to Brand the Generous, son of Vermund Thorgrimsson; another to Hallfred the Troublesome Poet; the third ship was owned by two brothers, Bjarni and Thorhall, sons of Skeggi, east in Fleetlithe,--all these men had been bound for Iceland in the summer, but the king had arrested the ships because these men would not accept the faith that he was proclaiming. Kjartan was welcomed by them all, and most of all by Brand, because they had been well acquainted earlier. The Icelanders all took counsel together, and this was the upshot, that they bound themselves to refuse the king's new law. Kjartan and his mates brought in their ship to the quay, and fell to work to land their freight. King Olaf was in the town; he hears of the ship's coming, and that there were men in it of no small account. It fell out on a bright day in harvest-time that Kjartan's company saw a number of men going to swim in the river Nith. Kjartan said they ought to go too, for the sport; and so they did. There was one man of the place who was far the best swimmer. Kjartan says to Bolli: "Will you try your swimming against this townsman?" Bolli answers: "I reckon that is more than my strength." "I know not what is become of your hardihood," says Kjartan; "but I will venture it myself." "That you may, if you please," says Bolli. Kjartan dives into the river, and so out to the man that swam better than all the rest; him he takes hold of and dives under with him, and holds him under for a time, and then lets him go. After that they swam for a little, and then the stranger takes Kjartan and goes under with him, and holds him under, none too short a time, as it seemed to Kjartan. Then they came to the top, but there were no words between them. They dived together a third time, and were down longer than before. Kjartan thought it hard to tell how the play would end; it seemed to him that he had never been in so tight a place in his life. However, they come up at last, and strike out for the land. Then says the stranger: "Who may this man be?" Kjartan told his name. The townsman said: "You are a good swimmer; are you as good at other sports as at this?" Kjartan answers, but not very readily: "When I was in Iceland it was thought that my skill in other things was much of a piece; but now there is not much to be said about it." The townsman said: "It may make some difference to know with whom you have been matched; why do you not ask?" Kjartan said: "I care nothing for your name." The townsman says: "For one thing you are a good man of your hands, and for another you bear yourself otherwise than humbly; none the less shall you know my name and with whom you have been swimming; I am Olaf Tryggvason, the king." Kjartan makes no answer, and turns to go away. He had no cloak, but a coat of scarlet cloth. The king was then nearly dressed. He called to Kjartan to wait a little; Kjartan turned and came back, rather slowly. Then the king took from his shoulders a rich cloak and gave it to Kjartan, saying he should not go cloakless back to his men. Kjartan thanks the king for his gift, and goes to his men and shows them the cloak. They did not take it very well, but thought he had allowed the king too much of a hold on him. Things were quiet for a space; the weather began to harden with frost and cold. The heathen men said it was no wonder they had ill weather that autumn; it was all the king's newfangledness and the new law that had made the gods angry. The Icelanders were all together that winter in the town; and Kjartan took the lead among them. In time the weather softened, and men came in numbers to the town at the summons of King Olaf. Many men had taken the Christian faith in Throndheim, but those were more in number who were against it. One day the king held an assembly in the town, out on the point of Eyre, and declared the Faith with many eloquent words. The Thronds had a great multitude there, and offered battle to the king on the spot. The king said they should know that he had fought against greater powers than to think of scuffling with clowns in Throndheim. Then the yeomen were cowed, and gave in wholly to the king, and many men were christened; then the assembly broke up. That same evening the king sends men to the Icelanders' inn to observe and find out how they talked. When the messengers came there, there was a loud sound of voices within. Kjartan spoke, and said to Bolli: "Kinsman, are you willing to take this faith of the king's?" "I am not," says Bolli, "for it seems to me a feeble, pithless thing." Says Kjartan: "Seemed the king to you to have no threats for those that refused to accept his will?" Says Bolli: "Truly the king seemed to us to come out clearly and leave no shadow on that head, that they should have hard measure dealt them." "No man's underling will I be," says Kjartan, "while I can keep my feet and handle a sword; it seems to me a pitiful thing to be taken thus like a lamb out of the pen, or a fox out of the trap. I hold it a far better choice, if one must die, to do something first that shall be long talked of after." "What will you do?" says Bolli. "I will not make a secret of it," says Kjartan; "burn the king's house, and the king in it." "I call that no mean thing to do," says Bolli; "but yet it will not be, for I reckon that the king has no small grace and good luck along with him; and he keeps a strong watch day and night." Kjartan said that courage might fail the stoutest man; Bolli answered that it was still to be tried whose courage would hold out longest. Then many broke in and said that this talk was foolishness; and when the king's spies had heard so much, they went back to the king and told him how the talk had gone. On the morrow the king summons an assembly; and all the Icelanders were bidden to come. When all were met, the king stood up and thanked all men for their presence, those who were willing to be his friends and had taken the Faith. Then he fell to speech with the Icelanders. The king asks if they will be christened. They make little sound of agreement to that. The king said that they might make a choice that would profit them less. "Which of you was it that thought it convenient to burn me in my house?" Then says Kjartan: "You think that he will not have the honesty to confess it, he that said this. But here you may see him." "See thee I may," says the king, "and a man of no mean imagination; yet it is not in thy destiny to see my head at thy feet. And good enough cause might I have to stay thee from offering to burn kings in their houses in return for their good advice; but because I know not how far thy thought went along with thy words, and because of thy manly declaration, thou shalt not lose thy life for this; it may be that thou wilt hold the Faith better, as thou speakest against it more than others. I can see, too, that it will bring the men of all the Iceland ships to accept the Faith the same day that thou art christened of thine own free will. It seems to me also like enough that thy kinsmen and friends in Iceland will listen to what thou sayest when thou art come out thither again. It is not far from my thought that thou, Kjartan, mayst have a better Faith when thou sailest from Norway than when thou camest hither. Go now all in peace and liberty whither you will from this meeting; you shall not be penned into Christendom; for it is the word of God that He will not have any come to Him save in free will." There was much approval of this speech of the king's, yet chiefly from the Christians; the heathen men left it to Kjartan to answer as he would. Then said Kjartan: "We will thank you, Sir, for giving us your peace; this more than anything would draw us to accept your Faith, that you renounce all grounds of enmity and speak gently altogether, though you have our whole fortunes in your hand to-day. And this is in my mind, only to accept the Faith in Norway if I may pay some small respect to Thor next winter when I come to Iceland." Then answered the king, smiling: "It is well seen from the bearing of Kjartan that he thinks he has better surety in his strength and his weapons than there where Thor and Odin are." After that the assembly broke up. NOTE C (p. 257) _Eyjolf Karsson_: an Episode in the History of Bishop Gudmund Arason, A.D. 1222 (from _Arons Saga Hjörleifssonar_, c. 8, printed in _Biskupa Sögur_, i., and in _Sturlunga_, ii. pp. 312-347). [Eyjolf Karsson and Aron stood by Bishop Gudmund in his troubles, and followed him out to his refuge in the island of Grimsey, lying off the north coast of Iceland, about 30 miles from the mouth of Eyjafirth. There the Bishop was attacked by the Sturlungs, Sighvat (brother of Snorri Sturluson) and his son Sturla. His men were out-numbered; Aron was severely wounded. This chapter describes how Eyjolf managed to get his friend out of danger and how he went back himself and was killed.] Now the story turns to Eyjolf and Aron. When many of Eyjolf's men were down, and some had run to the church, he took his way to the place where Aron and Sturla had met, and there he found Aron sitting with his weapons, and all about were lying dead men and wounded. It is reckoned that nine men must have lost their lives there. Eyjolf asks his cousin whether he can move at all. Aron says that he can, and stands on his feet; and now they go both together for a while by the shore, till they come to a hidden bay; there they saw a boat ready floating, with five or six men at the oars, and the bow to sea. This was Eyjolf's arrangement, in case of sudden need. Now Eyjolf tells Aron that he means the boat for both of them; giving out that he sees no hope of doing more for the Bishop at that time. "But I look for better days to come," says Eyjolf. "It seems a strange plan to me," says Aron; "for I thought that we should never part from Bishop Gudmund in this distress; there is something behind this, and I vow that I will not go unless you go first on board." "That I will not, cousin," says Eyjolf; "for it is shoal water here, and I will not have any of the oarsmen leave his oar to shove her off; and it is far too much for you to go afoot with wounds like yours. You will have to go on board." "Well, put your weapons in the boat," says Aron, "and I will believe you." Aron now goes on board; and Eyjolf did as Aron asked him. Eyjolf waded after, pushing the boat, for the shallows went far out. And when he saw the right time come, Eyjolf caught up a battle-axe out of the stern of the boat, and gave a shove to the boat with all his might. "Good-bye, Aron," says Eyjolf; "we shall meet again when God pleases." And since Aron was disabled with wounds, and weary with loss of blood, it had to be even so; and this parting was a grief to Aron, for they saw each other no more. Now Eyjolf spoke to the oarsmen and told them to row hard, and not to let Aron come back to Grimsey that day, and not for many a day if they could help it. They row away with Aron in their boat; but Eyjolf turns to the shore again and to a boat-house with a large ferry-boat in it, that belonged to the goodman Gnup. And at the same nick of time he sees the Sturlung company come tearing down from the garth, having finished their mischief there. Eyjolf takes to the boat-house, with his mind made up to defend it as long as his doom would let him. There were double doors to the boat-house, and he puts heavy stones against them. Brand, one of Sighvat's followers, a man of good condition, caught a glimpse of a man moving, and said to his companions that he thought he had made out Eyjolf Karsson there, and they ought to go after him. Sturla was not on the spot; there were nine or ten together. So they come to the boat-house. Brand asks who is there, and Eyjolf says it is he. "Then you will please to come out and come before Sturla," says Brand. "Will you promise me quarter?" says Eyjolf. "There will be little of that," says Brand. "Then it is for you to come on," says Eyjolf, "and for me to guard; and it seems to me the shares are ill divided." Eyjolf had a coat of mail, and a great axe, and that was all. Now they came at him, and he made a good and brave defence; he cut their pike-shafts through; there were stout strokes on both sides. And in that bout Eyjolf breaks his axe-heft, and catches up an oar, and then another, and both break with his blows. And in this bout Eyjolf gets a thrust under his arm, and it came home. Some say that he broke the shaft from the spear-head, and let it stay in the wound. He sees now that his defence is ended. Then he made a dash out, and got through them, before they knew. They were not expecting this; still they kept their heads, and a man named Mar cut at him and caught his ankle, so that his foot hung crippled. With that he rolls down the beach, and the sea was at the flood. In such plight as he was in, Eyjolf set to and swam; and swimming he came twelve fathoms from shore to a shelf of rock, and knelt there; and then he fell full length upon the earth, and spread his hands from him, turning to the East as if to pray. Now they launch the boat, and go after him. And when they came to the rock, a man drove a spear into him, and then another, but no blood flowed from either wound. So they turn to go ashore, and find Sturla and tell him the story plainly how it had all fallen out. Sturla held, and other men too, that this had been a glorious defence. He showed that he was pleased at the news. NOTE D (p. 360) _Two Catalogues of Romances_ There are many references to books and cycles of romance in medieval literature--minstrels' enumerations of their stock-in-trade, and humorous allusions like those of Sir Thopas, and otherwise. There are two passages, among others, which seem to do their best to cover the whole ground, or at least to exemplify all the chief groups. One of these is that referred to in the text, from _Flamenca_; the other is to be found, much later, in the _Complaint of Scotland_ (1549). I. FLAMENCA (ll. 609-701) Qui volc ausir diverses comtes De reis, de marques e de comtes, Auzir ne poc tan can si volc; Anc null' aurella non lai colc, Quar l'us comtet de Priamus, E l'autre diz de Piramus; L'us contet de la bell'Elena Com Paris l'enquer, pois l'anmena; L'autres comtava d'Ulixes, L'autre d'Ector et d'Achilles; L'autre comtava d'Eneas, E de Dido consi remas Per lui dolenta e mesquina; L'autre comtava de Lavina Con fes lo breu el cairel traire A la gaita de l'auzor caire; L'us contet d'Apollonices De Tideu e d'Etidiocles; L'autre comtava d'Apolloine Comsi retenc Tyr de Sidoine; L'us comtet del rei Alexandri L'autre d'Ero et de Leandri; L'us dis de Catmus quan fugi Et de Tebas con las basti, L'autre contava de Jason E del dragon que non hac son; L'us comte d'Alcide sa forsa, L'autre con tornet en sa forsa Phillis per amor Demophon; L'us dis com neguet en la fon Lo bels Narcis quan s'i miret; L'us dis de Pluto con emblet Sa bella moillier ad Orpheu; L'autre comtet del Philisteu Golias, consi fon aucis Ab treis peiras quel trais David; L'us diz de Samson con dormi, Quan Dalidan liet la cri; L'autre comtet de Machabeu Comen si combatet per Dieu; L'us comtet de Juli Cesar Com passet tot solet la mar, E no i preguet Nostre Senor Que nous cujes agues paor; L'us diz de la Taula Redonda Que no i venc homs que noil responda Le reis segon sa conoissensa, Anc nuil jorn ne i failli valensa; L'autre comtava de Galvain, E del leo que fon compain Del cavallier qu'estors Luneta; L'us diz de la piucella breta Con tenc Lancelot en preiso Cant de s'amor li dis de no; L'autre comtet de Persaval Co venc a la cort a caval; L'us comtet d'Erec e d'Enida, L'autre d'Ugonet de Perida; L'us comtava de Governail Com per Tristan ac grieu trebail, L'autre comtava de Feniza Con transir la fes sa noirissa L'us dis del Bel Desconogut E l'autre del vermeil escut Que l'yras trobet a l'uisset; L'autre comtava de Guiflet; L'us comtet de Calobrenan, L'autre dis con retenc un an Dins sa preison Quec senescal Lo deliez car li dis mal; L'autre comtava de Mordret; L'us retrais lo comte Duret Com fo per los Ventres faiditz E per Rei Pescador grazits; L'us comtet l'astre d'Ermeli, L'autre dis com fan l'Ancessi Per gein lo Veil de la Montaina; L'us retrais con tenc Alamaina Karlesmaines tro la parti, De Clodoveu e de Pipi Comtava l'us tota l'istoria; L'autre dis con cazec de gloria Donz Lucifers per son ergoil; L'us diz del vallet de Nantoil, L'autre d'Oliveir de Verdu. L'us dis lo vers de Marcabru, L'autre comtet con Dedalus Saup ben volar, et d'Icarus Co neguet per sa leujaria. Cascus dis lo mieil que sabia. Per la rumor dels viuladors E per brug d'aitans comtadors Hac gran murmuri per la sala. The allusions are explained by the editor, M. Paul Meyer. The stories are as follows: Priam, Pyramus, Helen, Ulysses, Hector, Achilles, Dido, Lavinia (how she sent her letter with an arrow over the sentinel's head, _Roman d'Eneas_, l. 8807, _sq._), Polynices, Tydeus, and Eteocles; Apollonius of Tyre; Alexander; Hero and Leander; Cadmus of Thebes; Jason and the sleepless Dragon; Hercules; Demophoon and Phyllis (a hard passage); Narcissus; Pluto and the wife of Orpheus ("Sir Orfeo"); David and Goliath; Samson and Dalila; Judas Maccabeus; Julius Caesar; the Round Table, and how the king had an answer for all who sought him; Gawain and Yvain ("of the lion that was companion of the knight whom Lunete rescued"[91]); of the British maiden who kept Lancelot imprisoned when he refused her love; of Perceval, how he rode into hall; Ugonet de Perida (?); Governail, the loyal comrade of Tristram; Fenice and the sleeping-draught (Chrestien's _Cliges_, see p. 357, above); Guinglain ("Sir Libeaus)"; Chrestien's _Chevalier de la Charrette_ ("how the herald found the red shield at the entry," an allusion explained by M. Gaston Paris, in _Romania_, xvi. p. 101), Guiflet, Calobrenan, Kay punished for his railing accusations; Mordred; how the Count Duret was dispossessed by the Vandals and welcomed by the Fisher King (?); the luck of Hermelin (?); the Old Man of the Mountain and his Assassins; the Wars of Charlemagne; Clovis and Pepin of France; the Fall of Lucifer; Gui de Nanteuil; Oliver of Verdun; the Flight of Daedalus, and how Icarus was drowned through his vanity. The songs of Marcabrun, the troubadour, find a place in the list among the stories. [Footnote 91: In a somewhat similar list of romances, in the Italian poem of _L'Intelligenza_, ascribed to Dino Compagni (st. 75), Luneta is named Analida; possibly the origin of Chaucer's Anelida, a name which has not been clearly traced.] The author of _Flamenca_ has arranged his library, though there are some incongruities; Daedalus belongs properly to the "matter of Rome" with which the catalogue begins, and Lucifer interrupts the series of _Chansons de geste_. The "matter of Britain," however, is all by itself, and is well represented. II. THE COMPLAYNT OF SCOTLAND, c. vi. (Ed. J.A.H. Murray, _E.E.T.S._, pp. 62-64) [This passage belongs to the close of the Middle Ages, when the old epic and romantic books were falling into neglect. There is no distinction here between literary romance and popular tales; the once-fashionable poetical works are reduced to their original elements. Arthur and Gawain are no more respected than the Red Etin, or the tale of the _Well at the World's End_ (the reading _volfe_ in the text has no defender); the Four Sons of Aymon have become what they were afterwards for Boileau (_Ep._ xi. 20), or rather for Boileau's gardener. But, on the whole, the list represents the common medieval taste in fiction. The _Chansons de geste_ have provided the _Bridge of the Mantrible_ (from _Oliver and Fierabras_, which may be intended in the _Flamenca_ reference to Oliver), and the _Siege of Milan_ (see _English Charlemagne Romances_, _E.E.T.S._, part ii.), as well as the _Four Sons of Aymon_ and _Sir Bevis_. The Arthurian cycle is popular; the romance of _Sir Ywain_ (the Knight of the Lion) is here, however, the only one that can be definitely traced in the _Flamenca_ list also, though of course there is a general correspondence in subject-matter. The classical fables from Ovid are still among the favourites, and many of them are common to both lists. See Dr. Furnivall's note, in the edition cited, pp. lxxiii.-lxxxii.] Quhen the scheiphird hed endit his prolixt orison to the laif of the scheiphirdis, i meruellit nocht litil quhen i herd ane rustic pastour of bestialite, distitut of vrbanite, and of speculatioune of natural philosophe, indoctryne his nychtbours as he hed studeit ptholome, auerois, aristotel, galien, ypocrites, or Cicero, quhilk var expert practicians in methamatic art. Than the scheiphirdis vyf said: my veil belouit hisband, i pray the to desist fra that tideus melancolic orison, quhilk surpassis thy ingyne, be rason that it is nocht thy facultee to disput in ane profund mater, the quhilk thy capacite can nocht comprehend. ther for, i thynk it best that ve recreat our selfis vytht ioyus comonyng quhil on to the tyme that ve return to the scheip fald vytht our flokkis. And to begin sic recreatione i thynk it best that everie ane of vs tel ane gude tayl or fable, to pas the tyme quhil euyn. Al the scheiphirdis, ther vyuis and saruandis, var glaid of this propositione. than the eldest scheiphird began, and al the laif follouit, ane be ane in their auen place. it vil be ouer prolixt, and no les tideus to reherse them agane vord be vord. bot i sal reherse sum of ther namys that i herd. Sum vas in prose and sum vas in verse: sum vas stories and sum var flet taylis. Thir var the namis of them as eftir follouis: the taylis of cantirberrye, Robert le dyabil duc of Normandie, the tayl of the volfe of the varldis end, Ferrand erl of Flandris that mareit the deuyl, the taiyl of the reyde eyttyn vitht the thre heydis, the tail quhou perseus sauit andromada fra the cruel monstir, the prophysie of merlyne, the tayl of the giantis that eit quyk men, on fut by fortht as i culd found, vallace, the bruce, ypomedon, the tail of the three futtit dug of norrouay, the tayl quhou Hercules sleu the serpent hidra that hed vij heydis, the tail quhou the king of est mure land mareit the kyngis dochtir of vest mure land, Skail gillenderson the kyngis sone of skellye, the tail of the four sonnis of aymon, the tail of the brig of the mantribil, the tail of syr euan, arthour's knycht, rauf col3ear, the seige of millan, gauen and gollogras, lancelot du lac, Arthour knycht he raid on nycht vitht gyltin spur and candil lycht, the tail of floremond of albanye that sleu the dragon be the see, the tail of syr valtir the bald leslye, the tail of the pure tynt, claryades and maliades, Arthour of litil bertang3e, robene hude and litil ihone, the meruellis of mandiueil, the tayl of the 3ong tamlene and of the bald braband, the ryng of the roy Robert, syr egeir and syr gryme, beuis of southamtoun, the goldin targe, the paleis of honour, the tayl quhou acteon vas transformit in ane hart and syne slane be his auen doggis, the tayl of Pirramus and tesbe, the tail of the amours of leander and hero, the tail how Iupiter transformit his deir love yo in ane cou, the tail quhou that iason van the goldin fleice, Opheus kyng of portingal, the tail of the goldin appil, the tail of the thre veird systirs, the tail quhou that dedalus maid the laborynth to keip the monstir minotaurus, the tail quhou kyng midas gat tua asse luggis on his hede because of his auereis. INDEX _Aage_, Danish ballad, related to Helgi and Sigrun, 144; cf. York Powell, _C.P.B._ i. 502, and _Grimm Centenary Papers_ (1886), p. 47 Achilles, 12, 13, 19, 35, 39, 67 _Aeneid_, 18, 22, 334, 349 Alboin the Lombard (O.E. Ælfwine, see _Davenant_), 23, 66, 69, 82 n, 189 Alexander the Great, in old French poetry, 27; his _Epistle_; (Anglo-Saxon version), 329 _Aliscans, chanson de geste_ of the cycle of William of Orange, 296 _Alvíssmál_, in 'Elder Edda,' 112 Amadis of Gaul, a formal hero, 175, 203, 222 Ammius (O.N. Hamðer): see _Hamðismál_ _Andreas_, old English poem on the legend of St. Andrew, 28, 50, 90, 329 Andvari, 115 _Angantyr_, the _Waking of_, poem in _Hervarar Saga_, 48, 70, 73, 78, 112, 129 n _Apollonius of Tyre_, in Anglo-Saxon, 329 Ari Thorgilsson, called the Wise (Ari Fróði, A.D. 1067-1148), his _Landnámabók_ and _Konunga Æfi_, 248; _Ynglinga Saga_, 279 Ariosto, 30, 31, 40, 323 Aristotle on the dramatic element in epic, 17 _sq._; his summary of the _Odyssey_, 36, 74, 120, 139, 159 _sq._ _Arnaldos, romance del Conde_, Spanish ballad, 327 Arni, Bishop of Skalholt (_ob._ 1298), his _Life_ (_Arna Saga_), 268 Arni Beiskr (the Bitter), murderer of Snorri Sturluson, his death at Flugumyri, 263 Aron Hjörleifsson (_Arons Saga_), a friend of Bishop Gudmund, 225, 257, 381 _sq._ Asbjörnsen, P. Chr., 170 n Asdis, Grettir's mother, 216 n Askel: see _Reykdæla Saga_ _Atlakviða_, the _Lay of Attila_, 146 _sq._: see _Attila_ _Atlamál_, the _Greenland Poem of Attila_, 92, 137, 146-156: see _Attila_ _Atli and Rimgerd, Contention of_, in 'Elder Edda,' 113 _sq._ Atli in _Grettis Saga_, his dying speech, 218 in _Hávarðar Saga_, 227 Attila (O.E. Ætla, O.N. Atli), the Hun, adopted as a German hero in epic tradition, 22; different views of him in epic, 24; in _Waltharius_, 84; in _Waldere_, 86; in the 'Elder Edda,' 80, 83, 105 _sq._, 110, 137, 149 _sq._ _Aucassin et Nicolette_, 312, 327 Audoin the Lombard (O.E. Eadwine), father of Alboin, 67 _Aymon, Four Sons of_, i.e. _Renaus de Montauban_ (_chanson de geste_), 313, 387 Balder, death of, 43, 78, 112 _Bandamanna Saga_, 'The Confederates,' 187, 226, 229-234 Beatrice the Duchess, wife of Begon de Belin, mother of Gerin and Hernaudin, 307 _sq._ Begon de Belin, brother of Garin le Loherain, _q.v._ Benoit de Sainte More, his _Roman de Troie_, 330 _sq._, 334 _Beowulf_, 69, 88 _sq._, 110, 136, 145, 158-175, 290 and the _Odyssey_, 10 _Beowulf_ and the _Hêliand_, 28 Bergthora, Njal's wife, 190, 220 _sq._ Bernier: see _Raoul de Cambrai_ Béroul: see _Tristram_ _Bevis, Sir_, 388 _Biarkamál_, 78 Bjargey: see _Hávarðar Saga_ Bjorn, in _Njála_, and his wife, 228-229 Blethericus, a Welsh author, 348 Boccaccio, his relation to the French Romantic School, and to Chaucer, 363-370 Bodvild, 95 Boethius _On the Consolation of Philosophy_, a favourite book, 46 Bolli, Gudrun's husband (_Laxdæla Saga_), 191, 207, 223, 376 _sq._; kills Kjartan, 242 Bolli the younger, son of Bolli and Gudrun, 223-224 Bossu, on the Epic Poem, his opinion of Phaeacia, 32, 40 n Bradley, Mr. Henry, on the first Riddle in the _Exeter Book_, 135 (_Academy_, March 24, 1888, p. 198) Bréri, cited by Thomas as his authority for the story of Tristram: see _Blethericus_ Brink, Dr. Bernhard Ten, some time Professor at Strassburg, 145, 290 Broceliande visited by Wace, 26, 171 _Brunanburh_, poem of the battle of, 76 Brynhild, sister of Attila, wife of Gunnar the Niblung, _passim_ long _Lay of_, in the 'Elder Edda' (_al. Sigurðarkviða in Skamma_), 83, 100 _sq._ _Hell-ride of_, 102 short _Lay of_ (fragment), 103, 256 lost poem concerning, paraphrased in _Volsunga Saga_, 71 Danish ballad of: see _Sivard_ Bugge, Dr. Sophus, sometime Professor in Christiania, 77 n, 87 n, 137 n _Byrhtnoth_: see _Maldon_ _C.P.B._, i.e. _Corpus Poeticum Boreale_, q.v. Campbell, J.F., of Islay, 170 n, 340 Casket of whalebone (the Franks casket), in the British Museum, subjects represented on it, 48; runic inscriptions, 49 (cf. Napier, in _An English Miscellany_, Oxford 1901) Charles the Great, Roman Emperor (Charlemagne), different views of him in French Epic, 24; in _Huon de Bordeaux_ 314 _sq._; history of, in Norwegian (_Karlamagnus Saga_), 278; in Spanish (chap-book), 297 n: see _Pèlerinage de Charlemagne_ Charlot: see _Huon de Bordeaux_ _Charroi de Nismes_, _chanson de geste_ of the cycle of William of Orange, quoted, 312 Chaucer, 328, 332 n; his relation to the French Romantic School, and to Boccaccio, 363-370 Chrestien de Troyes, 323, 344 his works, _Tristan_ (lost), 344; _Erec_ (_Geraint and Enid_), 6, 332, 355 _sq._; _Conte du Graal_ (_Perceval_), 327; _Cliges_, 333, 357 _sq._, 387; _Chevalier de la Charrette_ (_Lancelot_), 341, 357, 387; _Yvain_ (_Chevalier au Lion_), 352 _sq._, 386 _sq._ his influence on the author of _Flamenca_, 359 _sq._ _Codex Regius_ (2365, 4to), in the King's Library, Copenhagen: see _Edda, 'the Elder_' _Comédie Humaine, la_, 188 Connla (the story of the fairy-bride): see _Guingamor_ Contract, Social, in Iceland, 59 _Coronemenz Looïs_, _chanson de geste_ of the cycle of William of Orange, quoted, 311 _Corpus Poeticum Boreale_, ed. G. Vigfusson and F. York Powell, Oxford, 1883, _passim_ Corsolt, a pagan, 311 Cressida, in _Roman de Troie_, 330; the story treated in different ways by Boccaccio and Chaucer, _q.v._ Cynewulf, the poet, 51 _Cynewulf and Cyneheard_ (English Chronicle, A.D. 755), 5, 82 n Dag, brother of Sigrun, 72 Dandie Dinmont, 201 Dante, 31; his reference to William of Orange, 296 _Dart, Song of the_ (_Darraðarlióð_, Gray's 'Fatal Sisters'), 78 Davenant, Sir William, on the heroic poem (Preface to _Gondibert_), quoted, 30; author of a tragedy, 'Albovine King of the Lombards,' 67 _Deor's Lament_, old English poem, 76, 115, 134 Drangey, island in Eyjafirth, north of Iceland, Grettir's refuge, 196 Dryden and the heroic ideal, 30 Du Bartas, 31 _Edda_, a handbook of the Art of Poetry, by Snorri Sturluson, 42, 138, 181 'Edda,' 'the Elder,' 'the Poetic,' 'of Sæmund the Wise' (_Codex Regius_), 77, 93, 156 _passim_ Egil the Bowman, Weland's brother, represented on the Franks casket (Ægili), 48 Egil Skallagrimsson, 192, 215, 220 Einar Thorgilsson: see _Sturla of Hvamm_ Ekkehard, Dean of St. Gall, author of _Waltharius_, 84 _Elene_, by Cynewulf, an old English poem on the legend of St. Helen (the Invention of the Cross), 50, 90, 329 _Eneas, Roman d'_, 386 _Enid_: see _Chrestien de Troyes_ _Erec_: see _Chrestien de Troyes_ Eric the Red, his Saga in Hauk's book, 47 Ermanaric (O.E. Eormenríc, O.N. Jörmunrekr), 22; killed by the brothers of Suanihilda, 66: see _Hamðismál_ Erp: see _Hamðismál_ _Exodus_, old English poem of, 28, 90 Eyjolf Karsson, a friend of Bishop Gudmund, 257, 381, _sq._ Eyjolf Thorsteinsson: see _Gizur_ _Eyrbyggja Saga_, the story of the men of Eyre, 187 _sq._, 201, 227, 253 _Færeyinga Saga_, the story of the men of the Faroes (Thrond of Gata and Sigmund Brestisson), 206, 245 Faroese ballads, 181, 283 Fielding, Henry, 266 _Fierabras_, 388 Finn: see _Finnesburh_ _Finnesburh_, old English poem (fragment), published by Hickes from a Lambeth MS., now mislaid, 81 _sq._, 265 episode in _Beowulf_, giving more of the story, 81 _sq._ _Fiölsvinnsmál_ see _Svipdag_ _Flamenca_, a Provençal romance, by a follower of Chrestien de Troyes, in the spirit of Ovid, 359-362; romances named in, 360, 384-387 _Flóamanna Saga_, the story of the people of Floi, 259 _Flores et Blanchefleur_, romance, referred to in _Flamenca_, 361; translated by Boccaccio (_Filocolo_), 364 Flosi the Burner, in _Njála_, 218, 219, 190, 191, 219 _sq._ Flugumyri, a homestead in Northern Iceland (Skagafjord), Earl Gizur's house, burned October 1253, the story as given by Sturla, 259-264 _Fóstbræðra Saga_ (the story of the two sworn brethren, Thorgeir and Thormod) 38 n, 47; in Hauk's book, 187, 194, 196; euphuistic interpolations in, 275 _sq._ Frey, poem of his wooing of Gerd (_Skirnismál_), in the 'Poetic Edda,' 77, 94, 114 _Frithiof the Bold_, a romantic Saga, 247, 277, 280 _sq._ Froda (Fróðá), homestead in Olafsvík, near the end of Snæfellsnes, Western Iceland, a haunted house, _Eyrbyggja Saga_, 208 Froda (Frotho in Saxo Grammaticus), his story alluded to in _Beowulf_, 69, 72, 82 n, 163, 373 _sq._ Froissart and the courteous ideal, 328 Fromont, the adversary in the story of _Garin le Loherain_, _q.v._ Galopin the Prodigal, in the story of _Garin le Loherain_, 310 _Gareth_, in Malory's _Morte d'Arthur_, original of the Red Cross Knight in the _Faery Queene_, 343 _Garin le Loherain_ (_chanson de geste_), 53 n, 300-309 Gawain killed dragons, 168: see _Walewein_ _Gawain and the Green Knight_, alliterative poem, 180 _Gay Goshawk_, ballad of the, 357 _Genesis_, old English poem of, 90, 136 _Geraint_, Welsh story, 355 Gerd: see _Frey_ _Germania_ of Tacitus, 46 _Gísla Saga_, the story of Gisli the Outlaw, 187, 196 _sq._, 207, 225; its relations to the heroic poetry, 210 Giuki (Lat. Gibicho, O.E. Gifica), father of Gunnar, Hogni, Gothorm, and Gudrun, _q.v._ Gizur Thorvaldsson, the earl, at Flugumyri, 258, 259-264 Glam (_Grettis Saga_), 172, 196 Glum (_Víga-Glúms Saga_), 193 _sq._, 225 and _Raoul de Cambrai_, 299 Gollancz, Mr., 135 (see _Academy_, Dec. 23, 1893, p. 572) Gothorm, 101 Gray, his translations from the Icelandic, 78, 157 n Gregory (St.) the Great, _de Cura Pastorali_, studied in Iceland, 59 Grendel, 165: see _Beowulf_ _Grettis Saga_, the story of Grettir the Strong, 172, 187, 195 _sq._, 216 n, 218, 226 Grimhild, mother of Gudrun, 110 _Grimild's Revenge_, Danish ballad (_Grimilds Hævn_), 105, 149 Grimm, 136 n; story of the _Golden Bird_, 340 Wilhelm, _Deutsche Heldensage_, 79 _Grímnismál_, in 'Elder Edda,' 112 Gripir, Prophecy of (_Grípisspá_) in the 'Elder Edda,' a summary of the Volsung story, 94 Groa, wife of Earl Gizur, _q.v._ _Grógaldr_: see _Svipdag_ _Grottasöngr_ (Song of the Magic Mill), 90 Gudmund Arason, Bishop of Hólar, 170, 256, 381 Gudmund, son of Granmar: see _Sinfiotli_ Gudmund the Mighty (Guðmundr inn Riki), in _Ljósvetninga_ and other Sagas, 188, 225 Gudny, wife of Sturla of Hvamm, _q.v._ Gudrun (O.N. Guðrún), daughter of Giuki, sister of Gunnar and Hogni, wife of Sigurd, 23, 71, 101, 149 _sq._ and Theodoric, the _Old Lay of Gudrun_ (_Guðrúnarkviða in forna_), 103, 109 _Lay of_ (_Guðrúnarkviða_), 111 _Lament of_, or _Chain of Woe_ (_Tregrof Guðrúnar_), 111, 215 _Ordeal of_, 111 daughter of Osvifr (_Laxdæla Saga_), 191, 209, 222-224 _Guingamor, Lay of_, by Marie de France, 337-340 _Guinglain_, romance, by Renaud de Beaujeu: see _Libeaux Desconus_ Gundaharius (Gundicarius), the Burgundian (O.E. Gúðhere, O.N. Gunnarr; Gunther in the _Nibelungenlied_, etc.), 22: see _Gunnar_, _Gunther_ Gunnar of Lithend (Hlíðarendi), in _Njáls Saga_, 190; his death, 214 Gunnar, son of Giuki, brother of Gudrun, 101 _sq._, 168 _sq._: see _Gundaharius_, _Gunther_ Gunnlaug the Poet, called Wormtongue, his story (_Gunnlaugs Saga Ormstungu_), 207, 281 Gunther (Guntharius, son of Gibicho) in _Waltharius_, 84 _sq._; in _Waldere_, 100: see _Gundaharius_, _Gunnar_ Hacon, King of Norway (A.D. 1217-1263): see _Hákonar Saga_; his taste for French romances, 278 Hadubrand, son of Hildebrand, 81 Hagen (Hagano), in _Waltharius_, 84 _sq._ Hagen, in _Waldere_ (Hagena), 86, 239 in _Sivard_, _q.v._: see _Hogni_ _Hákonar Saga_, the _Life_ of Hacon, Hacon's son, King of Norway (_ob._ 1263), written by Sturla, contrasted with his history of Iceland, 267 _sq._ _Halfs Saga_, 280 Hall, son of Earl Gizur, 259 Hama, 163 _Hamlet_ in Saxo, 70 _Hamðismál_ ('Poetic Edda'), Lay of the death of Ermanaric, 66, 70-71, 109, 140 Harald, king of Norway (Fairhair), 58; in _Egils Saga_, 192 king of Norway (Hardrada), killed dragons, 168; his Saga referred to (story of Hreidar the Simple), 310; (Varangian custom), 329 n _Harbarzlióð_: see _Thor_ _Harðar Saga ok Holmverja_, the story of Hord and the men of the island, 212 n Hauk's Book, an Icelandic gentleman's select library in the fourteenth century, 47 _sq._ (_Hauksbók_, ed. Finnur Jónsson, 1892-1896) _Hávamál_ in 'Poetic Edda,' a gnomic miscellany, 77 _Hávarðar Saga Isfirðings_, the story of Howard of Icefirth, 199, 216 _sq._, 227 Hearne, Thomas, 78 Hedin, brother of Helgi, Hiorvard's son, 99 _Heiðarvíga Saga_, the story of the battle on the Heath (connected with _Eyrbyggja Saga_), 209: see _Víga-Styrr_ _Heiðreks Saga_: see _Hervarar Saga_ _Heimskringla_, Snorri's _Lives of the Kings of Norway_, abridged, 248 Helgi and Kara, 98 Helgi, Hiorvard's son, and Swava, 97 _sq._, 113 Helgi Hundingsbane and Sigrun, 72, 93 n, 95 _sq._, 239 _Hêliand_, old Saxon poem on the Gospel history, using the forms of German heroic poetry, 27, 90, 204 Hengest: see _Finnesburh_ Heremod, 162 Herkja, 111 Hermes, in the Homeric hymn, 43 _Hervarar Saga ok Heiðreks Konungs_ (_Heiðreks Saga_), one of the romantic mythical Sagas in Hauk's book, 48; contains the poems of the cycle of Angantyr, 78, 280 Hervor, daughter of Angantyr, 70, 73, 112, 208 Heusler, Dr. Andreas, Professor in Berlin, 100 n Hialli, 151 Hickes, George, D.D., 73 n, 78 _Hildebrand, Lay of_, 76, 79, 81, 87 n, 91 Hildeburg: see _Finnesburh_ Hildegund (Hildegyth), 84 _sq._: see _Walter_ Hnæf: see _Finnesburh_ Hobs, Mr. (_i.e._ Thomas Hobbes of Malmesbury), 31 Hodbrodd, in story of Helgi and Sigrun, 72, 96 Hogni, father of Sigrun, 72, 96 Hogni, son of Giuki, brother of Gunnar, Gothorm, and Gudrun, 101, 151 _sq._: see _Hagen_ Homeric analogies in medieval literature, 9 _sq._ Hrafn Sveinbjarnarson, a friend of Bishop Gudmund, 257; _Hrafns Saga_ quoted, 38 n Hrafn: see _Gunnlaug_ _Hrafnkels Saga Freysgoða_, the story of Hrafnkel, Frey's Priest, 187, 198 Hrefna, Kjartan's wife, 223 Hreidar the Simple, an unpromising hero, in _Haralds Saga Harðráða_, 310 Hrolf Kraki (Hroðulf in _Beowulf_), 166, 280 _Hromund Greipsson_, Saga of, 99 Hrothgar, 10, 166. Hunding, 95 Hunferth, 10, 166 _Huon de Bordeaux_ (_chanson de geste_), epic and romance combined inartistically in, 37, 53, 314-317 Hurd's _Letters on Chivalry and Romance_, 30 Hygelac, 161 _sq._: see _Beowulf_ _Hymiskviða_: see _Thor_ Ibsen, Henrik, his _Hærmændene paa Helgeland_ (_Warriors in Helgeland_), a drama founded on the Volsung story, its relation to _Laxdæla Saga_, 209 his _Kongsemnerne_ (_Rival Kings_, Hacon and Skule), 268 _Ider_, romance, 331 _sq._, 347 n _Iliad_, 11 _sq._, 18, 38 _sq._, 52, 162 _sq._, 348, 352 n Ingeld: see _Froda_ Ingibjorg, daughter of Sturla, her wedding at Flugumyri, 259 _sq._ _Intelligenza, L'_, 386 n Jehoram, son of Ahab, in the famine of Samaria, 239 Johnson, Dr., 9, 244 Joinville, Jean de, Seneschal of Champagne, his _Life of St. Louis_ compared with Icelandic prose history, 269 _sq._ Jón Arason the poet, Bishop of Hólar, the last Catholic Bishop in Iceland, beheaded by Reformers, 7th November 1550, a notable character, 268 Jordanes, historian of the Goths, his version of the story of _Ermanaric_, its relation to _Hamðismál_, 65 _Judith_, old English poem of, 28, 29, 90 Julian, the Emperor, his opinion of German songs, 65 Kara, 98 _sq._ Kari, in _Njála_, 206 and Bjorn, 228-229 Karl Jónsson, Abbot of Thingeyri in Iceland, author of _Sverris Saga_, 249 Kjartan, son of Olaf the Peacock (_Laxdæla Saga_), 13, 191, 204, 207, 375 his death, 240 _sq._ _Königskinder, die_, German ballad, 327 _Kormaks Saga_, 129 n, 281 _Lancelot_, the French prose romance, 335 _Landnámabók_, in Hauk's book, 47 Laurence, Bishop of Hólar (_ob._ 1331), his _Life_ (_Laurentius Saga_), 268 _Laxdæla Saga_, the story of Laxdale (_the Lovers of the Gudrun_), 185, 190, 240 _sq._, 375; a new version of the Niblung story, 209 _sq._, 222 _sq._, 281 Leconte de Lisle, _L'Epée d'Angantyr_, 73 n Lessing's _Laocoon_, 237 _Libeaux Desconus_, romance in different versions--French, by Renaud de Beaujeu (_Guinglain_), 337, 343 _sq._, 387; English, 337, 343; Italian (_Carduino_), 337, 343 _Ljósvetninga Saga_, story of the House of Ljósavatn, 188 _sq._ _Lokasenna_ (the Railing of Loki), 41, 77, 113 Longnon, Auguste, 314 n Louis IX., king of France (St. Louis): see _Joinville_ _Lusiad_, the, a patriotic epic, unlike the poetry of the 'heroic age,' 22 Macrobius, 47, 333 _Maldon_, poem of the battle of (A.D. 991), 69, 88, 95 n, 134, 205, 244; compared with the _Iliad_, 11; compared with _Roland_, 51, 54 _sq._, 294 Malory, Sir Thomas, his _Morte d'Arthur_, 215, 307 _Mantrible, Bridge of the_, 388 Marie de France, her _Lays_ translated into Norwegian (_Strengleikar_), 278; _Guingamor_ criticised, 337-340 Marino, 31 Martianus Capella, _de Nuptiis Philologiae_, studied in the Middle Ages, 47 Medea, 334, 347 _sq._ _Menglad, Rescue of_, 78, 114: see _Svipdag_ Mephistopheles in Thessaly, 10 Meyer, Paul, 290 n, 359 n, 386 _Milan, Siege of_, 388 Mimming, the sword of Weland, 86 Morris, William, 205, 282, 334 _Mort Arthure_, alliterative poem, 180 _Mort Artus_, French prose romance, 335 _Morte d'Arthur_: see _Malory_ _Nibelungenlied_, 105, 120, 149, 179 Niblung story, its relation to historical fact, 22 _sq._: see _Gunnar_, _Hogni_, _Gudrun_, _Laxdæla Saga_ Nidad, 95 Njal, story of (_Njála_), 8, 13, 60, 185, 207, 219-221 Oberon; see _Huon de Bordeaux_ Odd, Arrow (Örvar-Oddr), 73 Oddrun, sister of Brynhild and Attila, 102 _Lament of_ (_Oddrúnargrátr_), in the 'Elder Edda,' 103, 107 _sq._, 151 _sq._ Odd Ufeigsson: see _Bandamanna Saga_ Odoacer, referred to in _Lay of Hildebrand_, 81 Odysseus, 7, 9, 32 _sq._, 35, 71 _Odyssey_, the, 10, 163, 171; Aristotle's summary of, 18; romance in, 32 _sq._ Olaf Tryggvason, king of Norway, 205, 375 _sq._ _Olkofra Þáttr_, the story of Alecap, related to _Bandamanna Saga_, 226 Ossian, in the land of youth: see _Guingamor_ Ovid in the Middle Ages, 47, 346, 412; [Transcriber's Note: No page 412 in original.] _Ovidius Epistolarum_ studied in Iceland, 59 Ovid's story of Medea, translated in the _Roman de Troie_, 334 _sq._, 348 _sq._; _Heroides_ became the 'Saints' Legend of Cupid,' 347 Paris, Gaston, 290, 291, 331, 337, 343, 345, 348 n, 387 Paulus Diaconus, heroic stories in the Lombard history, 66 _sq._ Peer Gynt, 170 _Pèlerinage de Charlemagne_ (_chanson de geste_), 24, 53, 329 Percy, Thomas, D.D., _Five Pieces of Runic Poetry_, 73 n, 141 n Phaeacia, Odysseus in, Bossu's criticism, 31 Pindar, his treatment of myths, 43 Poitiers, William IX., Count of, his poem on setting out for the Crusade, 317 Powell, F. York, 66: see _Aage_ _Prise d'Orange_, _chanson de geste_ of the cycle of William of Orange, in substance a romance of adventure, 313 _Queste del St. Graal_, French prose romance, a contrast to the style of Chrestien de Troyes, 327, 335 Ragnar Lodbrok, his Death-Song (_Krákumál_), 140, 217, 295 Rainouart, the gigantic ally of William of Orange, 296, 311; their names associated by Dante (_Par._ xviii. 46), _ibid._ _Raoul de Cambrai_ (_chanson de geste_), 291 n, 298-300, 309 Rastignac, Eugène de, 188 _Reykdæla Saga_, the story of Vemund, Askel, and Skuta son of Askel, connected with the story of Glum, 194, 201 Rigaut, son of Hervi the Villain, in the story of _Garin le Loherain_, 310 Rimgerd the Giantess: see _Atli_ _Rímur_, Icelandic rhyming romances, 181, 283 _Roland, Chanson de_, 9, 24, 83, 287, 293-295, 308; compared with _Byrhtnoth_ (_Maldon_), 54 _sq._; with an incident in _Njála_, 265 _Roman de la Rose_, of Guillaume de Lorris, 345, 348, 352, 359 _Rood, Dream of the_, old English poem, 134 Rosamund and Alboin in the Lombard history, 23, 67 _Rosmunda_, a tragedy, by Rucellai, 67 _Rou, Roman de_, the author's visit to Broceliande, 26 Sam (Sámr), Gunnar's dog, 214 Sarpedon's address to Glaucus, 9, 11 Sarus and Ammius (Sorli and Hamther), brothers of Suanihilda (Jordanes), 66: see _Hamðismál_ Saxo Grammaticus, 69, 79, 105, 149, 181, 374 _Scotland, Complaynt of_, romances named in, 387-389 _Scottish Field_, alliterative poem on Flodden, 179 _sq._ Shakespeare, his treatment of popular tales, 36 _sq._ _Sibyl's Prophecy_: see _Volospá_ Sidney, Sir Philip, 99, 368 Sievers, Dr. Eduard, Professor in Leipzig, 136 n, 169 n Sigmund Brestisson, in _Færeyinga Saga_, 206, 245, 283 Sigmund, father of Sinfiotli, Helgi, and Sigurd, 95, 110 Signild: see _Sivard_ Sigrdrifa, 115 Sigrun: see _Helgi_ Sigurd, the Volsung (O.N. Sigurðr), 22, 71, 100 _sq._, 129, 133 fragmentary _Lay of_ (_Brot af Sigurðarkviðu_), 103 _Lay of_: see _Brynhild_ Sinfiotli, debate of, and Gudmund, 96 _Sivard og Brynild_, Danish ballad, translated, 127-129 Skallagrim, how he told the truth to King Harald, 192 Skarphedinn, son of Njal, 190, 220 _sq._, 244, 265 Skirnir: see _Frey_ Skule, Duke, the rival of Hacon, 267 Skuta: see _Reykdæla Saga_ Snorri Sturluson (A.D. 1178-1241), author of the _Edda_, 42; and of the _Lives of the Kings of Norway_, 248; his murder avenged at Flugumyri, 263 Snorri the Priest (Snorri Goði), in _Eyrbyggja_ and other Sagas, 188, 213, 253 _Sonatorrek_ (the Sons' Loss), poem by Egil Skallagrimsson, 215 Sorli: see _Hamðismál_ Spenser, 343 Starkad, 166, 374 Stephens, George, sometime Professor in Copenhagen, 78 Stevenson, R.L., _Catriona_, 170 n Sturla of Hvamm (Hvamm-Sturla), founder of the house of the Sturlungs, his life (_Sturlu Saga_) 253-256 Sturla (_c._ A.D. 1214-1284), son of Thord, and grandson of Hvamm-Sturla, nephew of Snorri, author of _Sturlunga Saga_ (_q.v._) and of _Hákonar Saga_ (_q.v._) 61, 251, 259 _Sturlunga Saga_ (more accurately _Islendinga Saga_), of Sturla, Thord's son, a history of the author's own times, using the forms of the heroic Sagas, 61, 246 _sq._, 249 _sq._ Suanihilda: see _Swanhild_ _Svarfdæla Saga_, the story of the men of Swarfdale (_Svarfaðardalr_), 219 _Sveidal, Ungen_, Danish ballad, on the story of Svipdag and Menglad, 114, 126 Sverre, king of Norway (_ob._ 1202), his _Life_ (_Sverris Saga_) written by Abbot Karl Jónsson at the king's dictation, 249; quotes a Volsung poem, 278 _Svipdag and Menglad_, old Northern poems of, 78, 114 _sq._: see _Sveidal_ Swanhild (O.N. Svanhildr), daughter of Sigurd and Gudrun, her cruel death; the vengeance on Ermanaric known to Jordanes in the sixth century, 65: see _Hamðismál_ Tasso, 18, 21; his critical essays on heroic poetry, 30 Tegnér, Esaias, 141; his _Frithiofs Saga_, 277 Tennyson, _Enid_, 355 Theodoric (O.N. Þióðrekr), a hero of Teutonic epic in different dialects, 22, 81, 87; fragment of Swedish poem on, inscription on stone at Rök, 78: see _Gudrun_ Thersites, 243 Thidrandi, whom the goddesses slew, 208 _Þidreks Saga_ (thirteenth century), a Norwegian compilation from North German ballads on heroic subjects, 79, 121 Thomas: see _Tristram_ Thor, in old Northern literature, his Fishing for the World Serpent (_Hymiskviða_), 43, 77, 95; the Winning of the Hammer (_Þrymskviða_), 43, 77, 81, 95 Danish ballad of, 125 the contention of, and Odin (_Harbarzlióð_), 77, 113 Thorarin, in _Eyrbyggja_, the quiet man, 227 Thorgils and Haflidi (_Þorgils Saga ok Hafliða_), 226, 238, 252 _sq._ Thorkell Hake, in _Ljósvetinga Saga_, 225 Thorolf Bægifot: see _Eyrbyggja_ Thorolf, Kveldulf's son: see _Skallagrim_ _Þorsteins Saga Hvíta_, the story of Thorstein the White, points of resemblance to _Laxdæla_ and _Gunnlaugs Saga_, 281 _Þorsteins Saga Stangarhöggs_ (Thorstein Staffsmitten), a short story, 282 Thrond of Gata (_Færeyinga Saga_), 245 _Þrymskviða_: see _Thor_ Thrytho, 162 Thurismund, son of Thurisvend, king of the Gepidae, killed by Alboin, 67 _Tirant lo Blanch_ (Tirant the White, Romance of), 38 n; a moral work, 222 Trissino, author of _Italia liberata dai Goti_, a correct epic poem, 30 _Tristram and Iseult_, 336, Anglo-Norman poems, by Béroul and Thomas, 344; of Chrestien (lost), _ibid._ Troilus, 368 _sq._ _Troy, Destruction of_, alliterative poem, 180 Ufeig: see _Bandamanna Saga_ Uistean Mor mac Ghille Phadrig, 170 Uspak: see _Bandamanna Saga_ _Vafþrúðnismál_, mythological poem in 'Elder Edda,' 77, 112, 115 Vali: see _Bandamanna Saga_ _Vápnfirðinga Saga_, the story of Vopnafjord, 193, 226 _Vatnsdæla Saga_, story of the House of Vatnsdal, 189 Vemund: see _Reykdæla Saga_ _Vergi, la Chastelaine de_, a short tragic story, 362 _sq._ _Víga-Glúms Saga_, 193: see _Glum_ Víga-Styrr: see _Heiðarvíga Saga_ _N.B._--The story referred to in the text is preserved in Jón Olafsson's recollection of the leaves of the MS. which were lost in the fire of 1728 (_Islendinga Sögur_, 1847, ii. p. 296). It is not given in Mr. William Morris's translation of the extant portion of the Saga, appended to his _Eyrbyggja_. Vigfusson, Gudbrand, 77, 280 n, 283 n _Viglund, Story of_, a romantic Saga, 278 _sq._ Villehardouin, a contemporary of Snorri, 269 _Volospá_ (the Sibyl's Song of the Doom of the Gods), in the 'Poetic Edda,' 43, 77, 139; another copy in Hauk's book, 47, 93 _Volsunga Saga_, a prose paraphrase of old Northern poems, 71, 77, 79, 280 _Volsungs, Old Lay of the_, 96 _Wade, Song of_, fragment recently discovered, 180 (see _Academy_, Feb. 15, 1896) _Waldere_, old English poem (fragment), 78, 86 _sq._, 116, 163: see _Walter of Aquitaine_ _Walewein, Roman van_, Dutch romance of Sir Gawain; the plot compared with the Gaelic story of Mac Iain Direach, 337, 340-343 Walter of Aquitaine, 5, 78, 84 _sq._, 206 _Waltharius_, Latin poem by Ekkehard, on the story of Walter of Aquitaine, _q.v._ _Wanderer, the_, old English poem, 134 Ward, H.L.D., his Catalogue of MS. Romances in the British Museum, 282 Wealhtheo, 166 _Weland_, 338 represented on the Franks casket in the British Museum, 48 mentioned in _Waldere_, 87, 163 _Lay of_, in 'Poetic Edda,' 77, 94 _Well at the World's End_, 387 Widia, Weland's son, 87, 163 _Widsith_ (the Traveller's Song), old English poem, 76, 115, 134 Wiglaf, the 'loyal servitor' in _Beowulf_, 166 William of Orange, old French epic hero, 296: see _Coronemenz Looïs_, _Charroi de Nismes_, _Prise d'Orange_, _Aliscans_, _Rainouart_; cf. J. Bédier, _Les Légendes épiques_ (1908) Printed in Great Britain by R. & R. CLARK, LIMITED, Edinburgh. 
8072	----	Distributed Proofing Team NATIONAL EPICS By Kate Milner Rabb 1896 TO MY MOTHER. PREFACE. This volume is intended for an introduction to the study of the epics. While the simplicity and directness of the epic style seem to make such a book unnecessary, the fact that to many persons of literary tastes some of these great poems are inaccessible, and that to many more the pleasure of exploring for themselves "the realms of gold" is rendered impossible by the cares of business, has seemed sufficient excuse for its being. Though the beauty of the original is of necessity lost in a condensation of this kind, an endeavor has been made to preserve the characteristic epithets, and to retain what Mr. Arnold called "the simple truth about the matter of the poem." It is believed that the sketch prefacing each story, giving briefly the length, versification, and history of the poem, will have its value to those readers who have not access to the epics, and that the selections following the story, each recounting a complete incident, will give a better idea of the epic than could be formed from passages scattered through the text. The epic originated among tribes of barbarians, who deified departed heroes and recited legends in praise of their deeds. As the hymn developed, the chorus and strophe were dropped, and the narrative only was preserved. The word "epic" was used simply to distinguish the narrative poem, which was recited, from the lyric, which was sung, and from the dramatic, which was acted. As the nation passed from childhood to youth, the legends of the hero that each wandering minstrel had changed to suit his fancy, were collected and fused into one by some great poet, who by his power of unification made this written epic his own. This is the origin of the Hindu epics, the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey," the "Kalevala," the "Shah-Nameh," "Beowulf," the "Nibelungen Lied," the "Cid," and the "Song of Roland." The conditions for the production of the primitive epic exist but once in a nation's growth. Its later epics must be written on subjects of national importance, chosen by the poet, who arranges and embellishes his material according to the rules of the primitive epic. To this class belong the "Aeneid," the "Jerusalem Delivered," and the "Lusiad." Dante's poem is broader, for it is the epic of mediaeval Christianity. Milton likewise sought "higher argument" than "Wars, hitherto the only argument Heroic deemed," and crystallized the religious beliefs of his time in "Paradise Lost." The characteristics both of the primitive and the modern epic are their uniform metre, simplicity of construction, concentration of action into a short time, and the use of episode and dialogue. The main difference lies in the impersonality of the primitive epic, whose author has so skillfully hidden himself behind his work that, as some one has said of Homer, "his heroes are immortal, but his own existence is doubtful." Although the historical events chronicled in the epics have in every case been so distorted by the fancy of the poets that they cannot be accepted as history, the epics are storehouses of information concerning ancient manners and customs, religious beliefs, forms of government, treatment of women, and habits of feeling. Constructed upon the noblest principles of art, and pervaded by the eternal calm of the immortals, these poems have an especial value to us, who have scarcely yet realized that poetry is an art, and are feverish from the unrest of our time. If by the help of this volume any reader be enabled to find a portion of the wisdom that is hidden in these mines, its purpose will have been accomplished. My thanks are due to Mr. John A. Wilstach for the use of selections from his translation of the "Divine Comedy;" to Prof. J. M. Crawford, for the use of selections from his translation of the "Kalevala;" to Henry Holt & Co., for the use of selections from Rabillon's translation of "La Chanson de Roland;" to Roberts Brothers, for the use of selections from Edwin Arnold's "Indian Idylls;" to Prof. J. C. Hall, for the use of selections from his translation of "Beowulf;" and to A. C. Armstrong & Son, for the use of selections from Conington's Translation of the "Aeneid." The selections from the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey" are used with the permission of and by special arrangement with Houghton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of Bryant's translations of the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey." Special thanks are due to Miss Eliza G. Browning of the Public Library of Indianapolis, to Miss Florence Hughes of the Library of Indiana University, and to Miss Charity Dye, of Indianapolis. K. M. R. INDIANAPOLIS, IND., September, 1896. CONTENTS. THE HINDU EPIC: THE RAMÂYÂNA THE HINDU EPIC: THE MAHÂ-BHÂRATA THE GREEK EPIC: THE ILIAD THE GREEK EPIC: THE ODYSSEY THE FINNISH EPIC: THE KALEVALA THE ROMAN EPIC: THE AENEID THE SAXON EPIC: BEOWULF THE GERMAN EPIC: THE NIBELUNGEN LIED THE FRENCH EPIC: THE SONG OF ROLAND THE PERSIAN EPIC: THE SHAH-NAMEH THE SPANISH EPIC: THE POEM OF THE CID THE ITALIAN EPIC: THE DIVINE COMEDY THE ITALIAN EPIC: THE ORLANDO FURIOSO THE PORTUGUESE EPIC: THE LUSIAD THE ITALIAN EPIC: THE JERUSALEM DELIVERED THE ENGLISH EPIC: PARADISE LOST THE ENGLISH EPIC: PARADISE REGAINED SELECTIONS. FROM THE RÂMÂYANA: TRANSLATOR The Descent of the Ganges ... _Milman_ The Death of Yajnadatta ... " FROM THE MAHÂ-BHÂRATA: Sâvitrî; or, Love and Death ... _Arnold_ The Great Journey ... " FROM THE ILIAD: Helen at the Scaean Gates ... _Bryant_ The Parting of Hector and Andromache ... " FROM THE ODYSSEY: The Palace of Alcinoüs ... _Bryant_ The Bending of the Bow ... " FROM THE KALEVALA: Ilmarinen's Wedding Feast ... _Crawford_ The Birth of the Harp ... " FROM THE AENEID: Nisus and Euryalus ... _Conington_ FROM BEOWULF: Grendel's Mother ... _Hall_ FROM THE NIBELUNGEN LIED: How Brunhild was received at Worms ... _Lettsom_ How Margrave Rüdeger was slain ... " FROM THE SONG OF ROLAND: The Horn ... _Rabillon_ Roland's Death ... " FROM THE SHAH-NAMEH: The Rajah of India sends a Chessboard to Nushirvan _Robinson_ Zal and Rudabeh " FROM THE POEM OF THE CID: Count Raymond and My Cid _Ormsby_ My Cid's Triumph " FROM THE DIVINE COMEDY: Count Ugolino _Wilstach_ Buonconte di Montefeltro " Beatrice descending from Heaven " The Exquisite Beauty of Beatrice " FROM THE ORLANDO FURIOSO: The Death of Zerbino _Rose_ FROM THE LUSIAD: Inez de Castro _Mickle_ The Spirit of the Cape " FROM THE JERUSALEM DELIVERED: Sophronia and Olindo _Wiffen_ FROM PARADISE LOST: Satan Apostrophe to Light FROM PARADISE REGAINED: The Temptation of the Vision of the Kingdoms of the Earth NATIONAL EPICS. THE RÂMÂYANA. "He who sings and hears this poem continually has attained to the highest state of enjoyment, and will finally be equal to the gods." The Râmâyana, the Hindu Iliad, is variously ascribed to the fifth, third, and first centuries B.C., its many interpolations making it almost impossible to determine its age by internal evidence. Its authorship is unknown, but according to legend it was sung by Kuça and Lava, the sons of Rama, to whom it was taught by Valmiki. Of the three versions now extant, one is attributed to Valmiki, another to Tuli Das, and a third to Vyasa. Its historical basis, almost lost in the innumerable episodes and grotesque imaginings of the Hindu, is probably the conquest of southern India and Ceylon by the Aryans. The Râmâyana is written in the Sanskrit language, is divided into seven books, or sections, and contains fifty thousand lines, the English translation of which, by Griffith, occupies five volumes. The hero, Rama, is still an object of worship in India, the route of his wanderings being, each year, trodden by devout pilgrims. The poem is not a mere literary monument,--it is a part of the actual religion of the Hindu, and is held in such reverence that the mere reading or hearing of it, or certain passages of it, is believed to free from sin and grant his every desire to the reader or hearer. BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE RÂMÂYANA. G. W. Cox's Mythology and Folklore, 1881, p. 313; John Dowson's Classical Dictionary of Hindu Mythology, Religion, Geography, History, and Literature, 1879; Sir William Jones on the Literature of the Hindus (in his Works, vol. iv.); Maj.-Gen. Vans Kennedy's Researches into Hindu Mythology, 1831; James Mill's History of British India, 1840, vol. ii., pp. 47-123; F. Max Müller's Ancient Sanskrit Literature, 1859; E. A. Reed's Hindu Literature, 1891, pp. 153-271; Albrecht Weber's History of Indian Literature, 1878, pp. 191-195; J. T. Wheeler's History of India, 4 vols., 1876, vol. ii.; Sir Monier Williams's Indian Wisdom, 1863, Indian Epic Poetry, 1863; Article on Sanskrit Literature in Encyclopædia Britannica; R. M. Gust's The Râmâyana: a Sanskrit Epic (in his Linguistic and Oriental Essays, 1880, p. 56); T. Goldstuecker's Râmâyana (in his Literary Remains, 1879, vol. i., p. 155); C. J. Stone's Cradleland of Arts and Creeds, 1880, pp. 11-21; Albrecht Weber's On the Râmâyana, 1870; Westminster Review, 1849, vol. 1., p. 34; J. C. Oman's Great Indian Epics, 1874, pp. 13-81. STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE RÂMÂYANA. The Râmâyana, Tr. by R. T. H. Griffith, 5 vols., 1870-1874 (Follows Bombay ed., Translated into metre of "Lady of the Lake"); Extracts from the Râmâyana, Tr. by Sir William Jones (in his Works, vol. 13); Iliad of the East, F. Richardson, 1873 (Popular translations of a set of legends from the Râmâyana); The Râmâyana translated into English Prose, edited and published by Naumatha Nath Dutt, 7 vols., Calcutta, 1890-1894. THE STORY OF THE RÂMÂYANA. Brahma, creator of the universe, though all powerful, could not revoke a promise once made. For this reason, Ravana, the demon god of Ceylon, stood on his head in the midst of five fires for ten thousand years, and at the end of that time boldly demanded of Brahma as a reward that he should not be slain by gods, demons, or genii. He also requested the gift of nine other heads and eighteen additional arms and hands. These having been granted, he began by the aid of his evil spirits, the Rakshasas, to lay waste the earth and to do violence to the good, especially to the priests. At the time when Ravana's outrages were spreading terror throughout the land, and Brahma, looking down from his throne, shuddered to see the monster he had gifted with such fell power, there reigned in Ayodhya, now the city of Oude, a good and wise raja, Dasaratha, who had reigned over the splendid city for nine thousand years without once growing weary. He had but one grief,--that he was childless,--and at the opening of the story he was preparing to make the great sacrifice, Asva-medha, to propitiate the gods, that they might give him a son. The gods, well pleased, bore his request to Brahma in person, and incidentally preferred a request that he provide some means of destroying the monster Ravana that was working such woe among their priests, and disturbing their sacrifices. Brahma granted the first request, and, cudgeling his brains for a device to destroy Ravana, bethought himself that while he had promised that neither gods, genii, nor demons should slay him, he had said nothing of man. He accordingly led the appealing gods to Vishnu, who proclaimed that the monster should be slain by men and monkeys, and that he would himself be re-incarnated as the eldest son of Dasaratha and in this form compass the death of Ravana. In course of time, as a reward for his performance of the great sacrifice, four sons were born to Dasaratha, Rama by Kausalya, his oldest wife, Bharata, whose mother was Kaikeyi, and twin sons, Lakshmana and Satrughna, whose mother was Sumitra. Rama, the incarnation of Vishnu, destined to destroy Ravana, grew daily in grace, beauty, and strength. When he was but sixteen years old, having been sent for by a sage to destroy the demons who were disturbing the forest hermits in their religious rites, he departed unattended, save by his brother Lakshmana and a guide, into the pathless forests, where he successfully overcame the terrible Rakshasa, Tarika, and conveyed her body to the grateful sage. While he was journeying through the forests, destroying countless Rakshasas, he chanced to pass near the kingdom of Mithila and heard that its king, Janaka, had offered his peerless daughter, Sita, in marriage to the man who could bend the mighty bow of Siva the destroyer, which, since its owner's death, had been kept at Janaka's court. Rama at once determined to accomplish the feat, which had been essayed in vain by so many suitors. When he presented himself at court Janaka was at once won by his youth and beauty; and when the mighty bow, resting upon an eight-wheeled car, was drawn in by five thousand men, and Rama without apparent effort bent it until it broke, he gladly gave him his beautiful daughter, and after the splendid wedding ceremonies were over, loaded the happy pair with presents to carry back to Ayodhya. When Dasaratha, who had attended the marriage of his son at Mithila, returned home, he began to feel weary of reigning, and bethought himself of the ancient Hindu custom of making the eldest son and heir apparent a Yuva-Raja,--that is appointing him assistant king. Rama deserved this honor, and would, moreover, be of great assistance to him. His happy people received the announcement of his intention with delight; the priests approved of it as well, and the whole city was in the midst of the most splendid preparations for the ceremony, when it occurred to Dasaratha that all he lacked was the congratulations of his youngest and favorite wife, Kaikeyi, on this great event. The well-watered streets and the garlanded houses had already aroused the suspicions of Kaikeyi,--suspicions speedily confirmed by the report of her maid. Angered and jealous because the son of Kausalya and not her darling Bharata, at that time absent from the city, was to be made Yuva-Raja, she fled to the "Chamber of Sorrows," and was there found by the old Raja. Though Kaikeyi was his youngest and most beautiful wife, her tears, threats, and entreaties would have been of no avail had she not recalled that, months before, the old Raja, in gratitude for her devoted nursing during his illness, had granted her two promises. She now demanded the fulfilment of these before she would consent to smile upon him, and the consent won, she required him, first, to appoint Bharata Yuva-Raja; and, second, to exile Rama for fourteen years to the terrible forest of Dandaka. The promise of a Hindu, once given, cannot be revoked. In spite of the grief of the old Raja, of Kausalya, his old wife, and of all the people, who were at the point of revolt at the sudden disgrace of their favorite prince, the terrible news was announced to Rama, and he declared himself ready to go, to save his father from dishonor. He purposed to go alone, but Sita would not suffer herself to be thus deserted. Life without him, she pleaded, was worse than death; and so eloquent was her grief at the thought of parting that she was at last permitted to don the rough garment of bark provided by the malicious Kaikeyi. The people of Ayodhya, determined to share the fate of their favorites, accompanied them from the city, their tears laying the dust raised by Rama's chariot wheels. But when sleep overcame them, Rama, Sita, and Lakshmana escaped from them, dismissed their charioteer, and, crossing the Ganges, made their way to the mountain of Citra-kuta, where they took up their abode. No more beautiful place could be imagined. Flowers of every kind, delicious fruits, and on every side the most pleasing prospects, together with perfect love, made their hermitage a paradise on earth. Here the exiles led an idyllic existence until sought out by Bharata, who, learning from his mother on his return home the ruin she had wrought in the Raj, had indignantly spurned her, and hastened to Dandaka. The old Raja had died from grief soon after the departure of the exiles, and Bharata now demanded that Rama should return to Ayodhya and become Raja, as was his right, as eldest son. When Rama refused to do this until the end of his fourteen years of exile, Bharata vowed that for fourteen years he would wear the garb of a devotee and live outside the city, committing the management of the Raj to a pair of golden sandals which he took from Rama's feet. All the affairs of state would be transacted under the authority of the sandals, and Bharata, while ruling the Raj, would pay homage to them. Soon after the departure of Bharata the exiles were warned to depart from their home on Citra-kuta and seek a safer hermitage, for terrible rakshasas filled this part of the forest. They accordingly sought the abode of Atri the hermit, whose wife Anasuya was so pleased with Sita's piety and devotion to her husband that she bestowed upon her the crown of immortal youth and beauty. They soon found a new abode in the forest of Pancarati, on the banks of the river Godavari, where Lakshmana erected a spacious bamboo house. Their happiness in this elysian spot was destined to be short-lived. Near them dwelt a horrible rakshasa, Surpanakha by name, who fell in love with Rama. When she found that he did not admire the beautiful form she assumed to win him, and that both he and Lakshmana laughed at her advances, she attempted to destroy Sita, only to receive in the attempt a disfiguring wound from the watchful Lakshmana. Desiring revenge for her disfigured countenance and her scorned love, she hastened to the court of her brother Ravana, in Ceylon, and in order to induce him to avenge her wrongs, dwelt upon the charms of the beautiful wife of Rama. Some days after, Sita espied a golden fawn, flecked with silver, among the trees near their home. Its shining body, its jewel-like horns, so captivated her fancy that she implored Rama, if possible, to take it alive for her; if not, at least to bring her its skin for a couch. As Rama departed, he warned Lakshmana not to leave Sita for one moment; he would surely return, since no weapon could harm him. In the depths of the forest the fawn fell by his arrow, crying as it fell, "O Sita! O Lakshmana!" in Rama's very tones. When Sita heard the cry she reproached Lakshmana for not going to his brother's aid, until he left her to escape her bitter words. He had no sooner disappeared in the direction of the cry than a hermit appeared and asked her to minister unto his wants. Sita carried him food, bathed his feet, and conversed with him until, able no longer to conceal his admiration for her, he revealed himself in his true form as the demon god of Ceylon. When she indignantly repulsed him he seized her, and mounting his chariot drove rapidly towards Ceylon. When Rama and Lakshmana returned home, soon after, they found the house empty. As they searched through the forest for traces of her they found a giant vulture dying from wounds received while endeavoring to rescue the shrieking Sita. Going farther, they encountered the monkey king Sugriva and his chiefs, among whom Sita had dropped from the chariot her scarf and ornaments. Sugriva had been deposed from his kingdom by his brother Bali, who had also taken his wife from him. Rama agreed to conquer Bali if Sugriva would assist in the search for Sita; and, the agreement made, they at once marched upon Kishkindha, together slew Bali, and gained possession of the wealthy city and the queen Tara. They were now ready to search for the lost Sita. In his quest through every land, Hanuman, the monkey general, learned from the king of the vultures that she had been carried to Ceylon. He immediately set out for the coast with his army, only to find a bridgeless ocean stretching between them and the island. Commanding his soldiers to remain where they were, Hanuman expanded his body to enormous proportions, leaped the vast expanse of water, and alighted upon a mountain, from which he could look down upon Lanka, the capital city of Ceylon. Perceiving the city to be closely guarded, he assumed the form of a cat, and thus, unsuspected, crept through the barriers and examined the city. He found the demon god in his apartments, surrounded by beautiful women, but Sita was not among them. Continuing his search, he at last discovered her, her beauty dimmed by grief, seated under a tree in a beautiful asoka grove, guarded by hideous rakshasas with the faces of buffaloes, dogs, and swine. Assuming the form of a tiny monkey, Hanuman crept down the tree, and giving her the ring of Rama, took one from her. He offered to carry her away with him, but Sita declared that Rama must himself come to her rescue. While they were talking together, the demon god appeared, and, after fruitless wooing, announced that if Sita did not yield herself to him in two months he would have her guards "mince her limbs with steel" for his morning repast. In his rage, Hanuman destroyed a mango grove and was captured by the demon's guards, who were ordered to set his tail on fire. As soon as this was done, Hanuman made himself so small that he slipped from his bonds, and, jumping upon the roofs, spread a conflagration through the city of Lanka. He leaped back to the mainland, conveyed the news of Sita's captivity to Rama and Sugriva, and was soon engaged in active preparations for the campaign. As long as the ocean was unbridged it was impossible for any one save Hanuman to cross it. In his anger at being so thwarted, Rama turned his weapons against it, until from the terrified waves rose the god of the ocean, who promised him that if Nala built a bridge, the waves should support the materials as firmly as though it were built on land. Terror reigned in Lanka at the news of the approach of Rama. Vibishana, Ravana's brother, deserted to Rama, because of the demon's rage when he advised him to make peace with Rama. Fiercely fought battles ensued, in which even the gods took part, Vishnu and Indra taking sides with Rama, and the evil spirits fighting with Ravana. After the war had been carried on for some time, with varying results, it was decided to determine it by single combat between Ravana and Rama. Then even the gods were terrified at the fierceness of the conflict. At each shot Rama's mighty bow cut off a head of the demon, which at once grew back, and the hero was in despair until he remembered the all-powerful arrow given him by Brahma. As the demon fell by this weapon, flowers rained from heaven upon the happy victor, and his ears were ravished with celestial music. Touched by the grief of Ravana's widows, Rama ordered his foe a splendid funeral, and then sought the conquered city. Sita was led forth, beaming with happiness at finding herself re-united to her husband; but her happiness was destined to be of short duration. Rama received her with coldness and with downcast eyes, saying that she could no longer be his wife, after having dwelt in the zenana of the demon. Sita assured him of her innocence; but on his continuing to revile her, she ordered her funeral pyre to be built, since she would rather die by fire than live despised by Rama. The sympathy of all the bystanders was with Sita, but Rama saw her enter the flames without a tremor. Soon Agni, the god of fire, appeared, bearing the uninjured Sita in his arms. Her innocence thus publicly proved by the trial by fire, she was welcomed by Rama, whose treatment she tenderly forgave. The conquest made, the demon destroyed, and Sita restored, Rama returned in triumph to Ayodhya, and assumed the government. The city was prosperous, the people were happy, and for a time all went well. It was not long, however, before whispers concerning Sita's long abode in Ceylon spread abroad, and some one whispered to Rama that a famine in the country was due to the guilt of Sita, who had suffered the caresses of the demon while in captivity in Ceylon. Forgetful of the trial by fire, forgetful of Sita's devotion to him through weal and woe, the ungrateful Rama immediately ordered her to the forest in which they had spent together the happy years of their exile. Without a murmur the unhappy Sita, alone and unbefriended, dragged herself to the forest, and, torn with grief of body and spirit, found the hermitage of Valmiki, where she gave birth to twin sons, Lava and Kuça. Here she reared them, with the assistance of the hermit, who was their teacher, and under whose care they grew to manhood, handsome and strong. It chanced about the time the youths were twenty years old, that Rama, who had grown peevish and disagreeable with age, began to think the gods were angered with him because he had killed Ravana, who was the son of a Brahman. Determined to propitiate them by means of the great sacrifice, he caused a horse to be turned loose in the forest. When his men went to retake it, at the end of the year, it was caught by two strong and beautiful youths who resisted all efforts to capture them. In his rage Rama went to the forest in person, only to learn that the youths were his twin sons, Lava and Kuça. Struck with remorse, Rama recalled the sufferings of his wife Sita, and on learning that she was at the hermitage of Valmiki, ordered her to come to him, that he might take her to him again, having first caused her to endure the trial by fire to prove her innocence to all his court. Sita had had time to recover from the love of her youth, and the prospect of life with Rama, without the _couleur de rose_ of youthful love, was not altogether pleasant. At first, she even refused to see him; but finally, moved by the appeals of Valmiki and his wife, she clad herself in her richest robes, and, young and beautiful as when first won by Rama, she stood before him. Not deigning to look in his face, she appealed to the earth. If she had never loved any man but Rama, if her truth and purity were known to the earth, let it open its bosom and take her to it. While the armies stood trembling with horror, the earth opened, a gorgeous throne appeared, and the goddess of earth, seated upon it, took Sita beside her and conveyed her to the realms of eternal happiness, leaving the too late repentant Rama to wear out his remaining years in shame and penitence. SELECTIONS FROM THE RÂMÂYANA. THE DESCENT OF THE GANGES. Sagara, an early king of Ayodhya, had sixty thousand sons, whom he sent out one day to recover a horse that had been designed for the great sacrifice, but had been stolen by a rakshasa. Having searched the earth unsuccessfully, they proceeded to dig into the lower regions. Cloven with shovel and with hoe, pierced by axes and by spades, Shrieked the earth in frantic woe; rose from out the yawning shades Yells of anguish, hideous roars from the expiring brood of hell,-- Serpents, giants, and asoors, in the deep abyss that dwell. Sixty thousand leagues in length, all unweary, full of wrath, Through the centre, in their strength, clove they down their hellward path. And downward dug they many a rood, and downward till they saw aghast, Where the earth-bearing elephant stood, ev'n like a mountain tall and vast. 'T is he whose head aloft sustains the broad earth's forest-clothed round, With all its vast and spreading plains, and many a stately city crowned. If underneath the o'erbearing load bows down his weary head, 't is then The mighty earthquakes are abroad, and shaking down the abodes of men. Around earth's pillar moved they slowly, and thus in humble accents blest Him the lofty and the holy, that bears the region of the East. And southward dug they many a rood, until before their shuddering sight The next earth-bearing elephant stood, huge Mahapadmas' mountain height. Upon his head earth's southern bound, all full of wonder, saw they rest. Slow and awe-struck paced they round, and him, earth's southern pillar, blest. Westward then their work they urge, king Sagara's six myriad race, Unto the vast earth's western verge, and there in his appointed place The next earth-bearing elephant stood, huge Saumanasa's mountain crest; Around they paced in humble mood, and in like courteous phrase addrest, And still their weary toil endure, and onward dig until they see Last earth-bearing Himapandure, glorying in his majesty. _At last they reach the place where Vishnu appears with the horse. A flame issues from the mouth of the indignant deity and destroys the six myriad sons of Sagara, The adventure devolves on their brother Ansuman, who achieves it with perfect success. He is permitted to lead away the horse, but the ashes of his brothers cannot be purified by earthly water; the goddess Ganga must first be brought to earth, and having undergone lustration from that holy flood, the race of Sagara are to ascend to heaven. Brahma at last gives his permission to Ganga to descend. King Bhagiratha takes his stand on the top of Gokarna, the sacred peak of Himavan (the Himalaya), and here_-- Stands with arms outstretch'd on high, amid five blazing fires, the one Towards each quarter of the sky, the fifth the full meridian sun. Mid fiercest frosts on snow he slept, the dry and withered leaves his food, Mid rains his roofless vigil kept, the soul and sense alike subdued. High on the top of Himavan the mighty Mashawara stood; And "Descend," he gave the word to the heaven-meandering water-- Full of wrath the mandate heard Himavan's majestic daughter. To a giant's stature soaring and intolerable speed, From heaven's height down rushed she, pouring upon Siva's sacred head, Him the goddess thought in scorn with her resistless might to sweep By her fierce waves overborne, down to hell's remotest deep. Down on Sankara's holy head, down the holy fell, and there, Amid the entangling meshes spread, of his loose and flowing hair, Vast and boundless as the woods upon the Himalaya's brow, Nor ever may the struggling floods rush headlong to the earth below. Opening, egress was not there, amid those winding, long meanders. Within that labyrinthine hair, for many an age, the goddess wanders. _By the penances of the king, Siva is propitiated, and the stream, by seven channels, finds its way to the plains of India_. Up the Raja at the sign upon his glittering chariot leaps, Instant Ganga the divine follows his majestic steps. From the high heaven burst she forth first on Siva's lofty crown, Headlong then, and prone to earth thundering rushed the cataract down, Swarms of bright-hued fish came dashing; turtles, dolphins in their mirth, Fallen or falling, glancing, flashing, to the many-gleaming earth. And all the host of heaven came down, spirits and genii, in amaze, And each forsook his heavenly throne, upon that glorious scene to gaze. On cars, like high-towered cities, seen, with elephants and coursers rode, Or on soft swinging palanquin, lay wondering each observant god. As met in bright divan each god, and flashed their jewell'd vestures' rays, The coruscating aether glow'd, as with a hundred suns ablaze. And with the fish and dolphins gleaming, and scaly crocodiles and snakes, Glanc'd the air, as when fast streaming the blue lightning shoots and breaks: And in ten thousand sparkles bright went flashing up the cloudy spray, The snowy flocking swans less white, within its glittering mists at play. And headlong now poured down the flood, and now in silver circlets wound, Then lake-like spread all bright and broad, then gently, gently flowed around, Then 'neath the caverned earth descending, then spouted up the boiling tide, Then stream with stream harmonious blending, swell bubbling up and smooth subside. By that heaven-welling water's breast, the genii and the sages stood, Its sanctifying dews they blest, and plung'd within the lustral flood. Whoe'er beneath the curse of heaven from that immaculate world had fled, To th' impure earth in exile driven, to that all-holy baptism sped; And purified from every sin, to the bright spirit's bliss restor'd, Th' ethereal sphere they entered in, and through th' empyreal mansions soar'd. The world in solemn jubilee beheld those heavenly waves draw near, From sin and dark pollution free, bathed in the blameless waters clear. Swift king Bhagiratha drave upon his lofty glittering car, And swift with her obeisant wave bright Ganga followed him afar. _Milman's Translation._ THE DEATH OF YAJNADATTA. The Raja Dasaratha was compelled to banish his favorite son Rama, immediately after his marriage to Sita, because his banishment was demanded by the Raja's wife Kaikeyi, to whom he had once promised to grant any request she might make. His grief at the loss of his son is described in this selection. Scarce Rama to the wilderness had with his younger brother gone, Abandoned to his deep distress, king Dasaratha sate alone. Upon his sons to exile driven when thought that king, as Indra bright, Darkness came o'er him, as in heaven when pales th' eclipsed sun his light. Six days he sate, and mourned and pined for Rama all that weary time. At midnight on his wandering mind rose up his old forgotten crime. His queen, Kausalya, the divine, addressed he, as she rested near: "Kausalya, if thou wakest, incline to thy lord's speech thy ready ear. Whatever deed, or good or ill, by man, O blessed queen, is wrought. Its proper fruit he gathers still, by time to slow perfection brought. He who the opposing counsel's weight compares not in his judgment cool, Or misery or bliss his fate, among the sage is deemed a fool. As one that quits the Amra bower, the bright Palasa's pride to gain Mocked by the promise of its flower, seeks its unripening fruit in vain, So I the lovely Amra left for the Palasa's barren bloom, Through mine own fatal error 'reft of banished Rama, mourn in gloom. Kausalya! in my early youth by my keen arrow, at his mark Aimed with too sure and deadly truth, was wrought a deed most fell and dark. At length, the evil that I did, hath fallen upon my fated head, As when on subtle poison hid an unsuspecting child hath fed; Even as that child unwittingly hath made the poisonous fare his food, Even so, in ignorance by me was wrought that deed of guilt and blood. Unwed wert thou in virgin bloom, and I in youth's delicious prime, The season of the rains had come,--that soft and love enkindling time. Earth's moisture all absorbed, the sun through all the world its warmth had spread, Turned from the north, its course begun, where haunt the spirits of the dead: Gathering o'er all the horizon's bound on high the welcome clouds appeared, Exulting, all the birds flew round,--cranes, cuckoos, peacocks, flew and veered. And all down each wide-watered shore the troubled, yet still limpid floods, Over their banks began to pour, as o'er them hung the bursting clouds. And, saturate with cloud-born dew, the glittering verdant-mantled earth, The cuckoos and the peacocks flew, disputing as in drunken mirth.-- "In such a time, so soft, so bland, oh beautiful! I chanced to go. With quiver and with bow in hand, where clear Sarayu's waters flow, If haply to the river's brink at night the buffalo might stray, Or elephant, the stream to drink,--intent my savage game to slay. Then of a water cruse, as slow it filled, the gurgling sound I heard, Nought saw I, but the sullen low of elephant that sound appeared. The swift well-feathered arrow I upon the bowstring fitting straight, Towards the sound the shaft let fly, ah, cruelly deceived by fate! The winged arrow scarce had flown, and scarce had reached its destined aim, 'Ah me, I'm slain,' a feeble moan in trembling human accents came. 'Ah, whence hath come this fatal shaft against a poor recluse like me, Who shot that bolt with deadly craft,--alas! what cruel man is he? At the lone midnight had I come to draw the river's limpid flood, And here am struck to death, by whom? ah whose this wrongful deed of blood? Alas! and in my parents' heart, the old, the blind, and hardly fed, In the wild wood, hath pierced the dart, that here hath struck their offspring dead. Ah, deed most profitless as worst, a deed of wanton useless guilt: As though a pupil's hand accurs'd his holy master's blood had spilt. But not mine own untimely fate,--it is not that which I deplore. My blind, my aged parents' state--'tis their distress afflicts me more. That sightless pair, for many a day, from me their scanty food have earned; What lot is theirs when I'm away, to the five elements returned? Alike, all wretched they, as I--ah, whose this triple deed of blood? For who the herbs will now supply,--the roots, the fruit, their blameless food?' My troubled soul, that plaintive moan no sooner heard, so faint and low, Trembled to look on what I'd done, fell from my shuddering hand my bow. Swift I rushed up, I saw him there, heart-pierced, and fallen the stream beside, The hermit boy with knotted hair,--his clothing was the black deer's hide. On me most piteous turned his look, his wounded breast could scarce respire, And these the words, O queen, he spoke, as to consume me in his ire: 'What wrong, O Kshatriya, have I done, to be thy deathful arrow's aim, The forest's solitary son, to draw the limpid stream I came. Both wretched and both blind they lie, in the wildwood all destitute, My parents, listening anxiously to hear my home-returning foot. By this, thy fatal shaft, this one, three miserable victims fall, The sire, the mother, and the son--ah why? and unoffending all. How vain my father's life austere, the Veda's studied page how vain, He knew not with prophetic fear his son would fall untimely slain. But had he known, to one as he, so weak, so blind, 't were bootless all, No tree can save another tree by the sharp hatchet marked to fall. But to my father's dwelling haste, O Raghu's son, lest in his ire Thy head with burning curse he blast, as the dry forest tree the fire. Thee to my father's lone retreat will quickly lead yon onward path, Oh, haste his pardon to entreat, or ere he curse thee in his wrath. Yet first that gently I may die, draw forth the barbed steel from hence, Allay thy fears, no Brahmin I, not thine of Brahmin blood the offence. My sire, a Brahmin hermit he, my mother was of Sudra race.' So spake the wounded boy, on me while turned his unreproaching face. As from his palpitating breast I gently drew the mortal dart, He saw me trembling stand, and blest that boy's pure spirit seemed to part. As died that holy hermit's son, from me my glory seemed to go, With troubled mind I stood, cast down t' inevitable endless woe. That shaft that seemed his life to burn like serpent venom, thus drawn out, I, taking up his fallen urn, t' his father's dwelling took my route. There miserable, blind, and old, of their sole helpmate thus forlorn, His parents did these eyes behold, like two sad birds with pinions shorn. Of him in fond discourse they sate, lone, thinking only of their son, For his return so long, so late, impatient, oh by me undone. My footsteps' sound he seemed to know, and thus the aged hermit said, 'O Yajnadatta, why so slow?--haste, let the cooling draught be shed. Long on the river's cooling brink hast thou been sporting in thy joy. Thy mother's fainting spirits sink in fear for thee; but thou, my boy, If aught to grieve thy gentle heart thy mother or thy sire do wrong, Bear with us, nor, when next we part, on the slow way thus linger long, The feet of those that cannot move, of those that cannot see the eye, Our spirits live but in thy love,--oh wherefore, dearest, no reply?' "My throat thick swollen with bursting tears, my power of speech that seemed to choke, With hands above my head, my fears breaking my quivering voice, I spoke: The Kshatriya Dasaratha I, O hermit sage, 't is not thy son! Most holy ones, unknowingly a deed of awful guilt I've done. With bow in hand I took my way along Sarayu's pleasant brink, The savage buffalo to slay, or elephant come down to drink. "A sound came murmuring to my ear,--'twas of the urn that slowly filled, I deemed some savage wild-beast near,--my erring shaft thy son had killed. A feeble groan I heard, his breast was pierced by that dire arrow keen: All trembling to the spot I pressed, lo there thy hermit boy was seen. Flew to the sound my arrow, meant the wandering elephant to slay, Toward the river brink it went,--and there thy son expiring lay. The fatal shaft when forth I drew, to heaven his parting spirit soared, Dying he only thought of you, long, long, your lonely lot deplored. Thus ignorantly did I slay your child beloved, O hermit sage! Turn thou on me, whose fated day is come, thy all-consuming rage!' He heard my dreadful tale at length, he stood all lifeless, motionless; Then deep he groaned, and gathering strength, me the meek suppliant did address. 'Kshatriya, 't is well that thou hast turned, thy deed of murder to rehearse, Else over all thy land had burned the fire of my wide-wasting curse. If with premeditated crime the unoffending blood thou 'dst spilt, The Thunderer on his throne sublime had shaken at such tremendous guilt. Against the anchorite's sacred head, hadst, knowing, aimed thy shaft accursed, In th' holy Vedas deeply read, thy skull in seven wide rents had burst. But since, unwitting, thou hast wrought that deed of death, thou livest still, O son of Taghu, from thy thought dismiss all dread of instant ill. Oh lead me to that doleful spot where my poor boy expiring lay, Beneath the shaft thy fell hand shot, of my blind age the staff, the stay. On the cold earth 'twere yet a joy to touch my perished child again, (So long if I may live) my boy in one last fond embrace to strain His body all bedewed with gore, his locks in loose disorder thrown, Let me, let her but touch once more, to the dread realm of Yama gone.' Then to that fatal place I brought alone that miserable pair; His sightless hands and hers I taught to touch their boy that slumbered there. Nor sooner did they feel him lie, on the moist herbage coldly thrown, But with a shrill and feeble cry upon the body cast them down. The mother as she lay and groaned, addressed her boy with quivering tongue, And like a heifer sadly moaned, just plundered of her new-dropped young: "'Was not thy mother once, my son, than life itself more dear to thee? Why the long way thou hast begun, without one gentle word to me? One last embrace, and then, beloved, upon thy lonely journey go! Alas! with anger art thou moved, that not a word thou wilt bestow?' "The miserable father now with gentle touch each cold limb pressed, And to the dead his words of woe, as to his living son addressed: 'I too, my son, am I not here?--thy sire with thy sad mother stands; Awake, arise, my child, draw near, and clasp each neck with loving hands. Who now, 'neath the dark wood by night, a pious reader shall be heard? Whose honeyed voice my ear delight with th' holy Veda's living word? The evening prayer, th' ablution done, the fire adored with worship meet, Who now shall soothe like thee, my son, with fondling hand, my aged feet? And who the herb, the wholesome root, or wild fruit from the wood shall bring? To us the blind, the destitute, with helpless hunger perishing? Thy blind old mother, heaven-resigned, within our hermit-dwelling lone, How shall I tend, myself as blind, now all my strength of life is gone? Oh, stay, my child, oh. Part not yet, to Yama's dwelling go not now, To-morrow forth we all will set,--thy mother and myself and thou: For both, in grief for thee, and both so helpless, ere another day, From this dark world, but little loath, shall we depart, death's easy prey! And I myself, by Yama's seat, companion of thy darksome way, The guerdon to thy virtues meet from that great Judge of men will pray. Because, my boy, in innocence, by wicked deed thou hast been slain, Rise, where the heroes dwell, who thence ne'er stoop to this dark world again. Those that to earth return no more, the sense-subdued, the hermits wise, Priests their sage masters that adore, to their eternal seats arise. Those that have studied to the last the Veda's, the Vedanga's page, Where saintly kings of earth have passed, Nahusa and Yayati sage; The sires of holy families, the true to wedlock's sacred vow; And those that cattle, gold, or rice, or lands, with liberal hands bestow; That ope th' asylum to th' oppressed, that ever love, and speak the truth; Up to the dwellings of the blest, th' eternal, soar thou, best-loved youth. For none of such a holy race within the lowest seat may dwell; But that will be his fatal place by whom my only offspring fell.' "So groaning deep, that wretched pair, the hermit and his wife, essayed The meet ablution to prepare, their hands their last faint effort made. Divine, with glorious body bright, in splendid car of heaven elate, Before them stood their son in light, and thus consoled their helpless state: 'Meed of my duteous filial care, I've reached the wished for realms of joy; And ye, in those glad realms, prepare to meet full soon your dear-loved boy. My parents, weep no more for me, yon warrior monarch slew me not, My death was thus ordained to be, predestined was the shaft he shot.' Thus as he spoke, the anchorite's son soared up the glowing heaven afar, In air his heavenly body shone, while stood he in his gorgeous car. But they, of that lost boy so dear the last ablution meetly made, Thus spoke to me that holy seer, with folded hands above his head. 'Albeit by thy unknowing dart my blameless boy untimely fell, A curse I lay upon thy heart, whose fearful pain I know too well. As sorrowing for my son I bow, and yield up my unwilling breath, So, sorrowing for thy son shalt thou at life's last close repose in death.' That curse dread sounding in mine ear, to mine own city forth I set, Nor long survived that hermit seer, to mourn his child in lone regret. This day that Brahmin curse fulfilled hath fallen on my devoted head, In anguish for my parted child have all my sinking spirits fled. No more my darkened eyes can see, my clouded memory is o'ercast, Dark Yama's heralds summon me to his deep, dreary realm to haste. Mine eye no more my Rama sees, and grief-o'erborne, my spirits sink, As the swoln stream sweeps down the trees that grow upon the crumbling brink. Oh, felt I Rama's touch, or spake one word his home-returning voice, Again to life I should awake, as quaffing nectar draughts, rejoice, But what so sad could e'er have been, celestial partner of my heart, As Rama's beauteous face unseen, from life untimely to depart? His exile in the forest o'er, him home returned to Oude's high town, Oh happy those, that see once more, like Indra from the sky come down. No mortal men, but gods I deem,--moonlike, before whose wondering sight My Rama's glorious face shall beam, from the dark forest bursting bright. Happy that gaze on Rama's face with beauteous teeth and smile of love, Like the blue lotus in its grace, and like the starry king above. Like to the full autumnal moon, and like the lotus in its bloom, That youth who sees returning soon,--how blest shall be that mortal's doom." Dwelling in that sweet memory, on his last bed the monarch lay, And slowly, softly seemed to die, as fades the moon at dawn away. "Ah, Rama! ah, my son!" thus said, or scarcely said, the king of men, His gentle hapless spirit fled in sorrow for his Rama then, The shepherd of his people old at midnight on his bed of death, The tale of his son's exile told, and breathed away his dying breath. _Milman's Translation._ THE MAHÂ-BHÂRATA. "It is a deep and noble forest, abounding in delicious fruits and fragrant flowers, shaded and watered by perennial springs." Though parts of the Mahâ-Bhârata, or story of the great war, are of great antiquity, the entire poem was undoubtedly collected and re-written in the first or second century A. D. Tradition ascribes the Mahâ-Bhârata to the Brahman Krishna Dwaipayana Vyasa. The Mahâ-Bhârata, unlike the Râmâyana, is not the story of some great event, but consists of countless episodes, legends, and philosophical treatises, strung upon the thread of a single story. These episodes are called Upakhyanani, and the five most beautiful are called, in India, the five precious stones. Its historical basis is the strife between the Aryan invaders of India and the original inhabitants, illustrated in the strife between the sons of the Raja Pandu and the blind Raja, Dhrita-rashtra, which forms the main story of the poem. Though marred by the exaggerations peculiar to the Hindu, the poem is a great treasure house of Indian history, and from it the Indian poets, historical writers, and philosophers have drawn much of their material. The Mahâ-Bhârata is written in the Sanskrit language; it is the longest poem ever written, its eighteen cantos containing two hundred thousand lines. It is held in even higher regard than the Râmâyana, and the reading of it is supposed to confer upon the happy reader every good and perfect gift. BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE MAHÂ-BHÂRATA. G.W. Cox's Mythology and Folklore, 1881, p. 313; John Dowson's Classical Dictionary of Hindu Mythology, Religion, Geography, History, and Literature, 1879; F. Max Müller's Ancient Sanskrit Literature, 1859 (Introduction); E. A. Reed's Hindu Literature, 1891, pp. 272-352; Albrecht Weber's History of Indian Literature, 1878, pp. 184-191; J. T. Wheeler's History of India, 4 vols., 1876, vol. ii.; J. C. Oman's Great Indian Epics, 1874, pp. 87-231; T. Goldstuecker's Hindu Epic Poetry; the Mahâ-Bhârata Literary Remains, 1879, (vol. ii., pp. 86-145); M. Macmillan's Globe-trotter in India, 1815, p. 193; J. Peile's Notes on the Tales of Nala, 1882; C. J. Stone's Cradle-land of Arts and Creeds, 1880, pp. 36-49; H. H. Wilson's Introduction to the Mahâ-Bhârata and a Translation of three Extracts (in his Works, vol. iii., p. 277); Westminster Review, 1868, vol. xxxiii., p. 380. STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE MAHÂ-BHÂRATA. The Mahâ-Bhârata, Selections from the Tr. by Sir Edwin Arnold, in his Indian Poetry, 1886; in his Indian Idylls, 1883; Nala and Damayanti and other Poems, Tr. from the Mahâ-Bhârata by H. H. Milman, (his translation of the Story of Nala is edited with notes by Monier Williams, 1879); Metrical translations from Sanskrit writers by John Muir, 1879, pp. 13-37; Last Days of Krishna, Tr. from the Mahâ-Bhârata Price (Oriental Translation Fund: Miscellaneous Translations); The Mahâ-Bhârata, an English Prose Translation with notes, by Protap Chandra Roy, Published in one hundred parts, 1883-1890; Asiatic Researches, Tr. by H. H. Wilson, from the Mahâ-Bhârata vol. xv., p. 101; Translations of episodes from the Mahâ-Bhârata, in Scribner's Monthly, 1874, vol. vii., p. 385; International Review, vol. x., pp. 36, 297; Oriental Magazine, Dec., 1824, March, Sept., 1825, Sept., 1826. THE STORY OF THE MAHÂ-BHÂRATA. Long ago there dwelt in India two great Rajas who were brothers, the Raja Pandu and the blind Raja, Dhritarashtra. The former had five noble sons called the Pandavas, the eldest of whom was Yudhi-sthira, the second Bhima, the third Arjuna, and the youngest, twin sons, Nakalu and Sahadeva. All were girted in every way, but Arjuna was especially noble in form and feature. The blind Raja had a family of one hundred sons, called the Kauravas from their ancestor, Kura. The oldest of these was Duryodhana, and the bravest, Dhusasana. Before the birth of Pandu's sons, he had left his kingdom in charge of Dhrita-rashtra, that he might spend his time in hunting in the forests on the slopes of the Himalayas. After his death Dhrita-rashtra continued to rule the kingdom; but on account of their claim to the throne, he invited the Pandavas and their mother to his court, where they were trained, together with his sons, in every knightly exercise. There was probably jealousy between the cousins from the beginning, and when their teacher, Drona, openly expressed his pride in the wonderful archery of Arjuna, the hatred of the Kauravas was made manifest. No disturbance occurred, however, until the day when Drona made a public tournament to display the prowess of his pupils. The contests were in archery and the use of the noose and of clubs. Bhima, who had been endowed by the serpent king with the strength of ten thousand elephants, especially excelled in the use of the club, Nakalu was most skillful in taming and driving the horse, and the others in the use of the sword and spear. When Arjuna made use of the bow and the noose the plaudits with which the spectators greeted his skill so enraged the Kauravas that they turned the contest of clubs, which was to have been a friendly one, into a degrading and blood-shedding battle. The spectators left the splendid lists in sorrow, and the blind Raja determined to separate the unfriendly cousins before further harm could come from their rivalry. Before this could be done, another event increased their hostility. Drona had agreed to impart to the Kauravas and the Pandavas his skill in warfare, on condition that they would conquer for him his old enemy, the Raja of Panchala. On account of their quarrel the cousins would not fight together, and the Kauravas, marching against the Raja, were defeated. On their return, the Pandavas went to Panchala, and took the Raja prisoner. After Yudhi-sthira had been appointed Yuva-Raja, a step Dhrita-rashtra was compelled by the people of Hastinapur to take, the Kauravas declared that they could no longer remain in the same city with their cousins. A plot was laid to destroy the Pandavas, the Raja's conscience having been quieted by the assurances of his Brahman counsellor that it was entirely proper to slay one's foe, be he father, brother, or friend, openly or by secret means. The Raja accordingly pretended to send his nephews on a pleasure-trip to a distant province, where he had prepared for their reception a "house of lac," rendered more combustible by soaking in clarified butter, in which he had arranged to have them burned as if by accident, as soon as possible after their arrival. All Hastinapur mourned at the departure of the Pandavas, and the princes themselves were sad, for they had been warned by a friend that Dhrita-rashtra had plotted for their destruction. They took up their abode in the house of lac, to which they prudently constructed a subterranean outlet, and one evening, when a woman with five sons attended a feast of their mother's, uninvited, and fell into a drunken sleep, they made fast the doors, set fire to the house, and escaped to the forest. The bodies of the five men and their mother were found next day, and the assurance was borne to Hastinapur that the Pandavas and their mother Kunti had perished by fire. The five princes, with their mother, disguised as Brahmans, spent several years wandering through the forests, having many strange adventures and slaying many demons. While visiting Ekachakra, which city they freed from a frightful rakshasa, they were informed by the sage Vyasa that Draupadi, the lovely daughter of the Raja Draupada of Panchala, was going to hold a Svayamvara in order to select a husband. The suitors of a princess frequently attended a meeting of this sort and took part in various athletic contests, at the end of which the princess signified who was most pleasing to her, usually the victor in the games, by hanging around his neck a garland of flowers. Vyasa's description of the lovely princess, whose black eyes were large as lotus leaves, whose skin was dusky, and her locks dark and curling, so excited the curiosity of the Pandavas that they determined to attend the Svayamvara. They found the city full of princes and kings who had come to take part in the contest for the most beautiful woman in the world. The great amphitheatre in which the games were to take place was surrounded by gold and jewelled palaces for the accommodation of the princes, and with platforms for the convenience of the spectators. After music, dancing, and various entertainments, which occupied sixteen days, the contest of skill began. On the top of a tall pole, erected in the plain, was placed a golden fish, below which revolved a large wheel. He who sent his arrow through the spokes of the wheel and pierced the eye of the golden fish was to be the accepted suitor of Draupadi. When the princes saw the difficulty of the contest, many of them refused to enter it; as many tried it only to fail, among them, the Kaurava Duryodhana. At last Arjuna, still in his disguise, stepped forward, drew his bow, and sent his arrow through the wheel into the eye of the golden fish. Immediately a great uproar arose among the spectators because a Brahman had entered a contest limited to members of the Kshatriya, or warrior class. In the struggle which ensued, however, Arjuna, assisted by his brothers, especially Bhima, succeeded in carrying off the princess, whose father did not demur. When the princes returned to their hut they went into the inner room and informed their mother that they had brought home a prize. Supposing that it was some game, she told them it would be well to share it equally. The mother's word was law, but would the gods permit them to share Draupadi? Their troubled minds were set at rest by Vyasa, who assured them that Draupadi had five different times in former existences besought Siva for a good husband. He had refused her requests then, but would now allow her five husbands at once. The princes were well satisfied, and when the Raja Draupada learned that the Brahmans were great princes in disguise, he caused the five weddings to be celebrated in great state. Not satisfied with this, the Raja at once endeavored to make peace between the Pandavas and their hostile cousins, and succeeded far enough to induce Dhrita-rashtra to cede to his nephews a tract of land in the farthest part of his kingdom, on the river Jumna, where they set about founding a most splendid city, Indra-prastha. Here they lived happily with Draupadi, conquering so many kingdoms and accumulating so much wealth that they once more aroused the jealousy of their old enemies, the Kauravas. The latter, knowing that it would be impossible to gain the advantage of them by fair means, determined to conquer them by artifice, and accordingly erected a large and magnificent hall and invited their cousins thither, with a great show of friendliness, to a gambling match. The Pandavas knew they would not be treated fairly, but as such an invitation could not be honorably declined by a Kshatriya, they went to Hastinapur. Yudhi-sthira's opponent was Shakuni, the queen's brother, an unprincipled man, by whom he was defeated in every game. Yudhi-sthira staked successively his money, his jewels, and his slaves; and when these were exhausted, he continued to play, staking his kingdom, his brothers, and last of all his peerless wife, Draupadi. At this point, when the excitement was intense, the brutal Dhusasana commanded Draupadi to be brought into the hall, and insulted her in every way, to the great rage of the helpless Pandavas, until Dhrita-rashtra, affrighted by the evil omens by which the gods signified their disapproval, rebuked Dhusasana for his conduct, and giving Draupadi her wish, released her husbands and herself and sent them back to their kingdom. To prevent the Pandavas from gaining time to avenge their insult, the Kauravas induced their father to invite their cousins to court to play a final game, this time the conditions being that the losing party should go into exile for thirteen years, spending twelve years in the forest and the thirteenth in some city. If their disguise was penetrated by their enemies during the thirteenth year, the exile was to be extended for another thirteen years. Though they knew the outcome, the Pandavas accepted the second invitation, and in consequence again sought the forest, not departing without the most terrible threats against their cousins. In the forest of Kamyaka, Yudhi-sthira studied the science of dice that he might not again be defeated so disastrously, and journeyed pleasantly from one point of interest to another with Draupadi and his brothers, with the exception of Arjuna, who had sought the Himalayas to gain favor with the god Siva, that he might procure from him a terrible weapon for the destruction of his cousins. After he had obtained the weapon he was lifted into the heaven of the god Indra, where he spent five happy years. When he rejoined his wife and brothers, they were visited by the god Krishna and by the sage Markandeya, who told them the story of the creation and destruction of the universe, of the flood, and of the doctrine of Karma, which instructs one that man's sufferings here below are due to his actions in former and forgotten existences. He also related to them the beautiful story of how the Princess Sâvitrî had wedded the Prince Satyavan, knowing that the gods had decreed that he should die within a year; how on the day set for his death she had accompanied him to the forest, had there followed Yama, the awful god of death, entreating him until, for very pity of her sorrow and admiration of her courage and devotion, he yielded to her her husband's soul. Near the close of the twelfth year of their exile, the princes, fatigued from a hunt, sent Nakalu to get some water from a lake which one had discovered from a tree-top. As the prince approached the lake he was warned by a voice not to touch it, but thirst overcoming fear, he drank and fell dead. The same penalty was paid by Sahadeva, Arjuna, and Bhima, who in turn followed him. Yudhi-sthira, who went last, obeyed the voice, which, assuming a terrible form, asked the king questions on many subjects concerning the universe. These being answered satisfactorily, the being declared himself to be Dharma, the god of justice, Yudhi-sthira's father, and in token of his affection for his son, restored the princes to life, and granted them the boon of being unrecognizable during the remaining year of their exile. The thirteenth year of their exile they spent in the city of Virata, where they entered the service of the Raja,--Yudhi-sthira as teacher of dice-playing, Bhima as superintendent of the cooks, Arjuna as a teacher of music and dancing to the ladies, Nakalu as master of horse, and Sahadeva as superintendent of the cattle. Draupadi, who entered the service of the queen, was so attractive, even in disguise, that Bhima was forced to kill the queen's brother, Kechaka, for insulting her. This would have caused the Pandavas' exile from Virata had not their services been needed in a battle between Virata and the king of the Trigartas. The Kauravas assisted the Trigartas in this battle, and the recognition, among the victors, of their cousins, whose thirteenth year of exile was now ended, added to the bitterness of their defeat. Their exile over, the Pandavas were free to make preparations for the great war which they had determined to wage against the Kauravas. Both parties, anxious to enlist the services of Krishna, sent envoys to him at the same time. When Krishna gave them the choice of himself or his armies, Arjuna was shrewd enough to choose the god, leaving his hundreds of millions of soldiers to swell the forces of the Kauravas. When their preparations were completed, and the time had come to wreak vengeance on their cousins, the Pandavas were loath to begin the conflict. They seemed to understand that, war once declared, there could be no compromise, but that it must be a war for extinction. But the Kauravas received their proposals of peace with taunts, and heaped insults upon their emissary. When the Pandavas found that there was no hope of peace, they endeavored to win to their side Karna, who was really a son of Kunti, and hence their half-brother, though this fact had not been made known to him until he had long been allied with the Kauravas. In anticipation of this war, the gods, by a bit of trickery, had robbed Karna of his god-given armor and weapons. However, neither celestial artifice, the arguments of Krishna, nor the entreaties of Kunti were able to move Karna from what he considered the path of duty, though he promised that while he would fight with all his strength, he would not slay Yudhi-sthira, Bhima, and the twins. The forces of the two armies were drawn up on the plain of Kuruk-shetra. The army of the Kauravas was under the command of the terrible Bhishma, the uncle of Pandu and Dhrita-rashtra, who had governed the country during the minority of Pandu. Each side was provided with billions and billions of infantry, cavalry, and elephants; the warriors were supplied with weapons of the most dangerous sort. The army of the Kauravas was surrounded by a deep trench fortified by towers, and further protected by fireballs and jars full of scorpions to be thrown at the assailants. As night fell, before the battle, the moon's face was stained with blood, earthquakes shook the land, and the images of the gods fell from their places. The next morning, when Arjuna, from his chariot, beheld the immense army, he was appalled at the thought of the bloodshed to follow, and hesitated to advance. Krishna insisted that it was unnecessary for him to lament, setting forth his reasons in what is known as the Bhagavat-gita, the divine song, in which he said it was no sin to slay a foe, since death is but a transmigration from one form to another. The soul can never cease to be; who then can destroy it? Therefore, when Arjuna slew his cousins he would merely remove their offensive bodies; their souls, unable to be destroyed, would seek other habitations. To further impress Arjuna, Krishna boasted of himself as embodying everything, and as having passed through many forms. Faith in Krishna was indispensable, for the god placed faith above either works or contemplation. He next exhibited himself in his divine form to Arjuna, and the warrior was horror-stricken at the terrible divinity with countless arms, hands, and heads, touching the skies. Having been thus instructed by Krishna, Arjuna went forth, and the eighteen days' battle began. The slaughter was wholesale; no quarter was asked or given, since each side was determined to exterminate the other. Flights of arrows were stopped in mid-air by flights of arrows from the other side. Great maces were cut in pieces by well-directed darts. Bhima, wielding his great club with his prodigious strength, wiped out thousands of the enemy at one stroke, and Arjuna did the same with his swift arrows. Nor were the Kauravas to be despised. Hundreds of thousands of the Pandavas' followers fell, and the heroic brothers were themselves struck by many arrows. Early in the battle the old Bhishma was pierced by so many arrows that, falling from his chariot, he rested upon their points as on a couch, and lay there living by his own desire, until long after the battle. After eighteen days of slaughter, during which the field reeked with blood and night was made horrible by the cries of the jackals and other beasts of prey that devoured the bodies of the dead, the Kauravas were all slain, and the five Pandavas, reconciled to the blind Raja, accompanied him back to Hastinapur, where Yudhi-sthira was crowned Raja, although the Raj was still nominally under the rule of his old uncle. Yudhi-sthira celebrated his accession to the throne by the performance of the great sacrifice, which was celebrated with the utmost splendor. After several years the unhappy Dhrita-rashtra retired with his wife to a jungle on the banks of the Ganges, leaving Yudhi-sthira in possession of the kingdom. There the Pandavas visited him, and talked over the friends who had fallen in the great war. One evening the sage Vyasa instructed them to bathe in the Ganges and then stand on the banks of the river. He then went into the water and prayed, and coming out stood by Yudhi-sthira and called the names of all those persons who had been slain at Kuruk-shetra. Immediately the water began to foam and boil, and to the great surprise and terror of all, the warriors lost in the great battle appeared in their chariots, at perfect peace with one another, and cleansed of all earthly stain. Then the living were happy with the dead; long separated families were once more united, and the hearts that had been desolate for fifteen long years were again filled with joy. The night sped quickly by in tender conversation, and when morning came, all the dead mounted into their chariots and disappeared. Those who had come to meet them prepared to leave the river, but with the permission of Vyasa, the widows drowned themselves that they might rejoin their husbands. Not long after his return to Hastinapur, Yudhi-sthira heard that the old Raja and his wife had lost their lives in a jungle-fire; and soon after this, tidings came to him of the destruction of the city of the Yadavas, the capital of Krishna, in punishment for the dissipation of its inhabitants. Yudhi-sthira's reign of thirty-six years had been a succession of gloomy events, and he began to grow weary of earth and to long for the blessings promised above. He therefore determined to make the long and weary pilgrimage to Heaven without waiting for death. According to the Mahâ-Bhârata, the earth was divided into seven concentric rings, each of which was surrounded by an ocean or belt separating it from the next annular continent. The first ocean was of salt water; the second, of the juice of the sugar-cane; the third, of wine; the fourth, of clarified butter; the fifth, of curdled milk; the sixth, of sweet milk; the seventh, of fresh water. In the centre of this vast annular system Mount Meru rose to the height of sixty-four thousand miles. Upon this mountain was supposed to rest the heaven of the Hindus, and thither Yudhi-sthira proposed to make his pilgrimage. His brothers and their wife Draupadi insisted on going with him, for all were equally weary of the world. Their people would fain have accompanied them, but the princes sent them back and went unaccompanied save by their faithful dog. They kept on, fired by their high resolves, until they reached the long and dreary waste of sand that stretched before Mount Meru. There Draupadi fell and yielded up her life, and Yudhi-sthira, never turning to look back, told the questioning Bhima that she died because she loved her husbands better than all else, better than heaven. Next Sahadeva fell, then Nakalu, and afterwards Arjuna and Bhima. Yudhi-sthira, still striding on, informed Bhima that pride had slain the first, self-love the second, the sin of Arjuna was a lie, and Bhima had loved too well the good things of earth. Followed by the dog, Yudhi-sthira pushed across the barren sand until he reached the mount and stood in the presence of the god. Well pleased with his perseverance, the god promised him the reward of entering into heaven in his own form, but he refused to go unless the dog could accompany him. After vainly attempting to dissuade him, the god allowed the dog to assume its proper form, and lo! it was Dharma, the god of justice, and the two entered heaven together. But where were Draupadi and the gallant princes, her husbands? Yudhi-sthira could see them nowhere, and he questioned only to learn that they were in hell. His determination was quickly taken. There could be no heaven for him unless his brothers and their wife could share it with him. He demanded to be shown the path to hell, to enter which he walked over razors, and trod under foot mangled human forms. But joy of joys! The lotus-eyed Draupadi called to him, and his brothers cried that his presence in hell brought a soothing breeze that gave relief to all the tortured souls. Yudhi-sthira's self-sacrifice sufficiently tested, the gods proclaimed that it was all but an illusion shown to make him enjoy the more, by contrast, the blisses of heaven. The king Yudhi-sthira then bathed in the great river flowing through three worlds, and, washed from all sins and soils, went up, hand in hand with the gods, to his brothers, the Pandavas, and "Lotus-eyed and loveliest Draupadi, Waiting to greet him, gladdening and glad." SELECTIONS FROM THE MAHÂ-BHÂRATA. SÂVITRI, OR LOVE AND DEATH. The beautiful princess Sâvitri of her own choice wedded the prince Satyavan, son of a blind and exiled king, although she knew that he was doomed by the gods to die within a year. When the year was almost gone, she sat for several days beneath a great tree, abstaining from food and drink, and imploring the gods to save him from death. On the fateful day she accompanied him to the forest to gather the sacred wood for the evening sacrifice. As he struck the tree with the axe he reeled in pain, and exclaiming, "I cannot work!" fell fainting. Thereon that noble lady, hastening near. Stayed him that would have fallen, with quick arms; And, sitting on the earth, laid her lord's head Tenderly in her lap. So bent she, mute, Fanning his face, and thinking 't was the day-- The hour--which Narad named--the sure fixed date Of dreadful end--when, lo! before her rose A shade majestic. Red his garments were, His body vast and dark; like fiery suns The eyes which burned beneath his forehead-cloth; Armed was he with a noose, awful of mien. This Form tremendous stood by Satyavan, Fixing its gaze upon him. At the sight The fearful Princess started to her feet. Heedfully laying on the grass his head, Up started she, with beating heart, and joined Her palms for supplication, and spake thus In accents tremulous: "Thou seem'st some God; Thy mien is more than mortal; make me know What god thou art, and what thy purpose here." And Yama said (the dreadful god of death): "Thou art a faithful wife, O Sâvitrî, True to thy vows, pious, and dutiful; Therefore I answer thee. Yama I am! This Prince thy lord lieth at point to die; Him will I straightway bind and bear from life; This is my office, and for this I come." Then Sâvitrî spake sadly: "It is taught Thy messengers are sent to fetch the dying; Why is it, Mightiest, thou art come thyself?" In pity of her love, the Pityless Answered--the King of all the Dead replied: "This was a Prince unparalleled, thy lord; Virtuous as fair, a sea of goodly gifts, Not to be summoned by a meaner voice Than Yama's own: therefore is Yama come." With that the gloomy God fitted his noose And forced forth from the Prince the soul of him-- Subtile, a thumb in length--which being reft, Breath stayed, blood stopped, the body's grace was gone, And all life's warmth to stony coldness turned. Then, binding it, the Silent Presence bore Satyavan's soul away toward the South. But Sâvitrî the Princess followed him; Being so bold in wifely purity, So holy by her love; and so upheld, She followed him. Presently Yama turned. "Go back," quoth he. "Pay for him funeral dues. Enough, O Sâvitrî, is wrought for love; Go back! Too far already hast thou come." Then Sâvitrî made answer: "I must go Where my lord goes, or where my lord is borne; Naught other is my duty. Nay, I think, By reason of my vows, my services, Done to the Gurus, and my faultless love, Grant but thy grace, I shall unhindered go. The sages teach that to walk seven steps One with another, maketh good men friends; Beseech thee, let me say a verse to thee:-- _"Be master of thyself, if thou wilt be Servant of Duty. Such as thou shall see Not self-subduing, do no deeds of good In youth or age, in household or in wood. But wise men know that virtue is best bliss, And all by some one way may reach to this. It needs not men should pass through orders four To come to knowledge: doing right is more Than any learning; therefore sages say Best and most excellent is Virtue's way."_ Spake Yama then: "Return! yet I am moved By those soft words; justly their accents fell, And sweet and reasonable was their sense. See now, thou faultless one. Except this life I bear away, ask any boon from me; It shall not be denied." Sâvitrî said: "Let, then, the King, my husband's father, have His eyesight back, and be his strength restored, And let him live anew, strong as the sun." "I give this gift," Yama replied. "Thy wish, Blameless, shall be fulfilled. But now go back; Already art thou wearied, and our road Is hard and long. Turn back, lest thou, too, die." The Princess answered: "Weary am I not, So I walk near my lord. Where he is borne, Thither wend I. Most mighty of the Gods, I follow wheresoe'er thou takest him. A verse is writ on this, if thou wouldst hear:-- _"There is naught better than to be With noble souls in company: There is naught better than to wend With good friends faithful to the end. This is the love whose fruit is sweet, Therefore to bide within is meet."_ Spake Yama, smiling: "Beautiful! thy words Delight me; they are excellent, and teach Wisdom unto the wise, singing soft truth. Look, now! Except the life of Satyavan, Ask yet another--any--boon from me." Sâvitrî said: "Let, then, the pious King, My husband's father, who hath lost his throne, Have back the Raj; and let him rule his realm In happy righteousness. This boon I ask." "He shall have back the throne," Yama replied, "And he shall reign in righteousness: these things Will surely fall. But thou, gaining thy wish, Return anon; so shalt thou 'scape sore ill." "Ah, awful God! who hold'st the world in leash," The Princess said, "restraining evil men, And leading good men--even unconscious--there, Where they attain, hear yet those famous words:-- _"The constant virtues of the good are tenderness and love To all that lives--in earth, air, sea--great, small--below, above; Compassionate of heart, they keep a gentle thought for each, Kind in their actions, mild in will, and pitiful of speech; Who pitieth not, he hath not faith; full many an one so lives, But when an enemy seeks help, a good man gladly gives."_ "As water to the thirsty," Yama said, "Princess, thy words melodious are to me. Except the life of Satyavan, thy lord, Ask one boon yet again, for I will grant." Answer made Sâvitrî: "The King, my sire, Hath no male child. Let him see many sons Begotten of his body, who may keep The royal line long regnant. This I ask." "So shall it be," the Lord of Death replied; "A hundred fair preservers of his race Thy sire shall boast. But this wish being won, Return, dear Princess; thou hast come too far." "It is not far for me," quoth Sâvitrî, "Since I am near my husband; nay, my heart Is set to go as far as to the end; But hear these other verses, if thou wilt:-- _"By that sunlit name thou bearest, Thou, Vaivaswata! art dearest; Those that as their Lord proclaim thee, King of Righteousness do name thee: Better than themselves the wise Trust the righteous. Each relies Most upon the good, and makes Friendship with them. Friendship takes Fear from hearts; yet friends betray, In good men we may trust alway."_ "Sweet lady," Yama said, "never were words Spoke better; never truer heard by ear; Lo! I am pleased with thee. Except this soul, Ask one gift yet again, and get thee home." "I ask thee then," quickly the Princess cried, "Sons, many sons, born of my body; boys; Satyavan's children; lovely, valiant, strong; Continuers of their line. Grant this, kind God." "I grant it," Yama answered; "thou shalt bear These sons thy heart desireth, valiant, strong. Therefore go back, that years be given thee. Too long a path thou treadest, dark and rough." But sweeter than before, the Princess sang:-- _"In paths of peace and virtue Always the good remain; And sorrow shall not stay with them, Nor long access of pain; At meeting or at parting Joys to their bosom strike; For good to good is friendly, And virtue loves her like. The great sun goes his journey By their strong truth impelled; By their pure lives and penances Is earth itself upheld; Of all which live and shall live Upon its hills and fields, Pure hearts are the protectors, For virtue saves and shields. "Never are noble spirits Poor while their like survive; True love has gems to render, And virtue wealth to give. Never is lost or wasted The goodness of the good; Never against a mercy, Against a right, it stood; And seeing this, that virtue Is always friend to all, The virtuous and true-hearted, Men their protectors call."_ "Line for line, Princess, as thou sangest so," Quoth Yama, "all that lovely praise of good, Grateful to hallowed minds, lofty in sound, And couched in dulcet numbers--word by word-- Dearer thou grew'st to me. O thou great heart, Perfect and firm! ask any boon from me,-- Ask an incomparable boon!" She cried Swiftly, no longer stayed: "Not Heaven I crave, Nor heavenly joys, nor bliss incomparable, Hard to be granted, even by thee; but him, My sweet lord's life, without which I am dead; Give me that gift of gifts! I will not take Aught less without him,--not one boon--no praise, No splendors, no rewards,--not even those sons Whom thou didst promise. Ah, thou wilt not now Bear hence the father of them and my hope! Make thy free word good; give me Satyavan Alive once more." And thereupon the God-- The Lord of Justice, high Vaivaswata-- Loosened the noose and freed the Prince's soul, And gave it to the lady, saying this, With eyes grown tender: "See, thou sweetest queen Of women, brightest jewel of thy kind! Here is thy husband. He shall live and reign Side by side with thee, saved by thee,--in peace And fame and wealth, and health, many long years, For pious sacrifices world-renowned. Boys shalt thou bear to him, as I did grant,-- Kshatriya kings, fathers of kings to be, Sustainers of thy line. Also thy sire Shall see his name upheld by sons of sons, Like the immortals, valiant, Mâlavas." ARNOLD: _Indian Idylls._ FROM "THE GREAT JOURNEY." The shadow of the Great War hung over King Yudhi-sthira, whose reign was one long succession of gloomy events, culminating in the death of the blind Raja and his wife in a jungle fire, and the destruction of the capital city of Krishna because of the dissipation of its inhabitants. On tidings of the wreck of Vrishni's race, King Yudhi-sthira of the Pandavas Was minded to be done with earthly things, And to Arjuna spake: "O noble prince, Time endeth all; we linger, noose on neck, Till the last day tightens the line, and kills. Let us go forth to die, being yet alive." And Kunti's son, the great Arjuna, said: "Let us go forth! Time slayeth all. We will find Death, who seeketh other men." And Bhimasena, hearing, answered: "Yea, We will find Death!" and Sahadev cried: "Yea!" And his twin brother Nakalu; whereat The princes set their faces for the Mount. * * * * * So ordering ere he went, the righteous King Made offering of white water, heedfully, To Vasudev, to Rama, and the rest,-- All funeral rites performing; next he spread A funeral feast.... And all the people cried, "Stay with us, Lord!" But Yudhi-sthira knew his time was come, Knew that life passes and that virtue lasts, And put aside their love.... So, with farewells Tenderly took of lieges and of lords, Girt he for travel with his princely kin, Great Yudhi-sthira, Dharma's royal son. Crest-gem and belt and ornaments he stripped From off his body, and for broidered robe A rough dress donned, woven of jungle bark; And what he did--O Lord of men!--so did Arjuna, Bhima, and the twin-born pair, Nakalu with Sahadev, and she,--in grace The peerless,--Draupadi. Lastly those six,-- Thou son of Bharata!--in solemn form Made the high sacrifice of Naishtiki, Quenching their flames in water at the close; And so set forth, midst wailing of all folk And tears of women, weeping most to see The Princess Draupadi--that lovely prize Of the great gaming, Draupadi the Bright-- Journeying afoot; but she and all the five Rejoiced because their way lay heavenward. Seven were they, setting forth,--Princess and King, The King's four brothers and a faithful dog. Those left Hastinapur; but many a man, And all the palace household, followed them The first sad stage: and ofttimes prayed to part, Put parting off for love and pity, still Sighing, "A little farther!" till day waned; Then one by one they turned. * * * * * Thus wended they, Pandu's five sons and loveliest Draupadi, Taking no meat and journeying due east, On righteousness their high hearts fed, to heaven Their souls assigned; and steadfast trod their feet-- By faith upborne--past nullah ran, and wood, River and jheel and plain. King Yudhi-sthir Walked foremost, Bhima followed, after him Arjuna, and the twin-born brethren next, Nakalu with Sahadev; in whose still steps-- O Best of Bharat's offspring!--Draupadi, That gem of women paced, with soft dark face,-- Clear-edged like lotus petals; last the dog Following the Pandavas. * * * * * While yet those heroes walked, Now to the northward banding, where long coasts Shut in the sea of salt, now to the north, Accomplishing all quarters, journeyed they; The earth their altar of high sacrifice, Which these most patient feet did pace around Till Meru rose. At last it rose! These Six, Their senses subjugate, their spirits pure, Wending along, came into sight--far off In the eastern sky--of awful Himavat; And midway in the peaks of Himavat, Meru, the mountain of all mountains, rose, Whose head is heaven; and under Himavat Glared a wide waste of sand, dreadful as death. Then, as they hastened o'er the deathly waste, Aiming for Meru, having thoughts at soul Infinite, eager,--lo! Draupadi reeled, With faltering heart and feet; and Bhima turned, Gazing upon her; and that hero spake To Yudhi-sthira: "Master, Brother, King! Why doth she fail? For never all her life Wrought our sweet lady one thing wrong, I think. Thou knowest; make us know, why hath she failed?" Then Yudhi-sthira answered: "Yea, one thing. She loved our brothers better than all else,-- Better than Heaven: that was her tender sin, Fault of a faultless soul: she pays for that." So spake the monarch, turning not his eyes, Though Draupadi lay dead,--striding straight on For Meru, heart-full of the things of Heaven, Perfect and firm. But yet a little space And Sahadev fell down; which Bhima seeing, Cried once again: "O King, great Madri's son Stumbles and sinks. Why hath he sunk?--so true, So brave and steadfast, and so free from pride!" "He was not free," with countenance still fixed, Quoth Yudhi-sthira; "he was true and fast And wise; yet wisdom made him proud; he hid One little hurt of soul, but now it kills." So saying, he strode on, Kunti's strong son, And Bhima; and Arjuna followed him, And Nakalu and the hound; leaving behind Sahadev in the sands. But Nakalu, Weakened and grieved to see Sahadev fall-- His dear-loved brother--lagged and stayed; and then Prone on his face he fell, that noble face Which had no match for beauty in the land,-- Glorious and godlike Nakalu! Then sighed Bhima anew: "Brother and Lord! the man Who never erred from virtue, never broke Our fellowship, and never in the world Was matched for goodly perfectness of form Or gracious feature,--Nakalu has fallen!" But Yudhi-sthira, holding fixed his eyes,-- That changeless, faithful, all-wise king,--replied: "Yea, but he erred! The god-like form he wore Beguiled him to believe none like to him, And he alone desirable, and things Unlovely, to be slighted. Self-love slays Our noble brother. Bhima, follow! Each Pays what his debt was." Which Arjuna heard, Weeping to see them fall; and that stout son Of Pandu, that destroyer of his foes, That Prince, who drove through crimson waves of war, In old days, with his milk-white chariot-steeds, Him, the arch hero, sank! Beholding this,-- The yielding of that soul unconquerable, Fearless, divine, from Sakra's self derived, Arjuna's--Bhima cried aloud: "O King! This man was surely perfect. Never once, Not even in slumber, when the lips are loosed, Spake he one word that was not true as truth. Ah, heart of gold! why art thou broke? O King! Whence falleth he?" And Yudhi-sthira said, Not pausing: "Once he lied, a lordly lie! He bragged--our brother--that a single day Should see him utterly consume, alone, All those his enemies,--which could not be. Yet from a great heart sprang the unmeasured speech, Howbeit a finished hero should not shame Himself in such a wise, nor his enemy, If he will faultless fight and blameless die: This was Arjuna's sin. Follow thou me!" So the King still went on. But Bhima next Fainted, and stayed upon the way, and sank; But, sinking, cried behind the steadfast Prince: "Ah, Brother, see! I die! Look upon me, Thy well beloved! Wherefore falter I, Who strove to stand?" And Yudhi-sthira said: "More than was well the goodly things of earth Pleased thee, my pleasant brother! Light the offence And large thy spirit; but the o'erfed soul Plumed itself over others. Pritha's son, For this thou fallest, who so near didst gain." Thenceforth alone the long-armed monarch strode, Not looking back,--nay, not for Bhima's sake,-- But walking with his face set for the Mount; And the hound followed him,--only the hound. After the deathly sands, the Mount! and lo! Sakra shone forth,--the God,--filling the earth And Heavens with the thunders of his chariot wheels. "Ascend," he said, "with me, Pritha's great son!" But Yudhi-sthira answered, sore at heart For those his kinsfolk, fallen on the way: "O Thousand-eyed, O Lord of all the gods, Give that my brothers come with me, who fell! Not without them is Swarga sweet to me. She too, the dear and kind and queenly,--she Whose perfect virtue Paradise must crown,-- Grant her to come with us! Dost thou grant this?" The God replied: "In Heaven thou shalt see Thy kinsmen and the Queen--these will attain-- And Krishna. Grieve no longer for thy dead, Thou chief of men! their mortal coverings stripped, These have their places; but to thee, the gods Allow an unknown grace: thou shalt go up, Living and in thy form, to the immortal homes." But the King answered: "O thou wisest One, Who know'st what was, and is, and is to be, Still one more grace! This hound hath ate with me, Followed me, loved me; must I leave him now?" "Monarch," spake Indra, "thou art now as we,-- Deathless, divine; thou art become a god; Glory and power and gifts celestial, And all the joys of heaven are thine for aye: What hath a beast with these? Leave here thy hound." Yet Yudhi-sthira answered: "O Most High, O Thousand-Eyed and Wisest! can it be That one exalted should seem pitiless? Nay, let me lose such glory: for its sake I cannot leave one living thing I loved." Then sternly Indra spake: "He is unclean, And into Swarga such shall enter not. The Krodhavasha's wrath destroys the fruits Of sacrifice, if dog defile the fire. Bethink thee, Dharmaraj; quit now this beast! That which is seemly is not hard of heart." Still he replied: "'Tis written that to spurn A suppliant equals in offence to slay A twice-born; wherefore, not for Swarga's bliss Quit I, Mahendra, this poor clinging dog,-- So without any hope or friend save me. So wistful, fawning for my faithfulness; So agonized to die, unless I help Who among men was called steadfast and just." Quoth Indra: "Nay, the altar flame is foul Where a dog passeth; angry angels sweep The ascending smoke aside, and all the fruits Of offering, and the merit of the prayer Of him whom a hound toucheth. Leave it here! He that will enter Heaven must enter pure. Why didst thou quit thy brethren on the way, And Krishna, and the dear-loved Draupadi, Attaining firm and glorious to this Mount Through perfect deeds, to linger for a brute? Hath Yudhi-sthira vanquished self, to melt With one pure passion at the door of bliss? Stay'st thou for this, who did not stay for them,-- Draupadi, Bhima?" But the King yet spake: "'T is known that none can hurt or help the dead. They, the delightful ones, who sank and died. Following my footsteps, could not live again Though I had turned--therefore I did not turn; But could help profit, I had stayed to help. There be four sins, O Sakra, grievous sins: The first is making suppliants despair, The second is to slay a nursing wife, The third is spoiling Brahmans' goods by force, The fourth is injuring an ancient friend. These four I deem not direr than the crime, If one, in coming forth from woe to weal, Abandon any meanest comrade then." Straight as he spake, brightly great Indra smiled; Vanished the hound, and in its stead stood there The Lord of Death and Justice, Dharma's self! Sweet were the words which fell from those dread lips, Precious the lovely praise: "O thou true King, Thou that dost bring to harvest the good seed Of Pandu's righteousness; thou that hast ruth As he before, on all which lives!--O Son! "Hear thou my word! Because thou didst not mount This car divine, lest the poor hound be shent Who looked to thee, lo! there is none in heaven Shall sit above thee, King! Bharata's son! Enter thou now to the eternal joys, Living and in thy form. Justice and Love Welcome thee, Monarch! thou shalt throne with us!" ARNOLD: _Indian Idylls_. THE ILIAD. The Iliad, or story of the fall of Ilium (Troy), is supposed to have been written by Homer, about the tenth century B. C. The legendary history of Homer represents him as a schoolmaster and poet of Smyrna, who while visiting in Ithaca became blind, and afterwards spent his life travelling from place to place reciting his poems, until he died in Ios. Seven cities, Smyrna, Chios, Colophon, Ithaca, Pylos, Argos, and Athens, claimed to be his birthplace. In 1795, Wolf, a German scholar, published his "Prolegomena," which set forth his theory that Homer was a fictitious character, and that the Iliad was made up of originally unconnected poems, collected and combined by Pisistratus. Though for a time the Wolfian theory had many advocates, it is now generally conceded that although the stories of the fall of Troy were current long before Homer, they were collected and recast into one poem by some great poet. That the Iliad is the work of one man is clearly shown by its unity, its sustained simplicity of style, and the centralization of interest in the character of Achilles. The destruction of Troy, for a time regarded as a poetic fiction, is now believed by many scholars to be an actual historical event which took place about the time of the Æolian migration. The whole story of the fall of Troy is not related in the Iliad, the poem opening nine years after the beginning of the war, and closing with the death of Hector. The Iliad is divided into twenty-four books, and contains nineteen thousand four hundred and sixty-five lines. As a work of art the Iliad has never been excelled; moreover, it possesses what all works of art do not,--"the touches of things human" that make it ours, although the centuries lie between us and its unknown author, who told his stirring story in such swift-moving verses, with such touches of pathos and humor, and with such evident joy of living. Another evidence of the perfection of Homer's art is that while his heroes are perfect types of Greeks and Trojans, they are also typical men, and for that reason, still keep their hold upon us. It is this human interest, simplicity of style, and grandeur of treatment that have rendered Homer immortal and his work imperishable. BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE ILIAD. M. Arnold's Essay on Homer, 1876, pp. 284-425; H. Bonitz's Origin of the Homeric Poems, tr. 1880; R. C. Jebb's Introduction to Homer, 1887; F. B. Jevons's History of Greek Literature, 1886, pp. 7-17; A. Lang's Homer and the Epic, 1893; W. Leaf's Companion to the Iliad for English Readers, 1892; J. A. Symonds's Studies in Greek Poets, ed. 3, 1893. STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE ILIAD. The Iliad, Tr. into English blank verse by W. C. Bryant, 2 vols., 1871 (Primitive in spirit, like Homer. Union of literalness with simplicity); The Iliad, Tr. according to the Greek with introduction and notes by George Chapman [1615], Ed. 2, 2 vols., 1874 (Written in verse. Pope says a daring and fiery spirit animates this translation, something like that in which one might imagine Homer would have written before he came to years of discretion); The Iliad, Tr. by William Cowper (Very literal and inattentive to melody, but has more of simple majesty and manner of Homer than Pope); The Iliad, rendered into English blank verse by the Earl of Derby, 2 vols., 1864; The Iliad, Tr. by Alexander Pope, with notes by the Rev. T. W. A. Buckley, n. d. (Written in couplets. Highly ornamented paraphrase). THE STORY OF THE ILIAD. For nine years a fleet of one thousand one hundred and eighty-six ships and an army of more than one hundred thousand Greeks, under the command of Agamemnon, lay before King Priam's city of Troy to avenge the wrongs of Menelaus, King of Sparta, and to reclaim Helen, his wife, who had been carried away by Priam's son Paris, at the instigation of Venus. Though they had not succeeded in taking Troy, the Greeks had conquered many of the surrounding cities. From one of these, Agamemnon had taken as his share of the booty Chryseis, the beautiful daughter of the priest Chryses; and when her father had come to ransom her, he had been insulted and driven away by the king. Chryses had prayed to Apollo for revenge, and the god had sent upon the Greeks a pestilence which was slaying so many thousands that a meeting was called to consult upon what to do to check the plague and conciliate the god. Calchas the seer had declared that the plague was sent because of the detention of Chryseis, and Agamemnon, though indignant with the priest, announced that he would send her back to save his army from destruction. "Note, however," said he, "that I have now given up my booty. See that I am recompensed for what I lose." Then rose the leader of the Myrmidons, swift-footed Achilles, in his wrath, and denounced Agamemnon for his greediness. "Thou hast ever had thy share and more of all the booty, and thou knowest well that there is now no common store from which to give thee spoil. But wait until Troy town is sacked, and we will gladly give thee three and fourfold thy recompense." The angry Agamemnon declared that if he were not given the worth of what he had lost he would seize the maidens of Ajax and Ulysses, or Achilles' maid, Briseis. Achilles was beside himself with rage. He had not come to Troy to contribute to Agamemnon's glory. He and his followers had long borne the brunt of battle only to see the largest share of booty given to Agamemnon, who lay idle in his ships. Sooner than endure longer such indignity he would return home to Phthia. "Go!" replied Agamemnon. "I detest thee and thy ways. Go back over the sea and rule over thy Myrmidons. But since Phoebus has taken away my maid, I will carry off thy prize, thy rosy-cheeked Briseis, that thou may'st learn that I am indeed king." Warned by Pallas Athene, Achilles took his hand from his sword hilt, and contented himself with telling Agamemnon that he would see the day when he would fret to think he had driven Achilles from the Grecian ranks. Though the persuasive orator, Nestor, endeavored to make peace between the chiefs, Agamemnon could not be softened. As soon as the black ship bearing Chryseis set sail, he sent his unwilling men to where Achilles sat by his tent, beside the barren deep, to take the fair Briseis, whom Achilles ordered to be led forth to them. Then the long days dragged by in the tent where the chief sat eating his heart out in idleness, while his men engaged in athletic sports, and the rest of the Greeks fought before Troy. Both armies, worn out with indecisive battles, gladly hailed Hector's proposal that a combat between Paris and Menelaus should decide the war. As the armies stood in silence, watching the preparations for the combat, Helen, summoned by Iris, left her room in Priam's palace, where she was weaving among her maidens, and, robed and veiled in white, and shedding tears at the recollection of her former home and husband, went down to the Scaean gates, where sat Priam and the men too old for war. When they saw bright-haired Helen they whispered among themselves that it was little wonder that men warred for her sake, so fair was she, so like unto the deathless goddesses. In response to Priam's tender greeting she seated herself beside him and pointed out the Greek heroes,--Agamemnon, ruler over wide lands, crafty Ulysses, and the mighty Ajax; but she strained her eyes in vain for a sight of her dearly loved brothers, Castor and Pollux, not knowing that they already lay dead in pleasant Lacedaemon. In the single combat between Paris and Menelaus, the spear of the Greek was fixed in Paris's buckler, and his sword was shivered on his helmet without injury to the Trojan. But, determined to overcome his hateful foe, Menelaus seized Paris by the helm and dragged him towards the Grecian ranks. Great glory would have been his had not the watchful Venus loosed the helm and snatched away the god-like Paris in a cloud. While the Greeks demanded Helen and her wealth as the price of Menelaus's victory, Pandarus, prompted by Pallas, broke the truce by a shot aimed at Menelaus, and the battle soon raged with greater fury than before. Diomed, having received new strength and courage from Pallas, rushed madly over the field, falling upon the affrighted Trojans like a lion in the sheepfold; then, made more presumptuous by his success, and forgetful of the few years promised the man who dares to meet the gods in battle, the arrogant warrior struck at Venus and wounded her in the wrist, so that, shrieking with pain, she yielded Æneas to Apollo, and fled to Olympus. Perceiving that the Trojans were unable to withstand the fury of Diomed, assisted as he was by Pallas and Juno, Hector hastened homeward to order a sacrifice to Pallas that she might look with more favor upon their cause. Having instructed his mother to lay her richest robe on Pallas's shrine, Hector sought his wife, the white-armed Andromache, and their babe, Astyanax. Andromache entreated Hector to go forth no more to battle, to lose his life and leave their babe fatherless; but Hector, upon whom the cares of war sat heavily, bade her a tender farewell, and kissing the babe, returned with Paris to the field. Incited by Pallas and Apollo, Helenus suggested to his brother Hector that he should challenge the bravest of the Greeks to single combat. The lot fell to Ajax the Greater, and the two mighty heroes contested with spears and stones until twilight fell, and they were parted by a herald. That night the Greeks feasted, and when, the next morning, a Trojan messenger offered them the treasures of Helen if they would withdraw from Troy, and proposed a truce, they indignantly rejected the offer, declaring that they would not even accept Helen herself, but agreed upon a truce in which to bury the dead. When the battle was renewed, Jupiter forbade the gods to take part. Opposed by no celestial foes, the Trojans were this day successful, and having pursued the Greeks to the ships, sat all night, full of hope, around their thousand watch fires, waiting for the morn. In the Grecian camp, however, a different scene was being enacted. Disheartened by their defeat, Agamemnon proposed that the armies give up the siege and return to Greece. Angry at his weakness, Diomed thus reproached him:-- "The gods have granted thee high rank and rule, but thou hast no fortitude. Return if thou desirest. Still enough long-haired Achaians will remain to take the city. If they desire to go as well, at least Sthenelus and I will remain until Troy is ours. We have the gods with us." At the suggestion of Nestor a banquet was spread, and after the hunger of all was appeased, the peril of the Greeks was discussed in the Council of the Elders. Here Nestor showed Agamemnon that the trouble began at the hour when he drove Achilles from their ranks by appropriating Briseis. Ill fortune had humbled the haughty Agamemnon, and he confessed that he had done wrong. "For this wrong, however," said he, "I am ready to make ample amends. Priceless gifts I will send to Achilles: seven tripods, six talents of pure gold, twenty shining caldrons, twelve steeds, seven damsels, among them Briseis; not only this, when Priam's citadel falls, he shall be the first to load his galley down with gold and silver and with Trojan maidens. Better yet, I will unite him to me by the ties of marriage. I will give him my daughter for a wife, and with her for a dower will go seven cities near the sea, rich in flocks and herds. Then let him yield, and join us in taking Troy." Joyfully the messengers--Ajax, Ulysses, and the aged Phoenix, carefully instructed by Nestor--set forth on their embassy. As they neared the tents of the Myrmidons their ears were struck by the notes of a silver harp touched by Achilles to solace him in his loneliness. His friend Patroclus sat beside him in silence. Achilles and Patroclus greeted the messengers warmly, mingled the pure wine, and spread a feast for them. This over, Ulysses, at a nod from Ajax, drank to Achilles' health, and then told him of the sore need of the Greeks, pressed by the Trojans. If he did not come to their aid, he whose very name frightened the enemy, the time would surely come when he would greatly lament his idleness. Achilles' passion, the greater for its fifteen days' repression, burst forth in his reply: "I will say what I have in my heart," he cried, "since concealment is hateful to me. What thanks does the victor in countless battles gain? He and the idler are equally honored, and die the same death. Many nights' slumber have I lost on the battle field; many cities have I conquered, abroad and here upon the Trojan coast, and of the spoil, the greater part has gone to Agamemnon, who sat idle in his fleet; yet from me, who suffered much in fighting, he took my prize, my dearly loved Briseis; now let him keep her. Let him learn for himself how to conquer Hector,--this Hector, who, when I went out against him, was afraid to leave the shelter of the Scaean gates. To-morrow, if you but watch, you will see my galleys sailing upon the Hellespont on our return to Phthia. Evil was the hour in which I left its fertile coasts for this barren shore, where my mother Thetis foretold I should win deathless renown but bitter death. "Tell Agamemnon that I will never wed a child of his. On my return to Phthia my father will select a bride for me with whom, on his broad fields, I can live the life I have dreamed of." The entreaties of the aged Phoenix, who had helped to rear Achilles, and his arguments against his mercilessness, were of no avail; neither were the words of Ajax. However, he at last sent the message that he would remain by the sea watching the course of the war, and that he would encounter Hector whenever he approached to set fire to the galleys of the Myrmidons. That night sleep did not visit the eyes of Agamemnon. Long he reflected on the reply of Achilles, and wondered at the watch fires on the plain before Troy. The other chiefs were likewise full of anxiety, and when Nestor offered a reward to any one who would go as a spy to the Trojan camp, Diomed quickly volunteered. Selecting the wary Ulysses as his companion, he stole forth to where the Trojans sat around their camp fires. The pair intercepted and slew Dolon the spy, and finding Rhesus and his Thracian band wrapped in slumber, slew the king with twelve of his chiefs, and carried away his chariot and horses. Encouraged by this bold deed, the Greeks went forth to battle the next morning. Fortune still favored the Trojans, however, and many Greeks fell by the hand of Hector, until he was checked by Ulysses and Diomed. In the fight, Agamemnon was wounded, and Diomed, Ulysses, and Machaon. And when Achilles from his tent saw the physician borne back from battle wounded, in the chariot of Nestor, he sent Patroclus to inquire of his injury. Nestor sent word that Ulysses, Agamemnon, Diomed, Machaon, and Eurypylus were wounded; perhaps these tidings would induce Achilles to forget his grievances, and once more go forth to battle. If not, he urged Patroclus to beseech Achilles to permit him, Patroclus, to go forth with the Myrmidons, clad in Achilles' armor, and strike terror to the hearts of the Trojans. The Trojans, encouraged by their success, pushed forward to the trench which the Greeks had dug around the wall thrown up before the ships, and, leaving their chariots on the brink, went on foot to the gates. After a long struggle,--because the Trojans could not break down the wall and the Greeks could not drive back the Trojans,--Hector seized a mighty stone, so large that two men could scarcely lift it, and bearing it in one hand, battered the bolted gates until they gave way with a crash; and the Trojans sprang within, pursuing the affrighted Greeks to the ships. From the heights of Olympus the gods kept a strict watch on the battle; and as soon as Neptune discovered that Jove, secure in the belief that no deity would interfere with the successful Trojans, had turned away his eyes, he went to the aid of the Greeks. Juno, also, furious at the sight of the Greeks who had fallen before the mighty Hector, determined to turn the attention of Jove until Neptune had had an opportunity to assist the Greeks. Jove sat upon the peaks of Mount Ida, and thither went Juno, after rendering herself irresistible by borrowing the cestus of Venus. Jove, delighted with the appearance of his wife, and still further won by her tender words and caresses, thought no longer of the armies fighting at the Grecian wall. Great was his anger when, after a time, he again looked towards Troy and saw that Neptune had employed his time in aiding the Greeks, and that Hector had been wounded by Ajax. By his orders Neptune was quickly recalled, Hector was healed by Apollo, and the Trojans, strengthened again by Jupiter, drove back the Greeks to the ships, and attempted to set fire to the fleet. Seeing the Greeks in such desperate straits, Achilles at last gave his consent that Patroclus should put on his armor, take his Myrmidons, and drive the Trojans from the ships, stipulating, however, that he should return when this was done, and not follow the Trojans in their flight to Troy. The appearance of the supposed Achilles struck fear to the hearts of the Trojans, and Patroclus succeeded in driving them from the fleet and in slaying Sarpedon. Intoxicated by his success, he forgot Achilles' warning, and pursued the fleeing Trojans to the walls of Troy. The strength of the Trojans was not sufficient to cope with that of Patroclus; and Troy would have been taken had not Apollo stood upon a tower to thrust him down each time he attempted to scale the walls. At last Hector and Patroclus encountered each other, and fought furiously. Seeing the peril of Hector, Apollo smote Patroclus's helmet off, broke his spear, and loosed his buckler. Still undaunted, the hero fought until he fell, and died with the boasting words of Hector in his ears. Speedily the swift-footed Antilochus conveyed to Achilles the tidings of his friend's death. Enveloped in "a black cloud of sorrow," Achilles rolled in the dust and lamented for his friend until warned by Iris that the enemy were about to secure Patroclus's body. Then, without armor,--for Hector had secured that of Patroclus and put it on,--he hastened to the trench, apart from the other Greeks, and shouted thrice, until the men of Troy, panic-stricken, fell back in disorder, and the body of his friend was carried away by the triumphant Greeks. Through the long night the Achaians wept over Patroclus; but deeper than their grief was the sorrow of Achilles, for he had promised Menoetius to bring back his son in honor, laden with spoils, and now the barren coast of Troy would hold the ashes of both. Then Achilles made a solemn vow not to celebrate the funeral rites of Patroclus until he brought to him the head and arms of Hector, and had captured on the field twelve Trojan youths to slaughter on his funeral pile. The hated Hector slain and Patroclus's funeral rites celebrated, he cared not for the future. The fate his mother had foretold did not daunt him. Since, by his own folly, his dearest friend had been taken from him, the sooner their ashes rested together the better. If he was not to see the rich fields of Phthia, his was to be, at least, a deathless renown. To take the place of the arms which Hector had taken from Patroclus, Vulcan, at Thetis's request, had fashioned for Achilles the most beautiful armor ever worn by man. Brass, tin, silver, and gold composed the bright corselet, the solid helm, and the wondrous shield, adorned with such pictures as no mortal artist ever wrought. After having feasted his eyes on this beautiful armor, whose clanking struck terror even to the hearts of the Myrmidons, Achilles sought out the Greeks and Agamemnon, and in the assembly acknowledged his fault. "Let these things belong to the dead past," said he. "My wrath is done. Let us now stir the long-haired Greeks to war." "Fate, not I, was the cause of our trouble," replied Agamemnon. "The goddess of discord created the dissension, that Até who troubled even the gods on Olympus until expelled by Jupiter. But I will make amends with liberal gifts." Peace having been made between the chiefs, Achilles returned to his tent without partaking of the banquet spread by Agamemnon, as he had vowed not to break his fast until he had avenged his friend. Agamemnon's gifts were carried to the tents of Achilles by the Myrmidons, and with them went Briseis, who, when she saw the body of Patroclus, threw herself upon it and wept long for the one whose kindness to her--whose lot had been sorrow upon sorrow--she could never forget. All the women mourned, seemingly for Patroclus, really for their own griefs. Achilles likewise wept, until, strengthened by Pallas, he hastened to put his armor on and urge the Greeks to battle. As he mounted his chariot he spoke thus to his fleet steeds, Xanthus and Balius: "Bring me back when the battle is over, I charge you, my noble steeds. Leave me not on the field, as you left Patroclus." Then Xanthus, with the long-flowing mane, endowed with power of speech by Juno, thus spake: "This day, at least, we will bring thee home, Achilles; but the hour of thy death is nigh, and, since the fates have decreed it, we could not save thee, were we swift as the winged winds. Nor was it through fault of ours that Patroclus fell." Angry at the reminder of his doom, Achilles drove hurriedly to the field, determined to fight until he had made the Trojans sick of war. Knowing that the war was drawing rapidly to a close, Jupiter gave permission to the gods to take part in it, and a terrible combat ensued. Juno, Pallas, Neptune, Hermes, and Vulcan went to the fleet of the Greeks, while Mars, Apollo, Diana, Latona, Venus, and Xanthus arrayed themselves with the Trojans. When the gods joined in the combat and Neptune shook the earth and Jupiter thundered from above, there was such tumult in the air that even the dark god of the underworld was terrified. In the battle of the gods, Apollo encountered Neptune, Pallas fought against Mars, Diana and Juno opposed each other, Hermes was pitted against Latona, and Xanthus or Scamander, the river god, strove against Vulcan. It was not long before Jupiter's fear was realized, and the mortals needed the aid of the gods. Æneas, encouraged by Apollo to confront Achilles, was rescued only by the intervention of Neptune, who, remembering that it was the will of fate that Æneas should be spared to perpetuate the Dardan race, snatched him away in a cloud, although he was himself aiding the Greeks. Mad with rage and spattered with blood, Achilles pursued the flying Trojans about the plain, sparing none except the twelve youths who were to be butchered on the funeral pile of Patroclus. He stood in the river, filling it with slaughtered bodies until, indignant at the insults offered him, the river god Scamander caused his waters to rush after Achilles so that he fled for his life. Far across the plain it chased him, and was only stopped by the fires of Vulcan, summoned by Juno. By an artifice of Apollo, Achilles was decoyed away from the gates of Troy long enough to allow the Trojans to enter. Hector, however, stayed without, unmoved by the prayers of Priam and Hecuba. Too late he saw his error in not heeding the advice of Polydamas to keep within the walls after the re-appearance of Achilles; he feared the reproaches of the Trojan warriors and dames, and determined to meet his fate, whatever it might be. Even death at the hands of Achilles would be preferable to the insults and reproaches that might await him within the walls. When he saw Achilles approach in his god-given armor, fear seized the noble Hector, and he fled from his enemy. Thrice around the walls he fled, Achilles pursuing, and the gods looked down from heaven in sorrow, for, according to the decrees of fate, Hector must fall this day by the hand of Achilles. To hasten the combat, Pallas assumed the form of Hector's brother Deiphobus, and stood by his side, encouraging him to turn and meet his foe. Hector soon perceived the deception, but boldly faced Achilles, who sprang at him, brandishing his awful spear. Quickly stooping, Hector avoided the weapon and hurled his spear at Achilles. It was an unequal conflict. The armor of Achilles was weapon proof, and Pallas stood at his elbow to return to him his weapons. Achilles knew well the weak spots in his old armor worn by Hector, and selecting a seam unguarded by the shield, he gave Hector a mortal wound, and insulted him as he lay dying at his feet. Tears and wailing filled the city as the Trojans watched the combat; and despair fell upon them when they saw the body of Hector fastened to the chariot of Achilles and dragged thrice around the Trojan walls. From her chamber where she sat weaving, unaware of the mortal combat waged before the walls, Andromache came forth to see great Hector fallen and his corpse insulted by his enemy. While Priam sat in his palace with dust strewn on his head, and the wailings of the women filled the streets of Troy, the Greeks were hastening to their camps to celebrate the funeral rites of Patroclus, whose body had been saved from corruption by Thetis. A massive funeral pile was constructed of wood brought from the forests on Mount Ida. The chiefs in their chariots and thousands of men on foot followed the body of Patroclus. The comrades of the dead warrior cut off their long hair and strewed it on the dead, and Achilles sheared his yellow hair and placed the locks in Patroclus's hands. He had suffered the flowing curls to grow long because of a vow made by his father to the river Sperchius that he would sacrifice these locks to him on his son's return home, a useless vow, since now he was to lose his life by this dark blue sea. Next the sacrifice was offered, many fatlings of the flock, and countless oxen, noble steeds, dogs, jars of honey, and lastly the bodies of the twelve Trojan youths were heaped upon the fire. After the flames had consumed the pile, Achilles and his friends quenched the ashes with red wine, and gathered the bones of Patroclus in a golden vase which Achilles commanded his friends not to bury until he, too, fell before Troy, that their ashes might be mingled and buried under one mound by the remaining Greeks. After the funeral rites were celebrated, the funeral games were held, in which the warriors vied with each other in chariot racing, boxing, wrestling, foot racing, throwing the spear, and archery. So ended the funeral of Patroclus, and the gods, looking down from heaven, sorrowed for Hector, whose corpse Achilles was treating with such indignity, intending that the dogs should destroy it. The gods had kept the body unstained, and now they determined to soften Achilles' heart, that he might restore it to Priam. Iris descended from heaven, and standing at the side of Priam as he sat with dust-strewn head, in his palace halls, gave him Jove's command that he should take gifts and visit Achilles, to ransom Hector's body. Heeding not the prayers of Hecuba, Priam gathered together whatever was most choice, talents of pure gold, beautiful goblets, handsome robes and tunics, and seating himself in his polished car, drawn by strong-hoofed mules, set forth unaccompanied save by an aged herald. Above him soared Jove's eagle, in token of the god's protection. Priam had not gone far when he met Mercury in the guise of a Greek youth, who guided him unseen through the slumbering Greek lines to the tent of Achilles. The hero was just finishing his repast when the old king entered, fell on his knees, kissed the cruel hands that had slain so many of his sons, and prayed him to give up the body of his loved Hector in return for the ransom he had brought with him. Achilles, recognizing the fact that Priam had made his way there uninjured only by the assistance and protection of some god, and touched by the thought of his own aged father, whom he should never again gladden by his return to Phthia, granted the request, and bade Priam seat himself at the table and banquet with him. He also granted a twelve days' truce for the celebration of the funeral rites of Hector, and then invited Priam to pass the night in his tent. Warned by Mercury, Priam rose early in the morning, and, unseen by the Greeks, conveyed Hector's body back to Troy. When the polished car of Priam entered the city of Troy, great were the lamentations and wailings over the body of Hector. Hecuba and Andromache vied with each other in the bitterness of their grief, and Helen lamented because the only friend she had in Troy had departed, and no one who remained would be kind to her. During the twelve days granted as a truce, wood was brought from Ida, and the funeral rites of Hector were celebrated as befitted the son of a great king. SELECTIONS FROM THE ILIAD. HELEN AT THE SCAEAN GATES. Paris, moved by the reproaches of Hector, proposed that the nine years' indecisive war be settled by single combat between himself and Menelaus, the victor to take Helen and the treasure. Greeks and Trojans agreed to this proposition, and the tidings of the approaching combat were borne to Helen by Iris. In the heart of Helen woke Dear recollections of her former spouse And of her home and kindred. Instantly She left her chamber, robed and veiled in white, And shedding tender tears; yet not alone, For with her went two maidens,--Aethra, child Of Pitheus, and the large-eyed Clymene. Straight to the Scaean gates they walked, by which Panthoüs, Priam, and Thymoetes sat, Lampus and Clytius, Hicetaon sprung From Mars, Antenor and Ucalegon, Two sages,--elders of the people all. Beside the gates they sat, unapt, through age, For tasks of war, but men of fluent speech, Like the cicadas that within the wood Sit on the trees and utter delicate sounds. Such were the nobles of the Trojan race Who sat upon the tower. But when they marked The approach of Helen, to each other thus With winged words, but in low tones, they said:-- "Small blame is theirs, if both the Trojan knights And brazen-mailed Achaians have endured So long so many evils for the sake Of that one woman. She is wholly like In feature to the deathless goddesses. So be it: let her, peerless as she is, Return on board the fleet, nor stay to bring Disaster upon us and all our race." So spake the elders. Priam meantime called To Helen: "Come, dear daughter, sit by me. Thou canst behold thy former husband hence, Thy kindred and thy friends. I blame thee not; The blame is with the immortals who have sent These pestilent Greeks against me. Sit and name For me this mighty man, the Grecian chief, Gallant and tall. True, there are taller men; But of such noble form and dignity I never saw: in truth, a kingly man." And Helen, fairest among women, thus Answered: "Dear second father, whom at once I fear and honor, would that cruel death Had overtaken me before I left, To wander with thy son, my marriage bed, And my dear daughter, and the company Of friends I loved. But that was not to be; And now I pine and weep. Yet will I tell What thou dost ask. The hero whom thou seest Is the wide-ruling Agamemnon, son Of Atreus, and is both a gracious king And a most dreaded warrior. He was once Brother-in-law to me, if I may speak-- Lost as I am to shame--of such a tie." She said, the aged man admired, and then He spake again: "O son of Atreus, born Under a happy fate, and fortunate Among the sons of men! A mighty host Of Grecian youths obey thy rule. I went To Phrygia once,--that land of vines,--and there Saw many Phrygians, heroes on fleet steeds, The troops of Otreus, and of Mygdon, shaped Like one of the immortals. They encamped By the Sangarius. I was an ally; My troops were ranked with theirs upon the day When came the unsexed Amazons to war. Yet even there I saw not such a host As this of black-eyed Greeks who muster here." Then Priam saw Ulysses, and inquired:-- "Dear daughter, tell me also who is that, Less tall than Agamemnon, yet more broad In chest and shoulders. On the teeming earth His armor lies, but he, from place to place, Walks round among the ranks of soldiery, As when the thick-fleeced father of the flocks Moves through the multitude of his white sheep." And Jove-descended Helen answered thus:-- "That is Ulysses, man of many arts, Son of Laertes, reared in Ithaca, That rugged isle, and skilled in every form Of shrewd device and action wisely planned." Then spake the sage Antenor: "Thou hast said The truth, O lady. This Ulysses once Came on an embassy, concerning thee, To Troy with Menelaus, great in war; And I received them as my guests, and they Were lodged within my palace, and I learned The temper and the qualities of both. When both were standing 'mid the men of Troy, I marked that Menelaus's broad chest Made him the more conspicuous, but when both Were seated, greater was the dignity Seen in Ulysses. When they both addressed The council, Menelaus briefly spake In pleasing tones, though with few words,--as one Not given to loose and wandering speech,--although The younger. When the wise Ulysses rose, He stood with eyes cast down, and fixed on earth, And neither swayed his sceptre to the right Nor to the left, but held it motionless, Like one unused to public speech. He seemed An idiot out of humor. But when forth He sent from his full lungs his mighty voice, And words came like a fall of winter snow, No mortal then would dare to strive with him For mastery in speech. We less admired The aspect of Ulysses than his words." Beholding Ajax then, the aged king Asked yet again: "Who is that other chief Of the Achaians, tall, and large of limb,-- Taller and broader-chested than the rest?" Helen, the beautiful and richly-robed, Answered: "Thou seest the might Ajax there, The bulwark of the Greeks. On the other side, Among his Cretans, stands Idomeneus, Of godlike aspect, near to whom are grouped The leaders of the Cretans. Oftentimes The warlike Menelaus welcomed him Within our palace, when he came from Crete. I could point out and name the other chiefs Of the dark-eyed Achaians. Two alone, Princes among their people, are not seen,-- Castor the fearless horseman, and the skilled In boxing, Pollux,--twins; one mother bore Both them and me. Came they not with the rest From pleasant Lacedaemon to the war? Or, having crossed the deep in their goodships, Shun they to fight among the valiant ones Of Greece, because of my reproach and shame?" She spake; but they already lay in earth In Lacedaemon, their dear native land. _Bryants Translation, Book III._ THE PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. The single combat between Paris and Menelaus broke up in a general battle unfavorable to the Trojans, and Hector returned to Troy to order the Trojan matrons to sacrifice to Pallas. He then sought his dwelling to greet his wife and child, but learned from one of the maids that Andromache, on hearing that the Greeks were victorious, had hastened to the city walls with the child and its nurse, Hector left in haste The mansion, and retraced his way between The rows of stately dwellings, traversing The mighty city. When at length he reached The Scaean gates, that issue on the field, His spouse, the nobly-dowered Andromache, Came forth to meet him,--daughter of the prince Eëtion, who among the woody slopes Of Placos, in the Hypoplacian town Of Thebè, ruled Cilicia and her sons, And gave his child to Hector great in arms. She came attended by a maid, who bore A tender child--a babe too young to speak-- Upon her bosom,--Hector's only son, Beautiful as a star, whom Hector called Scamandrius, but all else Astyanax,-- The city's lord,--since Hector stood the sole Defence of Troy. The father on his child Looked with a silent smile. Andromache Pressed to his side meanwhile, and, all in tears, Clung to his hand, and, thus beginning, said:-- "Too brave! thy valor yet will cause thy death. Thou hast no pity on thy tender child Nor me, unhappy one, who soon must be Thy widow. All the Greeks will rush on thee To take thy life. A happier lot were mine, If I must lose thee, to go down to earth, For I shall have no hope when thou art gone,-- Nothing but sorrow. Father have I none, And no dear mother. Great Achilles slew My father when he sacked the populous town Of the Cilicians,--Thebè with high gates. 'T was there he smote Eëtion, yet forbore To make his arms a spoil; he dared not that, But burned the dead with his bright armor on, And raised a mound above him. Mountain-nymphs, Daughters of aegis-bearing Jupiter, Came to the spot and planted it with elms. Seven brothers had I in my father's house, And all went down to Hades in one day. Achilles the swift-footed slew them all Among their slow-paced bullocks and white sheep. My mother, princess on the woody slopes Of Placos, with his spoils he bore away, And only for large ransom gave her back. But her Diana, archer-queen, struck down Within her father's palace. Hector, thou Art father and dear mother now to me, And brother and my youthful spouse besides. In pity keep within the fortress here, Nor make thy child an orphan nor thy wife A widow. Post thine army near the place Of the wild fig-tree, where the city-walls Are low and may be scaled. Thrice in war The boldest of the foe have tried the spot,-- The Ajaces and the famed Idomeneus, The two chiefs born to Atreus, and the brave Tydides, whether counselled by some seer Or prompted to the attempt by their own minds." Then answered Hector, great in war: "All this I bear in mind, dear wife; but I should stand Ashamed before the men and long-robed dames Of Troy, were I to keep aloof and shun The conflict, coward-like. Not thus my heart Prompts me, for greatly have I learned to dare And strike among the foremost sons of Troy, Upholding my great father's fame and mine; Yet well in my undoubting mind I know The day shall come in which our sacred Troy, And Priam, and the people over whom Spear-bearing Priam rules, shall perish all. But not the sorrows of the Trojan race, Nor those of Hecuba herself, nor those Of royal Priam, nor the woes that wait My brothers many and brave,--who all at last, Slain by the pitiless foe, shall lie in dust,-- Grieve me so much as thine, when some mailed Greek Shall lead thee weeping hence, and take from thee Thy day of freedom. Thou in Argos then Shalt at another's bidding ply the loom, And from the fountain of Messeis draw Water, or from the Hypereian spring, Constrained unwilling by thy cruel lot. And then shall some one say who sees thee weep, 'This was the wife of Hector, most renowned Of the horse-taming Trojans, when they fought Around their city.' So shall some one say, And thou shalt grieve the more, lamenting him Who haply might have kept afar the day Of thy captivity. O let the earth Be heaped above my head in death before I hear thy cries as thou art borne away!" So speaking, mighty Hector stretched his arms To take the boy; the boy shrank crying back To his fair nurse's bosom, scared to see His father helmeted in glittering brass, And eying with affright the horsehair plume That grimly nodded from the lofty crest. At this both parents in their fondness laughed; And hastily the mighty Hector took The helmet from his brow and laid it down Gleaming upon the ground, and, having kissed His darling son and tossed him up in play, Prayed thus to Jove and all the gods of heaven:-- "O Jupiter and all ye deities, Vouchsafe that this my son may yet become Among the Trojans eminent like me, And nobly rule in Ilium. May they say, 'This man is greater than his father was!' When they behold him from the battle-field Bring back the bloody spoil of the slain foe,-- That so his mother may be glad at heart." So speaking, to the arms of his dear spouse He gave the boy; she on her fragrant breast Received him, weeping as she smiled. The chief Beheld, and, moved with tender pity, smoothed Her forehead gently with his hand, and said:-- "Sorrow not thus, beloved one, for me. No living man can send me to the shades Before my time; no man of woman born, Coward or brave, can shun his destiny. But go thou home, and tend thy labors there,-- The web, the distaff,--and command thy maids To speed the work. The cares of war pertain To all men born in Troy, and most to me." Thus speaking, mighty Hector took again His helmet, shadowed with the horsehair plume, While homeward his beloved consort went, Oft looking back, and shedding many tears. Soon was she in the spacious palace-halls Of the man-queller Hector. There she found A troop of maidens,--with them all she shared Her grief; and all in his own house bewailed The living Hector, whom they thought no more To see returning from the battle-field, Safe from the rage and weapons of the Greeks. _Bryant's Translation, Book VI._ THE ODYSSEY. "The surge and thunder of the Odyssey." The Odyssey relates the adventures of Ulysses on his return to Ithaca after the Trojan war. It consists of twenty-four books, the first four of which are sometimes known as the Telemachia, because Telemachus is the principal figure. The difference in style of the Iliad and Odyssey has caused some critics to assert that the latter is not the work of Homer; this is accounted for, however, by the difference of subject, and it is probable that the Odyssey, though of a later date, is the work of the same hand, "the work of Homer's old age,--an epic bathed in a mellow light of sunset." If the Odyssey alone had come down to us, its authorship would have passed unquestioned, for the poem is so compact, its plot so carefully planned and so skilfully carried out, that there can be no doubt that it is the work of one hand. The Odyssey is as great a work of art as the Iliad, and is even more popular; for the Odyssey is a domestic romance, and as such appeals to a larger audience than a tale of war alone,--the romance of the wandering Ulysses and the faithful Penelope. Interwoven with it are the ever-popular fairy tales of Ulysses's wanderings and descriptions of home life. It is marked by the same pagan enjoyment of life, the same freshness and charm that lend enchantment to the Iliad. BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE ODYSSEY. F. B. Jevons's History of Greek Literature, 1886, pp. 17-25; A. Lang's Homer and the Epic, 1893, chaps. 8-13; J. A. Symonds's Studies of the Greek Poets, ed. 3, 1893; J. E. Harrison's Myths of the Odyssey in Art and Literature, 1882; W. J. Stillman's On the Track of Ulysses, 1888; F. W. Newman's The Authorship of the Odyssey (in his Miscellanies, vol. v.); J. Spence's Essay on Pope's Translation of the Odyssey, 1837. STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE ODYSSEY. The Odyssey, Tr. into English blank verse by W. C. Bryant, 2 vols., 1871; The Odyssey, Tr. according to the Greek, with introduction and notes by George Chapman, ed. 2, 2 vols., 1874; The Odyssey, Tr. by William Cowper; The Odyssey, Tr. by G. H. Palmer, 1894 (prose); The Odyssey, Tr. by Alexander Pope, with notes by Rev. T. W. A. Buckley, n. d.; The Odyssey, Tr. by S. H. Butcher and A. Lang, 1879 (prose). THE STORY OF THE ODYSSEY. After the fall of Troy, Agamemnon returned to Argos, where he was treacherously slain by Aegisthus, the corrupter of his wife; Menelaus reached Sparta in safety, laden with spoil and reunited to the beautiful Helen; Nestor resumed the rule of Pylos, but Ulysses remained absent from Ithaca, where his wife Penelope still grieved for him, though steadfast in her belief that he would return. One hundred and fourteen suitors, princes from Dulichium, Samos, Zacynthus, and Ithaca, determined to wed Penelope that they might obtain the rich possessions of Ulysses, spent their time in revelling in his halls and wasting his wealth, thinking in this way to force Penelope to wed some one of them. Penelope, as rich in resources as was her crafty husband, announced to them that she would wed when she had woven a funeral garment for Laertes, the father of Ulysses. During the day she wove industriously, but at night she unravelled what she had done that day, so that to the expectant suitors the task seemed interminable. After four years her artifice was revealed to the suitors by one of her maids, and she was forced to find other excuses to postpone her marriage. In the mean time, her son Telemachus, now grown to manhood, disregarded by the suitors on account of his youth, and treated as a child by his mother, was forced to sit helpless in his halls, hearing the insults of the suitors and seeing his rich possessions wasted. Having induced Jove to end the sufferings of Ulysses, Pallas caused Hermes to be dispatched to Calypso's isle to release the hero, while she herself descended to Ithaca in the guise of Mentes. There she was received courteously by the youth, who sat unhappy among the revellers. At a table apart from the others, Telemachus told the inquiring stranger who they were who thus wasted his patrimony. "Something must needs be done speedily," said Mentes, "and I shall tell thee how to thrust them from thy palace gates. Take a ship and go to Pylos to inquire of the aged and wise Nestor what he knows of thy father's fate. Thence go to Menelaus, in Sparta; he was the last of all the mailed Greeks to return home. If thou hear encouraging tidings, wait patiently for a year. At the end of that time, if thy father come not, celebrate his funeral rites, let thy mother wed again, and take immediate steps for the destruction of the suitor band. Thou art no longer a child; the time has come for thee to assert thyself and be a man." Telemachus, long weary of inactivity, was pleased with this advice, and at once announced to the incredulous suitors his intention of going to learn the fate of his father. A boat was procured and provided with a crew by the aid of Pallas, and provisioned from the secret store-room guarded by the old and faithful servant Eurycleia. From among the treasures of Ulysses--garments, heaps of gold and brass, and old and delicate wines--Telemachus took sweet wine and meal to be conveyed to the ship at night, and instructing Eurycleia not to tell his mother of his absence until twelve days had passed, he departed as soon as sleep had overcome the suitors. Pallas, in the guise of Mentor, accompanied him. His courage failed him, however, as they approached the shore of Pylos, where Nestor and his people were engaged in making a great sacrifice to Neptune. "How shall I approach the chief?" he asked. "Ill am I trained in courtly speech." But, encouraged by Pallas, he greeted the aged Nestor, and after he and his companion had assisted in the sacrifice and partaken of the banquet that followed, he revealed his name and asked for tidings of his, father, boldly and confidently, as befitted the son of Ulysses. The old king could tell him nothing, however. After Troy had fallen, a dissension had rent the camp, and part of the Greeks had remained with Agamemnon, part had sailed with Menelaus. Sailing with Menelaus, Nestor had parted with Diomed at Argos, and had sailed on to Pylos. Since his return he had heard of the death of Agamemnon, and of the more recent return of Menelaus, but had heard no tidings of Ulysses, who had remained with Agamemnon. To Menelaus he advised Telemachus to go, warning him, however, not to remain long away from Ithaca, leaving his home in the possession of rude and lawless men. In a car provided by Nestor and driven by his son, Pisistratus, Telemachus reached Sparta after a day and a night's rapid travel, and found Menelaus celebrating the nuptial feast of his daughter Hermione, betrothed at Troy to the son of Achilles, and his son Megapenthes, wedded to the daughter of Alector. The two young men were warmly welcomed, and were invited to partake of the banquet without being asked their names. After the feast they wondered at the splendor of the halls of gold, amber, and ivory, the polished baths, and the fleecy garments in which they had been arrayed; but Menelaus assured them that all his wealth was small compensation to him for the loss of the warriors who had fallen before Troy, and above all, of the great Ulysses, whose fate he knew not. Though Telemachus's tears fell at his father's name, Menelaus did not guess to whom he spoke, until Helen, entering from her perfumed chamber, saw the likeness between the stranger and the babe whom Ulysses had left when he went to Troy, and greeted their guest as Telemachus. Then they sat in the splendid hall and talked of Troy,--Menelaus broken by his many toils, Helen beautiful as when she was rapt away by Paris, weaving with her golden distaff wound with violet wool, and the two young men, who said little, but listened to the wondrous tale of the wanderings of Menelaus. And they spoke of Ulysses: of the times when he had proved his prudence as well as his craft; of his entering Troy as a beggar and revealing the Achaian plots to Helen; of how he had prevented their breaking out of the wooden horse too soon. Then the king told of his interview with the Ancient of the Deep, in which he had learned the fate of his comrades; of Agamemnon's death, and of the detention of Ulysses on Calypso's isle, where he languished, weeping bitterly, because he had no means of escape. This information gained, Telemachus was anxious to return home; but his host detained him until he and Helen had descended to their fragrant treasure-chamber and brought forth rich gifts,--a double cup of silver and gold wrought by Vulcan, a shining silver beaker, and an embroidered robe for his future bride. Mercury, dispatched by Jove, descended to the distant isle of Calypso, and warned the bright-haired nymph, whom he found weaving in her charmed grotto, that she must let her mortal lover go or brave the wrath of the gods. The nymph, though loath to part with her lover, sought out the melancholy Ulysses, where he sat weeping beside the deep, and giving him tools, led him to the forest and showed him where to fell trees with which to construct a raft. His labor finished, she provided the hero with perfumed garments, a full store of provisions, and saw him set forth joyfully upon the unknown deep. For seventeen days his journey was a prosperous one; but on the eighteenth day, just as the land of the Phæacians came in sight. Neptune returned from Ethiopia, and angry at what the gods had contrived to do in his absence, determined to make the hero suffer as much as possible before he attained the promised end of his troubles. Soon a great storm arose and washed Ulysses from the raft. Clinging to its edge, buffeted here and there by the angry waves, he would have suffered death had not a kind sea nymph urged him to lay aside his heavy garments, leave the raft, and binding a veil that she gave him about his chest, swim to the land of the Phæacians. The coast was steep and rocky, but he found at last a little river, and swimming up it, landed, and fell asleep among some warm heaps of dried leaves. The Phæacians were a people closely allied to the gods, to whom they were very dear. They had at one time been neighbors of the Cyclops, from whose rudeness they had suffered so much that they were compelled to seek a distant home. They were a civilized people, who had achieved great results as sailors, having remarkably swift and well-equipped ships. To the Princess Nausicaa, beautiful as a goddess, Pallas appeared in a dream the night that Ulysses lay sleeping on the isle, warning her that since her wedding day was near at hand, when all would need fresh garments, it was fitting that she should ask her father's permission to take the garments of the household to the river side to wash them. Nausicaa's father willingly granted his permission, and ordered the strong car in which to carry away the soiled garments. A hamper of food and a skin of wine were added by her mother, as the princess climbed into the chariot and drove towards the river, followed by her maids. When the garments had been washed in the lavers hollowed out by the river side, and the lunch had been eaten, the maids joined in a game of ball. Joyous they laughed and frolicked, like Dian's nymphs, until they roused the sleeper under the olive-trees on the hillside. All save Nausicaa fled affrighted as he came forth to speak to them, covered with sea foam, his nakedness hidden only by a leafy branch woven round his waist; but she, strengthened by the goddess, heard his story, and provided him with clothing and materials for the bath. When he appeared, cleansed from the sea foam, and made more handsome by the art of Pallas, Nausicaa's pity was changed to admiration, and she wished that she might have a husband like him. Food and wine were set before the hero, and while he refreshed himself the dried clothes were folded and placed in the cart. As the princess prepared to go she advised the stranger to follow the party until they reached a grove outside the city, and to remain there until she had time to reach her father's palace, lest some gossip should connect Nausicaa's name with that of a stranger. She told him how to find her father's palace, and instructed him to win the favor of her mother, that he might be received with honor and assisted on his homeward way. Ulysses obeyed, and when he reached the city gates was met by Pallas, in the guise of a virgin with an urn. She answered his questions, directed him to the palace, and told him to throw himself first at the feet of Queen Arete, who was looked on by the people as if she were a goddess. Wrapped in a cloud by Pallas, the unseen Ulysses admired the spacious halls of Alcinoüs. Walls of brass supported blue steel cornices, golden doors guarded by gold and silver mastiffs opened into the vast hall, along which were ranged thrones covered with delicately woven mantles, for which the Phæacian women were famous. Around the palace lay a spacious garden filled with pear, pomegranate, fig, and apple trees, that knew no change of season, but blossomed and bore fruit throughout the year. Perennially blooming plants scattered perfume through the garden kept fresh by water from two sparkling fountains. As Ulysses knelt at the feet of Arete, the cloud enveloping him fell away, and all were astonished at the sight of the stranger imploring protection. Arete received Ulysses with favor, and Alcinoüs was so pleased with him that he offered him his daughter in marriage, if he was unmarried, a palace and riches if he would remain on the island, and a safe passage home if he desired to leave them. The king then invited the chiefs of the isle to a great banquet in honor of his guest. At this banquet Demodocus, the blind minstrel, sang so touchingly of the heroes of the Trojan war that Ulysses was moved to tears, a fact observed by the king alone. After the feast the guests displayed their strength in athletic games; and Ulysses, provoked by the taunts of the ill-bred Euryalus, cast a broader, heavier quoit than had yet been used far beyond the mark. The Phæacians were amazed, and the king confessed that his people were weak in athletic sports but excelled in the dance,--a statement to which Ulysses readily agreed when he saw the beautiful and graceful dance of the princes Laodamas and Halius to the music of Demodocus's silver harp. When the games were over, all the chiefs presented Ulysses with garments and with talents of gold, for the reception of which Arete gave a beautiful chest. As he corded up the chest, and stepped forth to the banquet, refreshed from the bath, Nausicaa, standing beside a pillar, bade him farewell. "Remember, in thy native land, O stranger, that thou owest thy life to me." When they sat again in the banqueting hall, Ulysses besought Demodocus to sing again of the fall of Troy; but when the minstrel sang of the strategy of the wooden horse which wrought the downfall of Troy, the hero was again melted to tears,--and this time his host, unable to repress his curiosity, asked him to reveal his name and history. "Thou hast spoken, O king, and I proceed to tell the story of my calamitous voyage from Troy; for I am Ulysses, widely known among men for my cunning devices. Our first stop was among the Ciconians, whose city we laid waste. Here, in spite of my warning, my men tarried to drink red wine until the Ciconians had had time to recruit their forces, and, attacking us, slew six men from each galley. When we who survived reached the land of the lotus-eaters, some of my men ate of the sweet plant, after which a man thinks never more of wife, or friends, or home; and it was with the utmost difficulty that we succeeded in dragging them to the ships. "At the Cyclopean land I myself, with a few of my men, disembarked, and went up to seek the inhabitants and conciliate them with gifts of food and wine. The Cyclops were huge one-eyed giants who did not cultivate the land, had no government, and cared nought for the gods. The first cave to which we came was empty, and we went in to await the arrival of the owner, appeasing our appetites, meanwhile, with some of his cheeses. Presently he arrived, and after he had closed up the entrance of the cave with a huge stone, and had milked his goats, he questioned us as to who we were. Our story told, he seized two of my companions, dashed their heads against the rocks, and devoured them. The next morning, after devouring two others, he drove out his flocks, leaving us shut up in the huge cave. All that day I revolved plans for his destruction and our escape; and at last, drawing lots with my companions to determine who should assist me, I determined, with their aid, to bore out his great eye with a huge olive-wood stick that I found in the cave. We spent the day sharpening it and hardening it in the fire, and at night hid it under a heap of litter. Two more of my men made his evening meal, after which I plied him with the wine I had brought, until, softened by the liquor, he inquired my name, assuring me that as return for my gift, he would devour me last. My name, I told him, was Noman. "As soon as he had fallen into a drunken slumber I put the stake to heat, and, strengthening the courage of my men, I drew it forth and plunged it into his eye. Steadily we spun it round until the monster, screaming with pain, drew it forth, crying to the other Cyclops to come to his aid. When they, from without, questioned who hurt him, he replied, 'Noman destroyeth me by guile.' 'If it is "Noman,"' said they, departing, 'it must be Jove. Then pray to Neptune.' "During the night I tied together the rams, three and three with osier twigs, and instructed my comrades, as he drove them out, to cling under the middle one. I hid myself under the fleecy belly of a huge ram, the finest of the flock. He touched their backs as he drove them out, but he did not penetrate my cunning, and we all escaped. After we had driven the flock on board, however, and had pushed out our galley, I could not forbear a taunting shout, at which he hurled a huge fragment of rock after us, just missing our galley. "With Aeolus, King of the Winds, we remained a month, reciting the events connected with the fall of Troy. So pleased was the king with my story, that on our departure he presented me with a bag tied up with a silver cord, which contained the adverse winds. One day, as I slumbered, my unhappy sailors, suspecting some treasure concealed therein, opened it, and we were immediately blown back to Aeolus's isle, from which he, enraged at our folly, indignantly drove us. "At the land of the Laestrygonians all our galleys were lost and our men devoured by the cannibal inhabitants, with the exception of my own ship, which by good fortune I had moored without the harbor. Overcome with grief, we rowed wearily along until we arrived at the land of Circe. With caution born of experience, we drew lots to see who should venture into the unknown isle. The lot fell to Eurylochus, who, with twenty-two brave men, went forward to the fair palace of Circe, around which fawned tamed mountain lions and wolves. Within sat the bright haired goddess, singing while she threw her shuttle through the beautiful web she was weaving. "All the men entered the palace at her invitation but Eurylochus, who, suspecting some guile, remained without. He saw his comrades led within, seated upon thrones and banqueted; but no sooner was the feast over, than she touched them with her wand, and transformed them into swine that she drove scornfully to their cells. "Eurylochus hastened back to our ships with the sorrowful tidings. As soon as grief had permitted him to tell the story, I flung my sword over my shoulders and hastened away to the palace. As I entered the valley, not far from the palace, I was met by a youth, none save the Argus-queller himself, who revealed to me Circe's guile, and presented me with a plant, the moly, which would enable me to withstand her charms. "The goddess received me kindly, seated me upon a throne, and invited me to feast with her. After the feast she struck me with her wand, as she had done my comrades, ordering me to go to my sty; but when I remained unchanged, she perceived that her guest was Ulysses, whose coming had long been foretold to her. "Softened by her entreaties, I sheathed my sword, after having made her promise to release my friends and do us no further harm. Then the others were called from the ships, and we banqueted together. "Time passed so happily on Circe's isle that we lingered a whole year, until, roused by the words of my friends, I announced my intended departure, and was told by Circe that I must first go to the land of the dead to get instructions as to my future course from Tiresias. Provided with the proper sacrifices by Circe, we set sail for the land of the Cimmerians, on the confines of Oceanus. The sacrifices having been duly performed, the spirits appeared,--Elpenor, my yet unburied comrade, whose body lay on Circe's isle, my own dead mother, and the Theban seer, Tiresias, with his golden wand. 'Neptune is wroth with thee,' he said, 'but thou mayst yet return if thou and thy comrades leave undisturbed the cattle of the Sun. If thou do not, destruction awaits thee. If thou escape and return home it will be after long journeyings and much suffering, and there thou wilt slay the insolent suitor crew that destroy thy substance and wrong thy household.' After Tiresias had spoken I lingered to speak with other spirits,--my mother, Ajax, Antiope, Agamemnon, Achilles, Patroclus, and Antilochus. Having conversed with all these, we set sail for Circe's isle, and thence started again on our homeward voyage. "Circe had instructed me to stop the ears of my men with wax as we approached the isle of the Sirens, and to have myself tied to the boat that I might not leap into the ocean to go to the beautiful maidens who sang so entrancingly. We therefore escaped without adding our bones to those on the isle of the Sirens, and came next to Scylla and Charybdis. Charybdis is a frightful whirlpool. The sailor who steers too far away in his anxiety to escape it, is seized by the six arms of the monster Scylla and lifted to her cavern to be devoured. We avoided Charybdis; but as we looked down into the abyss, pale with fear, six of my comrades were seized by Scylla and snatched up to her cave. "As we neared the Island of the Sun I told my comrades again of the warning of Tiresias, and begged them to sail past without stopping. I was met, however, by the bitterest reproaches, and at last consented to a landing if they would bind themselves by a solemn oath not to touch the cattle of the Sun. They promised, but when adverse winds prolonged our stay and food became scarce, fools, madmen, they slew the herds, and in spite of the terrible omens, the meat lowing on the spits, the skins crawling, they feasted for six days. When, on the seventh, the tempest ceased and we sailed away, we went to our destruction. I alone was saved, clinging to the floating timbers for nine long days, until on the tenth I reached Calypso's isle, Ogygia, where, out of love for me, the mighty goddess cherished me for seven years." The Phæacians were entranced by this recital, and in addition to their former gifts, heaped other treasures upon the "master of stratagems" that he might return home a wealthy man. The swift ship was filled with his treasures, and after the proper sacrifices and long farewells, the chieftain embarked. It was morn when the ship arrived in Ithaca, and Ulysses, worn out from his long labors, was still asleep. Stopping at the little port of Phorcys, where the steep shores stretch inward and a spreading olive-tree o'ershadows the grotto of the nymphs, the sailors lifted out Ulysses, laid him on the ground, and piling up his gifts under the olive-tree, set sail for Phæacia. But the angry Neptune smote the ship as it neared the town and changed it to a rock, thus fulfilling an ancient prophecy that Neptune would some day wreak his displeasure on the Phæacians for giving to every man who came to them safe escort home. When Ulysses awoke he did not recognize the harbor, and thinking that he had been treated with deceit, he wept bitterly. Thus Pallas, in the guise of a young shepherd, found him, and showed him that it was indeed his own dear land. She helped him to conceal his treasures in the grotto, and told him that Telemachus was even now away on a voyage of inquiry concerning him, and his wife was weeping over his absence and the insolence of the suitors. But he must act with caution. To give him an opportunity to lay his plans for the destruction of these men without being recognized, she changed him to a beggar, wrinkled and old, and clad in ragged, soiled garments. Then directing him to the home of his old herdsman, she hastened to warn Telemachus to avoid the ship the suitors had stationed to destroy him on his way home. The old Eumaeus was sitting in his lodge without whose hedge lay the many sties of swine that were his care. He greeted the beggar kindly, and spread food before him, lamenting all the while the absence of his noble master and the wickedness of the suitors. Ulysses told him that he was a wanderer who had heard of his master, and could speak surely of his return. Though Eumaeus regarded this as an idle speech spoken to gain food and clothing, he continued in his kindness to his guest. To this lodge came Telemachus after the landing of his ship, that he might first hear from Eumaeus the news from the palace,--Telemachus, who had grown into sudden manliness from his experience among other men. He also was kind to the beggar, and heard his story. While he remained with the beggar, Eumaeus having gone to acquaint Penelope of her son's return, Pallas appearing, touched the beggar with her golden wand, and Ulysses, with the presence of a god, stood before his awed and wondering son. Long and passionate was their weeping as the father told the son of his sufferings, and the son told of the arrogance of the one hundred and fourteen suitors. "There are we two with Pallas and her father Jove against them," replied his father. "Thinkest thou we need to fear with two such allies?" On the day after Telemachus's return, Ulysses, accompanied by Eumaeus, visited the palace. No one recognized him except his old dog, Argus, long neglected and devoured by vermin, who, at the sound of his master's voice, drew near, wagged his tail, and fell dead. According to their carefully laid plans, Telemachus feigned not to know his father, but sent to the beggar some food. Ulysses asked the same of the suitors, but was repulsed with taunts and insults, Antinoüs, the most insolent, striking him with a footstool. To Penelope, weaving in her chamber, was carried the story of the beggar at whom the abhorred Antinoüs had thrown a stool, and she sent for him to ask if he had tidings of Ulysses. He refused to go to her, however, until the suitors had withdrawn for the night; and as he sat among the revellers, he caught the first glimpse of his wife, as she came down among her maids, to reproach her son for exposing himself to danger among the suitors, and for allowing the beggar to be injured. When darkness fell and the hall was deserted, Telemachus, with the assistance of his father, removed all the weapons from the walls. After Telemachus had retired to his chamber, Penelope came down, and sitting upon her ivory throne conversed with the beggar, questioning him about his story until he was driven to invent tales that seemed like truth, and asking about her husband while the tears ran down her fair cheeks. By a great effort Ulysses kept his tears from falling as he beheld his wife weeping over him; he assured her that her husband would soon return, but he would accept no clothing as a reward for his tidings. The aged Eurycleia, who was called forth to wash his feet, came near betraying her master when she recognized a scar made by a wild boar's tusk, but he threatened her into silence. Soon after, Penelope and her maids withdrew, and left Ulysses to meditate vengeance through the night. The next morning, when the suitors again sat in the banquet-hall, Penelope descended to them and declared that she had determined to give her hand to the one of the suitors who could draw the great bow of Ulysses and send the arrow through twelve rings set on stakes planted in the ground. Up to the polished treasure-chamber she went, and took down the great bow given to Ulysses by Iphitus. As she took it from its case her tears fell, but she dried them and carried it and the steel rings into the hall. Gladly Ulysses hailed this hour, for he knew the time had come when he should destroy the suitor band. That morn many omens had warned him, and he had revealed himself to his faithful men, Eumaeus, and Philoetius the master-herdsman, that they might assist him. Telemachus, though astonished at his mother's decision, first took the bow; if he succeeded in bending it, his mother would not have to leave her home. He would have bent the bow at the fourth attempt had not his father's glance warned him to yield it to the suitors. Although the bow was rubbed and softened with oil, all failed in their attempts to draw it; and when the beggar asked to be allowed to try, their wrath burst forth. What shame would be theirs if the beggar succeeded in doing that in which they had failed! But Telemachus, who asserted his rights more day by day, insisted that the beggar should try to bend the bow, if he so desired. Sending his mother and her maids to their bower, he watched his father as he easily bent the mighty bow, snapped the cord with a sound at which the suitors grew pale, and sent the arrow through the rings. Then casting aside his rags, the supposed beggar sprang upon the threshold, and knowing that by his orders, Eumaeus, Philoetius, and Eurycleia had secured the portals so that escape was impossible, he sent his next shaft through the throat of Antinoüs. "Dogs! ye thought I never would return! Ye dreaded not the gods while ye devoured my substance and pursued my wife! Now vengeance is mine! Destruction awaits you all!" Too late Eurymachus sprang up and besought the monarch to grant them their lives if they made good their waste and returned to their homes. Ulysses had brooded too long over his injuries; his wife and son had suffered too many years from their persecutions for him to think of mercy. Eurymachus fell by the next brass-tipped shaft, and for every arrow in the quiver a suitor lay dead until the quiver was empty. Then Telemachus, Philoetius, and Eumaeus, provided with weapons and armor, stood forth with Ulysses, and withstood the suitors until all were slain, save Medon the herald and Phemius the minstrel, for both of whom Telemachus pleaded, since they had been coerced by the others. Giving the destruction of the false serving-maids to his three assistants, Ulysses ordered the hall to be cleansed, and after greeting his faithful servants and weeping with them, sent Eurycleia up to the bower to tell Penelope that her master had at last arrived. Penelope was too fearful of deceit to believe instantly that the beggar sitting beside the lofty column was her husband, though as she looked at him wonderingly, she sometimes fancied that she saw Ulysses, and again could not believe that it was he. So long was she silent that Telemachus reproached her for her hardness of heart; but Ulysses, better guessing the difficulty, ordered that all should take the bath and array themselves in fresh garments while the harper played gay melodies, that those passing should not guess the slaughter that had occurred, but should fancy that a wedding was being celebrated. When Ulysses again appeared, refreshed and handsomely attired, Penelope, still uncertain, determined to test his knowledge of her chamber. "Bear out the bed made by his own hands," she commanded Eurycleia, "that he may rest for the night." "Who has dared move my bed?" cried Ulysses; "the couch framed upon the stump of an olive-tree, round which I built a stone chamber! I myself cunningly fitted it together, and adorned it with gold, silver, and ivory." Then Penelope, who knew that no one save herself, Ulysses, and one handmaiden had ever seen the interior of that chamber, fell on his neck and welcomed the wanderer home. "Pray, be not angry with me, my husband. Many times my heart has trembled lest some fraud be practised on me, and I should receive a stranger to my heart." Welcome as land to the shipwrecked mariner was Ulysses to Penelope. Both wept as he held her in his arms, and the rosy-fingered morn would have found them thus, weeping, with her fair, white arms encircling his neck, had not Pallas prolonged the night that he might relate to her the story of his wanderings. Then, happy in their reunion, the years of sorrow all forgotten, sleep overcame them. At dawn, bidding a brief farewell to his wife, Ulysses went forth to visit his father, and settle as best he might the strife which he knew would result from the slaughter of the suitors. After Ulysses' mother had died of grief at the prolonged absence of her son, Laertes passed his days wretchedly in a little habitation remote from the palace. There Ulysses found him and made himself known; and there he, Laertes, Telemachus, the aged Dolius, and his six sons faced the people who had been roused to battle by the speech of Eupeithes, whose son Antinoüs had been the first of the suitors to fall by the hand of Ulysses. Not heeding the warning of the herald Medon that the suitors had been slain justly, they attacked Ulysses and his handful of followers. Eupeithes fell first by the spear of Laertes, and a great slaughter would have ensued, had not the combatants been silenced by the voice of Pallas, who commanded all strife to cease. Frightened by this divine command, the enemy fled; and Pallas, descending in the form of Mentor, plighted a covenant between them that Ulysses might live peacefully among them the remainder of his life. SELECTIONS FROM THE ODYSSEY. THE PALACE OF ALCINOÜS. Ulysses, having been directed by Nausicaa, reached the gate of the city, and was there met by Pallas in the guise of a maiden with an urn, who instructed him how to approach the king and queen. He passed through the town, wrapped in a cloud by Pallas, and paused on the threshold of Alcinoüs's palace. For on every side beneath The lofty roof of that magnanimous king A glory shone as of the sun or moon. There from the threshold, on each side, were walls Of brass that led towards the inner rooms, With blue steel cornices. The doors within The massive building were of gold, and posts Of silver on the brazen threshold stood, And silver was the lintel, and above Its architrave was gold; and on each side Stood gold and silver mastiffs, the rare work Of Vulcan's practised skill, placed there to guard The house of great Alcinoüs, and endowed With deathless life, that knows no touch of age. Along the walls within, on either side, And from the threshold to the inner rooms, Were firmly planted thrones on which were laid Delicate mantles, woven by the hands Of women. The Phæacian princes here Were seated; here they ate and drank, and held Perpetual banquet. Slender forms of boys In gold upon the shapely altars stood, With blazing torches in their hands to light At eve the palace guests; while fifty maids Waited within the halls, where some in querns Ground small the yellow grain; some wove the web Or twirled the spindle, sitting, with a quick Light motion, like the aspen's glancing leaves. The well-wrought tissues glistened as with oil. As far as the Phæacian race excel In guiding their swift galleys o'er the deep, So far the women in their woven work Surpass all others. Pallas gives them skill In handiwork and beautiful design. Without the palace-court and near the gate, A spacious garden of four acres lay. A hedge enclosed it round, and lofty trees Flourished in generous growth within,--the pear And the pomegranate, and the apple-tree With its fair fruitage, and the luscious fig And olive always green. The fruit they bear Falls not, nor ever fails in winter time Nor summer, but is yielded all the year. The ever-blowing west-wind causes some To swell and some to ripen; pear succeeds To pear; to apple, apple, grape to grape, Fig ripens after fig. A fruitful field Of vines was planted near; in part it lay Open and basking in the sun, which dried The soil, and here men gathered in the grapes, And there they trod the wine-press. Farther on Were grapes unripened yet, which just had cast The flower, and others still which just began To redden. At the garden's furthest bound Were beds of many plants that all the year Bore flowers. There gushed two fountains: one of them Ran wandering through the field; the other flowed Beneath the threshold to the palace-court, And all the people filled their vessels there. Such were the blessings which the gracious gods Bestowed on King Alcinoüs and his house. _Bryant's Translation, Book VII._ THE BENDING OF THE BOW. Penelope, weary of the importunities of the suitors, determined to end the contest by giving them the bow of Ulysses and allowing the one who could successfully send the arrow through the steel rings to become her husband. Having announced her intention, she ascended the stairs to the treasure chamber, where the bow was kept. Now when the glorious lady reached the room, And stood upon the threshold, wrought of oak And polished by the workman's cunning hand, Who stretched the line upon it, and set up Its posts, and hung its shining doors, she loosed With a quick touch the thong that held the ring, Put in the key, and with a careful aim Struck back the sounding bolts. As when a bull Roars in the field, such sound the beautiful doors, Struck with the key, gave forth, and instantly They opened to her. Up the lofty floor She stepped, where stood the coffer that contained The perfumed garments. Reaching forth her hand, The queen took down the bow, that hung within Its shining case, and sat her down, and laid The case upon her knees, and, drawing forth The monarch's bow, she wept aloud. As soon As that new gush of tears had ceased to fall, Back to the hall she went, and that proud throng Of suitors, bearing in her hand the bow Unstrung, and quiver, where the arrows lay Many and deadly. Her attendant maids Brought also down a coffer, where were laid Much brass and steel, provided by the king For games like these. The glorious lady then, In presence of the suitors, stood beside The columns that upheld the stately roof. She held a lustrous veil before her cheeks, And while on either side of her a maid Stood modestly, bespake the suitors thus:-- "Hear, noble suitors! ye who throng these halls, And eat and drink from day to day, while long My husband has been gone; your sole excuse For all this lawlessness the claim ye make That I become a bride. Come then, for now A contest is proposed. I bring to you The mighty bow that great Ulysses bore. Whoe'er among you he may be whose hand Shall bend this bow, and send through these twelve rings An arrow, him I follow hence, and leave This beautiful abode of my young years, With all its plenty,--though its memory, I think, will haunt me even in my dreams." She spake, and bade the master of the swine, The good Eumaeus, place the bow and rings Of hoary steel before the suitor train. In tears he bore the bow and laid it down. The herdsman also wept to see again His master's bow. * * * * * He (Telemachus) spake and, rising, from his shoulders took The purple cloak, and laid the trenchant sword Aside; and first he placed the rings of steel In order, opening for them in the ground A long trench by a line, and stamping close The earth around them. All admired the skill With which he ranged them, never having seen The game before. And then he took his place Upon the threshold, and essayed the bow; And thrice he made the attempt, and thrice gave o'er, Yet hoping still to draw the cord, and send An arrow through the rings. He would have drawn The bow at the fourth trial, but a nod Given by his father caused him to forbear, Though eager for the attempt. * * * * * ... And then Eupeithes' son, Antinoüs, to the crowd of suitors said:-- "Rise one by one, my friends, from right to left. Begin where he begins who pours the wine." So spake Antinoüs, and the rest approved. Then rose Leiodes, son of Oenops, first. He was their seer, and always had his seat Beside the ample bowl. From deeds of wrong He shrank with hatred, and was sore incensed Against the suitors all. He took the bow And shaft, and, going to the threshold, stood And tried the bow, yet bent it not; it galled His hands, for they were soft, and all unused To such a task. ... The swineherd went Forward along the hall, and, drawing near The wise Ulysses, gave into his hands The bow. * * * * * ... but when the wary chief Had poised and shrewdly scanned the mighty bow, Then, as a singer, skilled to play the harp, Stretches with ease on its new fastenings A string, the twisted entrails of a sheep, Made fast at either end, so easily Ulysses bent that mighty bow. He took And drew the cord with his right hand; it twanged With a clear sound as when a swallow screams. The suitors were dismayed, and all grew pale. Jove in loud thunder gave a sign from heaven. The much-enduring chief, Ulysses, heard With joy the friendly omen, which the son Of crafty Saturn sent him. He took up A winged arrow, that before him lay Upon a table drawn; the others still Were in the quiver's womb; the Greeks were yet To feel them. This he set with care against The middle of the bow, and toward him drew The cord and arrow-notch, just where he sat, And aiming opposite, let fly the shaft. He missed no ring of all; from first to last The brass-tipped arrow threaded every one. Then to Telemachus Ulysses said:-- "Telemachus, the stranger sitting here Hath not disgraced thee. I have neither missed The rings, nor found it hard to bend the bow; Nor has my manly strength decayed, as these Who seek to bring me to contempt pretend; And now the hour is come when we prepare A supper for the Achaians, while the day Yet lasts, and after supper the delights Of song and harp, which nobly grace a feast." He spake, and nodded to Telemachus, His well-beloved son, who girded on His trenchant sword, and took in hand his spear, And, armed with glittering brass for battle, came And took his station by his father's seat. Then did Ulysses cast his rags aside, And, leaping to the threshold, took his stand On its broad space, with bow and quiver filled With arrows. At his feet the hero poured The winged shafts, and to the suitors called:-- "That difficult strife is ended. Now I take Another mark, which no man yet has hit. Now I shall see if I attain my aim, And, by the aid of Phoebus, win renown." He spake; and, turning, at Antinoüs aimed The bitter shaft--Antinoüs, who just then Had grasped a beautiful two-eared cup of gold, About to drink the wine. He little thought Of wounds and death; for who, when banqueting Among his fellows, could suspect that one Alone against so many men would dare, However bold, to plan his death, and bring On him the doom of fate? Ulysses struck The suitor with the arrow at the throat. The point came through the tender neck behind, Sideways he sank to earth; his hand let fall The cup; the dark blood in a thick warm stream Gushed from the nostrils of the smitten man. He spurned the table with his feet, and spilled The viands; bread and roasted meats were flung To lie polluted on the floor. Then rose The suitors in a tumult, when they saw The fallen man; from all their seats they rose Throughout the hall, and to the massive walls Looked eagerly; there hung no buckler there, No sturdy lance for them to wield. They called Then to Ulysses with indignant words:-- "Stranger! in evil hour hast thou presumed To aim at men; and thou shalt henceforth bear Part in no other contest. Even now Is thy destruction close to thee. Thy hand Hath slain the noblest youth in Ithaca. The vultures shall devour thy flesh for this." So each one said; they deemed he had not slain The suitor wittingly; nor did they see, Blind that they were, the doom which in that hour Was closing round them all. Then with a frown The wise Ulysses looked on them, and said:-- "Dogs! ye had thought I never would come back From Ilium's coast, and therefore ye devoured My substance here, and offered violence To my maid-servants, and pursued my wife As lovers, while I lived. Ye dreaded not The gods who dwell in the great heaven, nor feared Vengeance hereafter from the hands of men; And now destruction overhangs you all." He spake, and all were pale with fear, and each Looked round for some escape from death. _Bryant's Translation, Books XXI., XXII_. THE KALEVALA. "Songs preserved from distant ages." The national epic of Finland, the Kalevala, or Place of Heroes, stands midway between the purely epical structure, as exemplified in Homer, and the epic songs of certain nations. It is a purely pagan epic, and from its complete silence as to Finland's neighbors, the Russians, Germans, and Swedes, it is supposed to date back at least three thousand years. The first attempt to collect Finnish folk-song was made in the seventeenth century by Palmsköld and Peter Bäng. In 1733, Maxenius published a volume on Finnish national poetry, and in 1745 Juslenius began a collection of national poems. Although scholars saw that these collected poems were evidently fragments of a Finnish epic, it remained for two physicians, Zacharias Topelius and Elias Lönnrot, to collect the entire poem. Topelius, though confined to his bed by illness for eleven years, took down the songs from travelling merchants brought to his bedside. His collections were published in 1822 and 1831. Lönnrot travelled over Finland, collecting the songs, which he published, arranged in epical form, in 1835. A revised edition was published in 1849. The Kalevala consists of fifty parts, or runes, containing twenty-two thousand seven hundred and ninety-three lines. Its historical foundation is the contests between the Finns and the Lapps. Its metre is the "eight syllabled trochaic with the part-line echo," alliteration also being used, a metre familiar to us through Longfellow's "Hiawatha." The labors of a Wolf are not necessary to show that the Kalevala is composed of various runes or lays, arranged by a compiler. Topelius and Lönnrot were conscientious collectors and compilers, but they were no Homers, who could fuse these disconnected runes into one great poem. The Kalevala recites many events in the lives of different heroes who are not types of men, like Rama, or Achilles, or Ulysses, but the rude gods of an almost savage people, or rather, men in the process of apotheosis, all alike, save in the varying degrees of magic power possessed by each. The Finnish lays are interesting to us because they are the popular songs of a people handed down with few changes from one generation to another; because they would have formed the material for a national epic if a great poet had arisen; because of their pictures of ancient customs, and particularly the description of the condition of women, and because of their frequently beautiful descriptions of nature. But because they are simply runes "loosely stitched together" we can regard them only with interest and curiosity, not with admiration. BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE KALEVALA. Andrew Lang's Homer and the Epic, pp. 412-419; Andrew Lang's Kalevala, or the Finnish National Epic (in his Custom and Myth), 1885, pp. 156-179; C. J. Billson's Folk-songs, comprised in the Finnish Kalevala, Folk-Lore, 1895, vi. pp. 317-352; F. C. Cook's Kalevala, Contemporary, 1885, xlvii., pp. 683-702; Preface of J. M. Crawford's Translation of the Kalevala, 1891. STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE KALEVALA. The Kalevala, Tr. by J. M. Crawford, 2 vols., 1891; The Kalevala, Tr. by W. F. Kirby, through the German translation of Schiefner; Selections from the Kalevala, Tr. from a German version by J. A. Porter, with an introduction and analysis of the Poem, 1868. THE STORY OF THE KALEVALA. Wainamoinen was born upon the ocean after his mother, Ilmatar, daughter of the illimitable Ether, had floated upon its surface for more than seven hundred years. During this time Ilmatar had created the islands, the rocks, and the continents. After eight years of swimming through the ocean, studying his surroundings, Wainamoinen left the waters and swam to a barren promontory, where he could rest himself on dry land and study the sun, the moon, and the starry skies. At last he called to him Pellerwoinen, that the slender youth might scatter seeds broadcast upon the island, sowing in their proper places the birch, the alder, the linden, the willow, the mountain ash, and the juniper. It was not long until the eyes of the sower were gladdened by the sight of trees rising above the hitherto barren soil. But as Wainamoinen cast his eyes over the place he perceived that the oak, the tree of heaven, was wanting. The acorn planted in the sterile soil developed not until Tursas, the giant, arose from the ocean, burned some meadow grasses, and raking together the ashes, planted therein the acorn, from which soon sprang up a mighty oak-tree whose branches hid the sun rays and the starlight. The oak-tree must be felled if the land was to prosper, but who could fell it? "Help me, Kapé, daughter of the Ether, help me, my ancient mother, to uproot this terrible tree that shuts out the sunshine," cried Wainamoinen. Straightway arose from the ocean a little being clad in copper,--cap, boots, gloves, and belt. He was no longer than a man's forefinger, and the blade of the hatchet at his belt was but a finger's breadth. "Art thou divine, or human?" queried Wainamoinen. "Tell me who thou art. Thou surely hast the bearing of a hero, though so small. But thou must be of the race of the pygmies, and therefore useless." "I came here to fell the oak," replied the pygmy. "I am a god and a hero from the tribes that rule the ocean." "Never canst thou lop the branches of this mighty tree," replied Wainamoinen. As he spoke, the pygmy became a giant; with one step he left the ocean, and stood piercing the clouds with his head. He whetted his hatchet on the great rocks, and with three steps reached the tree; with four blows felled it. The trunk fell eastward, its tops westward, the leaves to the south, the hundred branches to the north. Full of magic power were the parts of this tree, and happy was he who possessed himself of some part of it. Then vegetation flourished, the birds sang happily in the trees, and all was well except that barley was wanting. On the ocean strand Wainamoinen discovered the barley seed; and, advised by the birds how to plant it, was soon gratified by the sight of the growing barley. His next act was to clear the forest; but he left the slender birch for the birds to nest in, thus winning the gratitude of the silver-voiced singers. In the land of Kalevala, Wainamoinen passed many happy years, and the fame of his wonderful songs of wit and wisdom spread even to the land of the Lapps, in the dismal north, where lived Youkahainen, a young minstrel. Against the advice of his parents, the youth, filled with jealousy, visited Kalevala, to hold a singing contest with Wainamoinen. He proudly displayed his wisdom to the old minstrel, who laughed at it as "women's tales and children's wisdom," and when Youkahainen declared in song that he was present at the creation, Wainamoinen called him the prince of liars, and himself began to sing. As he sang, the copper-bearing mountains, the massive rocks and ledges, trembled, the hills re-echoed, and the very ocean heaved with rapture. The boaster stood speechless, seeing his sledge transformed into reed grass and willows, his beautiful steed changed to a statue, his dog to a block of stone, and he himself fast sinking in a quicksand. Then comprehending his folly, he begged his tormentor to free him. Each precious gift he offered for a ransom was refused, until he named his beautiful sister Aino. Wainamoinen, happy in the promise of Aino for a wife, freed the luckless youth from his enchantment, and sent him home. Aino's mother was rejoiced to hear that her daughter had been promised to the renowned Wainamoinen; but when the beautiful girl learned that she was tied by her brother's folly to an old man, she wandered weeping through the fields. In vain her mother and father sought to console her; she wept for her vanished childhood, for all her happiness and hope and pleasure forever gone. To console her daughter, the mother told her of a store of beautiful ornaments that she herself had worn in girlhood; they had been given her by the daughters of the Moon and Sun,--gold, ribbons, and jewels. Beautifully arrayed in these long-concealed ornaments, Aino wandered through the fields for many days, bewailing her sad fate. On the fourth day, she laid her garments on the sea shore, and swam out to the standing rock, a little distance from the shore. No sooner had she clambered on the rainbow-colored rock than it turned and fell to the bottom of the sea, carrying with it the weeping maiden, chanting a farewell to her family. The fleet and haughty hare bore the news of her death to the household, where her unfortunate mother sat weeping, urging other mothers never to force their daughters to wed against their choice. The tears that rolled down her cheeks formed three streamlets, that, growing larger, became torrents with foaming cataracts. From the cataracts towered three pillared rocks upon which rose three hillocks, and upon each hillock sprang a birch-tree. On the summit of each tree sat a golden bird singing; and the first sang, for three moons, his song of "Love! O Love!" the second called for six moons, "Suitor! Suitor!" but the third bird sang forever his sad song of "Consolation! Consolation!" Wainamoinen was deeply grieved when he heard of the fate of the lovely Aino, and he at once went to angle in the deep where dwelt the mermaids, the daughters of Wellamo. After he had fished many days in vain, he caught a wondrous salmon, larger and more beautiful than he had ever before caught. But as he took out his silver knife to cut it, the fish sprang from his hand into the deep, telling him that it was Aino who had thus come to him, and whom he had now lost forever by his stupidity. Then indeed the song of the golden bird seemed sad to Wainamoinen, and he was disconsolate until his mother spoke to him from her grave: "My son, go north and seek thy wife. Take not a silly Lapp, but choose one of the daughters of Suomi." Quickly Wainamoinen prepared for his journey, and mounted his magic steed, that galloped over the plains of Kalevala and crossed the waste of blue sea-water as though it were land. But the envious Youkahainen was informed of the journey, and had prepared a cruel cross-bow and three poisoned arrows. In spite of the protests of his mother, he waited for the hero and shot at him three times. The third arrow struck Wainamoinen's horse, which sank to the bottom of the ocean, leaving the hapless rider struggling in the water. "Seven summers must he tread the waves," chuckled Youkahainen; "eight years ride the billows." For six days Wainamoinen floated on the waters; then he was rescued by a huge eagle that carried him on its back to Pohyola, the dismal Sariola, and left him on a barren promontory, where he bemoaned his unhappy fate. Here he was found by Louhi, the toothless dame of Pohyola, who took him home and fed him. Then she promised to provide him with a sledge that he might journey safely home if he would forge for her the Sampo, a magical jewel that gave success to its possessor. If he could make her this, she would also give him her daughter in marriage. "I cannot forge the Sampo, but if thou wilt help me to my distant country I will send thee my brother Ilmarinen, the blacksmith, who can forge for thee the magic Sampo, and win thy beautiful daughter." Louhi provided a sledge and horse, and as Wainamoinen seated himself she warned him, as he journeyed, not to look upward before nightfall, or some great misfortune would befall him. The maiden of the Rainbow, beautiful daughter of Pohyola, was sitting on the rainbow weaving, and Wainamoinen, hearing the whizzing of the loom, forgot the warning, and, looking up, was filled with love for the maiden. "Come to me," he cried. "The birds have told me," she replied, "that a maiden's life, as compared to a married woman's, is as summer to coldest winter. Wives are as dogs enchained in kennels." When Wainamoinen further besought her, she told him that she would consider him a hero when he had split a golden hair with edgeless knives and snared a bird's egg with an invisible snare. When he had done these things without difficulty, she demanded that he should peel the sandstone, and cut her a whipstick from the ice without making a splinter. This done, she commanded that he should build her a boat from the fragments of her distaff, and set it floating without the use of his knee, arm, hand, or foot to propel it. While Wainamoinen was engaged in this task, Hisi, the god of evil, caused him to cut his knee with the axe. None of his charms availed to stanch the blood, so he dragged himself to his sledge and sought the nearest village. In the third cottage he found a graybeard, who caused two maids to dip up some of the flowing blood, and then commanded Wainamoinen to sing the origin of iron. The daughters of Ukko the Creator had sprinkled the mountains with black, white, and red milk,--from this was formed iron. Fire caught the iron and carried it to its furnace, and later Ilmarinen worked the unwilling metal into various articles. As he sought something to harden it, Hisi's bird, the hornet, dropped poison into the water; and the iron dipped into it, formed the hard steel, which, angry because it could not be broken, cut its brother, and vowed that it would ever cause man's blood to flow in torrents. The old man then addressed the crimson stream flowing from the wound, and prayed to mighty Ukko to stop it. When it ceased to flow at his prayer, he sent forth his son to gather various charmed plants, steep them, and make a magic balsam. After many attempts the son was successful; and the balsam, applied to Wainamoinen's wound, healed it immediately. Wainamoinen returned home and sought Ilmarinen, who refused to go north to forge the Sampo. Inducing his brother to climb a lofty fir-tree to bring down the Moon and the Bear he had conjured there, the wizard caused a great storm-wind to arise and blow Ilmarinen to the woodlands of Pohyola. There the blacksmith at once set up a forge, and after four days' work saw the Sampo rising from the furnace, its many colored lid rocking and grinding, every day, many measures of meal. Joyfully Louhi received the magic Sampo and locked it in a secret chamber under the copper-bearing mountains. But when Ilmarinen asked for the hand of the Rainbow Maid, he was refused. "Never shall I, in my lifetime, say farewell to maiden freedom." So the blacksmith was compelled to return alone to Wainola. While Ilmarinen was forging the Sampo and Wainamoinen was building the magic boat, Lemminkainen, or Ahti, the reckless wizard, king of the islands, was longing for a bride from Ehstland. In spite of his mother's entreaties, Lemminkainen went to Ehstland, and when he found it was impossible to gain the favor of Kylliki, the Sahri maid of beauty, he carried her off by force in his sledge. She became reconciled to him when he promised that he would never go to battle, and she in turn vowed that she would not visit the village dances. They lived happily together until Lemminkainen tarried late at the fishing one evening, and Kylliki went to the village dance. When Lemminkainen returned, his sister told him of Kylliki's broken vow; and in spite of the prayers of his mother and wife, the hero declared that he would break his promise and go to war. To the Northland he would go, and win another wife. "When my brush bleeds, then you may know that misfortune has overtaken me," he said angrily, flinging his hairbrush at the wall. Through many dangers he passed unscathed by the aid of his magic, until he stood in the halls of Louhi and asked for her daughter, the Rainbow Maiden. "First bring me the wild moose from the Hisi-fields and forests," said Louhi. From Kauppi, able smith, Lemminkainen procured the wondrous snow-shoes; but Hisi, who heard the boasts of the hero, fashioned a wild moose that ran so rapidly that Lemminkainen could not overtake it, but broke his snow-shoes in the race. He besought Ukko and the mistress of the forest and her king, and at last, with their aid, the moose was captured and led home to Louhi. "Now bridle the flaming horse of Hisi," said she. The mighty stallion stood on the Hisi mountain, breathing fire and smoke. When the hero saw him he prayed to Ukko, "Let the hail and icy rain fall upon him." His prayer was granted; and, going forward, Lemminkainen prayed the steed to put its head into the golden head-stall, promising to treat it with all gentleness. Then he led it to the courts of Sariola. "Now kill for me the swan that swims in Tuoni, the black death-river. One shot only canst thou have. If thou succeed, then mayst thou claim thy bride." When Lemminkainen entered Pohyola he had slain all his opponents but one blind shepherd, whom he spared because he despised his helplessness. This object of his scorn was waiting for him, and when Lemminkainen approached the river he fell by a shot from the enemy, regretting, as he died, that he had not asked his mother's advice before attempting to reach Tuoni. Nasshut, the shepherd, threw the hero's body into the river, where it was seized and cut in pieces by the son of Tuoni. At home the mother and wife awaited anxiously tidings of their hero. When they saw blood trickling from the brush, the mother could wait no longer, but at once set out for the dreary Northland. After repeated threats, she wrested from Louhi the fact that her son had gone to Tuoni; from the Sun she learned his fate. Quickly seeking Ilmarinen, the mother bade him forge for her a mighty rake. With this she raked the deep death-river, collected the pieces of the hero, bound them together with the aid of the goddess Suonetar, and making a balsam, the materials for which were brought her by the bee, she healed her hero son, comforted him, and led him back to Kalevala. In the mean time, Wainamoinen, who was building his boat for the Rainbow Maid, found that he had forgotten three magic words with which to fasten in the ledges and complete the boat's forecastle. After examining in vain the mouths of the wild animals, he sought the dead hero Wipunen, forced open his jaws, and accidentally fell into his mouth. Wipunen quickly swallowed him; but Wainamoinen, setting up a forge in his body, caused him such discomfort that the giant was glad to give his information, and get rid of his unwelcome visitor. Having thus learned the secrets of the ages, and among them the three magic words, Wainamoinen hastened home and finished his boat. The boat builded, he at once set out for the Northland to woo the Rainbow Maid. The boat was bedecked with silver and gold, and the linen sails were blue, white, and scarlet. The sails were merely for ornament, however, for the boat moved over the ocean without the aid of oars or sails. Wainamoinen's departure from Kalevala was observed by Anniki, the sister of Ilmarinen, who at once told her brother. With her assistance, Ilmarinen cleansed the black from his ruddy countenance, and jumping into his sledge, was soon on the way to Sariola. The approach of the heroes was perceived by Louhi. "Daughter," said she, "the old man brings thee a boat full of treasures; take him. Do not wed the empty-handed youth." "Thy advice is good, but I will not take it. The young man shall be my husband." When Wainamoinen was refused in spite of his gifts, Louhi addressed herself to Ilmarinen, and set him, in turn, three tasks: to plough the serpent field of Hisi, to muzzle Tuoni's bear, and to catch the pike of Mana, in the river of Tuoni. With the help of his sweetheart, Ilmarinen accomplished these tasks, and the wedding day was set. Old Wainamoinen, heavy hearted, journeyed homeward, and sent the edict to his people that in the future old men should not go wooing, or strive with younger men. Great preparations were made for the wedding feast; the mighty ox of Karjala was slain, and for the first time, beer was brewed in Pohyola. Invitations were sent to all the people of Pohyola and the tribes of Kalevala, to all save Lemminkainen. When Ilmarinen returned for his bride, he was received with honor, and the wedding feast was merry. But when the time came to take the bride away, the Rainbow Maid was unwilling, she who before had been so ready to go with him. Many times had she been told of the miseries of the wife: her husband's slave, her whole life one of service, one long endeavor to please her husband's mother and father. After her lament, Osmatar, the Bride-adviser, instructed her how to please her husband's family, and admonished Ilmarinen to guard well his Bride of Beauty. Then the two set forth together, the Rainbow Maid shedding many tears at parting with her loved ones. The bride and groom were received with joy by Ilmarinen's family, and old Wainamoinen himself sang at the wedding feast. But Lemminkainen was angry because he had received no invitation to the wedding, and in spite of his mother's advice, set out to make war against the Lapps. He successfully overcame all the terrors that beset him, and reached Sariola, but was so coldly received there that, enraged at such treatment, he slew his host, the landlord of Pohyola, and fled homeward to escape the hosts whom Louhi called to defend her. His mother sent him to the isle of refuge to escape the northern hosts. In the centre of the tenth ocean it rose, the refuge of his father; there he must abide three years, and must take a vow not to fight again for sixty summers. The three years passed speedily on the happy isle, where dwelt many maidens who admired the reckless hero, and he departed just in time to escape the swords of the jealous heroes of the isle. His ancient home was in ashes when he returned, his mother missing; but while he mourned for her, he chanced upon her, hiding from the Lapps in the forest. Again he determined to seek out his enemies and be revenged on them. Taking with him his friend Tiera he sought the north, but was met by the Frost-Fiend and compelled to return. To the house of Ilmarinen the blacksmith, was sold by Untamoinen a slave, Kullervo. He was a giant who had done naught but evil, until in despair his master sold him to the blacksmith. Kullervo, or Kullerwoinen, was made a shepherd and sent forth with the flocks. But rage at the blacksmith's wife, who baked a stone in his bread on which he broke the magic knife of his people, caused him to transform the flocks into wolves, who tore the Rainbow Wife to pieces when she went to milk them. Then Kullerwoinen fled from the blacksmith, and set out to find his tribe-people, but on the way unknowingly corrupted his sister, and in despair at his evil deeds, destroyed himself. Ilmarinen was full of grief at the loss of his wife. Unhappy and restless, he forged for himself a bride of gold; but the image failed to satisfy him, and Wainamoinen, reproving him, forbade his people in the future to worship any graven image. Then the blacksmith again sought the north to win the sister of his former bride, but was met with bitter reproaches for the sorrow he had brought upon the family. Nevertheless, he seized the maiden to carry her away, but she was so angry and so unhappy that he changed her to a seagull and came home wifeless and sad. Wainamoinen and Ilmarinen soon conceived the idea of going to the Northland to win back the Sampo. On the way they allied to themselves the wizard Lemminkainen. As they approached the whirlpool near Pohyola, their vessel stuck on the shoulders of a great pike. When neither Lemminkainen nor Ilmarinen could slay it, Wainamoinen impaled it on his fire-sword, and the three banqueted on the great fish. From its bones, Wainamoinen framed the first harp. No one could win music from it but its creator; but when he touched its strings and sang, the very trees danced about him, wild animals lay in peace at his feet, and the hearts of men were ravished. As his listeners wept at the strains, Wainamoinen's tears rolled down into the ocean. Thence the duck brought them, changed to pearls, receiving for a reward its beautiful coat. Such was the origin of sea-pearls. When Wainamoinen had put the inhabitants of Pohyola to sleep with his magic music, the heroes found the Sampo with little difficulty, and bore it away from the copper mountain. But as they hastened home, the discordant voice of Lemminkainen, who sang for joy of their capture, caused the crane to screech, and the bird's cry roused the people of Pohyola. Louhi speedily discovered her loss, and started in pursuit of the heroes. In various ways she attacked them,--with war ships that were stopped by a reef conjured up by Wainamoinen, by a terrible storm, and by a giant eagle that perched on their boat. In their struggle with her the Sampo was broken and its fragments scattered on the ocean. Louhi left them, uttering dire threats; and Wainamoinen, gathering up what fragments of the Sampo he could find, buried them where they would bring prosperity to his people. Now Wainamoinen longed to sing to his harp to rejoice the hearts of his people, but the magic instrument had been lost in the storm conjured by Louhi. After raking the sea for it in vain, he constructed a new harp from the birch-tree, and delighted the people with his songs. In revenge for the theft of the Sampo, Louhi sent nine diseases upon Wainamoinen's people,--colic, pleurisy, fever, ulcer, plague, consumption, gout, sterility, and cancer, the offspring of the fell Lowyatar; but by the use of vapor baths and balsams Wainamoinen healed his people. Then Louhi sent Otso the Bear, the honey-eater, but he was slain by the hero, who made a banquet of his flesh for the people. Enraged at her failures, she stole the sun, moon, and fire, and left Kalevala in darkness. Ukko, taking pity on his people, struck lightning from his fire-sword and gave the fire-child to a virgin to be cared for. In an unguarded moment it sprang earthward, fell into the sea, and was swallowed by a fish, that, in the agonies of torment, was swallowed by another. Wainamoinen went fishing with Ilmarinen, and at last caught the gray pike,--found in it the trout, found in the trout the whiting, and in the whiting the fireball. When he attempted to seize the fireball he burned his fingers, and dropped it. Ilmarinen did likewise. Then the ball rolled rapidly away until Wainamoinen caught it in an elm-tree, and took it home to gladden his people. Still they were cheerless without the sun and moon, and Wainamoinen was obliged to go to Louhi and compel her to give up the sun and moon. When he returned there was joy in Kalevala. In the Northland dwelt a happy maiden, Mariatta, who, eating of the magic berry, as she wandered one day in the fields, bore by it a child which she called Flower. Her parents cast her off, and as no one would take her in, she was compelled to go to the flaming steed of Hisi, in whose manger the child was born. Once when she slumbered the child vanished, and she sought for it in vain, until told by the sun that it was in Wainola, sleeping among the reeds and rushes. The child grew in grace and beauty, but no priest would baptize him, all saying that he was a wizard. Wainamoinen, too, counselled that he be destroyed; but when the two weeks old babe lifted its head and reproached him, saying that he had committed many follies but had been spared by his people, Wainamoinen baptized him, and gave him the right to grow a hero and become a mighty ruler over Karyala. As Wainamoinen grew feeble with the passing years, he built himself a boat of copper, and singing a plaintive song in which he said the people of Suomi would look forward to his return as a time of peace and plenty, he set forth, sailing through the dusk of evening to the fiery sunset, and anchored in the purple horizon, leaving behind him for an heritage his harp, his wondrous songs, and his wisdom sayings. SELECTIONS FROM THE KALEVALA. ILMARINEN'S WEDDING FEAST. Ilmarinen, the blacksmith, visited the Northland, won the Rainbow Maid, and successfully performed the tasks set by her mother Louhi. Great preparations were made in Pohyola for the wedding, and the coming of the bridegroom was anxiously expected. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Ancient dame of Sariola, While at work within her dwelling, Heard the whips crack on the fenlands, Heard the rattle of the sledges; To the northward turned her glances, Turned her vision to the sunlight, And her thoughts ran on as follow: "Who are these in bright apparel, On the banks of Pohya-waters, Are they friends or hostile armies?" Then the hostess of the Northland Looked again and well considered, Drew much nearer to examine, Found they were not hostile armies, Found that they were friends and suitors; In the midst was Ilmarinen, Son in-law to ancient Louhi. When the hostess of Pohyola Saw the son-in-law approaching, She addressed the words that follow: "I had thought the winds were raging, That the piles of wood were falling, Thought the pebbles in commotion, Or perchance the ocean roaring; Then I hastened nearer, nearer, Drew still nearer and examined, Found the winds were not in battle, Found the piles of wood unshaken, Found the ocean was not roaring, Nor the pebbles in commotion; Found my son-in-law was coming With his heroes and attendants, Heroes counted by the hundreds. "Should you ask of me the question, How I recognized the bridegroom Mid the host of men and heroes, I should answer, I should tell you: 'As the hazel-bush in copses, As the oak-tree in the forest, As the moon among the planets; Drives the groom a coal-black courser, Running like a famished black-dog, Flying like the hungry raven, Graceful as the lark at morning, Golden cuckoos, six in number, Twitter on the birchen cross-bow; There are seven blue-birds singing On the racer's hame and collar.'" Noises hear they in the court-yard, On the highway hear the sledges. To the court comes Ilmarinen, With his body-guard of heroes; In the midst the chosen suitor, Not too far in front of others, Not too far behind his fellows. Spake the hostess of Pohyola: "Hie ye hither, men and heroes, Haste, ye watchers, to the stables, There unhitch the suitor's stallion, Lower well the racer's breast-plate, There undo the straps and buckles, Loosen well the shafts and traces, And conduct the suitor hither, Give my son-in-law good welcome!" Ilmarinen turned his racer Into Louhi's yard and stables, And descended from his snow-sledge Spake the hostess of Pohyola: "Come, thou servant of my bidding, Best of all my trusted servants, Take at once the bridegroom's courser From the shafts adorned with silver, From the curving arch of willow, Lift the harness trimmed in copper, Tie the white-face to the manger, Treat the suitor's steed with kindness, Lead him carefully to shelter By his soft and shining bridle, By his halter tipped with silver; Let him roll among the sand-hills, On the bottoms soft and even, On the borders of the snow-banks, In the fields of milky color. Lead the hero's steed to water, Lead him to the Pohya-fountains, Where the living streams are flowing, Sweet as milk of human kindness, From the roots of silvery birches, Underneath the shade of aspens. "Feed the courser of the suitor, With the sweetest corn and barley, With the summer-wheat and clover, In the caldron steeped in sweetness; Feed him at the golden manger, In the boxes lined with copper, At my manger richly furnished, In the warmest of the hurdles; Tie him with a silk-like halter, To the golden rings and staples, To the hooks of purest silver, Set in beams of birch and oak-wood; Feed him on the hay the sweetest, Feed him on the grains nutritious, Give the best my barns can furnish. "Curry well the suitor's courser With the curry-comb of fish-bone, Brush his hair with silken brushes, Put his mane and tail in order, Cover well with silken blankets, Blankets wrought in gold and silver, Buckles forged from shining copper. "Come, ye small lads of the village, Lead the suitor to my chambers, With your auburn locks uncovered, From your hands remove your mittens, See if ye can lead the hero Through the door without his stooping, Lifting not the upper cross-bar, Sinking not the oaken threshold, Moving not the oaken casings, Great the hero who must enter. "Ilmarinen is too stately, Cannot enter through the portals, Not the son-in-law and bridegroom, Till the portals have been lengthened; Taller by a head the suitor Than the doorways of the mansion." Quick the servants of Pohyola Tore away the upper cross-bar, That his cap might not be lifted; Made the oaken threshold lower That the hero might not stumble; Made the birch-wood portals wider, Opened full the door of welcome, Easy entrance for the suitor. Speaks the hostess of the Northland As the bridegroom freely passes Through the doorway of her dwelling: "Thanks are due to thee, O Ukko, That my son-in-law has entered! Let me now my halls examine; Make the bridal chambers ready, Finest linen on my tables, Softest furs upon my benches, Birchen flooring scrubbed to whiteness, All my rooms in perfect order." Then the hostess of Pohyola Visited her spacious dwelling, Did not recognize her chambers; Every room had been remodelled, Changed by force of mighty magic; All the halls were newly burnished, Hedgehog bones were used for ceilings, Bones of reindeer for foundations, Bones of wolverine for door-sills, For the cross-bars bones of roebuck, Apple-wood were all the rafters, Alder-wood, the window casings, Scales of trout adorned the windows, And the fires were set in flowers. All the seats were made of silver, All the floors of copper-tiling, Gold-adorned were all the tables, On the floor were silken mattings, Every fire-place set in copper, Every hearth-stone cut from marble, On each shelf were colored sea-shells, Kalew's tree was their protection. To the court-room came the hero, Chosen suitor from Wainola, These the words of Ilmarinen: "Send, O Ukko, health and pleasure To this ancient home and dwelling, To this mansion richly fashioned!" Spake the hostess of Pohyola: "Let thy coming be auspicious To these halls of thee unworthy, To the home of thy affianced, To this dwelling lowly fashioned, Mid the lindens and the aspens. "Come, ye maidens that should serve me, Come, ye fellows from the village, Bring me fire upon the birch-bark, Light the fagots of the fir-tree, That I may behold the bridegroom, Chosen suitor of my daughter, Fairy Maiden of the Rainbow, See the color of his eyeballs, Whether they are blue or sable, See if they are warm and faithful." Quick the young lads from the village Brought the fire upon the birch-bark, Brought it on the tips of pine-wood; And the fire and smoke commingled Roll and roar about the hero, Blackening the suitor's visage, And the hostess speaks as follows: "Bring the fire upon a taper, On the waxen tapers bring it!" Then the maidens did as bidden, Quickly brought the lighted tapers, Made the suitor's eyeballs glisten, Made his cheeks look fresh and ruddy; Eyes were neither blue nor sable, Sparkled like the foam of waters, Like the reed-grass on the margin, Colored as the ocean-jewels, Iridescent as the rainbow. "Come, ye fellows from the hamlets, Lead my son-in-law and hero To the highest seat at table, To the seat of greatest honor, With his back upon the blue-wall, Looking on my bounteous tables, Facing all the guests of Northland." Then the hostess of Pohyola Served her guests in great abundance, Richest drinks and rarest viands, First of all she served the bridegroom; On his platters honeyed biscuit, And the sweetest river-salmon, Seasoned butter, roasted bacon, All the dainties of Pohyola. Then the servants served the others, Filled the plates of all invited With the varied food of Northland. Spake the hostess of Pohyola: "Come, ye maidens from the village, Hither bring the beer in pitchers, In the urns with double handles, To the many guests in-gathered. Ere all others, serve the bridegroom." Thereupon the merry maidens Brought the beer in silver pitchers From the copper-banded vessels, For the wedding guests assembled; And the beer, fermenting, sparkled On the beard of Ilmarinen, On the beards of many heroes. When the guests had all partaken Of the wondrous beer of barley, Spake the drink in merry accents Through the tongues of the magicians, Through the tongue of many a hero, Through the tongue of Wainamoinen, Famed to be the sweetest singer Of the Northland bards and minstrels. * * * * * "Grant, O Ukko, my Creator, God of love, and truth, and justice, Grant thy blessing on our feasting, Bless this company assembled, For the good of Sariola, For the happiness of Northland! May this bread and beer bring joyance, May they come in rich abundance, May they carry full contentment To the people of Pohyola, To the cabin and the mansion; May the hours we spend in singing, In the morning, in the evening, Fill our hearts with joy and gladness! Hear us in our supplications, Grant to us thy needed blessings, Send enjoyment, health, and comfort, To the people here assembled, To the host and to the hostess, To the bride and to the bridegroom, To the sons upon the waters, To the daughters at their weavings, To the hunters on the mountains, To the shepherds in the fenlands, That our lives may end in honor, That we may recall with pleasure Ilmarinen's magic marriage To the Maiden of the Rainbow, Snow-white virgin of the Northland." _Crawford's Translation, Rune XXI._ THE BIRTH OF THE HARP. Wainamoinen, Ilmarinen, and the wizard Lemminkainen started to the Northland to win back the Sampo forged for Louhi by Ilmarinen. On the way their boat stuck on the shoulders of a great pike, which was killed by Wainamoinen. The three then landed, ordered the pike to be cooked by the maidens, and feasted until nothing remained of the fish but a heap of bones. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Looked upon the pile of fragments, On the fish-bones looked and pondered, Spake these words in meditation: "Wondrous things might be constructed From the relics of this monster, Were they in the blacksmith's furnace, In the hands of the magician, In the hands of Ilmarinen." Spake the blacksmith of Wainola: "Nothing fine can be constructed From the bones and teeth of fishes By the skilful forger-artist, By the hands of the magician." These the words of Wainamoinen: "Something wondrous might be builded From these jaws, and teeth, and fish-bones; Might a magic harp be fashioned, Could an artist be discovered That could shape them to my wishes." But he found no fish-bone artist That could shape the harp of joyance From the relics of their feasting, From the jaw-bones of the monster, To the will of the magician. Thereupon wise Wainamoinen Set himself at work designing; Quick became a fish-bone artist, Made a harp of wondrous beauty, Lasting joy and pride of Suomi. Whence the harp's enchanting arches? From the jaw-bones of the monster. Whence the necessary harp-pins? From the pike-teeth, firmly fastened. Whence the sweetly singing harp-strings? From the tail of Lempo's stallion. Thus was born the harp of magic From the mighty pike of Northland, From the relics from the feasting Of the heroes of Wainola. All the young men came to view it, All the aged with their children, Mothers with their beauteous daughters, Maidens with their golden tresses; All the people on the islands Came to view the harp of joyance, Pride and beauty of the Northland. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Let the aged try the harp-strings, Gave it to the young magicians, To the dames and to their daughters, To the maidens, silver-tinselled, To the singers of Wainola. When the young men touched the harp-strings, Then arose the notes of discord; When the aged played upon it, Dissonance their only music. Spake the wizard, Lemminkainen: "O ye witless, worthless children, O ye senseless, useless maidens, O ye wisdom-lacking heroes, Cannot play this harp of magic, Cannot touch the notes of concord! Give to me this thing of beauty, Hither bring the harp of fish-bones, Let me try my skillful fingers." Lemminkainen touched the harp-strings, Carefully the strings adjusted, Turned the harp in all directions, Fingered all the strings in sequence, Played the instrument of wonder, But it did not speak in concord, Did not sing the notes of joyance. Spake the ancient Wainamoinen: "There is none among these maidens, None among these youthful heroes, None among the old magicians, That can play the harp of magic, Touch the notes of joy and pleasure. Let us take the harp to Pohya, There to find a skillful player That can touch the strings in concord." Then they sailed to Sariola, To Pohyola took the wonder, There to find the harp a master. All the heroes of Pohyola, All the boys and all the maidens, Ancient dames and bearded minstrels, Vainly touched the harp of beauty. Louhi, hostess of the Northland, Took the harp-strings in her fingers; All the youth of Sariola, Youth of every tribe and station, Vainly touched the harp of fish-bone; Could not find the notes of joyance, Dissonance their only pleasure; Shrieked the harp-strings like the whirlwinds, All the tones were harsh and frightful. * * * * * Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, The eternal wisdom-singer, Laves his hands to snowy whiteness, Sits upon the rock of joyance, On the stone of song he settles, On the mount of song he settles, On the mount of silver clearness, On the summit, golden colored, Takes the harp by him created, In his hands the harp of fish-bone, With his knee the arch supporting, Takes the harp-strings in his fingers, Speaks these words to those assembled: "Hither come, ye Northland people, Come and listen to my playing,-- To the harp's entrancing measures, To my songs of joy and gladness." Then the singer of Wainola Took the harp of his creation, Quick adjusting, sweetly tuning, Deftly plied his skillful fingers To the strings that he had fashioned. Now was gladness rolled on gladness, And the harmony of pleasure Echoed from the hills and mountains; Added singing to his playing, Out of joy did joy come welling, Now resounded marvellous music, All of Northland stopped and listened. Every creature in the forest, All the beasts that haunt the woodlands On their nimble feet came bounding, Came to listen to his playing, Came to hear his songs of joyance. Leaped the squirrels from the branches, Merrily from birch to aspen; Climbed the ermines on the fences, O'er the plains the elk deer bounded, And the lynxes purred with pleasure; Wolves awoke in far-off swamp-lands, Bounded o'er the marsh and heather, And the bear his den deserted, Left his lair within the pine-wood, Settled by a fence to listen, Leaned against the listening gate-posts, But the gate-posts yield beneath him; Now he climbs the fir-tree branches That he may enjoy and wonder, Climbs and listens to the music Of the harp of Wainamoinen. Tapiola's wisest senior, Metsola's most noble landlord, And of Tapio, the people, Young and aged, men and maidens, Flew like red-deer up the mountains There to listen to the playing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. Tapiola's wisest mistress, Hostess of the glen and forest, Robed herself in blue and scarlet, Bound her limbs with silken ribbons, Sat upon the woodland summit, On the branches of a birch-tree, There to listen to the playing, To the high-born hero's harping, To the songs of Wainamoinen. All the birds that fly in mid-air Fell like snow-flakes from the heavens, Flew to hear the minstrel's playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen. Eagles in their lofty eyrie Heard the songs of the enchanter; Swift they left their unfledged young ones, Flew and perched around the minstrel. From the heights the hawks descended, From the clouds down swooped the falcon, Ducks arose from inland waters, Swans came gliding from the marshes; Tiny finches, green and golden, Flew in flocks that darkened sunlight, Came in myriads to listen, Perched upon the head and shoulders Of the charming Wainamoinen, Sweetly singing to the playing Of the ancient bard and minstrel. And the daughters of the welkin, Nature's well-beloved daughters, Listened all in rapt attention; Some were seated on the rainbow, Some upon the crimson cloudlets, Some upon the dome of heaven. In their hands the Moon's fair daughters Held their weaving-combs of silver; In their hands the Sun's sweet maidens Grasped the handles of their distaffs, Weaving with their golden shuttles, Spinning from their silver spindles, On the red rims of the cloudlets, On the bow of many colors. As they hear the minstrel playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen, Quick they drop their combs of silver, Drop the spindles from their fingers, And the golden threads are broken, Broken are the threads of silver. All the fish in Suomi-waters Heard the songs of the magician, Came on flying fins to listen To the harp of Wainamoinen. Came the trout with graceful motions, Water-dogs with awkward movements, From the water-cliffs the salmon, From the sea-caves came the whiting, From the deeper caves the bill-fish; Came the pike from beds of sea-fern, Little fish with eyes of scarlet, Leaning on the reeds and rushes, With their heads above the surface; Came to hear the harp of joyance, Hear the songs of the enchanter. Ahto, king of all the waters, Ancient king with beard of sea-grass, Raised his head above the billows, In a boat of water-lilies, Glided to the coast in silence, Listened to the wondrous singing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. These the words the sea-king uttered: "Never have I heard such playing, Never heard such strains of music, Never since the sea was fashioned, As the songs of this enchanter, This sweet singer, Wainamoinen." Satko's daughters from the blue-deep, Sisters of the wave-washed ledges, On the colored strands were sitting, Smoothing out their sea-green tresses With the combs of molten silver, With their silver-handled brushes, Brushes forged with golden bristles. When they hear the magic playing, Hear the harp of Wainamoinen, Fall their brushes on the billows, Fall their combs with silver handles To the bottom of the waters, Unadorned their heads remaining, And uncombed their sea-green tresses. Came the hostess of the waters, Ancient hostess robed in flowers, Rising from her deep sea-castle, Swimming to the shore in wonder, Listened to the minstrel's playing, To the harp of Wainamoinen. As the magic tones re-echoed, As the singer's song outcircled, Sank the hostess into slumber, On the rocks of many colors, On her watery couch of joyance, Deep the sleep that settled o'er her. Wainamoinen, ancient minstrel, Played one day and then a second, Played the third from morn to even. There was neither man nor hero, Neither ancient dame nor maiden, Not in Metsola a daughter, Whom he did not touch to weeping; Wept the young and wept the aged, Wept the mothers, wept the daughters, At the music of his playing, At the songs of the magician. _Crawford's Translation, Runes XL.-XLI._ THE AENEID. The Aeneid was written by Publius Vergilius Maro, commonly known as Vergil, who was born at Andes, near Mantua, Oct. 15, 70 B. C., and died at Brundusium, Sept. 22, 19 B.C. He was educated at Cremona, Milan, Naples, and Rome. When the lands near Cremona and Mantua were assigned by Octavianus to his soldiers after the battle of Philippi, Vergil lost his estates; but they were afterwards restored to him through Asinius Pollio. He became a favorite of Augustus, and spent part of his time in Rome, near his patron, Maecenas, the emperor's minister. Vergil's first work was the Bucolics, in imitation of Theocritus. His second work, the Georgics, treats of husbandry. The Aeneid relates the adventures of Aeneas, the legendary ancestor of the Romans. The Aeneid is in twelve books, of which the first six describe the wanderings of Aeneas, and the last six his wars in Italy. Its metre is the dactyllic hexameter. Vergil worked for eleven years on the poem, and considered it incomplete at his death. The Aeneid tells the story of the flight of Aeneas from burning Troy to Italy, and makes him an ancestor of the Romans. With the story of his wanderings are interwoven praises of the Caesars and the glory of Rome. It is claimed that because Vergil was essentially a poet of rural life, he was especially fitted to be the national poet, since the Roman life was founded on the agricultural country life. He also chose a theme which particularly appealed to the patriotism of the Romans. For this reason, the poem was immediately received into popular favor, and was made a text-book of the Roman youths. It is often said of Vergil by way of reproach, that his work was an imitation of Homer, and the first six books of the Aeneid are compared to the Odyssey, the last six to the Iliad. But while Vergil may be accused of imitation of subject matter, his style is his own, and is entirely different from that of Homer. There is a tender grace in the Roman writer which the Greek does not possess. Vergil also lacks that purely pagan enjoyment of life; in its place there is a tender melancholy that suggests the passing of the golden age. This difference of treatment, this added grace and charm, which are always mentioned as peculiarly Vergil's own, united with his poetical feeling, and skill in versification, are sufficient to absolve him from the reproach of a mere imitator. The Aeneid was greatly admired and imitated during the Middle Ages, and still retains its high place in literature. BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE AENEID. R. W. Brown's History of Roman Classical Literature, n. d., pp. 257-265; John Alfred Church's Story of the Aeneid, 1886; Domenico Comparetti's Virgil in the Middle Ages, Tr. by Benecke, 1895; C. T. Cruttwell's Virgil (see his History of Roman Literature, n. d. pp. 252-375); John Davis's Observations on the poems of Homer and Virgil, out of the French, 1672; James Henry's Aeneidea: or Critical, Exegetical, and Aesthetical Remarks on the Aeneis, 1873; James Henry's Notes of Twelve Years' Voyage of Discovery in the first six Books of the Aeneid, 1853; J. W. Mackail's Virgil (see his Latin Literature, 1895, pp. 91-106); H. Nettleship's The Aeneid (see his Vergil, 1880, pp. 45-74); H. T. Peck and R. Arrowsmith's Roman Life in Latin Prose and Verse, 1894, pp. 68-70; Leonhard Schmitz's History of Latin Literature, 1877, pp. 106-108; W. Y. Sellar's Roman Poets of the Augustan Age, Vergil, Ed. 2, 1883; W. S. Teuffel's Aeneis (see his History of Roman Literature, 1891, pp. 434-439); J. S. Tunison's Master Virgil, the author of the Aeneid, as he seemed in the Middle Ages, 1888; Robert Y. Tyrrell's Virgil (see his Latin Poetry, 1895, pp. 126-161); A Forgotten Virtue, Macmillan, 1895, xii. 51-56, an article on the Aeneid, "the epic of piety;" Scene of the last six books of the Aeneid, Blackwood, 1832, xxxii. 76-87; A. A. Knight's The Year in the Aeneid, Education, 1886, vi. 612-616; William C. Cawton's The Underworld in Homer, Virgil, and Dante, Atlantic, 1884, liv. 99-110. STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE AENEID. The Aeneid, Tr. by J. Conington, 1887; The Aeneid, Tr. by C. P. Cranch, 1872; The Aeneid, Tr. by John Dryden (1697), 1884; The Aeneid, Tr. by William Morris, 1882; The Aeneid, Tr. by W. S. Thornhill, 1886; The Aeneid, Tr. by J. A. Wilstach, 1884; The Aeneid, Tr. by J. W. Mackail, 1890. THE STORY OF THE AENEID. For many years the heroic Aeneas, who escaped from falling Troy to seek the shores of Italy, there to found the lofty walls of Rome, was tossed upon the sea by the wrath of cruel Juno. The fates foretold that these future Romans would overthrow a city dearer to her than Samos,--Carthage, founded by the Tyrians, opposite Italy, and far from the Tiberine mouths. For this rich city Juno desired boundless rule,--hence her hatred of the Trojans. Moreover, she had not forgotten the judgment of Paris, her slighted charms, and the supplanting of Hebe by Ganymede. After having tossed the unhappy hero and his men over many seas, Juno, observing their approach to Italy, hastened to Aeolia, where King Aeolus ruled over the struggling winds and tempests, chained in vast caves. Bribed by Juno, Aeolus sent forth a tempest that scattered the ships of Aeneas, and would have destroyed them had it not been for the interposition of Neptune. Suspecting his sister's treachery, Neptune angrily dismissed the winds, and hastened to the relief of the Trojans. Cymothoë and Triton pushed the ships from the rocks, he himself assisting with his trident. Then, driving over the rough waves in his chariot, he soothed the frenzy of the sea. The wearied Aeneans speedily sought a harbor on the Libyan shore, a long and deep recess bordered by a dense grove. In the cliffs was a cave, with sweet waters and seats carved from the living rock,--the abode of the nymphs. Gathering here the seven ships that survived the fury of the storm, Aeneas landed, and feasted with his comrades. The next morning Aeneas, accompanied by his friend Achates, sallied forth from the camp at dawn, to learn, if possible, something of the land on which they had been thrown. They had gone but a little way in the depths of the forest when they met Aeneas's mother, Venus, in the guise of a Spartan maid, her bow hung from her shoulders, her hair flowing to the wind. "Hast thou seen my sister?" she inquired, "hunting the boar, wrapped in a spotted lynx hide, her quiver at her back?" "Nay, we have seen no one," replied Aeneas. "But what shall I call thee, maiden? A goddess, a nymph? Be kind, I pray thee, and tell us among what people we have fallen, that before thy altars we may sacrifice many a victim." "I am unworthy of such honors," Venus answered. "This land is Libya, but the town is Tyrian, founded by Dido, who fled hither from her brother Pygmalion, who had secretly murdered her husband, Sichaeus, for his gold. To Dido, sleeping, appeared the wraith of Sichaeus, pallid, his breast pierced with the impious wound, and revealed to her her brother's crime, showed where a hoard of gold was concealed, and advised her to leave the country. "Gathering together a company of those who wished to flee from the tyrant, Dido seized the ships, loaded them with the gold, and fled to Libya, where she is now erecting the walls and towers of New Carthage. I would advise thee to hasten forward and seek our queen. If augury fail me not, I read from yonder flight of swans the return of thy missing ships and comrades." As she turned to go, her neck shone with a rosy refulgence, ambrosial fragrance breathed from her, her robe flowed down about her feet and revealed the goddess. As she vanished, her son stretched longing hands after her. "Ah, mother, why dost thou thus trifle with me? Why may not I clasp thy loved hands and exchange true words with thee?" Wrapped in a cloud by Venus, Aeneas and Achates mounted a hill that overlooked the city, and looked down wondering on the broad roofs and the paved streets of Carthage. The busy Tyrians worked like the bees in early summer: some moving the immense masses of stone, some founding the citadel, others laying off the sites for the law courts and sacred Senate House. "O happy ye whose walls now rise!" exclaimed Aeneas, as he and Achates mingled with the crowd, still cloud-wrapped, and entered the vast temple built to Juno. Here Aeneas's fear fell from him; for as he waited for the queen's coming, he saw pictured on the walls the fall of his own dear city, and wept as he gazed upon the white tents of Rhesus, and Hector's disfigured body. As he wept, the beautiful Dido entered, joyously intent on her great work, and, seating herself on her throne, proceeded to give laws to the Tyrians, and assign their work to them. Suddenly, to the amazement of Aeneas and Achates, in burst their lost comrades, Antheus, Sergestus, Gyas, Cloanthus, and other Trojans, demanding of Dido a reason for their rough reception. To whom the queen replied:-- "Let fear desert your hearts; I, too, have suffered, and know how to aid the unfortunate. And whither hath not the fame of Troy penetrated? I will aid you in leaving this coast, or give you a home with me, treating you as I treat my Tyrians. Would only that Aeneas's self stood with you!" Then burst Aeneas forth from his cloud-wrapping, made more beautiful by Venus, the purple bloom of youth on his face, joy in his eyes. "Here am I, Trojan Aeneas, to render thanks to thee, divine Dido." Dido, charmed with the hero, prepared a banquet for him in her splendid hall, curtained with rich drapery, and adorned with costly plate, whereon were pictured the proud deeds of her ancestors. Hither came the Trojans with gifts for Dido,--a rich robe stiff with gold embroidery, a veil embroidered with the yellow acanthus, ornaments of Helen, the sceptre of Ilione, a pearl and gold necklace, and a double crown of gems and gold. Beside Achates tripped Cupid, for Venus, suspecting the craft of the Tyrians, had hidden Ascanius on Mount Ida, and sent her own son in his guise, to complete Aeneas's conquest of Dido. After the feast was over, the great beakers were brought in and crowned with garlands. Dido called for the beaker used by Belus and all his descendants, and pouring a libation, drank to the happiness of the Trojan wanderers, and passed the cup around the board. Iopas, the long-haired minstrel, sang, and the night passed by in various discourse. Dido, forgetting Sichaeus, hung on the words of Aeneas, questioning him of Priam and Hector, and at last demanding the story of his wanderings. "Thou orderest me, O queen, to renew my grief, the destruction of Troy by the Greeks, which deeds I have seen, and a part of which I have been. "Despairing of conquering Troy, the Greeks attempted to take it by stratagem. By the art of Pallas, they framed a heaven-high horse, within which were concealed picked men for our destruction. Leaving this behind them, they sailed, ostensibly for home, in reality for Tenedos. "When we supposed them gone we joyfully went forth to examine the deserted camp and the giant horse. As we wondered at it, and Laocoön, priest of Neptune, urged us to destroy it, a crowd of shepherds approached with a youth whom they had found hiding in the sedges. His name was Sinon. He was a Greek, but he was hated by Ulysses, and had fled to save his life. The Greeks had sailed home, he assured us, leaving the horse as a votive offering to Pallas. They had hoped that its great bulk would prevent the Trojans from taking it inside their walls, for once within the city, Troy could never be taken. "We Trojans were credulous, and Sinon's tale was plausible. To increase our belief in it, while Laocoön was sacrificing a bull to Neptune, we saw coming over the sea from Tenedos two huge serpents, their crimson crests towering high, their breasts erect among the waves, their long folds sweeping over the foaming sea. As we fled affrighted, they seized the two sons of Laocoön, twining their coils around the wretched boys; and when their father hastened to their aid, caught him in their huge coils, staining his fillets with black blood. 'Laocoön suffered for his crime,' we said, when, the priest slain, the serpents crept to Pallas's altar, and curled themselves around the feet of the goddess. Then joyfully we made a breach in the walls, put rollers under the horse, and, with music and dancing, dragged it within the walls. "That night as we lay sleeping after revelry and feasting, Sinon crept down, opened the horse, and freed the men, who were soon joined by the other Greeks, returned from Tenedos. "In a dream Hector's shade appeared to me, and, weeping, bade me fly. 'Troy falls. Do thou go forth and save her household deities!' As I woke, sounds of battle penetrated to my palace halls, removed somewhat from the city, and embowered in trees; and I rushed forth, forgetful of Hector's warning. I saw the streets swimming in Trojan blood, Trojan women and children led captive, Cassandra dragged from her shrine. Enraged, I gathered a band and slew many Greeks. But when I saw the impious Pyrrhus enter the palace and slay Priam at the altar, I recognized the uselessness of my struggle, and turned to my home. "Taking my old father Anchises on my back, and leading Iulus by the hand, I set forth, followed by my wife Creusa. But when I looked behind me at the city gates, my wife was gone. Mad with despair, I rushed back to the citadel, crying, 'Creusa! Creusa!' Our homestead was in flames, the streets filled with Greeks; but as I roamed through the town, I met her pallid shape. 'O husband, rage not against heaven's decrees! Happy days will come for thee on the banks of the Tiber. Farewell, and love with me our boy!' "Without the gates I was joined by other fugitives; and after the departure of the Greeks we built ships from the timbers of Mount Ida, and loading these with our household gods and a few spoils from the city, we departed to seek new homes. "In Thrace, our first stopping-place, I learned that Polydore, Priam's son, who had been entrusted to the care of the Thracian king, had been slain by him for his gold, when the fortunes of Troy fell. We hastened to leave this accursed land, and sought Delos, only to be instructed by Apollo that we must seek the home from which our forefathers had come. Anchises, who remembered the legends of our race, thought this must be Crete; so to Crete we sailed, and there laid the foundations of a city, only to be driven thence by a plague and a threatened famine. "In a dream my household gods instructed me that Dardanus, the founder of our race, had come from Hesperia, and thither we must bend our course. Tempests drove us about the sea for three suns, until, on the fourth, we landed at the isle of the Harpies,--loathsome monsters, half woman, half bird, who foul everything they touch. When we had slain the cattle and prepared to banquet, they drove us from the tables; and when attacked by us, uttered dire threats of future famine. "At Epirus we heard that Andromache had wed Prince Helenus, who had succeeded to the rule of Pyrrhus, two Trojans thus being united. As I landed here, anxious to prove the truth of the rumor, I met Andromache herself in a grove near the town, sacrificing at an empty tomb dedicated to Hector. Pyrrhus had made her his slave after the fall of Troy, but after he wedded Hermione, he had given her to Helenus, himself a slave. When Pyrrhus died, part of his realm fell to Helenus, and here the two had set up a little Troy. "Helenus received us kindly, instructed us as to our route, and gave us rich gifts; and Andromache, remembering her dead Astyanax, wept over lulus as she parted with him. "As we passed Sicily we took up a Greek, Achemenides, a companion of Ulysses, who had been left behind, and had since been hiding in deadly terror from the Cyclops. We ourselves caught sight of the monster Polyphemus, feeling his way to the shore to bathe his wounded eye. "Instructed by Helenus, we avoided Scylla and Charybdis, and reached Sicily, where my father died. We were just leaving the island when the storm arose that brought us hither. The rest thou knowest." The guests departed from the banquet hall; but the unhappy Dido, consumed with love, imparted her secret to her sister Anna. "Why shouldst thou weep, sister dear? Why regret that thou hast at last forgotten Sichaeus? Contend not against love, but strive to unite Trojan and Tyrian. Winter comes on, and thou canst detain him while the sea rages and the winds are fierce and the rains icy." Her ambitious plans for her city forgotten, Dido wandered through the streets, mad with love and unable to conceal her passion. She led Æneas among the walls and towers, made feasts for him, and begged again and again to hear the story of his wandering. At other times she fondled Ascanius, leaving her youths undrilled, and the city works abandoned. Perceiving that Aeneas, well content, seemed to forget that his goal was Hesperia, Mercury was dispatched by Jupiter to warn him to depart from Carthage. "Why stoppest thou here?" questioned the herald of the gods. "If thou carest not for thyself, think of Ascanius, thine heir. His must be the Italian realms, the Roman world." The horror-stricken Aeneas stood senseless with fear. He longed to escape, but how leave the unhappy Dido? Quickly calling his comrades, he commanded them to fit out the fleet in silence, hoping to find a time when he could break the news to Dido gently. But who can deceive a lover? Rumor bore the report to Dido, who, mad with grief, reproached Aeneas. "Perfidious one! didst thou think to escape from me? Does not our love restrain thee, and the thought that I shall surely die when thou art gone? I have sacrificed all to thee; now leave me not lonely in my empty palace." Aeneas remained untouched. He would ever retain the kindest memories of his stay in Carthage. He had never held out the hope of wedlock to her. A higher power called him, and, bidden by Jove, he must depart, for Ascanius's sake, to Italy. The fainting Dido was carried to her palace, whence she could watch the hurried preparations for the departure. As she watched, life became intolerable to her. Pretending to her sister that she was preparing to perform a magic spell to release her from the bonds of love, she reared a mighty pyre in her court, wreathed it with funereal garlands, and placed thereon Aeneas's couch, garments, and sword. With her hair dishevelled, she then invoked Hecate, and sprinkling Avernian water and poisons on it, and casting thereon various love charms, she called the gods to witness that she was determined to die. As the ships left the harbor, she tore her hair, one moment accusing herself because she had not torn Aeneas to pieces when in her power, at another vowing to follow him. Then, anxious to forget her grief, she mounted, the pyre, and threw herself on the sword of her faithless, lover. Far out at sea, the Aeneans, looking back, dimly guessed the meaning of the flames that brightened the stormy skies. Contrary winds compelled Aeneas to seek harbor in Sicily. Its king, Acestes, was his friend, and there he had buried his father Anchises. A year had elapsed since his death, and in honor of the anniversary, Aeneas instituted funeral games, in which there were trials of skill in rowing, foot-racing, archery, and boxing. While the spectators were applauding the feats of skill, the Trojan women, at the instigation of Juno, set fire to the ships, that they might compel Aeneas to remain in Sicily. By Jupiter's aid, some of the vessels were saved, and Aeneas, acting on the advice of Nautes, allowed the women and those Trojans who so desired, to remain in Sicily, and himself marked out for them the foundations of their city. While here Aeneas was urged by Anchises in a dream to visit the Cumaean Sibyl, that, with her assistance, he might visit Elysium and talk with him. In the lofty temple, the Sibyl, inspired by the god, encouraged the hero. "Success will at last be thine, and Juno will be won over to thee. But great labors must thou undergo." To visit the underworld was no easy task, she assured him. "The gates of Dis stand open night and day; small trouble it is to descend thereto, but to retrace one's steps, and regain the upper air, there lies the toil." Aeneas must first possess a golden branch to present to Proserpina, and celebrate the funeral rites of his friend, Misenus, who yet lay unburied. While Aeneas worked in the forest, felling trees for Misenus's bier, the doves of Venus descended and aided him to find the tree, from which he plucked the gleaming branch. Across the Styx, past the dread Cerberus, Aeneas and the Sibyl went, through the abode of babes and those who died for deeds they did not do, and into the mourning fields, where the disappointed in love were hedged in with myrtle sprays. Here Aeneas descried Dido dimly through the clouds, and wept to see her fresh wound. Many were his protestations of his faithfulness, and strong his declaration that he left her only at the command of the gods. But without raising her eyes, Dido turned coldly away to where her former husband returned her love for love. Past the chamber of torture, beyond Phlegethon, guarded by Tisiphone and Tartarus, in whose depths the wicked were punished, they went, and entered the beautiful fields of Elysium, where Aeneas found his father. To his son, Anchises explained that the souls that visited the underworld were punished according to their deserts, and then sent into Elysium. Cleansed there of all impurities, and with the memories of the past washed from them by Lethe, they again visited the world in another form. Pointing out a crowd that passed them, he indicated to Aeneas the illustrious men who would make his race famous in Italy. First his son Silvius, born of Lavinia, his Italian wife to be; Numitor, Romulus, the founder of Rome, Caesar, and greatest of all, Augustus Caesar, who would usher in the golden age. Comforted by the prophecies of Anchises, Aeneas sought the upper world, and collecting his companions, set sail for the mouth of the Tiber. Latinus the king welcomed Aeneas, and received his proposals for his daughter Lavinia's hand with favor, remembering an ancient prophecy that Lavinia was to wed a foreign prince. But queen Amata, aroused by Juno, insisted that Lavinia should be espoused to Turnus, chief of the Rutulians. Stung by the fury Alecto, she stirred up the people until they demanded that Latinus declare war against Aeneas; and when he hesitated, Juno herself threw open the gates of the temple of Janus. Leaving part of his forces in Latium with Ascanius, Aeneas, instructed in a dream by father Tiber, sailed up the river to Pallanteum, the future site of Rome, to gain the alliance of Evander, an Arcadian king unfriendly to Turnus. Evander, who was celebrating a solemn feast to Hercules, together with his only son Pallas, and his senate, welcomed the warriors to his modest home, promised his alliance, and sent forth with Aeneas his son Pallas and four hundred knights. He also advised him to go to Argylla, whose people were stirred up against Turnus because he protected their tyrant king Mezentius. While Aeneas was thus seeking allies, his troops in Latium had been attacked and besieged by Turnus, and were greatly in need of the hero's aid. While the hosts of Turnus were sleeping after their drunken revelry, Nisus proposed to his beloved Euryalus that they steal through the Latin line with messages to Aeneas. Their proposal was applauded by the elders, and Iulus, weeping, promised to cherish them forever for their courage. As the youths passed among the sleeping Latins, the desire for slaughter overcame them, and they slew Rhamnes, as he lay upon his gorgeous rugs, Lamus, and many others, Euryalus taking Rhamnes's golden-studded belt and Messapus's helmet as booty. Unfortunately they had delayed too long in slaughter; as they neared the camp of Turnus, Volscens, returning with reinforcements, caught sight of the shining helmet of Euryalus. The youth, flying, became separated from Nisus, and was captured by the enemy. Nisus, who returned to rescue his friend, sent weapon after weapon from his retreat, and when he saw Euryalus about to suffer death from Volscens, rushed forth to save him, only to fall dead upon the body of his slaughtered friend. Angry at the slaughter committed by Nisus and Euryalus, Turnus, on his return, attempted to scale the intrenchments. The fight raged fiercely around the walls and towers; but just as the victory seemed to be with Turnus, Aeneas returned with his Tuscan allies, effected a landing, and began to put the enemy to flight, slaying the tyrant Mezentius and his son. Turnus, hearing of the danger of his friend Lausus, at the hands of Pallas, who had already wrought great slaughter, sought him out, amazing the young warrior by his great size. Pallas faced him bravely; but while his spear only grazed the shoulder of Turnus, the spear of the Rutulian crushed the folds of iron, bronze, and hides, the corselet's rings of steel, and buried itself in Pallas's breast. Turnus took the sword-belt from Pallas's body; but because of the merit of the young warrior, yielded his body to the Arcadians to be carried to King Evander. Enraged at the death of his friend, Aeneas fought more fiercely. Especially anxious was he to meet Turnus; but Juno, determined, if possible, to save her favorite, decoyed Turnus off the battle-field by assuming the guise of Aeneas. After a truce, during which the armies buried their dead, and the body of Pallas was sent home to his father, the armies again came together, the Latins being reinforced by the Amazons, under the leadership of Camilla. Camilla had been reared by her father, the exile Metabus, and, early trained to warlike pursuits, had consecrated herself to Diana. Beautiful as a goddess was she, and so light of foot that she could fly over the tops of the tallest wheat without harming the ears. Within the walls of Latium there was quarrelling between the parties, Drances, leader of the peace party, accusing Turnus of bringing on and continuing the hostilities. The approach of Aeneas brought these disputes to an abrupt conclusion, and Camilla, with Turnus, hastened to battle. Many victims fell by Camilla's hand that day, as she rode about the field, her breast bare, her hand clasping her double battle-axe, before Aruns struck her down and fled, frightened at his victory. In Latium the unhappiness increased, and Turnus, enraged at the reproaches heaped upon him, declared that he would decide the war by single combat with Aeneas. Latinus made no secret of his regret at having been compelled to break his compact with Aeneas; but Amata, still furious, raged against Aeneas, and declared that she would die if he were made her son-in-law. The preparations were made for the single combat, the sacrifices at the altars, the crowds assembled to witness the combat; but just as the kings were solemnizing the agreement, Turnus's sister, Juturna, a river goddess, beloved of Jupiter, renewed the hostilities that Turnus might be saved. A weapon hurled from the Latin ranks caused the indignant Trojans to rise in arms, forgetful of the treaty, and the fight raged more fiercely than before. Juturna, fearful from Juno's words of the fate of Turnus, assumed the guise of Metiscus, his charioteer, and drove her brother over the field far from the angry Aeneas, who, weary of waiting for Turnus, turned towards Latium. The frightened people rushed hither and thither, and the queen, seeing the approaching foe, the roofs in flames, and no troops of Turnus in sight, supposed the Rutulian dead, and hanged herself. In the mean time, Turnus, remote from the fight, reproached his sister. "Think'st thou not I recognized thee? Thy deceit is in vain. Is to die so wretched a thing? Let us go to the battle. At least, I will die not unworthy of my ancestry." As he spoke, Saces, wounded and bleeding, rushed to him, imploring: "Turnus, have pity on us; come to our rescue! The Latins call thee, the queen is dead, the phalanxes crowd thick around the gates, while thou drivest idly here." Turnus, amazed, confused, and shamed, saw flames consuming the towers of Latium. "Now, sister, the fates control. Desist! It is too late, I will be shamed no more!" Leaping from his chariot, he rushed forward, demanding that war cease in order that he and Aeneas might decide the battle in single combat. When Turnus's sword broke on the helmet of Aeneas,--the sword of his charioteer, that he had seized by mistake instead of his own Styx-hardened blade,--he turned and fled, Aeneas pursuing. Above, in Olympus, Jupiter and Juno quarrelled, as they watched the heroes circling over the yellow sand. "Give over thy enmity," said the omnipotent father. "Thou hast caused the treaty to be violated; even now thou hast made Juturna return the lost sword to Turnus--in vain. Grieve no more, and goad no longer these suffering men of Troy." Then Juno yielded, stipulating only that the Trojans lay aside their ancient name, that Latium remain Latium, and the future growth Roman. Juturna, warned by Jove's messenger, a bird of evil omen, tore her locks and beat her breast, regretting the gift of immortality conferred on her by Jove. Then wrapping her gray veil about her, she fled to her watery throne that she might not see the death of her brother. The frightened Turnus, still fleeing from Aeneas, abandoned his sword and took up instead a mighty rock, a landmark such as scarce six men could uplift. Hurling this at Aeneas, he stood, his blood running chill, his eyes cast towards the Rutuli, the town, and the spear of Aeneas, that, shrieking through the air, doom laden, wrecked his heavy shield and pierced his thigh. "Mercy!" he prayed. "Fate hath given thee the advantage. Think, thou duteous son, of my old father, Daunus." As Aeneas stood, softened, and ready to grant the request, the sword-belt of Pallas caught his eye. "Shalt thou escape, decked out with Pallas's spoils? No, not I slay thee, but Pallas! His hand immolates thee!" As he spoke he plunged his sword in Turnus's breast. Chilly death came, and the warrior's spirit fled, groaning to the shades. SELECTION FROM THE AENEID. NISUS AND EURYALUS. While Aeneas, finding the Latins hostile to him, sailed up the Tiber in search of allies, the troops he left behind under Ascanius were attacked by Turnus, and their slight fortifications besieged. They were sorely pressed, and longed to be able to inform Aeneas of their need. Nisus was guardian of the gate, No bolder heart in war's debate, The son of Hyrtacus, whom Ide Sent, with his quiver at his side, From hunting beasts in mountain brake To follow in Aeneas' wake: With him Euryalus, fair boy; None fairer donned the arms of Troy; His tender cheek as yet unshorn And blossoming with youth new-born. Love made them one in every thought: In battle side by side they fought; And now in duty at the gate The twain in common station wait. "Can it be Heaven," said Nisus then, "That lends such warmth to hearts of men, Or passion surging past control That plays the god to each one's soul? Long time, impatient of repose, My swelling heart within me glows, And yearns its energy to fling On war, or some yet grander thing. See there the foe, with vain hope flushed! Their lights are scant, their stations hushed: Unnerved by slumber and by wine Their bravest chiefs are stretched supine. Now to my doubting thought give heed And listen where its motions lead. Our Trojan comrades, one and all, Cry loud, Aeneas to recall, And where, they say, the men to go And let him of our peril know? Now if the meed I ask they swear To give you--nay, I claim no share, Content with bare renown-- Meseems, beside yon grassy heap The way I well might find and keep, To Pallanteum's town." The youth returns, while thirst of praise Infects him with a strange amaze: "Can Nisus aim at heights so great, Nor take his friend to share his fate? Shall I look on, and let you go Alone to venture 'mid the foe? Not thus my sire Opheltes, versed In war's rude toil, my childhood nursed, When Argive terror filled the air And Troy was battling with despair: Nor such the lot my youth has tried, In hardship ever at your side, Since, great Aeneas' liegeman sworn, I followed Fortune to her bourne: Here, here within this bosom burns A soul that mere existence spurns, And holds the fame you seek to reap, Though bought with life, were bought full cheap." "Not mine the thought," brave Nisus said, "To wound you with so base a dread: So may great Jove, or whosoe'er Marks with just eyes how mortals fare, Protect me going, and restore In triumph to your arms once more. But if--for many a chance, you wis, Besets an enterprise like this-- If accident or power divine The scheme to adverse end incline, Your life at least I would prolong: Death does your years a deeper wrong. Leave me a friend to tomb my clay, Rescued or ransomed, which you may; Or, e'en that boon should chance refuse, To pay the absent funeral dues. Nor let me cause so dire a smart To that devoted mother's heart, Who, sole of all the matron train, Attends her darling o'er the main, Nor cares like others to sit down An inmate of Acestes' town." He answers brief: "Your pleas are naught: Firm stands the purpose of my thought: Come, stir we: why so slow?" Then calls the guards to take their place, Moves on by Nisus, pace with pace, And to the prince they go. All other creatures wheresoe'er Were stretched in sleep, forgetting care: Troy's chosen chiefs in high debate Were pondering o'er the reeling state, What means to try, or whom to speed To show Aeneas of their need. There stand they, midway in the field, Still hold the spear, still grasp the shield: When Nisus and his comrade brave With eager tones admittance crave; The matter high; though time be lost, The occasion well were worth the cost, Iulus hails the impatient pair, Bids Nisus what they wish declare. Then spoke the youth: "Chiefs I lend your ears, Nor judge our proffer by our years. The Rutules, sunk in wine and sleep, Have ceased their former watch to keep: A stealthy passage have we spied Where on the sea the gate opes wide: The line of fires is scant and broke, And thick and murky rolls the smoke. Give leave to seek, in these dark hours, Aeneas at Evander's towers, Soon will you see us here again Decked with the spoils of slaughtered men. Nor strange the road: ourselves have seen The city, hid by valleys green, Just dimly dawning, and explored In hunting all the river-board." Out spoke Aletes, old and gray: "Ye gods, who still are Ilium's stay, No, no, ye mean not to destroy Down to the ground the race of Troy, When such the spirit of her youth, And such the might of patriot truth." Then, as the tears roll down his face, He clasps them both in strict embrace: "Brave warriors! what rewards so great, For worth like yours to compensate? From Heaven and from your own true heart Expect the largest, fairest part: The rest, and at no distant day, The good Aeneas shall repay, Nor he, the royal youth, forget Through all his life the mighty debt." "Nay, hear me too," Ascanius cried, "Whose life is with my father's tied: O Nisus! by the home-god powers We jointly reverence, yours and ours, The god of ancient Capys' line, And Vesta's venerable shrine, By these dread sanctions I appeal To you, the masters of my weal; Oh, bring me back my sire again! Restore him, and I feel no pain. Two massy goblets will I give; Rich sculptures on the silver live; The plunder of my sire, What time he took Arisba's hold; Two chargers, talents twain of gold, A bowl beside of antique mould By Dido brought from Tyre. Then, too, if ours the lot to reign O'er Italy by conquest ta'en, And each man's spoil assign,-- Saw ye how Turnus rode yestreen, His horse and arms of golden sheen? That horse, that shield and glowing crest I separate, Nisus, from the rest And count already thine. Twelve female slaves, at your desire, Twelve captives with their arms entire, My sire shall give you, and the plain That forms Latinus' own domain. But you, dear youth, of worth divine, Whose blooming years are nearer mine, Here to my heart I take, and choose My comrade for whate'er ensues. No glory will I e'er pursue, Unmotived by the thought of you: Let peace or war my state befall, Thought, word, and deed, you share them all." The youth replied: "No after day This hour's fair promise shall betray, Be fate but kind. Yet let me claim One favor, more than all you name: A mother in the camp is mine, Derived from Priam's ancient line: No home in Sicily or Troy Has kept her from her darling boy. She knows not, she, the paths I tread; I leave her now, no farewell said; By night and this your hand I swear, A parent's tears I could not bear. Vouchsafe your pity, and engage To solace her unchilded age: And I shall meet whate'er betide By such assurance fortified." With sympathy and tender grief All melt in tears, Iulus chief, As filial love in other shown Recalled the semblance of his own: And, "Tell your doubting heart," he cries, "All blessings wait your high emprise: I take your mother for my own, Creusa, save in name alone, Nor lightly deem the affection due To her who bore a child like you. Come what come may, I plight my troth By this my head, my father's oath, The bounty to yourself decreed Should favoring gods your journey speed, The same shall in your line endure, To parent and to kin made sure." He spoke, and weeping still, untied A gilded falchion from his side, Lycaon's work, the man of Crete, With sheath of ivory complete: Brave Mnestheus gives for Nisus' wear A lion's hide with shaggy hair; Aletes, old in danger grown, His helmet takes, and gives his own. Then to the gates, as forth they fare, The band of chiefs with many a prayer The gallant twain attends: Iulus, manlier than his years, Oft whispering, for his father's ears Full many a message sends: But be it message, be it prayer, Alike 'tis lost, dispersed in air. The trenches past, through night's deep gloom The hostile camp they near: Yet many a foe shall meet his doom Or ere that hour appear. There see they bodies stretched supine, O'ercome with slumber and with wine; The cars, unhorsed, are drawn up high; 'Twixt wheels and harness warriors lie, With arms and goblets on the grass In undistinguishable mass. "Now," Nisus cried, "for hearts and hands: This, this the hour our force demands. Here pass we: yours the rear to mind, Lest hostile arm be raised behind; Myself will go before and slay, While carnage opes a broad highway." So whispers he with bated breath, And straight begins the work of death On Rhamnes, haughty lord; On rugs he lay, in gorgeous heap, From all his bosom breathing sleep, A royal seer by Turnus loved: But all too weak his seer-craft proved To stay the rushing sword. Three servants next the weapon found Stretched 'mid their armor on the ground: Then Remus' charioteer he spies Beneath the coursers as he lies, And lops his downdropt head; The ill-starred master next he leaves, A headless trunk, that gasps and heaves: Forth spouts the blood from every vein, And deluges with crimson rain, Green earth and broidered bed. Then Lamyrus and Lamus died, Serranus, too, in youth's fair pride: That night had seen him long at play: Now by the dream-god tamed he lay: Ah, had his play but matched the night, Nor ended till the dawn of light! So famished lion uncontrolled Makes havoc through the teeming fold, As frantic hunger craves; Mangling and harrying far and near The meek, mild victims, mute with fear, With gory jaws he raves. Nor less Euryalus performs: The thirst of blood his bosom warms; 'Mid nameless multitudes he storms, Herbesus, Fadus, Abaris kills Slumbering and witless of their ills, While Rhoetus wakes and sees the whole, But hides behind a massy bowl. There, as to rise the trembler strove, Deep in his breast the sword he drove, And bathed in death withdrew. The lips disgorge the life's red flood, A mingled stream of wine and blood: He plies his blade anew. Now turns he to Messapus' band, For there the fires he sees Burnt out, while coursers hard at hand Are browsing at their ease, When Nisus marks the excess of zeal, The maddening fever of the steel, And checks him thus with brief appeal: "Forbear we now; 't will soon be day: Our wrath is slaked, and hewn our way." Full many a spoil they leave behind Of solid silver thrice refined, Armor and bowls of costliest mould And rugs in rich confusion rolled. A belt Euryalus puts on With golden knobs, from Rhamnes won, Of old by Caedicus 't was sent, An absent friendship to cement, To Remulus, fair Tibur's lord, Who, dying, to his grandson left The shining prize: the Rutule sword In after days the trophy reft. Athwart his manly chest in vain He binds these trappings of the slain; Then 'neath his chin in triumph laced Messapus' helm, with plumage graced, The camp at length they leave behind, And round the lake securely wind. Meanwhile a troop is on its way, From Latium's city sped, An offshoot from the host that lay Along the host in close array, Three hundred horsemen, sent to bring A message back to Turnus, king, With Volscens at their head. Now to the camp they draw them nigh, Beneath the rampart's height, When from afar the twain they spy, Still steering from the right; The helmet through the glimmering shade At once the unwary boy betrayed, Seen in the moon's full light. Not lost the sight on jealous eyes: "Ho! stand! who are ye?" Volscens cries, "Whence come, or whither tend?" No movement deign they of reply, But swifter to the forest fly, And make the night their friend. With fatal speed the mounted foes Each avenue as with network close, And every outlet bar. It was a forest bristling grim With shade of ilex, dense and dim: Thick brushwood all the ground o'ergrew: The tangled ways a path ran through, Faint glimmering like a star. The darkling boughs, the cumbering prey Euryalus's flight delay: His courage fails, his footsteps stray: But Nisus onward flees; No thought he takes, till now at last The enemy is all o'erpast, E'en at the grove, since Alban called, Where then Latinus' herds were stalled: Sudden he pauses, looks behind In eager hope his friend to find: In vain: no friend he sees. "Euryalus, my chiefest care, Where left I you, unhappy? where? What clue may guide my erring tread This leafy labyrinth back to thread?" Then, noting each remembered track, He thrids the wood, dim-seen and black. Listening, he hears the horse-hoofs' beat, The clatter of pursuing feet. A little moment--shouts arise, And lo! Euryalus he spies, Whom now the foemen's gathered throng Is hurrying helplessly along. While vain resistance he essays, Trapped by false night and treacherous ways. What should he do? what force employ To rescue the beloved boy? Plunge through the spears that line the wood, And death and glory win with blood? Not unresolved, he poises soon A javelin, looking to the Moon: "Grant, goddess, grant thy present aid, Queen of the stars, Latonian maid, The greenwood's guardian power; If, grateful for success of mine, With gifts my sire has graced thy shrine, If e'er myself have brought thee spoil, The tribute of my hunter's toil, To ornament thy roof divine, Or glitter on thy tower, These masses give me to confound, And guide through air my random wound." He spoke, and hurled with all his might; The swift spear hurtles through the night: Stout Sulmo's back the stroke receives: The wood, though snapped, the midriff cleaves. He falls, disgorging life's warm tide, And long-drawn sobs distend his side. All gaze around: another spear The avenger levels from his ear, And launches on the sky. Tagus lies pierced through temples twain, The dart deep buried in his brain. Fierce Volscens storms, yet finds no foe, Nor sees the hand that dealt the blow, Nor knows on whom to fly. "Your heart's warm blood for both shall pay," He cries, and on his beauteous prey With naked sword he sprang. Scared, maddened, Nisus shrieks aloud: No more he hides in night's dark shroud, Nor bears the o'erwhelming pang: "Me, guilty me, make me your aim, O Rutules! mine is all the blame; He did no wrong, nor e'er could do; That sky, those stars attest 't is true; Love for his friend too freely shown, This was his crime, and this alone." In vain he spoke: the sword, fierce driven, That alabaster breast had riven. Down falls Euryalus, and lies In death's enthralling agonies: Blood trickles o'er his limbs of snow; "His head sinks gradually low": Thus, severed by the ruthless plough, Dim fades a purple flower: Their weary necks so poppies bow, O'erladen by the shower. But Nisus on the midmost flies, With Volscens, Volscens in his eyes: In clouds the warriors round him rise, Thick hailing blow on blow: Yet on he bears, no stint, no stay, Like thunderbolt his falchion's sway: Till as for aid the Rutule shrieks Plunged in his throat the weapon reeks: The dying hand has reft away The life-blood of its foe. Then, pierced to death, asleep he fell On the dead breast he loved so well. Blest pair! if aught my verse avail, No day shall make your memory fail From off the heart of time, While Capitol abides in place, The mansion of the Aeneian race, And throned upon that moveless base Rome's father sits sublime. _Conington's Translation, Book IX_. BEOWULF. Beowulf, the only Anglo-Saxon epic preserved entire, was composed in southwest Sweden probably before the eighth century, and taken to England, where it was worked over and Christianized by the Northumbrian poets. It is variously attributed to the fifth, seventh, and eighth centuries; but the seventh is most probably correct, since the Higelac of the poem has been identified with Chocilaicus of the "Gesta Regum Francorum," a Danish king who invaded Gaul in the days of Theuderic, son of Clovis, and died near the close of the sixth century. The only manuscript of the poem in existence is thought to be of the tenth century. It is preserved in the British Museum. Since 1837 much interest has been manifested in the poem, and many editions of it have been given to the public. Beowulf contains three thousand one hundred and eighty-four lines. It is written in alliterative verse. The lines are written in pairs, and each perfect line contains three alliterating words,--two in the first part, and one in the second. The unknown writer of Beowulf cannot be praised for his skill in composition; the verse is rude, as was the language in which it was written. But it is of the greatest interest to us because of the pictures it gives of the everyday lives of the people whose heroic deeds it relates,--the drinking in the mead-halls, the relation of the king to his warriors, the description of the armor, the ships, and the halls. The heroes are true Anglo-Saxon types,--bold, fearless, ready to go to the assistance of any one in trouble, no matter how great the risk to themselves; and as ready to drink mead and boast of their valor after the peril is over. In spite of the attempt to Christianize the poem, it is purely pagan; the most careless reader can discover the priestly interpolations. And it has the greater value to us because it refused to be moulded by priestly hands, but remained the rude but heroic monument of our Saxon ancestors. BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, BEOWULF. B. Ten Brink's Early English Literature, Tr. by Kennedy; S. A. Brooke's History of Early English Literature, 1892, p. 12; W. F. Collier's History of English Literature, p. 19; G. W. Cox and E. H. Jones's Popular Romances of the Middle Ages, 1871, pp. 382-398; in 1880 ed. pp. 189-201; Isaac Disraeli's Amenities of Literature, i. 65-73; J. Earle's Anglo-Saxon Literature; T. W. Hunt's Ethical Teaching in Beowulf (in his Ethical Teachings in Old English Literature, 1892, pp. 66-77); H. Morley's English Writers, 1887, pp. 276-354; H. A. Taine's History of English Literature, 1886, i. 62; S. Turner's Anglo-Saxons, iii. 326; in ed. 3, i. 456; J. Harrison's Old Teutonic Life in Beowulf (in the Overland Monthly, July, 1894); F. A. March's The World of Beowulf (in Proceedings of American Philological Association, 1882). STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, BEOWULF. Beowulf, edition with English translation, notes and glossary by Thomas Arnold, 1876; The Deeds of Beowulf, 1892; Beowulf, Tr. by J. M. Garnett, 1882 (translated line for line); Beowulf, Tr. by J. L. Hall, 1892, metrical translation; Beowulf, Tr. by J. M. Kemble, with copious glossary, preface, and philological notes, 2 vols., 1833-37; Beowulf translated into modern rhymes, by H. W. Lumsden, 1881; Beowulf, Tr. by Benjamin Thorpe, Literal translation, notes and glossary, 1875. THE STORY OF BEOWULF. A mighty man was Scyld, ruler of the Gar-Danes. From far across the whale-path men paid him tribute and bore witness to his power. Beowulf was his son, a youth endowed with glory, whose fame spread far and wide through all the Danish land. When the time came for Scyld to die he ordered his thanes to prepare the ring-stemmed ship, laden with treasures, battle-weed, and swords, and place him in the death-chamber. Laden with his people's gifts, and sailing under a golden banner, he passed from sight, none knew whither. After him ruled Beowulf, and after him Healfdene,--brave warriors and kind monarchs. When, after Healfdene's death, his son Hrothgar succeeded him, his fame in war inclined all his kinsmen towards him, and he, too, became a mighty monarch. To the mind of Hrothgar it came to build a lordly mead-hall where he and his men could find pleasure in feasting, drinking mead, and hearing the songs of the minstrels. Heorot it was called, and when its high spires rose glistening in the air, all hailed it with delight. But, alas! The joy in hall, the melody of the harp, and the shouts of the warriors penetrated to the dismal fen where lay concealed the monster Grendel, descendant of sin-cursed Cain. At night came Grendel to the hall, found sleeping the troop of warriors, and bore away in his foul hands thirty of the honored thanes. Great was the sorrow in Heorot when in the morning twilight the deed of Grendel became known. For twelve long winters did this sorrow continue; for so long a time was Hrothgar plunged in grief; for so many years did this beautiful mead-hall, destined for joyful things, stand idle. While thus the grief-stricken lord of the Scyldings brooded over his wrongs, and the people besought their idols vainly for aid, the tidings of Grendel's ravages were conveyed to the court of the Gothic king, Higelac, and thus reached the ears of a highborn thane, Beowulf. A strong man was he, his grasp equal to that of thirty men. Straightway commanded he a goodly ship to be made ready, chose fifteen of his bravest Goths, and swiftly they sailed over the swan-path to the great headlands and bright sea-cliffs of the Scyldings. High on the promontory stood the guard of Hrothgar. "What men be ye who hither come?" cried he. "Not foes, surely. Ye know no pass word, yet surely ye come on no evil errand. Ne'er saw I a greater lord than he who leads the band. Who are ye?" "Higelac's man am I," answered the leader. "Ecgtheow, my sire; my name, Beowulf. Lead me, I pray thee, to thy lord, for I have come over seas to free him forever from his secret foe, and to lift the cloud that hangs over the stately mead-hall." Over the stone-paved streets the warder led the warriors, their armor clanking, their boar-tipped helmets sparkling, to the goodly hall, Heorot. There were they warmly welcomed, for Hrothgar had known Beowulf's sire; the fame of the young man's strength had also reached him, and he trusted that in his strong grasp Grendel should die. All took their seats on the mead-benches, and a thane passed from warrior to warrior, bearing the chased wine-cup. Sweet was the minstrel's song, and the warriors were happy in Heorot. But Hunferd sat at the banquet, and envious of Beowulf's fame, taunted him with his swimming match with Breca. "Seven days and nights thou didst swim with Breca; but he was stronger, and he won. Worse will befall thee, if thou dar'st this night await Grendel!" "Easy it is to brag of Breca's deeds when drunk with beer, friend Hunferd!" replied Beowulf. "Seven days and nights I swam through the sea-water, slaying the monsters of the deep. Rough was the wave, terrible were the water beasts; but I reached the Finnish land. Wert thou as brave as thou claim'st to be, Grendel would ne'er have wrought such havoc in thy monarch's land." Decked with gold, Queen Waltheow passed through the hall, greeted the warriors, and proffered the mead-cup to Beowulf, thanking God that she had found an earl who would deliver them from their enemy. When dusky night fell over Heorot, the king uprose. "To no other man have I ever entrusted this hall of gold. Have now and keep it! Great reward shall be thine if thou come forth alive!" The knights left in the lordly hall composed themselves for slumber, all save Beowulf, who, unarmed, awaited the coming of Grendel. He came, with wrathful step and eyes aflame, bursting open the iron bolts of the great door, and laughing at the goodly array of men sleeping before him. On one he laid hands and drank his blood; then he clutched the watchful Beowulf. Ne'er had he found a foe like this! Fearful, he turned to flee to his home in the fen, but the grip of Beowulf forbade flight. Strongly was Heorot builded, but many a gilded mead-bench was torn from the walls as the two combated within the hall. The sword blade was of no avail, and him must Beowulf bring to death by the strength of his grip alone. At last, with a scream that struck terror to every Dane's heart, the monster sprang from Beowulf and fled, leaving in the warrior's grasp his arm and shoulder. Great was Beowulf's joy, for he knew that the wound meant death. When the king and queen came forth in the morning with their nobles and maids, and saw the grisly arm of Grendel fastened upon the roof of Heorot, they gave themselves up to rejoicing. Gifts were heaped upon Beowulf,--a golden crest, a banner bright, a great and goodly sword and helm and corselet, eight steeds with headstalls ornamented with gold plate, and a richly decorated saddle. Nor were his comrades forgotten, but to each were given rich gifts. When the mead-hall had been cleansed and refitted, they gathered therein and listened to the song of the bard who told how Healfdene's knight, Hnæf, smote Finn. The song over, the queen, crowned with gold, gave gifts to Beowulf, the liberator from the horrors of Grendel,--two armlets, a necklace, raiment, and rings. When the drinking and feasting were over, the king and Beowulf withdrew, leaving many earls to keep the hall. Little guessed they that one of them was that night doomed to die! The haunt of Grendel was a mile-wide mere. Around it were wolf-haunted cliffs, windy promontories, mist-covered mountains. Close around the mere hung the woods, shrouding the water, which, horrible sight, was each night covered with fire. It was a place accursed; near it no man might dwell; the deer that plunged therein straightway died. In a palace under the mere dwelt Grendel and his mother; she, a foul sprite, whom the peasants had sometimes seen walking with her son over the meadows. From her dwelling-place she now came forth to avenge the death of her son, and snatched away from the group of sleeping Ring-Danes the good Æschere, dearest of all his thanes to Hrothgar. Loud was Hrothgar's wailing when at morning Beowulf came forth from his bower. "Sorrow not, O wise man," spake Beowulf. "I fear not. I will seek out this monster and destroy her. If I come not back it will at least be better than to have lost my glory. She can never hide from me. I ween that I will this day rid thee of thine enemy." Accompanied by Hrothgar, some of the Ring-Danes and his Goths, Beowulf sought the dismal mere, on whose brink they found the head of Æschere. Among the bloody waves swam horrible shapes, Nicors and sea-drakes, that fled at a blast of the war-horn. Beowulf slew one of the monsters, and while his companions were marvelling at the grisly form, he prepared himself for the combat. His breast was guarded by a coat of mail woven most cunningly; upon his head shone the gold-adorned helmet, and in his hand was Hunferd's sword, Hrunting, made of iron steeped in twigs of bitter poison, annealed in battle blood, and fearful to every foe. "Hearken unto me, O Hrothgar," cried the hero. "If I return not, treat well my comrades and send my gifts to Higelac, that he may see the deed I have accomplished, and the generous ring-lord I have gained among the Scyldings." And without waiting for a reply, he leaped into the waves and was lost to sight. There was the monster waiting for him; and catching him in her grip, which bruised him not because of his strong mail-coat, she dragged him to her cave, in whose lighted hall he could see the horrible features of the woman of the mere. Strong was Hrunting, but of no avail was its mighty blade against her. Soon he threw it down, and gripped her, reckless of peril. Once he threw her on the ground, but the second time she threw him, and drew her glaive to pierce his breast. Strong was the linked mail, and Beowulf was safe. Then his quick eye lighted on a sword,--a magic, giant sword; few men could wield it. Quickly he grasped it, and smote the neck of the sea-woman. Broken were the bone-rings, and down she fell dead. Then Ecgtheow's son looked around the hall and saw the body of the dead Grendel. Thirsting to take his revenge, he smote him with his sword. Off flew the head; but when the red drops of blood touched the magic blade it melted, leaving but the massive golden hilt in the hands of the hero. Beowulf took no treasure from the cave, but rose through the waves, carrying only the head of the monster and the hilt of the sword. When Hrothgar and his men saw the mere red and boiling with blood they deemed that Beowulf was dead, and departed to their citadel. Sorrowful sat the comrades of Beowulf, waiting and hoping against hope for his reappearance. Up sprang they when they saw him, joyfully greeted him, relieved him of his bloody armor, and conducted him to Hrothgar, bearing--a heavy task--the head of Grendel. When Hrothgar saw the hideous head and the mighty sword-hilt, whose history he read from its Runic inscriptions, he hailed Beowulf with joy, and proclaimed him the mightiest of men. "But ever temper thy might with wisdom," advised the king, "that thou suffer not the end of Heremod, or be punished as I have been, in this my spacious mead-hall." After a night's rest, Beowulf prepared to return to his country. Returning Hrunting to Hunferd, he praised the sword, saying nothing of its failure in the fight. Then to Hrothgar: "Farewell. If e'er thou art harried by foes, but let me know,--a thousand fighting men I'll bring. Higelac, well I know, will urge me on to honor thee. If e'er thy son seeks Gothic halls, I will intercede and win friends for him." The old king, weeping, bade Beowulf farewell. "Peace be forever between the Goths and the Gar-Danes; in common their treasures! May gifts be interchanged between them!" The bark was filled with the gifts heaped upon Beowulf and his men; and the warder, who had hailed them so proudly at their coming, now bade them an affectionate farewell. Over the swan-path sailed they, and soon reached the Gothic coast, and landed their treasures. Then went Beowulf before Higelac and told him of his adventures. Higelac was a mighty king; lofty his house and hall, and fair and gentle was his wife, Hygd. To him, after he had related his adventures, Beowulf presented the boar-head crest, the battle-mail and sword, four of the steeds, and much treasure, and upon the wise and modest Hygd bestowed he the wondrous necklace given him by Waltheow. So should a good thane ever do! There had been a time when Beowulf was accounted a sluggish knight, but now the land rang with his glory. When Higelac died and Hardred was slain, Beowulf succeeded to the throne, and for fifty years ruled the people gloriously. At this time a great fire-drake cherished a vast hoard in a cave on a high cliff, difficult of access, and known to few men. Thither one day fled a thrall from his master's wrath, and saw the hoard buried by some weary warrior, and now guarded by the dragon. While the drake slept, the thrall crept in and stole a cup as a peace-offering to his master. When the drake awoke, he scented the foot-prints of the foe, and discovered his loss. When even was come, he hastened to wreak his revenge on the people, spewing out flames of fire, and laying waste the land. Far and near were the lands of the Goths devastated, and ere long, tidings were borne to Beowulf that his great hall, his gift seat, was destroyed by fire. Saddened, and fearing that he had in some way angered God, he turned his mind to vengeance, and girded on his armor. A stout shield of iron he took, knowing that the dragon's fiery breath would melt the wood, and with foreboding of his fate, bade farewell to his hearth-mates. "Many times have I battled, great deeds have I done with sword and with hand-grip; now must I go forth and battle with hand and sword against the hoard-keeper." Commanding the men who had accompanied him to remain upon the hillside, leaving him to combat with the dragon alone, Beowulf went proudly forward, shouting his battle-cry. Out rushed the dragon, full of deadly hate. His fiery breath was stronger than the king had deemed it. Stroke upon stroke he gave his enemy, who continued to cast forth his death-fire, so that Beowulf stood girt with flames. From afar, among the watching thanes, Wiglaf saw his monarch's peril. "Comrades," he cried, "do you remember our promises to our king? Was it for this he stirred us up to glorious deeds? Was it for this he heaped gifts upon us? Let us go to his rescue. It is not right that we should see our lord fall, and bear away our shields untouched!" Rushing forward, he cried, "Beowulf, here am I! Now strike for thy life! Thou hast said that thou never wouldst let thy fame depart from thee!" Again the dragon came forth; again it enveloped its foeman in flames. The linden shield of Wiglaf burned in his hands, and he sought shelter behind Beowulf's shield of iron. Again and again Wiglaf smote the monster, and when the flames burnt low, Beowulf seized his dirk and pierced the dragon so that he fell dead. The dragon lay dead, but Beowulf felt the poison in his wounds and knew that he had not long to live. He commanded Wiglaf to bring forth the treasure that he might gaze upon the hoard,--jewel work and twisted gold,--that he had wrested from the fire-drake. The den was filled with rings of gold, cups, banners, jewels, dishes, and the arms of the old owner of the treasure. All these did Wiglaf bear forth to his lord, who surveyed them, and uttered thanks to his Maker, that he could win such a treasure. Then, turning to Wiglaf, he said, "Now I die. Build for me upon the lofty shore a bright mound that shall ever remind my people of me. Far in the distance their ships shall descry it, and they shall call it Beowulf's mound." Then, giving his arms to Wiglaf, he bade him enjoy them. "Thou art the last of our race. All save us, fate-driven, are gone to doom. Thither go I too." Bitterly did Wiglaf denounce his comrades when he saw them steal from their hiding-places. "Well may it be said of you that he who gave you your arms threw them away. No thanks deserve ye for the slaughter of the dragon! I did my little, but it was not in my power to save my kinsman. Too few helpers stood about him! Now shall your kin be wanting in gifts. Void are ye of land-rights! Better is it for an earl to die than to live with a blasted name!" Sorrowful were the people when they heard of the death of Beowulf. Full well they knew with what joy the tidings would be hailed by their enemies, who would hasten to harry the land, now that their great leader was gone. The Frisians, the Merovingians, the Franks, the Swedes,--all had their grievances, which they would hasten to wreak on the Goths when they learned that the dreaded king was gone. Dreary would be the land of the Goths; on its battle-fields the wolves would batten; the ravens would call to the eagles as they feasted on the slain. Straight to the Eagle's Nest went the band, and found their dead monarch; there, too, lay the loathsome fire-drake, full fifty feet long, and between them the great hoard, rust-eaten from long dwelling in the earth. Ever had that hoard brought ill with it. Down from the cliff they thrust the dragon into the deep, and carried their chief to Hronesness. There they built a lofty pile, decked it with his armor, and burned thereon the body of their glorious ruler. According to his wish, they reared on the cliff a broad, high barrow, surrounded it with a wall, and laid within it the treasure. There yet it lies, of little worth to men! Then around the barrow rode twelve of the bravest, boldest nobles, mourning their king, singing his praises, chanting a dirge, telling of his glorious deeds, while over the broad land the Gothic folk lamented the death of their tender prince, their noble king, Beowulf. SELECTION FROM BEOWULF. GRENDEL'S MOTHER. There was great rejoicing in Heorot when Beowulf slew Grendel, and at night the earls again slept in the hall as they had not dared to do since the coming of the fiend. But Grendel's mother came to avenge her son's death and slew Æschere, a favorite liegeman of Hrothgar's. In the morning, Beowulf, who had slept in another part of the palace, was sent for and greeted Hrothgar, unaware of his loss. Hrothgar rejoined, helm of the Scyldings: "Ask not of joyance! Grief is renewed to The folk of the Danemen. Dead is Æschere, Yrmenlaf's brother, older than he, My true-hearted counsellor, trusty adviser, Shoulder-companion, when fighting in battle Our heads we protected, when troopers were clashing, And heroes were dashing; such an earl should be ever, An erst-worthy atheling, as Æschere proved him. The flickering death-spirit became in Heorot His hand-to-hand murderer; I cannot tell whither The cruel one turned, in the carcass exulting, By cramming discovered. The quarrel she wreaked then, The last night igone Grendel thou killedst In grewsomest manner, with grim-holding clutches, Since too long he had lessened my liege-troop and wasted My folk-men so foully. He fell in the battle With forfeit of life, and another has followed, A mighty crime-worker, her kinsman avenging, And henceforth hath 'stablished her hatred unyielding, As it well may appear to many a liegeman, Who mourneth in spirit the treasure-bestower, Her heavy heart-sorrow; the hand is now lifeless Which availed yon in every wish that you cherished. Land-people heard I, liegemen, this saying, Dwellers in halls, they had seen very often A pair of such mighty march-striding creatures, Far-dwelling spirits, holding the moorlands: One of them wore, as well they might notice, The image of woman, the other one wretched In guise of a man wandered in exile, Except that he was huger than any of earthmen; Earth-dwelling people entitled him Grendel In days of yore; they knew not their father, Whe'r ill-going spirits any were borne him Ever before. They guard the wolf-coverts, Lands inaccessible, wind-beaten nesses, Fearfullest fen-deeps, where a flood from the mountains 'Neath mists of the nesses netherward rattles, The stream under earth: not far is it henceward Measured by mile-lengths that the mere-water standeth, Which forests hang over, with frost-whiting covered, A firm-rooted forest, the floods overshadow. There ever at night one an ill-meaning portent A fire-flood may see; 'mong children of men None liveth so wise that wot of the bottom; Though harassed by hounds the heath-stepper seek for, Fly to the forest, firm-antlered he-deer, Spurred from afar, his spirit he yieldeth, His life on the shore, ere in he will venture To cover his head. Uncanny the place is: Thence upward ascendeth the surging of waters, Wan to the welkin, when the wind is stirring The weathers unpleasing, till the air groweth gloomy, And the heavens lower. Now is help to be gotten From thee and thee only! The abode thou know'st not, The dangerous place where thou'rt able to meet with The sin-laden hero: seek if thou darest! For the feud I will fully fee thee with money, With old-time treasure, as erstwhile I did thee, With well-twisted jewels, if away thou shalt get thee." Beowulf answered, Ecgtheow's son: "Grieve not, O wise one! for each it is better, His friend to avenge than with vehemence wail him; Each of us must the end-day abide of His earthly existence; who is able accomplish Glory ere death! To battle-thane noble Lifeless lying, 't is at last most fitting. Arise, O king, quick let us hasten To look at the footprint of the kinsman of Grendel! I promise thee this now: to his place he'll escape not, To embrace of the earth, nor to mountainous forest, Nor to depths of the ocean, wherever he wanders. Practice thou now patient endurance Of each of thy sorrows, as I hope for thee soothly!" Then up sprang the old one, the All-Wielder thanked he, Ruler Almighty, that the man had outspoken. Then for Hrothgar a war-horse was decked with a bridle, Curly-maned courser. The clever folk-leader Stately proceeded: stepped then an earl-troop Of linden-wood bearers. Her foot-prints were seen then Widely in wood-paths, her way o'er the bottoms, Where she far-away fared o'er fen-country murky, Bore away breathless the best of retainers Who pondered with Hrothgar the welfare of country. The son of the athelings then went o'er the stony, Declivitous cliffs, the close-covered passes, Narrow passages, paths unfrequented, Nesses abrupt, nicker-haunts many; One of a few of wise-mooded heroes, He onward advanced to view the surroundings, Till he found unawares woods of the mountain O'er hoar-stones hanging, holt-wood unjoyful; The water stood under, welling and gory. 'T was irksome in spirit to all of the Danemen, Friends of the Scyldings, to many a liegeman Sad to be suffered, a sorrow unlittle To each of the earlmen, when to Æschere's head they Came on the cliff. The current was seething With blood and with gore (the troopers gazed on it). The horn anon sang the battle-song ready. The troop were all seated; they saw 'long the water then Many a serpent, mere-dragons wondrous Trying the waters, nickers a-lying On the cliffs of the nesses, which at noonday full often Go on the sea-deeps their sorrowful journey, Wild-beasts and worm-kind; away then they hastened Hot-mooded, hateful, they heard the great clamor, The war-trumpet winding. One did the Geat-prince Sunder from earth-joys, with arrow from bowstring, From his sea-struggle tore him, that the trusty war-missile Pierced to his vitals; he proved in the currents Less doughty at swimming whom death had off-carried. Soon in the waters the wonderful swimmer Was straitened most sorely and pulled to the cliff-edge; The liegemen then looked on the loath-fashioned stranger. Beowulf donned then his battle-equipments, Cared little for life; inlaid and most ample, The hand-woven corselet which could cover his body, Must the wave-deeps explore, that war might be powerless To harm the great hero, and the hating one's grasp might Not peril his safety; his head was protected By the light-flashing helmet that should mix with the bottoms, Trying the eddies, treasure-emblazoned, Encircled with jewels, as in seasons long past The weapon-smith worked it, wondrously made it, With swine-bodies fashioned it, that thenceforward no longer Brand might bite it, and battle-sword hurt it. And that was not least of helpers in prowess That Hrothgar's spokesman had lent him when straitened; And the hilted hand-sword was Hrunting entitled, Old and most excellent 'mong all of the treasures; Its blade was of iron, blotted with poison, Hardened with gore; it failed not in battle Any hero under heaven in hand who it brandished, Who ventured to take the terrible journeys, The battle-field sought; not the earliest occasion That deeds of daring 't was destined to 'complish. Ecglaf's kinsman minded not soothly, Exulting in strength, what erst he had spoken Drunken with wine, when the weapon he lent to A sword-hero bolder; himself did not venture 'Neath the strife of the currents his life to endanger, To fame-deeds perform; there he forfeited glory, Repute for his strength. Not so with the other When he, clad in his corselet, had equipped him for battle. Beowulf spoke, Ecgtheow's son: "Recall now, oh, famous kinsman of Healfdene, Prince very prudent, now to part I am ready, Gold-friend of earl-men, what erst we agreed on, Should I lay down my life in lending thee assistance, When my earth-joys were over, thou wouldst evermore serve me In stead of a father; my faithful thanemen, My trusty retainers, protect thou and care for, Fall I in battle: and, Hrothgar belovèd, Send unto Higelac the high-valued jewels Thou to me hast allotted. The lord of the Geatmen May perceive from the gold, the Hrethling may see it When he looks on the jewels, that a gem-giver found I Good over-measure, enjoyed him while able. And the ancient heirloom Unferth permit thou, The famed one to have, the heavy-sword splendid, The hard-edged weapon; with Hrunting to aid me, I shall gain me glory, or grim death shall take me." The atheling of Geatmen uttered these words and Heroic did hasten, not any rejoinder Was willing to wait for; the wave-current swallowed The doughty-in-battle. Then a day's-length elapsed ere He was able to see the sea at its bottom. Early she found then who fifty of winters The course of the currents kept in her fury, Grisly and greedy, that the grim one's dominion Some one of men from above was exploring. Forth did she grab them, grappled the warrior With horrible clutches; yet no sooner she injured His body unscathed: the burnie out-guarded, That she proved but powerless to pierce through the armor, The limb-mail locked, with loath-grabbing fingers. The sea-wolf bare then, when bottomward came she, The ring-prince homeward, that he after was powerless. (He had daring to do it) to deal with his weapons, But many a mere-beast tormented him swimming, Flood-beasts no few with fierce-biting tusks did Break through his burnie, the brave one pursued they. The earl then discovered he was down in some cavern Where no water whatever anywise harmed him, And the clutch of the current could not come anear him, Since the roofed-hall prevented; brightness a-gleaming Fire-light he saw, flashing, resplendent. The good one saw then the sea-bottom's monster, The mighty mere-woman; he made a great onset With weapon-of-battle, his hand not desisted From striking, that war-blade struck on her head then A battle-song greedy. The stranger perceived then The sword would not bite, her life would not injure, But the falchion failed the folk prince when straitened: Erst had it often onsets encountered, Oft cloven the helmet, the fated one's armor: 'T was the first time that ever the excellent jewel Had failed of its fame. Firm-mooded after, Not heedless of valor, but mindful of glory, Was Higelac's kinsman; the hero-chief angry Cast then his carved-sword covered with jewels That it lay on earth, hard and steel-pointed; He hoped in his strength, his hand-grapple sturdy. So any must act whenever he thinketh To gain him in battle glory unending, And is reckless of living. The lord of the War-Geats (He shrank not from battle) seized by the shoulder The mother of Grendel; then mighty in struggle Swung he his enemy, since his anger was kindled, That she fell to the floor. With furious grapple She gave him requital early thereafter, And stretched out to grab him; the strongest of warriors Faint-mooded stumbled, till he fell in his traces, Foot-going champion. Then she sat on the hall-guest And wielded her war-knife wide-bladed, flashing, For her son would take vengeance, her one only bairn. His breast-armor woven bode on his shoulder; It guarded his life, the entrance defended 'Gainst sword-point and edges. Ecgtheow's son there Had fatally journeyed, champion of Geatmen, In the arms of the ocean, had the armor not given, Close-woven corselet, comfort and succor, And had God most holy not awarded the victory, All-knowing Lord; easily did heaven's Ruler most righteous arrange it with justice; Uprose he erect ready for battle. Then he saw 'mid the war-gems a weapon of victory, An ancient giant-sword, of edges a-doughty, Glory of warriors: of weapons 't was choicest, Only 't was larger than any man else was Able to bear in the battle-encounter, The good and splendid work of the giants. He grasped then the sword-hilt, knight of the Scyldings, Bold and battle-grim, brandished his ring-sword, Hopeless of living, hotly he smote her, That the fiend-woman's neck firmly it grappled, Broke through her bone-joints, the bill fully pierced her Fate-cursèd body, she fell to the ground then: The hand-sword was bloody, the hero exulted. The brand was brilliant, brightly it glimmered, Just as from heaven gemlike shineth The torch of the firmament. He glanced 'long the building, And turned by the wall then, Higelac's vassal Raging and wrathful raised his battle-sword Strong by the handle. The edge was not useless To the hero-in-battle, but he speedily wished to Give Grendel requital for the many assaults he Had worked on the West-Danes not once, but often, When he slew in slumber the subjects of Hrothgar, Swallowed down fifteen sleeping retainers Of the folk of the Danemen, and fully as many Carried away, a horrible prey. He gave him requital, grim-raging champion, When he saw on his rest-place weary of conflict Grendel lying, of life-joys bereavèd, As the battle at Heorot erstwhile had scathed him; His body far bounded, a blow when he suffered, Death having seized him, sword-smiting heavy, And he cut off his head then. Early this noticed The clever carles who as comrades of Hrothgar Gazed on the sea-deeps, that the surging wave-currents Were mightily mingled, the mere-flood was gory: Of the good one the gray-haired together held converse, The hoary of head, that they hoped not to see again The atheling ever, that exulting in victory He'd return there to visit the distinguished folk-ruler: Then many concluded the mere-wolf had killed him. The ninth hour came then. From the ness-edge departed The bold-mooded Scyldings; the gold-friend of heroes Homeward betook him. The strangers sat down then Soul-sick, sorrowful, the sea-waves regarding: They wished and yet weened not their well-loved friend-lord To see any more. The sword-blade began then, The blood having touched it, contracting and shrivelling With battle-icicles; 't was a wonderful marvel That it melted entirely, likest to ice when The Father unbindeth the bond of the frost and Unwindeth the wave-bands, He who wieldeth dominion Of time and of tides: a truth-firm Creator. Nor took he of jewels more in the dwelling, Lord of the Weders, though they lay all around him, Than the head and the handle handsome with jewels; The brand early melted, burnt was the weapon: So hot was the blood, the strange-spirit poisonous That in it did perish. He early swam off then Who had bided in combat the carnage of haters, Went up through the ocean; the eddies were cleansed, The spacious expanses, when the spirit from farland His life put aside and this short-lived existence. The seamen's defender came swimming to land then Doughty of spirit, rejoiced in his sea-gift, The bulky burden which he bore in his keeping. The excellent vassals advanced then to meet him, To God they were grateful, were glad in their chieftain, That to see him safe and sound was granted them. From the high-minded hero, then, helmet and burnie Were speedily loosened: the ocean was putrid, The water 'neath welkin weltered with gore. Forth did they fare, then, their footsteps retracing, Merry and mirthful, measured the earth-way, To highway familiar: men very daring Bare then the head from the sea-cliff, burdening Each of the earlmen, excellent-valiant. Four of them had to carry with labor The head of Grendel to the high towering gold-hall Upstuck on the spear, till fourteen most-valiant And battle-brave Geatmen came there going Straight to the palace: the prince of the people Measured the mead-ways, their mood-brave companion, The atheling of earlmen entered the building, Deed-valiant man, adorned with distinction, Doughty shield-warrior, to address King Hrothgar: Then hung by the hair, the head of Grendel Was borne to the building, where beer-thanes were drinking, Loth before earlmen and eke 'fore the lady: The warriors beheld then a wonderful sight. _J. L. Hall's Translation, Parts XXI.-XXIV._ THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. The Nibelungen Lied, or Song of the Nibelungen, was written about the beginning of the thirteenth century, though the events it chronicles belong to the sixth or seventh century. The manuscript poem was discovered about the middle of the eighteenth century. Lachmann asserts that the Nibelungen Lied consists of twenty songs of various dates and authorship; other scholars, while agreeing that it is the work of a single author, ascribe it variously to Conrad von Kurenburger, Wolfram von Eschenbach, Heinrich von Ofterdingen, and Walther von der Vogelweide. Whoever was its author, he was only a compiler of legends that were the property of the people for centuries, and are found in many other of the popular German epics of the Middle Ages. The poem consists of thirty-nine adventures, containing two thousand four hundred and fifty-nine stanzas of four lines each. The action covers thirty years. It is based on material obtained from four sources: (1) The Frankish saga-cycle, whose hero is Siegfried; (2) the saga-cycle of Burgundy, whose heroes are Günther, king of Worms, and his two brothers; (3) the Ostrogothic saga-cycle, whose hero is Dietrich of Bern; and (4) the saga-cycle of Etzel, king of the Huns, with his allies and vassals. Dietrich of Bern is supposed to be Theodoric of Italy, in exile at the Hunnish court. Etzel is Attila the Hun, and Günther, Gunducarius, king of the Burgundians, who was destroyed by the Huns with his followers in the year 436. The Nibelungen Lied very much resembles the Iliad, not only in the uncertainty of its origin and the impersonality of its author, but also in its objectivity, its realism, the primitive passions of its heroes, and the wondrous acts of valor performed by them. It contains many passages of wonderful beauty, and gives a striking picture of the social customs and the religious belief of the time. BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. Mary Elizabeth Burt's Story of the German Iliad, 1892; Thomas Carlyle's Nibelungen Lied (see his Miscellaneous Essays, 1869, vol. iii., pp. 111-162); Sir G. W. Cox and E. H. Jones's Nibelungen Lied (see their Tales of the Teutonic Lands, 1872, pp. 79-132); G. T. Dippold's Nibelungenlied (see his Great Epics of Mediaeval Germany, 1882, pp. 1-117); William T. Dobson's Nibelungenlied Epitomized (see his Classic Poets, 1878); Auber Forestier's Echoes from Mistland, or the Nibelungen Lay Revealed, Tr. by A. A. Woodward, 1877; Joseph Gostwick's and Robert Harrison's Nibelungenlied (see their Outlines of German Literature, n. d., pp. 16-24); Hugh Reginald Haweis's Nibelungenlied (see his Musical Memories, 1887, pp. 225-250); Frederick Henry Hedge's Nibelungenlied (see his Hours with the German Classics, 1887, pp. 25-55); James K. Hosmer's Nibelungen Lied (see his Short History of German Literature, 1891, pp. 23-77); J. P. Jackson's Ring of the Nibelung, Cosmopolitan, 1888, vol. vi. pp. 415-433; Henry W. Longfellow's Nibelungenlied (see his Poets and Poetry of Europe, new ed., enlarged, 1882, pp. 217-227); J. M. F. Ludlow's Lay and Lament of the Niblungs (see his Popular Epics of the Middle Ages, 1865, pp. 105-183); E. Magnusson and William Morris's Völsungs Saga, story of the Völsungs and Niblungs, 1870; William Morris's Story of Sigurd the Volsung and the Fall of the Niblungs, 1887; F. Max Müller's Das Nibelungenlied (see his German Classics, new ed., 1893, vol. i., pp. 112-136); Ernst Raupach's Nibelungen Treasure, a tragedy from the German with remarks, 1847; A. M. Richey's Teutonic and the Celtic Epic, Fraser's Magazine, 1874, vol. lxxxix., pp. 336-354; Wilhelm Scherer's Nibelungenlied (see his History of German Literature, 1893, vol. i., pp. 101-115); Leda M. Schoonamaker's Nibelungen Lied, Harper's Magazine, 1877, vol. lv., pp. 38-51; Bayard Taylor's Nibelungen Lied (see his Studies in German Literature, 1893, pp. 101-134); Wilhelm Wagner's Nibelungenlied (see his Epics and Romances of the Middle Ages, 1883, pp. 229-306); Henry Weber's The Song of the Nibelungen (see Weber and Jamieson, Illustrations of Northern Antiquities, 1874, pp. 167-213). STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE NIBELUNGEN. The Nibelungen Lied, Tr. by Alfred G. Foster Barham, 1887; The Lay of the Nibelungers, Tr. into English text after Lachman's text by Jonathan Birch, ed. 3, 1887; The Nibelungenlied, Tr. by Joseph Gostwick (see his Spirit of German Poetry, 1843); The Fall of the Nibelungers, Tr. by William Nanson Lettsom, ed. 2, 1874. THE STORY OF THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. In the beautiful city of Worms, in Burgundy, dwelt the maiden Kriemhild, surpassing all others in beauty. Her father, long since dead, was Dancrat; her mother, Uta, and her three brothers,--Günther, Gernot, and Giselher,--puissant princes whose pride it was to guard their lovely sister. Among the noble lords their liegemen were Hagan of Trony, Dankwart, his brother, Ortwine of Metz, Eckewart, Gary, Folker, Rumolt the steward, Sindolt the butler, and Humolt the chamberlain. The peace of the beautiful Kriemhild was one night disturbed by a dream, in which she saw a young falcon that she had long reared with tender care torn to pieces by two fierce eagles. When she confided this dream to her mother, the wise Uta declared that it meant that she would one day wed a fair prince threatened with a dreadful doom. "Then I will never wed!" cried Kriemhild. "Better to forego the bliss thou tellest me attends only the wedded state than to taste the anguish foretold by my dream." Alas! little could she guess of what the future held in store for her. In the wide country of the Netherlands, in the city of Xanten, dwelt the great prince Siegmund and his wife Sieglind. Their kingdom was wide, their wealth great, but nothing gave them so much happiness as the renown of their glorious son Siegfried. Such mighty deeds of valor had he performed that his fame was already world-wide, though he was but a youth. To Xanten the fame of the peerless princess Kriemhild had penetrated, and the young prince declared to his parents his intention of seeking her out in Burgundy, and wooing her for his wife. All entreaties were in vain; with but twelve companions, each fitted out with the most gorgeous vestments, by the care of the queen mother, the haughty prince advanced into Burgundy. King Günther, surprised at the sight of the splendidly attired strangers, called one after another of his knights to inform him who they were. None knew, until Hagan was at last called because he was familiar with the warriors of every land. He did not know them. "But," said he, "though I have never set eyes on him, I'll wager that is the noble Siegfried, the mighty warrior who slew the Nibelungers. Once, so I have heard the story, when he was riding alone, he saw the two kings Nibelung and Shilbung dividing the treasure of the Niblungs. They had just brought it out from the cavern where it was guarded by the dwarf Albric, and they called Siegfried to come and divide it for them. The task was so great that he did not finish it, and when the angry kings set upon him he slew them both, their giant champions and chiefs, and then overcame the dwarf Albric, and possessed himself of his wondrous cloud-cloak. So he is now lord of the Nibelungers and owner of the mighty treasure. Not only this, my king; he once slew a poison-spitting dragon and bathed in its blood, so that his skin is invulnerable. Treat the young prince with respect. It would be ill-advised to arouse his hatred." While the king and his counsellors were admiring his haughty bearing, Siegfried and his followers advanced to the hall and were fittingly welcomed. Siegfried haughtily declared that he had come to learn if Günther's renown for knighthood was correct, and wished to fight with him, with their respective kingdoms as stakes. Günther had no desire to fight with such a doughty warrior, and he hastened to soothe Siegfried's wrath with gentle words, inviting him to remain as his guest. So happy was Siegfried in the tourneys and games enjoyed by Günther's court, that he remained in Worms for a year, and in all that time never set eyes on Kriemhild. How enraptured would he have been had he known that the gentle maiden watched for him daily at her lattice, and came to long for a glimpse of the handsome stranger! At the end of the year tidings were brought to Worms that the Saxons, led by King Lüdeger, and Lüdegast, king of Denmark, were marching against Burgundy. The Burgundians were terrified at the news; but Siegfried, delighted at the thought of war, begged Günther to give him but a thousand Burgundians, in addition to the twelve comrades he had brought with him, and he would pledge himself to defeat, unaided, the presumptuous enemy. Many were the camps of the foe; full forty thousand were there mustered out to fight, but Siegfried quickly scattered them, slew many thousands, and took the two kings prisoners. How joyful the melancholy Kriemhild became when the messenger bore to her the glad tidings! Ruddy gold and costly garments he gained for his good news. On Siegfried's return he first met and loved Kriemhild. More blooming than May, sweeter than summer's pride, she stood by the gallant warrior, who dared not yet to woo her. The twelve days of revel in celebration of the victory were one long dream of bliss to the happy lovers. While Siegfried was still lingering at Günther's court, tidings were brought thither of the beauty, prowess, and great strength of Brunhild, Queen of Issland, and Günther determined to go thither and woo her. Siegfried implored him not to go. "Thou knowest not what thou must undertake," he said. "Thou must take part in her contests, throw the javelin, throw the stone and jump after it, and if thou fail in even one of these three games thou must lose thy life and that of thy companions." When Siegfried found that he could not move Günther, he promised to go with him and assist him, on condition that on their return Günther would give him the beautiful Kriemhild for his wife. Attired in the most splendid raiment, prepared by the willing fingers of Kriemhild and her maids, Günther, with only three companions, Siegfried, Hagan, and Dankwart, set forth to Issland. Siegfried requested his companions to inform Brunhild that he was Günther's man; and when she welcomed him first, he himself told her to speak first to his master. The little party was greatly impressed with the splendor of Brunhild's three turreted palaces, and with the beauty and prodigious strength of the queen. When they saw her huge golden shield, steel-studded, beneath whose weight four chamberlains staggered, and the immense javelin of the war-like maid, the warriors trembled for their lives, all save Siegfried, who, wrapped in his cloud-cloak, invisible to all, stood behind the bewildered Günther. "Give me thy buckler," he whispered. "Now make but the motions, and I will hurl both spear and stone. But keep this a secret if thou wouldst save both our lives." To the surprise of every one Günther won the games, and Brunhild, surprised and mortified, ordered her followers to bow to her better, and returned to the castle to make ready for the journey to Worms. Siegfried carried the tidings to Worms, and the bridal party was met and welcomed at the banks of the Rhine by the Queen Uta, Kriemhild, and a large following. During the wedding feast, Siegfried reminded Günther of his promise, and the king, calling Kriemhild to him, affianced the two in the presence of the company. When the suspicious Brunhild saw Siegfried sitting at the table of the king, she was angered, for she had been told that he was a vassal. Although she could get no satisfaction from Günther, she suspected some secret. When she and Günther retired for the night she conquered him, tied him hand and foot with her magic girdle, and hung him on the wall until morning. Günther, overcome with wrath and vexation, told his humiliation to Siegfried the next morning at the minster. "Be comforted," said Siegfried. "Tonight I will steal into thy chamber wrapped in my mist-cloak, and when the lights are extinguished I will wrestle with her until I deprive her of the magic ring and girdle." After some hesitation, Günther assented, and Brunhild, supposing she was conquered by Günther, yielded herself willingly to her husband and lost all her former strength. Siegfried carried away her girdle and ring and gave them to his wife, little suspecting what harm they would do him in the years to come. The wedding festivities over, Siegfried took his bride home to the Netherlands, where their arrival was celebrated with the greatest festivities. Siegmund placed the crown on his son's head, and Siegfried and Kriemhild ruled happily over the kingdom for ten years, during which time a son was born to them, christened Günther for his uncle. During these years Brunhild had been fretting that the supposed vassal, Siegfried, had never come to pay homage to his king. At last, affecting a great longing to see Kriemhild once more, she induced Günther to invite his sister and her husband to visit them. This he did gladly, and on their arrival many days were spent in feasting, merrymaking, and the tourney. But one day, when the two queens were watching the tilting in the castle court, Kriemhild, excited by the victories of her husband, declared that Siegfried, because of his might, ought to be ruler of Burgundy. This angered Brunhild, who reproached the wife of a vassal for such presumption. "My husband a vassal!" exclaimed the indignant Kriemhild. "He, ruler of the Netherlands, who holds a higher place than my brother Günther! I cannot endure thy insolence longer." "I will see," said Brunhild, "this very day whether thou receivest the public respect and honor paid to me." "I am ready for the test," responded Kriemhild, "and I will show thee to-day, before our following, that I dare to enter the church before Günther's queen." When the two queens met on the minster steps, and Brunhild declared that no vassaless should enter before her, Kriemhild reproached her for being the leman of Siegfried, and displayed in proof the ring and girdle he had taken from Brunhild. Rage and fury rendered Brunhild speechless. The kings were summoned, and both denied the truth of Kriemhild's words. But the two queens were now bitter enemies, and the followers of Brunhild, among them the gloomy Hagan of Trony, were deeply angered at Siegfried and his queen. Hagan laid a plot to destroy Siegfried, and Günther, though at first unwilling, was at last induced to enter it. Pretended messengers came to announce to Günther that the Saxons again threatened war against him. Siegfried proposed to take part in the war, and preparations were at once begun. Hagan, with pretended tenderness, told Kriemhild of the coming danger, and asked her if her lord had a weak place, that he might know and guard it for him. Kriemhild confided to him her husband's secret. When Siegfried was bathing in the dragon's blood, a leaf fell between his shoulders, and that spot was vulnerable. There she would embroider a cross on his vesture that Hagan might protect him in the shock of battle. The war was now abandoned and a great hunt undertaken. Gernot and Giselher, though they did not see fit to warn Siegfried, refused to take part in the plot and go to the hunt. Many a lion, elk, and boar fell by Siegfried's hand that day before the hunters were called together to the royal breakfast; when they at last sat down in the flowery meadow the wine was wanting, and the warriors were compelled to quench their thirst at a brooklet near by. "A race!" cried the hero; and he, Hagan, and Günther ran for the brook, Siegfried gaining it first. After the king had quenched his thirst, Siegfried threw down his arms and stooped to drink. Then Hagan, picking up his ashen spear, threw it at the embroidered cross, and Siegfried fell in the agonies of death, reproaching his traitorous friends whom he had served so faithfully. To add cruelty to cruelty, the vindictive Hagan placed the body of Siegfried outside Kriemhild's chamber door, where she would stumble over it as she went out to early mass next morning. Down she fell fainting when she recognized her husband, and reviving, shrieked in her anguish, "Brunhild planned it; Hagan struck the blow!" Her grief was terrible to see. One moment the unhappy queen was accusing herself for revealing her husband's secret; again she was vowing revenge against Hagan, and at another time she reviled the traitorous Günther. When her father-in-law Siegmund returned home, she would not go with him, but remained near the body of her husband, under the protection of her brothers Gernot and Giselher and in the company of her mother. Kriemhild, living in joyless state in her lonely palace, was at last induced to speak to Günther and pardon him. The pardon granted, Günther and Hagan at once plotted to have the Nibelungen hoard, Siegfried's morning-gift to Kriemhild, brought to Worms. Never before was such a treasure seen. Twelve huge wagons, journeying thrice a day, required four nights and days to carry it from the mountain to the bay. It consisted of nothing but precious stones and gold, and with it was the magic wishing-rod. It filled Kriemhild's towers and chambers to overflowing, and won many friends for the queen, who distributed it liberally. When the envious Hagan could not induce Günther to take the treasure from Kriemhild, he selected a time when the king and his brothers were away from home, and seizing the treasure, cast it into the Rhine, hoping to get it again. In this he failed, so the great treasure was forever lost. Thus ends the first part of the Lay of the Nibelungen. The second part is sometimes called the Need or Fall of the Nibelungen. While Kriemhild was bewailing her loss and revolving plans for revenge, Etzel, King of the Huns, who had heard of the charms of Siegfried's widow, sent the noble Margrave Rüdeger into Burgundy with proposals for her hand. Günther and his brothers begged Kriemhild to accept the offer; their counsellors advised it; only the sage Hagan protested. He knew too well how Kriemhild longed for revenge. "When once she gets among the Huns, she will make us rue the day," said he. But the others laughed at Hagan's scruples. The land of the Huns was far away, and they need never set foot in it. Moreover, it was their duty to make Kriemhild happy. Moved by the eloquence of Rüdeger, Kriemhild consented to wed Etzel, and set out in great state to meet the king. She was splendidly entertained along the way, tarried a short time at the home of the Margrave Rüdeger, and at Tulna met the great monarch Etzel, riding to meet her, among his hosts of Russians, Polacks, Greeks, and Wallachians. The splendid wedding-feast was held at Vienna. Kriemhild was received with the greatest honor, and so lavish was she of the gold and jewels she had brought with her, and so gracious to the attendant Huns, that every one loved her, and willingly worked her will. For seven long years she and Attila lived happy together, and to them was given a son whom they christened Ortlieb. Then Kriemhild, still remembering her loss and the cruelties of her Burgundian relatives and friends, bethought herself of her revenge. Feigning a great desire to see her brothers, she entreated Etzel to invite them to visit her; and the king, not suspecting her fell purpose, and glad of an opportunity to welcome her friends, at once despatched messengers with the invitation. This time other counsellors besides Hagan mistrusted the queen, and advised King Günther and his brothers to decline the invitation. But the princes grew angry at their advice; and Hagan, who could not endure to be laughed at, set forth with them, accompanied with a great train of warriors. The Rhine was too swollen to ford, and Hagan was sent up the stream to find a ferryman. As he looked for the boatman, he spied some mermaids bathing, and seizing their garments, would not restore them until they told him what would befall the Burgundians in Hungary. "Safe will you ride to Etzel's court, and safe return," said one, as he returned the garments. But as he turned to go, another called: "My aunt has lied to thee that she might get back her raiment. Turn now, or you will never live to see Burgundy. None save the chaplain will return in safety." Hagan went on gloomily and found the ferryman, who, proud and sullen, refused to take the party across. Hagan slew him, and, returning with the boat, threw the unfortunate chaplain into the river, thinking by drowning him to prove the mermaid's prophecy untrue. But the chaplain escaped to the other side, and walked back to Burgundy. Then Hagan told the party of the prophecy and they resolved to go on together, though they realized that they were going to their doom. Because of the slaughter of the ferryman, they were attacked by Gelfrat, the ruler of the land; but he was overcome and slain by Dankwart. The Margrave Rüdeger received the travellers hospitably, and betrothed his fair daughter to Giselher. He then accompanied the Burgundians to Etzel's court. The Burgundians suspected Kriemhild from the first. Giselher was the only one of her brothers whom she kissed, and she and Hagan quarrelled over the treasure at their first meeting. They were warned by Eckewart, who had accompanied Kriemhild from Burgundy, and by Dietrich of Bern, an exile at the court of Etzel, who told them that every morning since her stay in Hunland she had moaned and wailed for Siegfried. By Hagan's advice they all kept on their armor, telling Etzel that it was the custom in their country to wear it for the first three days. Kriemhild's design was to destroy Hagan and spare her brothers. But Hagan, on his guard, drove her warriors away from his room at night, and saved himself at church from the jostling Hunnish lords, never, in the mean time, sparing his insults to Kriemhild. The Huns, who were devoted to their queen, were not slow in showing their anger at Hagan's treatment of her, and the ill feeling between the warriors increased as the days passed by. As the Burgundians sat at the banquet with Etzel and his wife, in burst Dankwart, exclaiming that he had been attacked by Bloedel, who had slain all his followers. "Be stirring, brother Hagan!" he cried. "Help me to avenge my wrongs!" At this moment the little prince Ortlieb had been brought into the hall and passed around among the guests. "Let us drink to friendship with moody Kriemhild in king's wine!" cried Hagan, and with one blow of the sword sent the child's head in his mother's lap. Then arose a fearful clamor. Spear rang against shield, and the cries of the fierce Huns mingled with the defiant shouts of the Burgundians. Dietrich of Bern, leaping upon a bench, asked King Günther, that, as a friend to both parties, he might be permitted to withdraw from the hall with his friends. When the Burgundians assented, he led forth the king and queen. The same privilege was accorded to Rüdeger. Then, while the terrible Folker guarded the door with his fiddle bow, one side of which was a trenchant sword, the battle began. The Burgundians taunted the Huns with their weakness and cowardice until they ventured into the hall and were cut down by Hagan and his desperate men. When evening fell the thousand and four who had entered the hall all lay dead by the hands of the Burgundians. When Kriemhild's offer to give her brothers their lives if they would surrender Hagan was refused, she ordered fire to be set to the four corners of the hall, thinking thus to drive them forth. But the burning rafters fell into the rivers of blood and were quenched, and the Burgundians derived new courage and strength from huge draughts of blood from their fallen foes. Then Kriemhild and Etzel, seeing how their Hunnish men had fallen, and perceiving that the Burgundians were in no wise injured by the fire, reproached the Margrave Rüdeger that he did not enter the fight. In vain he told them of his friendship with the princes; of the betrothal of his daughter and Giselher. Kriemhild persisted in reminding him of the promise he had made to serve her to her dying day. At last he reluctantly summoned his men, and bidding farewell to his cruel king and queen, he entered the hall. Gladly was he welcomed by the Burgundians, who could not believe that he came to do battle with them. He explained how he was forced to fight them, and amid the tears of both sides, he exchanged shields with Hagan, whose buckler was broken. Then was the grim Hagan moved to tears, and he vowed not to touch Rüdeger in the fight. Fearful was the clatter of shield and blade as Rüdeger fought with Gernot, and fell at last by the blade he had himself given the prince. Great was the wailing of the Huns when they saw the lifeless body of Rüdeger, and deeply did Etzel regret the loss of the valiant and true margrave. Dietrich of Bern, who sat afar off, sent some of his best warriors under his man Hildebrand, to inquire of the truth of the report of Rüdeger's death. These fiery men disobeyed the orders of their master, and fought with the Burgundians until none remained save Günther and Hagan on one side, and Hildebrand on the other. When Dietrich heard of the slaughter of his followers, he was overcome with sorrow, and himself sought the hall. He promised Günther and Hagan that if they would surrender, he would himself lead them back in safety to Burgundy; but to this they would not consent. By this time they were so worn out, however, from the long battle, that Dietrich easily overpowered them and led them captive before Kriemhild, who promised to show them fair treatment. But Kriemhild's mind had become so warped by her desire for revenge, that she could not think of mercy. She cast her prisoners into separate dungeons, and visiting Hagan first, demanded her treasure. "But give it to me again, and thou shalt return living into Burgundy." "Pray not to me, haughty queen," replied Hagan. "I swore that while my lords were living I would ne'er tell where it lies. Thy prayer is thrown away." Straightway the savage Kriemhild ordered the head of Günther to be struck off, and bearing it by the hair, she displayed it to Hagan, asking him now to tell her the secret. "Now that all my lords are dead," said he, "no one shall know, thou least of all, she-fiend!" Kriemhild, beside herself with grief and rage, snatched from him the sword Balmung that he had taken from Siegfried, and ever since carried, and raising it high with both hands, struck off the head of her hated enemy. At this the grief of Etzel broke forth, and the aged Hildebrand, enraged to see a woman do such deeds, sprang upon Kriemhild and smote her to death with his sword. Bitterly wept King Etzel and Dietrich as they gazed on the corpses scattered round, and the disfigured body of the fair queen. Nothing remained for the Hunnish people but grief and woe. Here on earth pain ever follows in the steps of pleasure. SELECTIONS FROM THE NIBELUNGEN LIED. HOW BRUNHILD WAS RECEIVED AT WORMS. Brunhild, queen of Issland, was won by Günther of Worms with the aid of Siegfried, whom Günther sent forward to Worms to announce the coming of the royal pair. Queen Uta and Princess Kriemhild, with many followers from the Burgundian court, went forward to the Rhine to meet and welcome the royal bridal party. Beyond the Rhine King Günther, with many a well-arm'd rank And all his guests about him, rode towards the river's bank; You might see by the bridle led forward many a maid. Those, who were to receive them, were ready all array'd. Soon as the men of Issland came to the shallops down, And eke the Nibelungers, lieges of Siegfried's crown, To th' other shore they hasten'd (busy was every hand) Where them the friends of Günther awaited on the strand. Now hear, by wealthy Uta what a device was wrought. Down with her from the castle a virgin train she brought, That rode where she was riding in that procession bright; So many a maid acquainted became with many a knight. Kriemhild by the bridle the Margrave Gary led, But only from the castle; then forward Siegfried sped, And did that gentle service; fair was the blushing maid; Full well for that thereafter the warrior she repaid. Ortwine, the fearless champion, rode by Dame Uta's rein; Knights and maids together follow'd, a social train. At such a stately meeting, all must confess, I ween, So many lovely ladies were ne'er together seen. Full many a famous champion careering you might spy (Ill there was sloth and idlesse) beneath fair Kriemhild's eye E'en to the place of landing; by knights of fair renown There many a high-born lady from steed was lifted down. The king was now come over, and many a worthy guest. Ah, before the ladies what spears were laid in rest! How many went in shivers at every hurtling close! Buckler clashed with buckler; ah, what a din arose! Now might you see the ladies fast by the haven stand. With his guests King Günther debark'd upon the strand, In his hand soft leading the martial maiden fair. Then each on each flash'd radiance, rich robes and jewels rare. With that the smiling Kriemhild forth stepp'd a little space, And Brunhild and her meiny greeted with gentle grace, Each with snowy fingers back her headband drew, And either kiss'd the other lovingly and true. Then spoke in courteous manner Kriemhild the fair and free, "In this our land, dear Brunhild, ever welcome be To me and to my mother and all by us allow'd For faithful friends and liegemen." Then each to th' other bow'd. Next to greet Dame Brunhild approach'd Dame Uta too; Oft she and oft her daughter their arms about her threw, And on her sweet mouth lavish'd many a loving kiss. Never was known a welcome so kind and frank as this. Soon as Brunhild's women were all come to the strand, Many a courtly warrior took by her lily hand A lady fair, and gently her mincing steps upstay'd, Now before Dame Brunhild stood many a noble maid. 'T was long before the greeting had gone through all the list. On either part in plenty rosy mouths were kiss'd. Still the two fair princesses were standing side by side, A pair with love and rapture by longing warriors ey'd. What erst had been but rumour, was now made clear to sight, That nought had yet been witness'd so beautiful and bright As those two lovely damsels; 't was plain to every eye; None the slightest blemish in either form could spy. Whoever look'd on women with but the sight for guide, Such for her faultless beauty praised Günther's, stately bride; But those whose thoughts went deeper, and div'd into the mind, Maintain'd that gentle Kriemhild left Brunhild far behind. Now met the dames and damsels in friendly converse free; Fair robes and fairer beauties were there in store to see; Many a silk pavilion and many a gorgeous tent The plain before the city fill'd in its whole extent. King Günther's kinsmen ceas'd not to press to that fair show. And now was begg'd each princess from the sun to go Close by, with their attendants, where shade was overhead. By bold Burgundian warriors thither were they led. Then clomb to horse the heroes, and scour'd the sounding field; Many a joust was practis'd with order'd spear and shield; Right well were prov'd the champions, and o'er the trampled plain, As though the land were burning, the dust curl'd up amain. So all before the ladies display'd their skill and force, Nor doubt I that Sir Siegfried rode many a knightly course Before the rich pavilions, and ever as he sped, His thousand Nibelungers, a stately squadron, led. Then came the knight of Trony by the good king's command; In friendly wise he parted the jousters on the strand, For fear the dust, now thick'ning, the ladies might molest. Him with ready reverence obey'd each gentle guest. Then spake the noble Gernot, "Let each now rest his steed Till the air be cooler, 't will then be ours to lead These lovely ladies homeward e'en to the palace wide. So keep yourselves all ready till it please the king to ride." Thus ended was the tourney, and now the warriors went To join the dames and damsels beneath each lofty tent, And there in gentle converse their grace and favor sought; So flew the hours in pastime till of riding home they thought. Now as drew on the twilight, when cooler grew the air And the sun was setting, they would not linger there, But up rose lords and ladies to seek the castle high; Many a fair dame was cherish'd by many a love-lit eye. So on the fair they waited as from good knights is due. Then hardy squires, hot spurring before the nobles' view, After the country's custom rode for the prize of weed As far as to the palace, where sprung the king from steed. There too the proud queens parted, each taking thence her way. Dame Uta and her daughter with their handmaids gay Into a spacious chamber both together went. There might you see on all sides the sound of merriment. In hall the seats were order'd; the king would instant hie With all his guests to table; beside him you might spy His lovely bride, Queen Brunhild; her royal crown she wore There in King Günther's country; so rich was none before. Seats were there plac'd unnumber'd with tables broad and good, As is to us reported, full heap'd with costly food. How little there was wanted that passes for the best! There with the king was seated full many a noble guest. The chamberlains of Günther in ewers of ruddy gold Brought to the guests the water; should you be ever told That at a prince's table service was better done, 'T were labor lost to say so, 't would be believ'd by none. Then, ere the lord of Rhineland touch'd the water bright, Up to him, as befitted, went Siegfried the good knight, And brought to his remembrance the promise made him there, Ere yet afar in Issland he look'd on Brunhild fair. Said he, "You must remember what swore to me your hand, That soon as Lady Brunhild were come into this land, To me you 'd give your sister, your oaths now where are they? On me throughout your journey much toil and travail lay." "Well did you to remind me," the noble king replied, "By what my hand has promis'd, I ever will abide, And in this thing to serve you will do my best, my all." Then sent he to beg Kriemhild to come into the hall. Straight to the hall came Kriemhild begirt with many a maid, When from the lofty staircase young Giselher thus said, "Send back your maidens, Kriemhild, this bus'ness is your own; On this the king, our brother, would speak with you alone." Then forward led was Kriemhild, as Günther gave command, Where stood the king, and round him from many a prince's land Were noble knights unnumber'd; at once all silence kept; At that same instant Brunhild had just to table stepp'd. Thence came it she knew nothing of what was to be done. Then to his gather'd kinsmen spoke Dancrat's royal son, "Help me to move my sister Siegfried for lord to take." "Such match," they all made answer, "with honour she may make." Then spoke the king to Kriemhild, "Sister, I ask of thee From an oath to set me by thy kindness free. Thee to a knight I promis'd; if thou become his bride, Thou 'lt do the will of Günther, and show thy love beside." Then spake the noble maiden, "Dearest brother mine, It needed not to ask me; whate'er command be thine, I'll willingly perform it; so now, for thy sake, Whom thou for husband giv'st me, fain I, my lord, will take." With love and eke with pleasure redden'd Siegfried's hue; At once to Lady Kriemhild he pledg'd his service true. They bade them stand together in the courtly circle bright, And ask'd her if for husband she took that lofty knight. In modest maiden fashion she blush'd a little space, But such was Siegfried's fortune and his earnest grace. That not altogether could she deny her hand. Then her for wife acknowledg'd the noble king of Netherland. He thus to her affianc'd, and to him the maid, Straight round the long-sought damsel in blushing grace array'd His arms with soft emotion th' enamour'd warrior threw, And kiss'd the high-born princess before that glitt'ring crew. _Lettsom's Translation, Tenth Adventure._ HOW MARGRAVE RÜDEGER WAS SLAIN. The Margrave Rüdeger did not take part in the battle fought in Etzel's hall between the Burgundians visiting the Hunnish court and the Huns, because of his friendship for the Burgundians, and the betrothal of his daughter to Prince Giselher. Because of this, he was taunted by a Hun, who said to the queen that although Rüdeger had accepted many favors from Etzel he did not fight for him. When the Hun fell dead under Rüdeger's blow, Etzel reproached him for slaying one of his followers when he had need of so many. Then came the fair Queen Kriemhild; she too had seen full well What from the hero's anger the luckless Hun befell; And she too mourn'd it deeply; with tears her eyes were wet. Thus spake she to Rüdeger, "How have we ever yet "Deserv'd that you, good Rüdeger, should make our anguish more? Now sure to me and Etzel you've promised o'er and o'er, That you both life and honour would risk to do us right. That you 're the flower of knighthood is own'd by every knight. "Now think upon the homage that once to me you swore, When to the Rhine, good warrior, King Etzel's suit you bore, That you would serve me ever to either's dying day. Ne'er can I need so deeply, that you that vow should pay." "'T is true, right noble lady; in this we 're not at strife; I pledg'd, to do you service, my honour and my life, But my soul to hazard never did I vow. I brought the princes hither, and must not harm them now." * * * * * With that, to beg and pray him the king began as well; King and queen together both at his feet they fell. Then might you the good margrave have seen full ill bestead, And thus in bitterest anguish the faithful hero said:-- "Woe's me the heaven-abandon'd, that I have liv'd to this! Farewell to all my honours! woe for my first amiss! My truth--my God-giv'n innocence--must they be both forgot? Woe's me, O God in heaven! that death relieves me not!" Then thus bespake him Kriemhild, "Right noble Rüdeger, Take pity on our anguish; thou see'st us kneeling here, The king and me before thee; both clasp thy honour'd knees. Sure never host yet feasted such fatal guests as these." With that the noble margrave thus to the queen 'gan say, "Sure must the life of Rüdeger for all the kindness pay, That you to me, my lady, and my lord the king have done. For this I'm doomed to perish, and that ere set of sun. "Full well I know, this morning my castles and my land Both will to you fall vacant by stroke of foeman's hand, And so my wife and daughter I to your grace commend, And all at Bechelaren, each trusty homeless friend." * * * * * So to war the margrave under helmet strode; Sharpest swords his meiny brandished as they rode; Each in hand, bright-flashing, held his shield before. That saw the dauntless minstrel, and seeing sorrow'd sore. Then too was by young Giselher his lady's father seen With helm laced as for battle. "What," thought he, "can he mean? But nought can mean the margrave but what is just and right." At the thought full joyous wax'd the youthful knight. "I know not what you trust in;" thus the stern minstrel spake; "Where saw you warriors ever for reconcilement's sake With helmets laced advancing, and naked swords in hand? On us will earn Sir Rüdeger his castles and his land." Scarcely the valiant minstrel his words had utter'd all, When the noble Rüdeger was close before the hall. His shield, well proved in battle, before his feet he laid, But neither proffered service, nor friendly greeting made. To those within he shouted, "Look not for succor hence; Ye valiant Nibelungers, now stand on your defence. I'd fain have been your comrade; your foe I now must be. We once were friends together; now from that bond I'm free." "Now God forbid," said Günther, "that such a knight as you To the faith wherein we trusted, should ever prove untrue, And turn upon his comrades in such an hour as this. Ne'er can I think that Rüdeger can do so much amiss." "I can't go back," said Rüdeger, "the deadly die is cast; I must with you do battle; to that my word is pass'd. So each of you defend him as he loves his life. I must perform my promise; so wills King Etzel's wife." * * * * * * * "Tarry yet a little, right noble Rüdeger! I and my lords a moment would yet with you confer; Thereto hard need compels us, and danger gathering nigh; What boot were it to Etzel though here forlorn we die? "I'm now," pursued Sir Hagan, "beset with grievous care; The shield that Lady Gotelind gave me late to bear, Is hewn, and all-to broken by many a Hunnish brand. I brought it fair and friendly hither to Etzel's land. "Ah! that to me this favour heaven would be pleas'd to yield, That I might to defend me bear so well-prov'd a shield As that, right noble Rüdeger, before thee now display'd! No more should I in battle need then the hauberk's aid." "Fain with the same I'd serve thee to th' height of thy desire, But that I fear such proffer might waken Kriemhild's ire. Still, take it to thee, Hagan, and wield it well in hand. Ah! might'st thou bring it with thee to thy Burgundian land!" While thus with words so courteous so fair a gift he sped, The eyes of many a champion with scalding tears were red, 'T was the last gift, that buckler, e'er given to comrade dear By the lord of Bechelaren, the blameless Rüdeger. However stern was Hagan, and of unyielding mood, Still at the gift he melted, which one so great and good Gave in his last few moments, e'en on the eve of fight, And with the stubborn warrior mourn'd many a noble knight. "Now God in heaven, good Rüdeger, thy recompenser be! Your like on earth, I'm certain, we never more shall see, Who gifts so good and gorgeous to homeless wanderers give. May God protect your virtue, that it may ever live! "Alas! this bloody bus'ness!" Sir Hagan then went on, "We have had to bear much sorrow, and more shall have anon. Must friend with friend do battle, nor heaven the conflict part?" The noble margrave answer'd, "That wounds my inmost heart." "Now for thy gift I'll quit thee, right noble Rüdeger! What e'er may chance between thee and my bold comrades here, My hand shall touch thee never amidst the heady fight, Not e'en if thou shouldst slaughter every Burgundian knight." For that to him bow'd courteous the blameless Rüdeger. Then all around were weeping for grief and doleful drear, Since none th' approaching mischief had hope to turn aside. The father of all virtue in that good margrave died. * * * * * * * What a fearful clatter of clashing blades there rang! From shields beneath the buffets how the plates they sprang, And precious stones unnumber'd rain'd down into the gore! They fought so fell and furious as man will never more. The lord of Bechelaren went slashing here and there, As one who well in battle knew how himself to bear. Well prov'd the noble Rüdeger in that day's bloody fight, That never handled weapon a more redoubted knight. * * * * * * * Loud o'er the din of battle stout Gernot shouted then, "How now, right noble Rüdeger? not one of all my men Thou 'lt leave me here unwounded; in sooth it grieves me sore To see my friends thus slaughter'd; bear it can I no more. "Now must thy gift too surely the giver harm to-day, Since of my friends so many thy strength has swept away. So turn about and face me, thou bold and high-born man! Thy goodly gift to merit, I'll do the best I can." Ere through the press the margrave could come Sir Gernot nigh, Full many a glittering mail-coat was stain'd a bloody die. Then those fame-greedy champions each fierce on th' other leapt, And deadly wounds at distance with wary ward they kept. So sharp were both their broadswords, resistless was their dint, Sudden the good Sir Rüdeger through th' helmet hard as flint So struck the noble Gernot, that forth the blood it broke; With death the stern Burgundian repaid the deadly stroke. He heaved the gift of Rüdeger with both his hands on high, And to the death though wounded, a stroke at him let fly Right through both shield and morion; deep was the gash and wide. At once the lord of Gotelind beneath the swordcut died. In sooth a gift so goodly was worse requited ne'er. Down dead dropp'd both together, Gernot and Rüdeger. Each slain by th' other's manhood, then prov'd, alas! too well. Thereat first Sir Hagan furious wax'd and fell. Then cried the knight of Trony, "Sure we with ills are cross'd; Their country and their people in both these chiefs have lost More than they'll e'er recover;--woe worth this fatal day! We have here the margrave's meiny, and they for all shall pay!" All struck at one another, none would a foeman spare. Full many a one, unwounded, down was smitten there, Who else might have 'scap'd harmless, but now, though whole and sound, In the thick press was trampled, or in the blood was drown'd. "Alas! my luckless brother who here in death lies low! How every hour I'm living brings some fresh tale of woe! And ever must I sorrow for the good margrave too. On both sides dire destruction and mortal ills we rue." Soon as the youthful Giselher beheld his brother dead, Who yet within were lingering by sudden doom were sped. Death, his pale meiny choosing, dealt each his dreary dole. Of those of Bechelaren 'scaped not one living soul. King Günther and young Giselher, and fearless Hagan too, Dankwart as well as Folker, the noble knights and true, Went where they found together out-stretched the valiant twain. There wept th' assembled warriors in anguish o'er the slain. "Death fearfully despoils us," said youthful Giselher, "But now give over wailing, and haste to th' open air To cool our heated hauberks, faint as we are with strife. God, methinks, no longer, will here vouchsafe us life." This sitting, that reclining, was seen full many a knight; They took repose in quiet; around (a fearful sight!) Lay Rüdeger's dead comrades; all was hush'd and still; From that long dreary silence King Etzel augur'd ill. "Alas for this half friendship!" thus Kriemhild frowning spake, "If it were true and steadfast, Sir Rüdeger would take Vengeance wide and sweeping on yonder murderous band; Now back he'll bring them safely to their Burgundian land. "What boot our gifts, King Etzel? was it, my lord, for this We gave him all he asked us? The chief has done amiss. He, who should have reveng'd us, will now a treaty make." Thereto in answer Folker, the gallant minstrel, spake, "Not so the truth is, lady! the more the pity too! If one the lie might venture to give a dame like you, Most foully against the margrave you've lied, right noble queen! Sore trick'd in that same treaty he and his men have been. "With such good will the margrave his king's commands obey'd, That he and all his meiny dead on this floor are laid. Now look about you, Kriemhild! for servants seek anew; Well were you served by Rüdeger; he to the death was true. "The fact if still you're doubting, before your eyes we'll bring." 'T was done e'en of set purpose her heart the more to wring. They brought the mangled margrave, where Etzel saw him well. Th' assembled knights of Hungary such utter anguish ne'er befell. When thus held high before them they saw the margrave dead, Sure by the choicest writer could ne'er be penn'd nor said The woeful burst of wailing from woman and eke from man, That from the heart's deep sorrow to strike all ears began. Above his weeping people King Etzel sorrow'd sore; His deep-voic'd wail resounded loud as the lion's roar In the night-shaded desert; the like did Kriemhild too; They mourn'd in heart for Rüdeger, the valiant and the true. _Lettsom's Translation, Thirty-seventh Adventure._ THE SONG OF ROLAND. The Song of Roland is one of the many mediaeval romances that celebrate the deeds of Charlemagne. The oldest text now in existence was written about 1096, but the poem was current in other forms long before this. The author was a Norman, for the poem is written in the Norman dialect; but it is uncertain whether the Turoldus or Théroulde named in the last line of the poem, "Thus endeth here the geste Turoldus sang," was the author, a copyist, or a _jongleur_. It is said that Taillefer, the minstrel of Normandy, sang the Song of Roland at the battle of Hastings. "Taillefer, who right well sang, mounted on his rapid steed, went before them singing of Charlemagne, and of Roland, and Olivier, and of the vassals who died in Roncesvalles." The only text of the poem now in existence is one of the thirteenth century, preserved in the Bodleian library at Oxford. On the fifteenth of August, 778, in the valley of Roncesvalles, in the Pyrenees, Charlemagne's rear guard, left under the command of Roland, Prefect of the Marches of Brittany, was attacked and slaughtered by a large army of Gascons. This incident forms the historical basis of the poem; but the imagination of the poet has made of Charlemagne, then a young man, the old emperor, with "beard all blossom white," and transformed his Gascon foes to Saracens. The Song of Roland is written in the heroic pentameter; it is divided into "laisses," or stanzas, of irregular length, and contains about three thousand seven hundred and eight lines. It is written in the assonant, or vowel rhyme, that was universal among European nations in the early stage of their civilization. Each stanza ends with the word "aoi," for which no satisfactory translation has yet been offered, although "away" and "it is done" have been suggested. The author of the Song of Roland undertook, like Homer, to sing of one great event about which all the interest of the poem centres; but unlike Homer, his poem is out of all proportion, the long-drawn out revenge being in the nature of an anti-climax. The Song of Roland is a fair exponent of the people among whom it originated. It contains no ornament; it is a straightforward relation of facts; it lacks passion, and while it describes fearful slaughter, it never appeals to the emotions. Though the French army shed many tears, and fell swooning to the ground at the sight of the fearful slaughter at Roncesvalles, we are rather moved to smile at the violence of their emotion than to weep over the dead, so little power has the poet to touch the springs of feeling. However, there are passages in which the poem rises to sublimity, and which have been pronounced Homeric by its admirers. BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE SONG OF ROLAND. J. Banquier's Bibliographie de la Chanson de Roland, 1877; T. Bulfinch's Legends of Charlemagne, 1863; Sir G. W. Cox and E. H. Jones's Popular Romances of the Middle Ages, 1871, pp. 320-347; Léon Gautier's Les épopées françaises, vol. i., 1878; J. Malcolm Ludlow's Story of Roland (see his Popular Epics of the Middle Ages, 1865, vol. i., pp. 362-427); Gaston Paris's La poésie épique (see his Histoire poétique de Charlemagne, 1865, pp. 1-33); Gaston Paris's Les Chansons de Gestes françaises (see his Histoire poétique de Charlemagne, 1865, pp. 69-72); George Saintsbury's The Chansons de Gestes (see his Short History of French Literature, 1892, pp. 10-25); Henri Van Laun's The Carlovingian Cycle (see his History of French Literature, 1876, vol. i., pp. 141-148); Ancient Literature of France, Quarterly Review, 1866, cxx. 283-323; The Chanson de Roland, Westminster Review, 1873, c. 32-44; M. Hayden's The Chansons de Geste, Dublin Review, 1894, cxiv. 346-357; Charles Francis Keary's The Chansons de Geste: the Song of Roland, Fraser's Magazine, 1881, civ. 777-789; J. M. L.'s The Song of Roland, Macmillan's Magazine, 1862, vi. 486-501; Agnes Lambert's The oldest epic of Christendom, Nineteenth Century, 1882, xi. 77-101; Andrew Lang's The Song of Roland and the Iliad, National Review, 1892, xx. 195-205; Legend of Roland, Encyclopædia Britannica, vol. xx.; Gustave Masson's The Chanson de Roland, Leisure Hour, 1877, xxvi. 618-620; The Song of Roland, Catholic World, 1873 and 1874, xviii. 378-388, 488-500; The Song of Roland, Harper's Monthly, 1882, lxiv. 505-515; The Month, 1880, xl. 515-527; Temple Bar, 1886, lxxviii. 534-540. STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE SONG OF ROLAND. The Song of Roland, as chanted before the Battle of Hastings by the Minstrel Taillefer, Tr. from the French translation of Vitet by Mrs. Anne Caldwell Marsh, 1854; The Song of Roland, Tr. into English verse by John O'Hagan, ed. 2, 1883; La Chanson de Roland, Tr. from the seventh ed. of Léon Gautier, by Leonce Rabillon, 1885. THE STORY OF THE SONG OF ROLAND. For full seven years had Charlemagne tarried in Spain, and all the land lay conquered save the city of Saragossa. There, in an orchard, upon a terrace paved with blue marble, sat its king, Marsile, taking counsel with his lords. "No army have I," said the king; "no people to array against the hosts of the great emperor. Advise me, my lords, what I shall do to save ourselves from disgrace and shame." The wily Blancandrin, wisest and greatest among the pagans, advanced before him. "Where might cannot prevail, often craft gains the day. My lord, send gifts to mighty Carle. Drive forth a long train of camels; heap many mules with gold; send chariots filled with precious gifts. Advise him that on the day of Saint Michael's feast you will seek him at Aix, and there become a Christian, and his vassal. Yea, even send hostages; my own son shall go, even though he lose his head. Then will Carle depart for France. The day set by you will come, but he will hear naught from us. The hostages' heads will fall. What of it? Better this than for us to lose forever Spain the fair." The king, pleased with the craft of Blancandrin, dismissed his council, and ordered ten of his fiercest barons to seek Charlemagne at Cordova, bearing the olive-branch, and make the offer suggested by Blancandrin. Cordova, filled with rich spoils, had been taken, and its surviving inhabitants given the choice of the sword or Christian baptism. Therefore the happy emperor sat at his ease in a wide-spreading orchard. Around him stood Roland, Olivier, Samsun the duke, Anseis, Gefrei d'Anjou, and Gerier. At least fifteen thousand French knights were diverting themselves with different games in the beautiful orchard, where, under a pine-tree, the great King of France sat upon a golden chair. His white hair and flowing white beard added majesty to his already majestic figure, so that the olive-bearing messengers needed not to have great Carle pointed out to them. The emperor heard the message of Marsile in silence, and dismissing the pagans for the night to a pavilion, called together in council his wisest barons, Duke Ogier, Archbishop Turpin, Gerier, Roland, Olivier, a thousand Franks, among them Ganelon, the step-father of Roland, and laid before them the message of Marsile. "Rich gifts he offers me, but he demands that I return to France; thither will he follow me, and at Aix will become a Christian and a vassal. A fair promise, but what is in his heart I cannot tell." After a moment's silence Roland stood forth. "Sire, have no faith in the words of Marsile. When have we found aught but treachery in the Saracen? For seven years I have been winning victories for you here in Spain. Once before you yielded to such a message as this, from this same Marsile, and lost, in consequence, the heads of your Counts Bazan and Bazile. War on as you have begun. Besiege his city! subdue Saragossa!" Then strode forth the angry Ganelon. "My king, this young hot-head is a fool; hearken not unto him. Accept the offer of Marsile, and lose no more lives by the foolhardiness of one who cares more for his own glory than for human life." The voice of the others, among them Duke Naimes, Charlemagne's wisest counsellor and truest vassal, was with Ganelon. The emperor stroked his white beard. "My lords, whom shall we send to meet Marsile at Saragossa?" "I will go," said Duke Naimes. "Nay, I cannot spare you from my councils," replied the king. "I am here!" cried Roland. "Not you! You are too hot-headed to venture into the court of the enemy!" cried his friend Olivier. "Let me go instead, sire!" "Nay!" cried the king. "Silence! Not one of the twelve peers sets his foot in the kingdom of the Moors." "Then let my step-father go," suggested Roland. "No wiser man than he can be found." "Come forward," said the king, as the Franks murmured assent, "and receive the staff and glove. The Franks have chosen you." Ganelon rose, wrathful, casting off his fur robe. His eyes were gray, his face fierce, his form noble. "This is Roland's work. I shall hate him forever, and Olivier, and the twelve peers, because they love him. Ne'er shall I return; full well I know it. If e'er I do, it will be to wreak vengeance on my enemy." "Go!" said the king. "You have said enough!" As Ganelon went forward, full of rage, to receive the king's glove, it fell ere he touched it. "A bad omen!" exclaimed the French. "Sirs, ye shall hear of this!" said Ganelon. On his way to Saragossa with the legates of Marsile, Ganelon laid the impious plot that was to result in the destruction of Roland and the peers. It saved his life at Saragossa, where Marsile threatened to kill him on reading Charlemagne's message. He explained carefully to the Saracens how the rear guard, left at Roncesvalles under the command of Roland and the twelve peers, could be destroyed by the pagan forces before the knowledge of the battle could reach Charlemagne, and that, with these props of his kingdom gone, the king's power would be so diminished that Marsile could easily hold out against him. Then the traitor hastened back to Cordova, laden with rich gifts. When Ganelon rode back, the emperor was preparing to return to sweet France. "Barons," said Carle, "whom shall I leave in charge of these deep defiles and narrow passes?" "My step-son Roland is well able to take the command," said Ganelon; "he your nephew, whom you prize most of all your knights." Rage filled the hearts of both Roland and Carle; but the word was spoken, and Roland must remain. With him remained the twelve peers, his friends, Olivier, his devoted comrade, the gallant Archbishop Turpin, and twenty thousand valiant knights. While Charlemagne's army toiled over the terrible gorges and high mountains into Gascony, the emperor, ever grieving over the untimely death his nephew might meet in the defiles of Spain, down came the pagans, who had been gathering on the high mountains and in the murky valleys,--emirs, sons of noble counts were they, brave as the followers of Charlemagne. When Olivier descried the pagan horde he at once exclaimed,-- "This is the work of Ganelon!" "Hush!" replied Roland. "He is my step-father. Say no more." Then Olivier, when from the hill he saw the one hundred thousand Saracens, their helmets bedecked with gold, their shields shining in the sun, besought his friend to sound his horn, the olifant, and summon the king to their aid. "Never will I so disgrace myself!" exclaimed Roland. "Never shall sweet France be so dishonored. One hundred thousand blows shall I give with my sword, my Durendal, and the Moors will fall and die!" When Olivier found his pleading vain, he mounted his steed and rode with Roland to the front of the lines. Long was the fight and terrible. If gallantry and strength sat with the twelve peers and their followers, they were with their opponents as well. No sooner had Roland, or Olivier, or Turpin, or Engelier cleft the body of a Moorish knight down to the saddle, than down fell a Christian, his helmet broken, his hauberk torn by the lance of his dreaded foe. The nephew of Marsile fell by the hand of Roland, who taunted him as he lay in death; Olivier struck down Marsile's brother. "A noble stroke!" cried Roland. "A baron's stroke!" exclaimed the archbishop, as Samsun pierced the Almazour with his lance and he fell dead. Olivier spurred over the field, crushing the pagans and beating them down with his broken lance. "Comrade, where is thy sword, thy Halteclere?" called Roland to his friend. "Here, but I lack time to draw it," replied the doughty Olivier. More than a thousand blows struck Turpin; the pagans fell by hundreds and by thousands, and over the field lay scattered those who would nevermore see sweet France. Meanwhile, in France, hail fell and rain; the sky was vivid with lightning bolts. The earth shook, and the land lay in darkness at noonday. None understood the portent. Alas! it was Nature's grief at the death of Count Roland. When Roland perceived that in spite of their mighty efforts the passes were still filled with heathen knights, and the French ranks were fast thinning, he said to Olivier, "What think you if we call the king?" "Never!" exclaimed Olivier. "Better death now than shame!" "If I blow, Carle will hear it now and return. I shall blow my olifant," cried Roland. "When I begged you to blow it," said Olivier, "you refused, when you could have saved the lives of all of us. You will show no valor if you blow it now." "Great is the strife," said Roland. "I will blow that Carle may come." "Then," said Olivier, "if I return to France, I pledge you my word my sister Aude shall never be your wife. Your rashness has been the cause of our destruction. Now you shall die here, and here ends our friendship." Across the field the archbishop spurred to reconcile the friends. "Carle will come too late to save our lives," said he, "but he will reach the field in time to preserve our mangled bodies and wreak vengeance on our foes." Roland put his horn to his lips and blew with such force that his temples burst and the crimson blood poured forth from his mouth. Three times he sounded his horn, and each time the sound brought anguish to the heart of Carle, who heard it, riding thirty leagues away. "Our men make battle!" cried he; but this Ganelon hastened to deny, insisting that Roland was but hunting and blowing the horn, taking sport among the peers. But Duke Naimes exclaimed, "Your nephew is in sore distress. He who would deceive you is a traitor. Haste! Shout your war-cry, and let us return to the battle-field. You yourself hear plainly his call for help!" Commanding Ganelon to be seized and given to the scullions of his house to be kept for punishment until his return, Carle ordered his men to arm and return to Roncesvalles, that they might, if possible, save the lives of the noble peers. All the army wept aloud as they thought of the doom of Roland. High were the mountains, deep the valleys, swift the rushing streams. The French rode on, answering the sound of the olifant; the emperor rode, filled with grief and rage; the barons spurred their horses, but in vain. After Roland had sounded the horn he again grasped Durendal, and, mounted on his horse Veillantif, scoured the battle-field, cutting down the heathen. But still their troops pressed him, and when he saw the Ethiopian band led by the uncle of Marsile, he knew his doom had come. Olivier, riding forth to meet the accursed band, received his death-wound from the Kalif, but lived to cut his enemy down, and call Roland to him. Alas! sight had forsaken his eyes, and as he sat on his steed he lifted his bright sword Halteclere, and struck Roland a fearful blow that clove his crest but did not touch his head. "Was the blow meant for me, my comrade?" asked Roland softly. "Nay, I can see no more. God pity me! Pardon me, my friend!" and as the two embraced each other, Olivier fell dead. Then, in the agony of his grief, Roland fainted, sitting firm in his saddle, and again recovering consciousness, became aware of the terrible losses of the French. Only himself, the archbishop, and the gallant Gaultier de l'Hum were left to defend the honor of the French. After Gaultier fell, Roland, unassisted save by Turpin, who fought transfixed by four spear shafts, put the enemy to flight. Feeling his death wounds, Roland besought Turpin to let him bring together the bodies of his fallen comrades that they might receive the blessing of the archbishop. Weak and trembling from loss of blood, Roland passed to and fro over the corpse-bestrewn field, and gathered together his comrades: here, Gerin and Gerier, Berengier and Otun; there, Anseis, Samsun, and Gerard de Roussillon, and last of all, his beloved Olivier, and placing them before the knees of Turpin, he saw them receive his blessing. In his great grief at the sight of the dead Olivier, Roland again fainted, and Turpin hastened to a little brook near by for water to revive him. But the strain was too great for his already weakened body, and, when Roland revived, it was to find the archbishop dead. Then Roland, realizing that his hour, too, had come, sought out a place in which to die. Upon a hill between two lofty trees, where was a marble terrace, he placed himself with his head towards the enemy's country; and there a Saracen, who had feigned death to escape it, tried to wrest from him his beloved Durendal. Roland crushed the pagan's head with his olifant, but now he was troubled, for he feared that his sword would fall into other than Christian hands. Ill could he bear to be parted from his beloved sword. Its golden hilt contained rare relics,--a tooth of Saint Peter, blood, hair, and bones of other saints, and by the strength of these holy relics it had conquered vast realms. Ten and more mighty blows he struck with Durendal upon the hard rock of the terrace, in the endeavor to break it; but it neither broke nor blunted. Then, counting over his great victories, he placed it and the olifant beneath him, and committed his soul to the Father, who sent down his angels to bear it to Paradise. When the French army, led by Charlemagne, found the passes heaped high with the bodies of the dead and no living soul to tell the story of the slaughter, they wept, and many fell swooning to the earth. But the enraged Charlemagne, unwilling then to give time for mourning, spurred on his soldiers, overtook the fleeing enemy, and drove them into the Ebro, so that those who survived the sword, perished by the wave. Then, returning to the field of Roncesvalles, he wept over his beloved Roland and the peers. Great was his grief; handfuls of hair he tore from his head, and many times wished that his soul were in Paradise, and his body beside that of Roland. He commanded that the hearts of Roland, Olivier, and Turpin be taken from their bodies, wrapped, and inurned, and the bodies borne home in chariots. The bodies of the others were gathered together in one tomb, and assoiled and blessed by the priests who accompanied the army. As Charlemagne prepared to start for France, he saw a new army approaching. The aged Emir Baligant, from Babylon, who had long ago been summoned by Marsile, had just arrived in Saragossa, and hastened forth to meet Charlemagne. The emir's army was countless, and Charlemagne's was weakened by its great loss. But the thought of the slaughtered peers spurred on the French, and with great Carle for their leader, they quickly put the pagans to flight. The Franks pursued the enemy to Saragossa, where the wounded Marsile expired on hearing of his defeat. The city was taken, its inhabitants either slain, or converted and baptized, and Queen Bramimunde taken to France to be won to the true faith by gentler means. When Charlemagne entered his stately palace at Aix, he was met by the fair lady Aude. "Where is Roland, my betrothed?" Carle wept, tearing his white beard. "Thou askest of one who is no more. But in his place I will give thee my son. I can do no better." "Nay, God forbid that I should live if Roland is dead;" and so saying, Aude, the beautiful, fell dead at the feet of the emperor. From all his lands Carle summoned men to Aix for the trial of Ganelon. "Judge him according to the law, my barons," said the king. "He lost me twenty thousand of my Franks. My nephew Roland, Olivier, my twelve peers, he sold." "My king," pleaded Ganelon, "call it not treason. I was ever loyal to you. I thought not of gain, but of revenge against my rebellious and haughty step-son." The sentiment of many was with Ganelon, and Pinabel offered to fight for him against Thierri, the champion of the king. Thirty knights of his kin gave themselves as legal sureties of his pledge, and the combat began. Pinabel was conquered and slain, and Ganelon was condemned to be torn to pieces by wild horses. His thirty sureties were also compelled to suffer death. Ganelon was punished; Bramimunde was made a Christian, and the emperor thought at last to have peace. But as night fell and he sought rest in his lofty room, Gabriel appeared to him. "Summon thy hosts and march into Bire to succor King Vivien. The Christians look to thee for help." The king wept and tore his beard. "So troubled is my life!" said he. SELECTIONS FROM THE SONG OF ROLAND. THE HORN. The Rear Guard of the French army, left behind at Roncesvalles, under Roland, was attacked by a great host of Moors. In the beginning of the battle Olivier besought Roland to recall the emperor by blowing the olifant, whose sound could be heard for many leagues, but Roland refused. But when he saw the overwhelming forces of the Moors, and the field strewn with the corpses of the French, he resolved to blow the horn. Seeing so many warriors fall'n around, Rollánd unto his comrade Olivier Spoke thus: "Companion fair and dear, for God Whose blessing rests on you, those vassals true And brave lie corses on the battle-field: Look! We must mourn for France so sweet and fair, From henceforth widowed of such valiant knights. Carle, 'would you were amongst us, King and friend! What can we do, say, brother Olivier, To bring him news of this sore strait of ours!" Olivier answers: "I know not; but this I know; for us is better death than shame." Aoi. Rollánd says: "I will blow mine olifant, And Carle will hear it from the pass. I pledge My word the French at once retrace their steps." Said Olivier: "This a great shame would be, One which to all your kindred would bequeathe A lifetime's stain. When this I asked of you, You answered nay, and would do naught. Well, now With my consent you shall not;--if you blow Your horn, of valor true you show no proof. Already, both your arms are drenched with blood." Responds the count: "These arms have nobly struck." Aoi. "The strife is rude," Rollánd says; "I will blow My horn, that Carle may hear."--Said Olivier: "This would not courage be. What I desired, Companion, you disdained. Were the king here, Safe would we be, but yon brave men are not To blame."--"By this my beard," said Olivier, "I swear, if ever I see again sweet Aude, My sister, in her arms you ne'er shall lie." Aoi. Rollánd asked Olivier--"Why show to me Your anger, friend?"--"Companion, yours the fault; True courage means not folly. Better far Is prudence than your valiant rage. Our French Their lives have lost, your rashness is the cause. And now our arms can never more give Carle Their service good. Had you believed your friend, Amongst us would he be, and ours the field, The King Marsile, a captive or a corse. Rollánd, your valor brought ill fortune, nor Shall Carle the great e'er more our help receive, A man unequalled till God's judgment-day. Here shall you die, and dying, humble France, . . . This day our loyal friendship ends--ere falls The Vesper-eve, dolorously we part!" Aoi. The archbishop heard their strife. In haste he drives Into his horse his spurs of purest gold, And quick beside them rides. Then chiding them, Says: "Sire Rollánd, and you, Sire Olivier, In God's name be no feud between you two; No more your horn shall save us; nathless't were Far better Carle should come and soon avenge Our deaths. So joyous then these Spanish foes Would not return. But as our Franks alight, Find us, or slain or mangled on the field, They will our bodies on their chargers' backs Lift in their shrouds with grief and pity, all In tears, and bury us in holy ground: And neither wolves, nor swine, nor curs shall feed On us--" Replied Rollánd: "Well have you said." Rollánd raised to his lips the olifant, Drew a deep breath, and blew with all his force. High are the mountains, and from peak to peak The sound re-echoes; thirty leagues away 'T was heard by Carle and all his brave compeers. Cried the king: "Our men make battle!" Ganelon Retorts in haste: "If thus another dared To speak, we should denounce it as a lie." Aoi. The Count Rollánd in his great anguish blows His olifant so mightily, with such Despairing agony, his mouth pours forth The crimson blood, and his swol'n temples burst. Yea, but so far the ringing blast resounds; Carle hears it, marching through the pass, Naimes harks, The French all listen with attentive ear. "That is Rollánd's horn!" Carle cried, "which ne'er yet Was, save in battle, blown!" But Ganelon Replies: "No fight is there! you, sire, are old, Your hair and beard are all bestrewn with gray, And as a child your speech. Well do you know Rollánd's great pride. 'Tis marvellous God bears With him so long. Already took he Noble Without your leave. The pagans left their walls And fought Rollánd, your brave knight, in the field; With his good blade he slew them all, and then Washed all the plain with water, that no trace Of blood was left--yea, oftentimes he runs After a hare all day and blows his horn. Doubtless he takes his sport now with his peers; And who 'neath Heav'n would dare attack Rollánd? None, as I deem. Nay, sire, ride on apace; Why do you halt? Still far is the Great Land." Aoi. Rollánd with bleeding mouth and temples burst, Still, in his anguish, blows his olifant; Carle hears it, and his Franks. The king exclaims: "That horn has a long breath!" Duke Naimes replies: "Rollánd it is, and in a sore distress, Upon my faith a battle rages there! A traitor he who would deceive you now. To arms! Your war-cry shout, your kinsman save! Plainly enough you hear his call for help." Aoi. Carle orders all the trumpeters to sound The march. The French alight. They arm themselves With helmets, hauberks and gold-hilted swords, Bright bucklers, long sharp spears, with pennons white And red and blue. The barons of the host Leap on their steeds, all spurring on; while through The pass they march, each to the other says: "Could we but reach Rollánd before he dies, What deadly blows, with his, our swords would strike!" But what avails? Too late they will arrive. Aoi. The ev'n is clear, the sun its radiant beams Reflects upon the marching legions, spears, Hauberks and helms, shields painted with bright flowers, Gold pennons all ablaze with glitt'ring hues. Burning with wrath the emperor rides on; The French with sad and angered looks. None there But weeps aloud. All tremble for Rollánd. * * * * * The king commands Count Ganelon be seized And given to the scullions of his house. Their chief, named Bègue, he calls and bids: "Guard well This man as one who all my kin betrayed." Him Bègue received, and set upon the count One hundred of his kitchen comrades--best And worst; they pluck his beard on lip and cheek; Each deals him with his fist four blows, and falls On him with lash and stick; they chain his neck As they would chain a bear, and he is thrown For more dishonor on a sumpter mule, There guarded so until to Carle brought back. Aoi. High are the mountains, gloomy, terrible, The valleys deep, and swift the rushing streams. In van, in rear, the brazen trumpets blow, Answering the olifant. With angry look Rides on the emp'ror; filled with wrath and grief, Follow the French, each sobbing, each in tears, Praying that God may guard Rollánd, until They reach the battle-field. With him what blows Will they not strike! Alas? what boots it now? Too late they are and cannot come in time. Aoi. Carle in great anger rides--his snow-white beard O'erspreads his breast-plate. Hard the barons spur, For never one but inwardly doth rage That he is far from their great chief, Rollánd, Who combats now the Saracens of Spain: If wounded he, will one of his survive? O God! What knights those sixty left by him! Nor king nor captain better ever had.... Aoi. _Rabillon's Translation._ ROLAND'S DEATH. When all the French lay dead upon the field except Roland and the Archbishop Turpin, Roland gathered together the bodies of his dead comrades, the peers, that they might receive the archbishop's blessing. He then fell fainting from grief, and aroused himself to find the archbishop dead also. Rollánd now feels his death is drawing nigh: From both his ears the brain is oozing fast. For all his peers he prays that God may call Their souls to him; to the Angel Gabriel He recommends his spirit. In one hand He takes the olifant, that no reproach May rest upon him; in the other grasps Durendal, his good sword. Forward he goes, Far as an arblast sends a shaft, across A new-tilled ground and toward the land of Spain. Upon a hill, beneath two lofty trees, Four terraces of marble spread;--he falls Prone fainting on the green, for death draws near. Aoi. High are the mounts, and lofty are the trees. Four terraces are there, of marble bright: There Count Rollánd lies senseless on the grass. Him at this moment spies a Saracen Who lies among the corpses, feigning death, His face and body all besmeared with blood. Sudden he rises to his feet, and bounds Upon the baron. Handsome, brave, and strong He was, but from his pride sprang mortal rage. He seized the body of Rollánd, and grasped His arms, exclaiming thus: "Here vanquished Carle's Great nephew lies! This sword to Araby I'll bear." He drew it; this aroused the count. Aoi. Rollánd perceived an alien hand would rob Him of his sword; his eyes he oped; one word He spoke: "I trow, not one of us art thou!" Then with his olifant from which he parts Never, he smites the golden studded helm, Crushing the steel, the head, the bones; both eyes Are from their sockets beaten out--o'erthrown Dead at the baron's feet he falls;--"O wretch," He cries, "how durst thou, or for good or ill, Lay hands upon Rollánd? Who hears of this Will call thee fool. Mine olifant is cleft, Its gems and gold all scattered by the blow." Aoi. Now feels Rollánd that death is near at hand And struggles up with all his force; his face Grows livid; Durendal, his naked sword, He holds; beside him rises a gray rock On which he strikes ten mighty blows through grief And rage. The steel but grinds; it breaks not, nor Is notched; then cried the count: "Saint Mary, help! O Durendal! Good sword! ill starred art thou! Though we two part, I care not less for thee. What victories together thou and I Have gained, what kingdoms conquered, which now holds White-bearded Carle! No coward's hand shall grasp Thy hilt: a valiant knight has borne thee long, Such as none shall e'er bear in France the Free!" Aoi. Rollánd smites hard the rock of Sardonix; The steel but grinds, it breaks not, nor grows blunt; Then seeing that he cannot break his sword, Thus to himself he mourns for Durendal: "O good my sword, how bright and pure! Against The sun what flashing light thy blade reflects! When Carle passed through the valley of Moriane, The God of Heaven by his Angel sent Command that he should give thee to a count, A valiant captain; it was then the great And gentle king did gird thee to my side. With thee I won for him Anjou--Bretaigne; For him with thee I won Poitou, le Maine And Normandie the free; I won Provence And Aquitaine, and Lumbardie, and all The Romanie; I won for him Baviere, All Flandre--Buguerie--all Puillanie, Costentinnoble which allegiance paid, And Saxonie submitted to his power; For him I won Escoce and Galle, Irlande, And Engleterre he made his royal seat; With thee I conquered all the lands and realms Which Carle, the hoary-bearded monarch, rules. Now for this sword I mourn. . . . Far better die Than in the hands of pagans let it fall! May God, Our Father, save sweet France this shame!" Aoi. Upon the gray rock mightily he smites, Shattering it more than I can tell; the sword But grinds. It breaks not--nor receives a notch, And upward springs more dazzling in the air. When sees the Count Rollánd his sword can never break, Softly within himself its fate he mourns: "O Durendal, how fair and holy thou! In thy gold-hilt are relics rare; a tooth Of great Saint Pierre--some blood of Saint Basile, A lock of hair of Monseigneur Saint Denis, A fragment of the robe of Sainte-Marie. It is not right that pagans should own thee; By Christian hand alone be held. Vast realms I shall have conquered once that now are ruled By Carle, the king with beard all blossom-white, And by them made great emperor and lord. May thou ne'er fall into a cowardly hand." Aoi. The Count Rollánd feels through his limbs the grasp Of death, and from his head ev'n to his heart A mortal chill descends. Unto a pine He hastens, and falls stretched upon the grass. Beneath him lie his sword and olifant, And toward the Heathen land he turns his head, That Carle and all his knightly host may say: "The gentle count a conqueror has died. . . ." Then asking pardon for his sins, or great Or small, he offers up his glove to God. Aoi. The Count Rollánd feels now his end approach. Against a pointed rock, and facing Spain, He lies. Three times he beats his breast, and says: "Mea culpa! Oh, my God, may through thy grace, Be pardoned all my sins, or great or small, Until this hour committed since my birth!" Then his right glove he offers up to God, And toward him angels from high Heav'n descend. Aoi. Beneath a pine Rollánd doth lie, and looks Toward Spain. He broods on many things of yore: On all the lands he conquered, on sweet France, On all his kinsmen, on great Carle his lord Who nurtured him;--he sighs, nor can restrain His tears, but cannot yet himself forget; Recalls his sins, and for the grace of God He prays: "Our Father, never yet untrue, Who Saint-Lazare raised from the dead, and saved Thy Daniel from the lions' claws,--oh, free My soul from peril, from my whole life's sins!" His right hand glove he offered up to God; Saint Gabriel took the glove.--With head reclined Upon his arm, with hands devoutly joined He breathed his last. God sent his cherubim, Saint-Raphael, _Saint Michiel del Peril_. Together with them Gabriel came. All bring The soul of Count Rollánd to Paradise. Aoi. _Rabillon's Translation_ THE SHAH-NAMEH. The monarchs of ancient Persia made several attempts to collect the historic annals of their country, but both people and traditions were scattered by the Arabian conquest. The manuscript annals were carried to Abyssinia, thence to India, and were taken back to Persia just when the weakness of the conquerors was beginning to show itself. The various members of the Persian line, who had declared themselves independent of their conquerors, determined to rouse the patriotism of their countrymen by the recital of the stirring deeds of the warriors of old Persia. The fame of Abul Kasin Mansur, born at Thus, in Khorasan, A. D. 920, reached Mahmoud of Ghaznin, who was searching for a poet to re-cast the annals of Persia. He called the poet to his court, and, on hearing him improvise, called him Firdusi (the paradisiacal). The poet was intrusted with the preparation of the Shah-Nameh, or Epic of Kings, for every one thousand distichs of which he was to receive a thousand pieces of gold. It had been the dream of the poet's life to build a bridge and otherwise improve his native town. He therefore asked that the payment be deferred until the completion of his work, that he might apply the entire sum to these improvements. But when the poem was completed, after thirty years' labor, the king, instigated by the slanders of the jealous prime minister, sent to the poet sixty thousand silver instead of gold dirhems. The enraged poet threw the silver to his attendants and fled from the country, leaving behind him an insulting poem to the sultan. He spent the remainder of his life at Mazinderan and Bagdad, where he was received with honor, and in his old age returned to Thus to die. Tradition relates that Mahmoud at last discovered the villainy of his minister, and sent the gold to Thus. But the old poet was dead, and his daughter indignantly refused the money. Mahmoud then applied the sum to the improvements of the town so long desired by Firdusi. The Shah-Nameh is written in the pure old Persian, that Mohammed declared would be the language of Paradise. In its sixty thousand couplets are related the deeds of the Persian kings from the foundation of the world to the invasion by the Mohammedans; but it is of very little value as a historical record, the facts it purports to relate being almost lost among the Oriental exaggerations of the deeds of its heroes. The only complete translation in a foreign language is the elaborate French translation of Julius Mohl. The Shah-Nameh is still popular in Persia, where it is said that even the camel drivers are able to repeat long portions of it. Firdusi is sometimes called the Homer of the East, because he describes rude heroic times and men, as did Homer; but he is also compared to Ariosto, because of his wealth of imagery. His heroes are very different from those to whom we have been wont to pay our allegiance; but they fight for the same principles and worship as lovely maids, to judge from the hyperbole employed in their description. The condensation of the Shah-Nameh reads like a dry chronicle; but in its entirety it reminds one of nothing so much as a gorgeous Persian web, so light and varied, so brightened is it by its wealth of episode. BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE SHAH-NAMEH. Samuel Johnson's The Shah-Nameh, or Book of Kings (in his Oriental Religion, Persia, 1885, pp. 711-782); E. B. Cowell's Persian Literature, Firdusi (in Oxford Essays, 1885, pp. 164-166); Elizabeth A. Reed's Persian Literature, Ancient and Modern, 1893, pp. 214-283. STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE SHAH-NAMEH. The Shah-Nameh, Tr. and abridged in prose and verse with notes and illustrations, by James Atkinson, 1832; Abbreviated version taken from a Persian abridgment, half prose, half verse; The Epic of Kings, Stories re-told from Firdusi, by Helen Zimmern, 1882. THE STORY OF THE SHAH-NAMEH. Kaiumers was the first King of Persia, and against him Ahriman, the evil, through jealousy of his greatness, sent forth a mighty Deev to conquer him. By this Deev, Saiamuk, the son of Kaiumers, was slain, and the king himself died of grief at the loss of his son. Husheng, his grandson, who succeeded Kaiumers, was a great and wise king, who gave fire to his people, taught them irrigation, instructed them how to till and sow, and gave names to the beasts. His son and successor, Tahumers, taught his people the arts of spinning, weaving, and writing, and when he died left his throne to his son Jemschid. Jemschid was a mighty monarch, who divided men into classes, and the years into periods, and builded mighty walls and cities; but his heart grew proud at the thought of his power, and he was driven away from his land by his people, who called Zohak to the throne of Iran. Zohak, who came from the deserts of Arabia, was a good and wise young man who had fallen into the power of a Deev. This Deev, in the guise of a skillful servant, asked permission one day to kiss his monarch between the shoulders, as a reward for an unusually fine bit of cookery. From the spot he kissed sprang two black serpents, whose only nourishment was the brains of the king's subjects. The serpent king, as Zohak was now called, was much feared by his subjects, who saw their numbers daily lessen by the demands of the serpents. But when the children of the blacksmith Kawah were demanded as food for the serpents, the blacksmith defied Zohak, and raising his leathern apron as a standard,--a banner ever since honored in Persia,--he called the people to him, and set off in search of Feridoun, an heir of Jemschid. Under the young leader the oppressed people defeated the tyrant, and placed Feridoun on the throne. Feridoun had three sons, Irij, Tur, and Silim. Having tested their bravery, he divided the kingdom among them, giving to Irij the kingdom of Iran. Although the other brothers had received equal shares of the kingdom, they were enraged because Iran was not their portion, and when their complaints to their father were not heeded, they slew their brother. Irij left a son, a babe named Minuchihr, who was reared carefully by Feridoun. In time he avenged his father, by defeating the armies of his uncles and slaying them both. Soon after this, Feridoun died, intrusting his grandson to Saum, his favorite pehliva, or vassal, who ruled over Seistan. Saum was a childless monarch, and when at last a son was born to him he was very happy until he learned that while the child was perfect in every other way, it had the silver hair of an old man. Fearing the talk of his enemies, Saum exposed the child on a mountain top to die. There it was found by the Simurgh, a remarkable animal, part bird, part human, that, touched by the cries of the helpless infant, carried him to her great nest of aloes and sandal-wood, and reared him with her little ones. Saum, who had lived to regret his foolish and wicked act, was told in a dream that his son still lived, and was being cared for by the Simurgh. He accordingly sought the nest, and carried his son away with great thanksgiving. The Simurgh parted tenderly with the little Zal, and presented him with a feather from her wing, telling him that whenever he was in danger, he had only to throw it on the fire and she would instantly come to his aid. Saum first presented his son at the court of Minuchihr, and then took him home to Zaboulistan, where he was carefully instructed in every art and science. At one time, while his father was invading a neighboring province, Zal travelled over the kingdom and stopped at the court of Mihrab, a tributary of Saum, who ruled at Kabul. Though a descendant of the serpent king, Mihrab was good, just, and wise, and he received the young warrior with hospitality. Zal had not been long in Kabul before he heard of the beauties of Rudabeh, the daughter of Mihrab, and she, in turn, of the great exploits of Zal. By an artifice of the princess they met and vowed to love one another forever, though they knew their love would meet with opposition. Saum and Zal both pleaded Zal's cause before Minuchihr, who relented when he heard from the astrologers that a good and mighty warrior would come of the union. Rudabeh's mother won the consent of Mihrab, so that the young people were soon married with great pomp. To them a son was born named Rustem, who, when one day old, was as large as a year-old child. When three years old he could ride a horse, and at eight years was as powerful as any hero of the time. Nauder succeeded the good Minuchihr, and under him Persia was defeated by the Turanians, and Afrasiyab occupied the Persian throne. But Zal, whose father, Saum, had died, overthrew him and placed Zew upon the throne. Zew's reign was short, and Garshasp, his son, succeeded him. When he was threatened by the Turanians, his people went for aid to Zal, who, because he was growing old, referred them to Rustem, yet of tender age. Rustem responded gladly, and his father commanded that all the horses from Zaboulistan to Kabul be brought forth that his son might select a steed therefrom. Every horse bent beneath his grasp until he came to the colt Rakush, which responded to Rustem's voice, and suffered him to mount it. From that day to his death, this steed was his faithful companion and preserver. Garshasp was too weak to rule over the kingdom, and Zal despatched Rustem to Mt. Alberz, where he had been told in a dream a youth dwelt called Kai-Kobad, descended from Feridoun. Kai-Kobad welcomed Rustem, and the two, with the noblest of the kingdom, defeated the power of Turan. After a reign of a hundred years, the wise Kai-Kobad died, and was succeeded by his son, the foolish Kai-Kaus, who, not satisfied with the wealth and extent of his kingdom, determined to conquer the kingdom of Mazinderan, ruled by the Deevs. Zal's remonstrances were of no avail: the headstrong Kai-Kaus marched into Mazinderan, and, together with his whole army, was conquered, imprisoned, and blinded by the power of the White Deev. When the news of the monarch's misfortune came to Iran, Rustem immediately saddled Rakush, and, choosing the shortest and most peril-beset route, set forth, unaccompanied, for Mazinderan. If he survived the dangers that lurked by the way, he would reach Mazinderan in seven days. While sleeping in a forest, after his first day's journey, he was saved from a fierce lion by Rakush, who stood at his head. On the second day, just as he believed himself perishing of thirst, he was saved by a sheep that he followed to a fountain of water; on the third night, Rakush, whom he had angrily forbidden to attack any animal without waking him, twice warned him of the approach of a dragon. The first time the dragon disappeared when Rustem awoke, and he spoke severely to his faithful horse. The second time he slew the dragon, and morning having dawned, proceeded through a desert, where he was offered food and wine by a sorceress. Not recognizing her, and grateful for the food, he offered her a cup of wine in the name of God, and she was immediately converted into a black fiend, whom he slew. He was next opposed by Aulad, whom he defeated, and promised to make ruler of Mazinderan if he would guide him to the caves of the White Deev. A stony desert and a wide stream lay between him and the demon; but the undaunted Rustem passed over them, and choosing the middle of the day, at which time Aulad told him the Deevs slept, he slew the guards, entered the cavern, and after a terrible struggle, overcame and slew the great Deev. He then released Kai-Kaus and his army, and restored their sight by touching their eyes with the blood from the Deev's heart. Kai-Kaus, not satisfied with this adventure, committed many other follies, from which it taxed his warrior sorely to rescue him. Once he was imprisoned by the King of Hamaveran after he had espoused his daughter; again he followed the advice of a wicked Deev, and tried to search the heavens in a flying-machine, that descended and left him in a desert waste. It was only after this last humiliation that he humbled himself, lay in the dust many days, and at last became worthy of the throne of his fathers. At one time Rustem was hunting near the borders of Turan, and, falling asleep, left Rakush to graze in the forest, where he was espied by the men of Turan and at once captured. When Rustem awoke he followed his steed by the traces of its hoofs, until he came to the city of Samengan. The king received him kindly, and promised to restore the horse if it could be found. While his messengers went in search of it, he feasted his guest, and led him for the night to a perfumed couch. In the middle of the night Rustem awoke, to see a beautiful young woman enter the room, accompanied by a maid. She proved to be the princess, who had fallen in love with Rustem. She pleaded with him to return her love, promising, if he did so, to restore his cherished horse. Rustem longed for his steed; moreover, the maiden was irresistibly beautiful. He accordingly yielded to her proposals, and the two were wedded the next day, the king having given his consent. After tarrying some time in Samengan, Rustem was forced to return to Iran. Bidding his bride an affectionate farewell, he presented her with a bracelet. "If thou art given a daughter, place this amulet in her hair to guard her from harm. If a son, bind it on his arm, that he may possess the valor of Nariman." In the course of time, the princess bore a boy, who was like his father in beauty and boldness, whom she christened Sohrab. But for fear that she would be deprived of him, she wrote to Rustem that a daughter had been born to her. To her son she declared the secret of his birth, and urged him to be like his father in all things; but she warned him not to disclose the secret, for she feared that if it came to the ears of Afrasiyab, he would destroy him because of his hatred of Rustem. Sohrab, who had already cherished dreams of conquest, was elated at the knowledge of his parentage. "Mother," exclaimed he, "I shall gather an army of Turks, conquer Iran, dethrone Kai-Kaus, and place my father on the throne; then both of us will conquer Afrasiyab, and I will mount the throne of Turan." The mother, pleased with her son's valor, gave him for a horse a foal sprung from Rakush, and fondly watched his preparations for war. The wicked Afrasiyab well knew that Sohrab was the son of Rustem. He was also aware that it was very dangerous to have two such mighty warriors alive, since if they became known to each other, they would form an alliance. He planned, therefore, to aid Sohrab in the war, keeping him in ignorance of his father, and to manage in some way to have the two meet in battle, that one or both might be slain. The armies met and the great battle began. Sohrab asked to have Rustem pointed out to him, but the soldiers on his side were all instructed to keep him in ignorance. By some strange mischance the two men whom his mother had sent to enlighten him, were both slain. Rustem was moved at the sight of the brave young warrior, but remembering that Tahmineh's offspring was a daughter, thought nothing more of the thrill he felt at sight of him. At last Sohrab and Rustem met in single combat. Sohrab was moved with tenderness for his unknown opponent, and besought him to tell him if he was Rustem, but Rustem declared that he was only a servant of that chief. For three days they fought bitterly, and on the fourth day Rustem overthrew his son. When Sohrab felt that the end had come he threatened his unknown opponent. "Whoever thou art, know that I came not out for empty glory but to find my father, and that though I have found him not, when he hears that thou hast slain his son he will search thee out and avenge me, no matter where thou hidest thyself. For my father is the great Rustem." Rustem fell down in agony when he heard his son's words, and realized that his guile had prevented him from being made known the day before. He examined the onyx bracelet on Sohrab's arm; it was the same he had given Tahmineh. Bethinking himself of a magic ointment possessed by Kai-Kaus, he sent for it that he might heal his dying son; but the foolish king, jealous of his prowess, refused to send it, and Sohrab expired in the arms of his father. Rustem's heart was broken. He heaped up his armor, his tent, his trappings, his treasures, and flung them into a great fire. The house of Zal was filled with mourning, and when the news was conveyed to Samengan, he tore his garments, and his daughter grieved herself to death before a year had passed away. To Kai-Kaus and a wife of the race of Feridoun was born a son called Saiawush, who was beautiful, noble, and virtuous. But his foolish father allowed himself to be prejudiced against the youth by slanderous tongues, so that Saiawush fled from the court and sought shelter with Afrasiyab in Turan. There he speedily became popular, and took unto himself for a wife the daughter of Afrasiyab. But when he and Ferandis his wife built a beautiful city, the hatred and jealousy of Gersiwaz was aroused, so that he lied to Afrasiyab and said that Saiawush was puffed up with pride, and at last induced Afrasiyab to slay his son-in-law. Saiawush had a son, Kai-Khosrau, who was saved by Piran, a kind-hearted nobleman, and given into the care of a goatherd. When Afrasiyab learned of his existence he summoned him to his presence, but the youth, instructed by Piran, assumed the manners of an imbecile, and was accordingly freed by Afrasiyab, who feared no harm from him. When the news of the death of Saiawush was conveyed to Iran there was great mourning, and war was immediately declared against Turan. For seven years the contest was carried on, always without success, and at the end of that time Gudarz dreamed that a son of Saiawush was living called Kai-Khosrau, and that until he was sought out and placed at the head of the army, deliverance could not come to Iran. Kai-Khosrau was discovered, and led the armies on to victory; and when Kai-Kaus found that his grandson was not only a great warrior, skilled in magic, but also possessed wisdom beyond his years, he resigned the throne and made Kai-Khosrau ruler over Iran. Kai-Khosrau ruled many long years, in which time he brought peace and happiness to his kingdom, avenged the murder of his father, and compassed the death of the wicked Afrasiyab. Then, fearing that he might become puffed up with pride like Jemschid, he longed to depart from this world, and prayed Ormuzd to take him to his bosom. The king; after many prayers to Ormuzd, dreamed that his wish would be granted if he set the affairs of his kingdom in order and appointed his successor. Rejoiced, he called his nobles together, divided his treasure among them, and appointed his successor, Lohurasp, whom he commanded to be the woof and warp of justice. Accompanied by a few of his faithful friends, he set out on the long journey to the crest of the mountains. At his entreaties, some of his friends turned back; those who stayed over night, in spite of his warnings, found on waking that they were covered by a heavy fall of snow, and were soon frozen. Afterwards their bodies were found and received a royal burial. Lohurasp had a son Gushtasp who greatly desired to rule, and was a just monarch, when he succeeded to the throne. Gushtasp, however, was jealous of his son, Isfendiyar, who was a great warrior. When Gushtasp was about to be overcome by the forces of Turan, he promised Isfendiyar the throne, if he would destroy the enemy; but when the hosts were scattered, and Isfendiyar reminded his father of his promise, he was cast into a dungeon, there to remain until his services were again needed. When he had again gained a victory, he was told that the throne should be his when he had rescued his sisters from the brazen fortress of Arjasp, where they had been carried and imprisoned. On his way to this tower Isfendiyar met with as many terrible foes as Rustem had encountered on his way to the White Deev, and as successfully overcame them. Wolves, lions, enchantresses, and dragons barred the way to the impregnable fortress, which rose three farsangs high and forty wide, and was constructed entirely of brass and iron. But Isfendiyar, assuming the guise of a merchant and concealing his warriors in chests, won his way into the castle, gained the favor of its inmates, and made them drunk with wine. This done, he freed his sisters, slew the guards, and struck down Arjasp. Instead of keeping his promise, Gushtasp hastened to set his son another task. Rustem was his Pehliva, but it pleased him to send forth Isfendiyar against him, commanding him to bring home the mighty warrior in chains. Isfendiyar pleaded in vain with his father. Then he explained the situation to Rustem, and begged that he would accompany him home in peace to gratify his father. Rustem refused to go in chains, so the two heroes reluctantly began the hardest battle of their lives. At the end of the first day, Rustem and Rakush were severely wounded, and on his return home Rustem happened to think of the Simurgh. Called by the burning of the feather, the kind bird healed the wounds of the hero and of Rakush, and instructed Rustem how to slay his foe. "Seek thou the tamarisk tree, and make thereof an arrow. Aim at his eye, and there thou canst blind and slay him." Rustem followed the directions, and laid low the gallant youth. Isfendiyar died exclaiming, "My father has slain me, not thou, Rustem. I die, the victim of my father's hate; do thou keep for me and rear my son!" Rustem, who had lived so long and accomplished such great deeds, died at last by the hand of his half-brother. This brother, Shugdad, stirred up the king of Kabul, in whose court he was reared, to slay Rustem because he exacted tribute from Kabul. Rustem was called into Kabul by Shugdad, who claimed that the king mistreated him. When he arrived, the matter was settled amicably, and the brothers set out for a hunt with the king. The hunters were led to a spot where the false king had caused pits to be dug lined with sharp weapons. Rustem, pleased with his kind reception and suspecting no harm, beat Rakush severely when he paused and would go no further. Stung by the blows, the gallant horse sprang forward, and fell into the pit. As he rose from this, he fell into another, until, clambering from the seventh pit, he and Rustem fell swooning with pain. "False brother!" cried Rustem; "what hast thou done? Was it for thee to slay thy father's son? Exult now; but thou wilt yet suffer for this crime!" Then altering his tone, he said gently: "But give me, I pray thee, my bow and arrows, that I may have it by my side to slay any wild beast that may try to devour me." Shugdad gave him the bow; and when he saw the gleam in Rustem's eyes, concealed himself behind a tree. But the angry Rustem, grasping the bow with something of his former strength, sent the arrow through tree and man, transfixing both. Then thanking his Creator that he had been given the opportunity to slay his murderer, he breathed his last. SELECTIONS FROM THE SHAH-NAMEH. THE RAJA OF INDIA SENDS A CHESSBOARD TO NUSHIRVAN. "This account of the game of chess, written by Ferdusi more than eight hundred years ago, is curious as showing the antiquity of the game, its resemblance to it as now played, and the tradition that it was invented in India, and came originally from that country." A Mubid related, how one day the king Suspended his crown over the ivory throne, All aloes-wood and ivory, and all ivory and aloes; Every pavilion a court, and every court a royal one; All the Hall of Audience crowned with soldiers; Every pavilion filled with Mubids and Wardens of the Marches, From Balkh, and Bokhara, and from every frontier-- For the King of the world had received advices From his vigilant and active emissaries, That an Ambassador had arrived from a King of India, With the parasol, and elephants, and cavalry of Sind, And, accompanied by a thousand laden camels, Was on his way to visit the Great King. When the circumspect Monarch heard this news, Immediately he despatched an escort to receive him. And when the illustrious and dignified Ambassador Came into the presence of the Great King, According to the manner of the great, he pronounced a benediction, And uttered the praise of the Creator of the world. Then he scattered before him abundance of jewels, And presented the parasol, the elephants, and the ear-rings; The Indian parasol embroidered with gold, And inwoven with all kinds of precious stones. Then he opened the packages in the midst of the court, And displayed each one, article by article, before the King. Within the chest was much silver, and gold, And musk, and amber, and fresh wood of aloes, Of rubies, and diamonds, and Indian swords. Each Indian sword was beautifully damascened; Everything which is produced in Kanuj and Mai Hand and foot were busy to put in its place. They placed the whole together in front of the throne, And the Chief, the favored of wakeful Fortune, Surveyed all that the Raja had painstakingly collected, And then commanded that it should be sent to his treasury. Then the Ambassador presented, written on silk, The letter which the Raja had addressed to Nushirvan; And a chessboard, wrought with such exceeding labor, That the pains bestowed upon it might have emptied a treasury. And the Indian delivered a message from the Raja: "So long as the heavens revolve, may thou be established in thy place! All who have taken pains to excel in knowledge, Command to place this chessboard before them, And to exert their utmost ingenuity To discover the secret of this noble game. Let them learn the name of every piece. Its proper position, and what is its movement. Let them make out the foot-soldier of the army, The elephant, the rook, and the horseman, The march of the vizier and the procession of the King. If they discover the science of this noble game, They will have surpassed the most able in science. Then the tribute and taxes which the King hath demanded I will cheerfully send all to his court. But if the congregated sages, men of Iran, Should prove themselves completely at fault in this science, Then, since they are not strong enough to compete with us in knowledge, Neither should they desire taxes or tribute from this land and country: Rather ought we to receive tribute from you, Since knowledge hath a title beyond all else." Khosru gave heart and ear to the speaker, And impressed on his memory the words which he heard. They placed the chessboard before the King, Who gazed attentively at the pieces a considerable time. Half the pieces on the board were of brilliant ivory, The other half of finely imaged teak-wood. The nicely-observant King questioned him much About the figures of the pieces and the beautiful board. The Indian said in answer: "O thou great Monarch, All the modes and customs of war thou wilt see, When thou shalt have found out the way to the game; The plans, the marches, the array of the battle-field." He replied: "I shall require the space of seven days; On the eighth we will encounter thee with a glad mind." They furnished forthwith a pleasant apartment, And assigned it to the Ambassador as his dwelling. Then the Mubid and the skilful to point out the way Repaired with one purpose to the presence of the King. They placed the chessboard before them, And observed it attentively, time without measure. They sought out and tried every method, And played against one another in all possible ways. One spoke and questioned, and another listened, But no one succeeded in making out the game. They departed, each one with wrinkles on his brow; And Buzarchamahar went forthwith to the king. He perceived that he was ruffled and stern about this matter, And in its beginning foresaw an evil ending. Then he said to Khosru: "O Sovereign, Master of the world, vigilant, and worthy to command, I will reduce to practice this noble game; All my intelligence will I exert to point out the way." Then the king said: "This affair is thine affair; Go thou about it with a clear mind and a sound body, Otherwise the Raja of Kanuj would say, 'He hath not one man who can search out the road,' And this would bring foul disgrace on my Mubids, On my court, on my throne, and on all my wise men." Then Buzarchmahar made them place the chessboard before him, And seated himself, full of thought, and expanded his countenance. He sought out various ways, and moved the pieces to the right hand and to the left, In order that he might discover the position of every piece. When after a whole day and a whole night, he had found out the game, He hurried from his own pavilion to that of the King, And exclaimed: "O King, whom Fortune crowneth with victory, At last I have made out these figures and this chessboard, By a happy chance, and by the favor of the Ruler of the world, The mystery of this game hath found its solution. Call before thee the Ambassador and all who care about it; But the King of kings ought to be the first to behold it. You would say at once without hesitation, It is the exact image of a battle-field." The King was right glad to hear the news; He pronounced him the Fortunate, and the bearer of good tidings. He commanded that the Mubids, and other counsellors, And all who were renowned for their wisdom should be assembled; And ordered that the Ambassador should be summoned to the Presence, And that he should be placed on a splendid throne. Then Buzarchamahar, addressing him, said: "O Mubid, bright in council as the sun, Tell us, what said the King about these pieces, So may intelligence be coupled with thee forever!" And this was his answer: "My Master, prosperous in his undertakings, When I was summoned and appeared before him, Said to me: 'These pieces of teak and ivory Place before the throne of him who weareth the crown, And say to him: Assemble thy Mubids and counsellors, And seat them, and place the pieces before them. If they succeed in making out the noble game, They will win applause and augment enjoyment: Then slaves and money and tribute and taxes, I will send to him as far as I have the means; For a monarch is to be esteemed for his wisdom, Not for his treasure, or his men, or his lofty throne. But if the King and his counsellors are not able to do all this And their minds are not bright enough to comprehend it, He ought not to desire from us tribute or treasure, And his wise soul, alas! must come to grief; And when he seeth our minds and genius to be subtler than theirs. Rather will he send them to us in greater abundance.'" Then Buzarchamahar brought the chess-men and board, And placed them before the throne of the watchful King, And said to the Mubids and counsellors: "O ye illustrious and pure-hearted sages, Give ear all of you to the words he hath uttered, And to the observations of his prudent chief." Then the knowing-man arranged a battle-field, Giving to the King the place in the centre; Right and left he drew up the army, Placing the foot-soldiers in front of the battle. A prudent vizier he stationed beside the King, To give him advice on the plan of the engagement; On each side he set the elephants of war [our bishops], To support one another in the midst of the combat. Further on he assigned their position to the war-steeds [our knights], Placing upon each a horseman eager for battle. Lastly, right and left, at the extremities of the field, He stationed the heroes [the rooks] as rivals to each other. When Buzarchamahar had thus drawn up the army, The whole assembly was lost in astonishment; But the Indian Ambassador was exceedingly grieved, And stood motionless at the sagacity of that Fortune-favored man; Stupefied with amazement, he looked upon him as a magician, And his whole soul was absorbed in his reflections. "For never hath he seen," he said, "a chessboard before, Nor ever hath he heard about it from the experienced men of India. I have told him nothing of the action of these pieces, Not a word have I said about this arrangement and purpose. How then hath the revelation come down upon him? No one in the world will ever take his place!" And Khosru was so proud of Buzarchamahar, Thou mightest say that he was looking Fortune in the face. He was gladdened at his heart, and loaded him with caresses, And ordered him a more than ordinary dress of honor, And commanded him to be given a royal cup Filled to the brim with princely jewels, And a quantity of money, and a charger and a saddle, And dismissed him from the Presence overwhelmed with praises. _Robinson's Translation._ ZAL AND RUDABEH. "Zal, recovered from the care of the Simurgh and arrived at manhood, is sent to govern the frontier province of Zabul; the adjoining province of Kabul, though tributary to the Persian emperor, being governed by its own king, called Mihrab. This episode commences with a visit which Mihrab pays to Zal, who receives him with distinguished honor, entertains him at a sumptuous banquet, and they separate with mutual respect." Then a chief of the great ones around him Said: "O thou, the hero of the world, This Mihrab hath a daughter behind the veil, Whose face is more resplendent than the sun; From head to foot pure as ivory, With a cheek like the spring, and in stature like the teak-tree. Upon her silver shoulders descend two musky tresses, Which, like nooses, fetter the captive; Her lip is like the pomegranate, and her cheek like its flower; Her eyes resemble the narcissus in the garden; Her eyelashes have borrowed the blackness of the raven; Her eyebrows are arched like a fringed bow. Wouldst thou behold the mild radiance of the moon? Look upon her countenance! Wouldst thou inhale delightful odors? She is all fragrance! She is altogether a paradise of sweets, Decked with all grace, all music, all thou canst desire! She would be fitting for thee, O warrior of the world; She is as the heavens above to such as we are." When Zal heard this description, His love leaped to the lovely maiden: His heart boiled over with the heat of passion, So that understanding and rest departed from him. Night came, but he sat groaning, and buried in thought, And a prey to sorrow for the not-yet-seen. _On returning from a second visit, Mihrab describes Zal to his wife and his daughter Rudabeh._ "O beautiful silver-bosomed cypress, In the wide world not one of the heroes Will come up to the measure of Zal! In the pictured palace men will never behold the image Of a warrior so strong, or so firm in the saddle. He hath the heart of a lion, the power of an elephant, And the strength of his arm is as the rush of the Nile. When he sitteth on the throne, he scattereth gold before him; In the battle, the heads of his enemies. His cheek is as ruddy as the flower of the arghavan; Young in years, all alive, and the favorite of fortune; And though his hair is white as though with age, Yet in his bravery he could tear to pieces the water-serpent. "He rageth in the conflict with the fury of the crocodile, He fighteth in the saddle like a sharp-fanged dragon. In his wrath he staineth the earth with blood, As he wieldeth his bright scimitar around him. And though his hair is as white as is a fawn's, In vain would the fault-finder seek another defect! Nay, the whiteness of his hair even becometh him; Thou wouldst say that he is born to beguile all hearts!" When Rudabeh heard this description, Her heart was set on fire, and her cheek crimsoned like the pomegranate. Her whole soul was filled with the love of Zal, And food, and peace, and quietude were driven far from her. _After a time Rudabeh resolves to reveal her passion to her attendants._ Then she said to her prudent slaves: "I will discover what I have hitherto concealed; Ye are each of you the depositaries of my secrets, My attendants, and the partners of my griefs. I am agitated with love like the raging ocean, Whose billows are heaved to the sky. My once bright heart is filled with the love of Zal; My sleep is broken with thoughts of him. My soul is perpetually filled with my passion; Night and day my thoughts dwell upon his countenance. "Not one except yourselves knoweth my secret; Ye, my affectionate and faithful servants, What remedy can ye now devise for my ease? What will ye do for me? What promise will ye give me? Some remedy ye must devise, To free my heart and soul from this unhappiness." Astonishment seized the slaves, That dishonor should come nigh the daughter of kings. In the anxiety of their hearts they started from their seats, And all gave answer with one voice: "O crown of the ladies of the earth! Maiden pre-eminent amongst the pre-eminent! Whose praise is spread abroad from Hindustan to China; The resplendent ring in the circle of the harem; Whose stature surpasseth every cypress in the garden; Whose cheek rivalleth the lustre of the Pleiades; Whose picture is sent by the ruler of Kanuj Even to the distant monarchs of the West-- Have you ceased to be modest in your own eyes? Have you lost all reverence for your father, That whom his own parent cast from his bosom, Him will you receive into yours? A man who was nurtured by a bird in the mountains! A man who was a by-word amongst the people! You--with your roseate countenance and musky tresses-- Seek a man whose hair is already white with age! You--who have filled the world with admiration, Whose portrait hangeth in every palace, And whose beauty, and ringlets, and stature are such That you might draw down a husband from the skies!" _To this remonstrance she makes the following indignant answer:_ When Rudabeh heard their reply, Her heart blazed up like fire before the wind. She raised her voice in anger against them, Her face flushed, but she cast down her eyes. After a time, grief and anger mingled in her countenance, And knitting her brows with passion, she exclaimed: "O unadvised and worthless counsellors, It was not becoming in me to ask your advice! Were my eye dazzled by a star, How could it rejoice to gaze even upon the moon? He who is formed of worthless clay will not regard the rose, Although the rose is in nature more estimable than clay! I wish not for Caesar, nor Emperor of China, Nor for any one of the tiara-crowned monarchs of Iran; The son of Saum, Zal, alone is my equal, With his lion-like limbs, and arms, and shoulders. You may call him, as you please, an old man, or a young; To me, he is in the room of heart and of soul. Except him never shall any one have a place in my heart; Mention not to me any one except him. Him hath my love chosen unseen, Yea, hath chosen him only from description. For him is my affection, not for face or hair; And I have sought his love in the way of honor." _The slaves speak_. "May hundreds of thousands such as we are be a sacrifice for thee; May the wisdom of the creation be thy worthy portion; May thy dark narcissus-eye be ever full of modesty; May thy cheek be ever tinged with bashfulness! If it be necessary to learn the art of the magician, To sew up the eyes with the bands of enchantment, We will fly till we surpass the enchanter's bird, We will run like the deer in search of a remedy. Perchance we may draw the King nigh unto his moon, And place him securely at thy side." The vermil lip of Rudabeh was filled with smiles; She turned her saffron-tinted countenance toward the slave, and said: "If thou shalt bring this matter to a happy issue, Thou hast planted for thyself a stately and fruitful tree, Which every day shall bear rubies for its fruit, And shall pour that fruit into thy lap." _The slaves arrange an interview between the lovers_. Then said the elegant cypress-formed lady to her maidens: "Other than this were once your words and your counsel! Is this then the Zal, the nursling of a bird? This the old man, white-haired and withered? Now his cheek is ruddy as the flower of the arghavan; His stature is tall, his face beautiful, his presence lordly! Ye have exalted my charms before him; Ye have spoken and made me a bargain!" She said, and her lips were full of smiles, But her cheek crimsoned like the bloom of pomegranate. _The interview takes place in a private pavilion of the princess._ When from a distance the son of the valiant Saum Became visible to the illustrious maiden, She opened her gem-like lips, and exclaimed: "Welcome, thou brave and happy youth! The blessing of the Creator of the world be upon thee; On him who is the father of a son like thee! May destiny ever favor thy wishes! May the vault of heaven be the ground thou walkest on! The dark night is turned into day by thy countenance; The world is soul-enlivened by the fragrance of thy presence! Thou hast travelled hither on foot from thy palace; Thou hast pained, to behold me, thy royal footsteps!" When the hero heard the voice from the battlement, He looked up and beheld a face resplendent as the sun, Irradiating the terrace like a flashing jewel, And brightening the ground like a naming ruby. Then he replied: "O thou who sheddest the mild radiance of the moon, The blessing of Heaven, and mine, be upon thee! How many nights hath cold Arcturus beholden me, Uttering my cry to God, the Pure, And beseeching the Lord of the universe, That he would vouchsafe to unveil thy countenance before me! Now I am made joyful in hearing thy voice, In listening to thy rich and gracious accents. But seek, I pray thee, some way to thy presence; For what converse can we hold, I on the ground, and thou on the terrace?" The Peri-faced maiden heard the words of the hero; Quickly she unbound her auburn locks, Coil upon coil, and serpent upon serpent; And she stooped and dropped down the tresses from the battlement, And cried: "O hero, child of heroes, Take now these tresses, they belong to thee, And I have cherished them that they might prove an aid to my beloved." And Zal gazed upward at the lovely maiden, And stood amazed at the beauty of her hair and of her countenance; He covered the musky ringlets with his kisses, And his bride heard the kisses from above. Then he exclaimed: "That would not be right-- May the bright sun never shine on such a day! It were to lay my hand on the life of one already distracted; It were to plunge the arrow-point into my own wounded bosom." Then he took his noose from his boy, and made a running knot, And threw it, and caught it on the battlement, And held his breath, and at one bound Sprang from the ground, and reached the summit. As soon as the hero stood upon the terrace, The Peri-faced maiden ran to greet him, And took the hand of the hero in her own, And they went like those who are overcome with wine. Then he descended from the lofty gallery, His hand in the hand of the tall princess, And came to the door of the gold-painted pavilion, And entered that royal assembly, Which blazed with light like the bowers of Paradise; And the slaves stood like houris before them: And Zal gazed in astonishment On her face, and her hair, and her stately form, and on all that splendor. And Zal was seated in royal pomp Opposite that mildly-radiant beauty; And Rudabeh could not rest from looking towards him, And gazing upon him with all her eyes; On that arm, and shoulder, and that splendid figure, On the brightness of that soul-enlightening countenance; So that the more and more she looked The more and more was her heart inflamed. Then he kissed and embraced her, renewing his vows-- Can the lion help pursuing the wild ass?-- And said: "O sweet and graceful silver-bosomed maiden, It may not be, that, both of noble lineage, We should do aught unbecoming our birth; For from Saum Nariman I received an admonition. To do no unworthy deed, lest evil should come of it; For better is the seemly than the unseemly, That which is lawful than that which is forbidden. And I fear that Manuchahar, when he shall hear of this affair, Will not be inclined to give it his approval; I fear, too, that Saum will exclaim against it, And will boil over with passion, and lay his hand upon me. Yet, though soul and body are precious to all men, Life will I resign, and clothe myself with a shroud-- And this I swear by the righteous God-- Ere I will break the faith which I have pledged thee. I will bow myself before Him, and offer my adoration, And supplicate Him as those who worship Him in truth, That He will cleanse the heart of Saum, king of the earth, From opposition, and rage, and rancor. Perhaps the Creator of the world may listen to my prayer, And thou mayest yet be publicly proclaimed my wife." And Rudabeh said: "And I also, in the presence of the righteous God, Take the same pledge, and swear to thee my faith; And He who created the world be witness to my words, That no one but the hero of the world, The throned, the crowned, the far-famed Zal, Will I ever permit to be sovereign over me." So their love every moment became greater; Prudence was afar, and passion was predominant, Till the gray dawn began to show itself, And the drum to be heard from the royal pavilion. Then Zal bade adieu to the fair one; His soul was darkened, and his bosom on fire, And the eyes of both were filled with tears; And they lifted up their voices against the sun: "O glory of the universe, why come so quick? Couldst thou not wait one little moment" Then Zal cast his noose on a pinnacle, And descended from those happy battlements, As the sun was rising redly above the mountains, And the bands of warriors were gathering in their ranks. _Robinson's Translation._ THE POEM OF THE CID. Rodrigo Ruy Diaz, El Cid Campeador, was born near Burgos, in Spain, about 1040. The name Cid was given him by the Moors, and means lord. Campeador means champion. Ruy Diaz was the trusty lord of Sancho, King of Castile, who at his death divided his kingdom among his children. He then espoused the cause of the eldest son, Sancho, and assisted him in wresting their portion of the kingdom from his brothers Garcia and Alfonso. Sancho having been treacherously slain while besieging his sister Urraca's town of Zamora, the Cid attached himself to Alfonso, humiliating him, however, by making him and his chief lords swear that they had had no hand in Sancho's death. For this, Alfonso revenged himself by exiling the Cid on the slightest pretexts, recalling him only when his services were needed in the defence of the country. This much, and the Cid's victories over the Moors, his occupation of Valencia, and his army's departure therefrom in 1102, led by his corpse seated on horseback, "clothed in his habit as he lived", are historical facts. A great mass of romances, among them the story of his slaying Count Don Gomez because he had insulted his father, Diego Laynez; of Don Gomez's daughter Ximena wooing and wedding him; of his assisting the leper and having his future success foretold by him, and of his embalmed body sitting many years in the cathedral at Toledo, are related in the "Chronicle of the Cid" and the "Ballads." The Poem of the Cid narrates only a portion of his career, and "if it had been named," says Ormsby, "would have been called 'The Triumph of the Cid.'" The Poem of the Cid was written about 1200 A. D. Its authorship is unknown. It contains three thousand seven hundred and forty-five lines, and is divided into two cantares. The versification is careless; when rhyme hampered the poet he dropped it, and used instead the assonant rhyme. The Poem of the Cid is of peculiar interest because it belongs to the very dawn of our modern literature, and because its hero was evidently a real personage, a portion of whose history was recorded in this epic not long after the events took place. The Cid is one of the most simple and natural of the epic heroes; he has all a man's weaknesses, and it is difficult to repress a smile at the perfectly natural manner in which, while he slaughters enough Moors to secure himself a place in the heavenly kingdom, he takes good care to lay up gold for the enjoyment of life on earth. The poem is told with the greatest simplicity, naturalness, and directness, as well as with much poetic fire. BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE CID. Robert Southey's Chronicle of the Cid. . . . Appendix contains Poetry of the Cid by J. H. Frere, 1808, new ed., 1845; Matthew Arnold's Poem of the Cid, MacMillan, 1871, vol. xxiv., pp. 471-485; George Dennio's The Cid: A short Chronicle founded on the early Poetry of Spain, 1845; Butler Clarke's The Cid (in his Spanish Literature, 1893, pp. 46-53); E. E. Hale and Susan Hale's The Cid (in their Story of Spain, 1893, pp. 248-261); Stanley Lane Poole's The Cid (in his Story of the Moors in Spain, 1891, pp. 191-213); Sismondi's Poem of the Cid (in his Literature of the South of Europe, 1884, vol. ii., pp. 95-140); George Ticknor's Poem of the Cid (in his History of Spanish Literature, ed. 6, 1893, vol. i., pp. 12-26); W. T. Dobson's Classic Poets, (1879, pp. 35-138); J. G. von Herder's Der Cid, nach spanischen Romanzen besungen (in his works, 1852, vol. xiv.), translated. STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE POEM OF THE CID. The Poem of the Cid, Tr. by John Ormsby, 1879; Translations from the Poem of the Cid by John Hookam Frere (in his works, 1872, vol. ii., p. 409); Ballads of the Cid, Tr. by Lewis Gerard, 1883; Ancient Spanish Ballads, Tr. by John Gibson Lockhart, 1823. THE STORY OF THE POEM OF THE CID. Tears stood in the eyes of the Cid as he looked at his pillaged castle. The coffers were empty, even the falcons were gone from their perches. "Cruel wrong do I suffer from mine enemy!" he exclaimed as they rode into Burgos. "Alvar Fanez, of a truth we are banished men." From the windows of Burgos town the burghers and their dames looked down with tearful eyes upon the Cid and his sixty lances. "Would that his lord were worthy of him," said they. He rode up to the gates of his house in Burgos; the king's seal was upon them. "My lord," cried a damsel from an upper casement, "thy goods are forfeited to the king, and he has forbidden that we open door or shelter thee upon pain of forfeiture of our goods, yea, even of our sight!" Little hope then had the Cid of mercy from King Alfonso; and sooner than bring suffering on his beloved people of Burgos he betook himself without the city and sat him down to think of what to do. "Martin Antolinez," said he, "I have no money with which to pay my troops. Thou must help me to get it, and if I live I will repay thee double." Then the two together fashioned two stout chests covered with red leather and studded with gilt nails, and these they filled with sand. Then Martin Antolinez without delay sought out the money lenders, Rachel and Vidas, and bargained with them to lend the Cid six hundred marks, and take in pawn for them the two chests filled with treasure that he dared not at that time take away with him. For a year they were to keep the chests and pledge themselves not to look in them. Glad were the hearts of the money lenders as they lifted the heavy chests, and happy was the Cid when he saw the six hundred marks counted out before him. Seeking the monastery of San Pedro de Cardena, the Cid embraced his wife Ximena and his two daughters, and left them in the protection of the abbot, to whom he promised recompense. Hard was the pain of parting as when the finger nail is torn away from the flesh, but a banished man has no choice. And as they passed the night at Higeruela a sweet vision promising success comforted the Cid in his slumbers; and many from Castile, who heard of the departure of the hero, sought his banners to better their fortune. Next day the Cid and his men took Castejon and sold the spoil to the Moors of Hita and Guadalajara, and then my Cid passed on and planted himself upon a lofty and strong hill opposite Alcocer, and levied tribute upon the neighboring peoples. When he had so besieged Alcocer for fifteen weeks he took it by stratagem, and Pero Bermuez, the slow of speech, planted his standard on the highest part. When the King of Valencia heard of this, he determined to capture my Cid, and accordingly sent three thousand Moors to lay siege to Alcocer. When the water was cut off and bread became scarce, the six hundred Spanish men, acting upon the advice of Minaya, took the field against the three thousand Moors; and such was the valor of him that in a good hour was born, and of his standard bearer, Pero Bermuez, and of the good Minaya, that the Moors fell to the ground three hundred at a time, their shields shivered, their mail riven, their white pennons red with blood. "Thanks be to God for victory!" said the Cid. In the Moorish king's camp was found great spoil,--shields, arms, and horses. Greatly the Christians rejoiced, for to them fell much spoil, and but fifteen of their men were missing. Even to the Moors my Cid gave some of his spoil, and from his share of one hundred horses he sent by Minaya thirty, saddled and bridled, with as many swords hung at the saddle bows, to King Alfonso. Also he sent by him a wallet of gold and silver for his wife and daughters, and to pay for a thousand Masses at Burgos. Alfonso was well pleased to receive this token. "It is too soon to take him into favor, but I will accept his present, and I am glad he won the victory. Minaya, I pardon thee; go to the Cid and say that I will permit any valiant man who so desires to follow him." Upon the hill now called the hill of the Cid, he who girt on the sword in a good hour, took up his abode and levied tribute on the people for fifteen weeks. But when he saw that Minaya's return was delayed, he went even unto Saragossa, levying tribute and doing much damage, insomuch that the Count of Barcelona, Raymond de Berenger, was provoked into making an assault upon him in the Pine Wood of Bivar, where he was ingloriously defeated and taken prisoner. The count was the more shamed at this because my Cid had sent him a friendly message, saying that he did not want to fight him, since he owed him no grudge. When Count Raymond had given up his precious sword, the great Colada, the good one of Bivar endeavored to make friends with his prisoner, but to no avail. The count refused meat and drink, and was determined to die, until the Cid assured him that as soon as he ate a hearty meal he should go free. Then he departed joyfully from the camp, fearing even to the last lest the Cid should change his mind, a thing the perfect one never would have done. Cheered by this conquest, the Cid turned to Valencia, and met a great Moorish army, which was speedily defeated, the Cid's numbers having been greatly increased by men who flocked to him from Spain. Two Moorish kings were slain, and the survivors were pursued even to Valencia. Then my Cid sat down before the city for nine months, and in the tenth month Valencia surrendered. The spoil--who could count it? All were rich who accompanied the Cid, and his fifth was thirty thousand marks in money, besides much other spoil. And my Cid's renown spread throughout Spain. Wonderful was he to look upon, for his beard had grown very long. For the love of King Alfonso, who had banished him, he said it should never be cut, nor a hair of it be plucked, and it should be famous among Moors and Christians. Then he again called Minaya to him, and to King Alfonso sent a hundred horses, with the request that his wife and daughters might be allowed to join him. Also he sent him word that he had been joined by a good bishop, Don Jerome, and had created for him a bishopric. Now were the enemies of the good one of Bivar incensed in proportion as the king was pleased with this noble gift. And when the king silenced the envious ones, and ordered an escort for Ximena and her daughters, and treated Minaya with consideration, the Infantes of Carrion talked together, commenting on the growing importance of my Cid. "It would better our fortunes to marry his daughters, but they are below us in rank." And so saying they sent their salutations to the Cid. The Cid met his wife and daughters on his new horse, Babieca, the wonder of all Spain, and great was his joy to clasp them again in his arms. And he took them up in the highest part of Valencia, and their bright eyes looked over the city and the sea, and they all thanked God for giving them so fair a prize. When winter was past and spring had come, the King of Morocco crossed the sea to Valencia with fifty thousand men, and pitched his tents before the city. Then the Cid took his wife and daughters up in the Alcazar, and showed them the vast army. "They bring a gift for us, a dowry against the marriage of our daughters. Because ye are here, with God's help, I shall win the battle." He went forth on the good Babieca; four thousand less thirty followed him to attack the fifty thousand Moors. The Cid's arms dripped with blood to the elbow; the Moors he slew could not be counted. King Yucef himself he smote three times, and only the swiftness of the horse he rode saved the king from death. All fled who were not slain, leaving the spoil behind. Three thousand marks of gold and silver were found there, and the other spoil was countless. Then my Cid ordered Minaya and Pero Bermuez to take to Alfonso the great tent of the King of Morocco, and two hundred horses. And the king was greatly pleased, and the Infantes of Carrion, counselling together, said, "The fame of the Cid grows greater; let us ask his daughters in marriage." And the king gave their request to Minaya and Bermuez, who were to bear it to the Cid. Said my Cid, when he heard the proposal: "The Infantes of Carrion are haughty, and have a faction in court. I have no taste for the match; but since my king desires it, I will be silent." When the king heard his answer, he appointed a meeting, and when he that in a good hour was born saw his king, he fell at his feet to pay him homage. But the king said: "Here do I pardon you, and grant you my love from this day forth." The next day when the king presented to the Cid the offer of the Infantes, my Cid replied: "My daughters are not of marriageable age, but I and they are in your hands. Give them as it pleases you." Then the king commissioned Alvar Fanez to act for him and give the daughters of my Cid to the Infantes. The Cid hastened home to prepare for the wedding. The palace was beautifully decorated with hangings of purple and samite. Rich were the garments of the Infantes, and meek their behavior in the presence of my Cid. The couples were wedded by the Bishop Don Jerome, and the wedding festivities lasted for fifteen days. And for wellnigh two years the Cid and his sons-in-law abode happily in Valencia. One day while my Cid was lying asleep in his palace, a lion broke loose from its cage, and all the court were sore afraid. The Cid's followers gathered around his couch to protect him; but Ferran Gonzalez crept beneath the couch, crying from fear, and Diego ran into the court and threw himself across a wine-press beam, so that he soiled his mantle. The Cid, awakened by the noise, arose, took the lion by the mane, and dragged him to his cage, to the astonishment of all present. Then my Cid asked for his sons-in-law, and when they were found, pale and frightened, the whole court laughed at them until my Cid bade them cease. And the Infantes were deeply insulted. While they were still sulking over their injuries, King Bucar of Morocco beleagured Valencia with fifty thousand tents. The Cid and his barons rejoiced at the thought of battle; but the Infantes were sore afraid, for they were cowards, and feared to be slain in battle. The Cid told them to remain in Valencia; but stung by shame they went forth with Bermuez, who reported that both had fleshed their swords in battle with the Moor. Great was the slaughter of the Moors on that field. Alvar Fanez, Minaya, and the fighting bishop came back dripping with gore, and as for my Cid, he slew King Bucar himself, and brought home the famous sword, Tizon, worth full a thousand marks in gold. The Infantes, still wrathful at their humiliation, talked apart: "Let us take our wealth and our wives and return to Carrion. Once away from the Campeador, we will punish his daughters, so that we shall hear no more of the affair of the lion. With the wealth we have gained from the Cid we can now wed whom we please." Sore was the heart of the Cid when he heard of their determination; but he gave them rich gifts, and also the priceless swords Colada and Tizon. "I won them in knightly fashion," said he, "and I give them to you, for ye are my sons, since I gave you my daughters; in them ye take the core of my heart." He ordered Feliz Muñoz, his nephew, to accompany them as an escort, and sent them by way of Molina to salute his friend, Abengalvon the Moor. The Moor received them in great state, and escorted them as far as the Salon; but when he overheard the Infantes plotting to destroy him, and seize his substance, he left them in anger. At night the Infantes pitched their tents in an oak forest full of tall trees, among which roamed fierce beasts. During the night they made a great show of love to their wives, and the next morning ordered the escort to go on, saying that they would follow alone. As soon as they were alone they stripped the daughters of the Cid of their garments, beat them with their saddle-girths and spurs, and left them for dead in the wild forest. "Now we are avenged for the dishonor of the lion," said they, as they departed for Carrion. But Feliz Muñoz, who had suspected the Infantes, had gone forward but a little way, and then crept back, so that from a thicket he perceived the sufferings of his cousins. Straightway he went to their rescue, found them clothes, and helped them home again. When the Cid heard of this insult to himself and his daughters, he grasped his beard and swore a mighty oath that the Infantes would rue the day when they had thus offended him. All of the Cid's friends strove to comfort the ladies Elvira and Sol, and Abengalvon the Moor made them a rich supper for love of the Cid. At the request of my Cid, King Alfonso summoned a Cortes at Toledo, to try the cause of the Cid and the Infantes. Thither went the Cid, richly clad, so that all men wondered at his rich garments, his long hair in a scarlet and gold coif, and his uncut beard bound up with cords. He and his hundred men wore bright hauberks under their ermines, and trenchant swords under their mantles, for they feared treachery. The king appointed some of his counts as judges, and announced that he held this, the third Cortes of his reign, for the love of the Cid. Then my Cid stood forth. "I am not dishonored because the Infantes deserted my daughters," said the Cid, "for the king gave them away, not I; but I demand my swords, Colada and Tizon. When my lords of Carrion gave up my daughters they relinquished all claims to my property." The Infantes, well pleased that he demanded no more, returned the swords; and when the blades were unsheathed and placed in the hands of the king, the eyes of the court were dazzled by their brightness. The Cid presented Tizon to his nephew and Colada to Martin Antolinez. "Now, my king, I have another grievance. I now demand that the Infantes restore the three thousand marks in gold and silver they carried from Valencia. When they ceased to be my sons-in-law they ceased to own my gold." Then the Infantes were troubled, for they had spent the money; but the judges gave them no relief, and they were forced to pay it out of their heritage of Carrion. "So please your grace," said the Cid, "still another grievance, the greatest of all, I have yet to state. I hold myself dishonored by the Infantes. Redress by combat they must yield, for I will take no other." The Count Garcia ridiculed the Cid's claim. "The noble lords of Carrion are of princely birth; your daughters are not fitting mates for them." Then, while his enemies were taunting him and the court broke into an uproar, the Cid called on Pero Bermuez, "Dumb Peter," to speak. When Pero spoke he made himself clear. For the first time he told how like a craven Ferrando had demeaned himself in battle, and how he himself had slain the Moor on whom the prince had turned his back. He also reminded Ferrando of the affair of the lion. When Diego attempted to speak, he was silenced by Martin Antolinez, who told of the figure he cut when he clung to the wine-press beam in an agony of fear, on the day the lion came forth from its cage. Then the king, commanding silence, gave them permission to fight. Martin Antolinez engaged to meet Diego, Pero Bermuez was to combat with Ferrando, and Muno Gustioz challenged the brawler, Assur Gonzalez. It was agreed that the combat should be held at the end of three weeks in the vega of Carrion. When all had been arranged to his satisfaction, the Cid took off his coif, and released his beard, and all the court wondered at him. Then he offered some of his wealth to all present, and, kissing the king's hand, besought him to take Babieca. But this the king refused to do: "Babieca is for the like of you to keep the Moors off with. If I took him he would not have so good a lord." When the day for the combat arrived, the king himself went to Carrion to see that no treachery was used, and he said to the Infantes: "Ye have need to fight like men. If ye come out successful, ye will receive great honor. If ye are vanquished, the fault will be on your own heads. Seek to do no wrong; woe betide him who attempts it!" Then the marshals placed the contestants in the lists and left them face to face. Each with his gaze fixed on the other, they rushed together and met midway of the lists. At the thrust of Pero's Lance, Ferrando fell from his horse and yielded, as he saw the dread Tizon held over him. At the same time Diego fled from the sword of Martin Antolinez, and Muño Gustioz's lance pierced Assur Gonzalez, who begged him to hold his hand, since the Infantes were vanquished. Thus the battle was won, and Don Roderick's champions gained the victory. Great was the sorrow in the house of Carrion; but he who wrongs a noble lady deserves such suffering. Rejoiced were they of Valencia when the champions brought home these tidings, and ere long, favored by Alfonso himself, the princes of Navarre and Aragon wooed my Cid's daughters, and were married to them with the most splendid nuptials. Now was the Cid happy, and happier still he grew as his honor increased, until upon the feast of Pentecost he passed away. The grace of Christ be upon him! SELECTIONS FROM THE POEM OF THE CID. COUNT RAYMOND AND MY CID. After one of the victories over the Moors won by the Cid after his banishment by King Alfonso, he despatched a messenger to the king with a gift of thirty horses, and while awaiting his return, encamped in the Pine-wood of Tebar and levied tribute on the surrounding country. This information was conveyed to the Count of Barcelona, Raymond Berenger, who prepared to march against the intruder. Great mustering there is of Moors and Christians through the land, A mighty host of men-at-arms he hath at his command. Two days, three nights, they march to seek the Good One of Bivar, To snare him where he harbors in the Pine-wood of Tebar; And such the speed of their advance, that, cumbered with his spoils, And unaware, my Cid wellnigh was taken in the toils. The tidings reached my Cid as down the sierra side he went, Then straightway to Count Raymond be a friendly message sent: "Say to the count that he, meseems, to me no grudge doth owe: Of him I take no spoil, with him in peace I fain would go." "Nay," said the count, "for all his deeds he hath to make amends: This outlaw must be made to know whose honor he offends." With utmost speed the messenger Count Raymond's answer brought; Then of a surety knew my Cid a battle must be fought. "Now, cavaliers," quoth he, "make safe the booty we have won. Look to your weapons, gentlemen; with speed your armor don. On battle bent Count Raymond comes; a mighty host hath he Of Moors and Christians; fight we must if hence we would go free. Here let us fight our battle out, since fight we must perforce. On with your harness, cavaliers, quick saddle, and to horse! Yonder they come, the linen breeks, all down the mountain side, For saddles they have Moorish pads, with slackened girths they ride: Our saddles are Galician make, our leggings tough and stout: A hundred of us gentlemen should scatter such a rout. Before they gain the level plain, home with the lance charge we, And then, for every blow we strike, we empty saddles three. Count Raymond Berenger shall know with whom he has to do; And dearly in Tebar to-day his raid on me shall rue." In serried squadron while he speaks they form around my Cid. Each grasps his lance, and firm and square each sits upon his steed. Over against them down the hill they watch the Franks descend, On to the level ground below, where plain and mountain blend. Then gives my Cid the word to charge--with a good will they go: Fast ply the lances; some they pierce, and some they overthrow. And he that in a good hour was born soon hath he won the field; And the Count Raymond Berenger he hath compelled to yield; And reaping honor for his beard a noble prize hath made: A thousand marks of silver worth, the great Colada blade. Unto his quarters under guard the captive count he sent, While his men haste to gather in their spoils in high content. Then for my Cid Don Roderick a banquet they prepare; But little doth Count Raymond now for feast or banquet care. They bring him meat and drink, but he repels them with disdain. "No morsel will I touch," said he, "for all the wealth of Spain. Let soul and body perish now; life why should I prolong, Conquered and captive at the hands of such an ill-breeched throng?" "Nay," said my Cid; "take bread and wine; eat, and thou goest free; If not, thy realms in Christendom thou never more shalt see." "Go thou, Don Roderick," said the Count, "eat if thou wilt, but I Have no more lust for meat and drink: I only crave to die." Three days, while they the booty share, for all that they entreat, The Count his purpose holds unchanged, refusing still to eat. Then said my Cid, "I pray thee, Count, take food and trust to me; Thyself and two knights of thy train I promise to set free." Glad was Count Raymond in his heart when he the promise heard-- "A marvel that will be, my Cid, if thou dost keep thy word." "Then, Count, take food, and when I see thy hunger satisfied, My word is pledged to let thee go, thyself and two beside. But understand, one farthing's worth I render not again Of what has been in battle lost and won on yonder plain. I give not back the lawful spoils I fairly win in fight; But for mine own and vassals' wants I hold them as my right. My followers are needy men; I cannot if I would; For spoil from thee and others won is all our livelihood. And such, while God's good will it is, must be our daily life, As outcasts forced to wander, with an angry king at strife." With lighter heart Count Raymond called for water for his hands, And then with his two gentlemen, sent by the Cid's commands, He blithely sat him down to meat: God! with what gust ate he! And glad was the Campeador such heartiness to see. Quoth he, "Until thou eat thy fill we part not, Count, to-day." "Nor loth am I," Count Raymond said, "such bidding to obey." So he and his two cavaliers a hearty meal they made: It pleased my Cid to watch his hands, how lustily they played. "Now if thou wilt," Count Raymond said, "that we are satisfied, Bid them to lead the horses forth, that we may mount and ride. Never since I have been a Count have I yet broken fast With such a relish; long shall I remember this repast." Three palfreys with caparisons of costly sort they bring, And on the saddles robes of fur and mantles rich they fling. Thus, with a knight on either hand, away Count Raymond rides; While to the outposts of the camp his guests the Champion guides. "Now speed thee, Count; ride on," quoth he, "a free Frank as thou art. For the brave spoil thou leavest me I thank thee from my heart; And if to win it back again perchance thou hast a mind, Come thou and seek me when thou wilt; I am not far to find. But if it be not to thy taste to try another day, Still, somewhat, be it mine or thine, thou carriest away." "Nay! go in peace for me, my Cid: no more I seek of thee; And thou, I think, for one year's space hast won enough of me." He spurred his steed, but, as he rode, a backward glance he bent, Still fearing to the last my Cid his promise would repent: A thing, the world itself to win, my Cid would not have done: No perfidy was ever found in him, the Perfect One. _Ormsby's Translation._ MY CID'S TRIUMPH. In the Cortes called by the King of Spain to hear the cause of the Cid, whose daughters had been shamefully treated and deserted by their husbands, the Infantes of Carrion, Ferran and Diego Gonzalez, the Cid demanded the restitution of his swords and of three thousand marks of gold and silver he had given the Infantes. These being granted, the Cid spoke again:-- "So please your grace! once more upon your clemency I call; A grievance yet remains untold, the greatest grief of all. And let the court give ear, and weigh the wrong that hath been done. I hold myself dishonored by the lords of Carrion. Redress by combat they must yield; none other will I take. How now, Infantes! what excuse, what answer do ye make? Why have ye laid my heartstrings bare? In jest or earnest, say, Have I offended you? and I will make amends to-day. My daughters in your hands I placed the day that forth ye went, And rich in wealth and honors from Valencia were you sent. Why did you carry with you brides ye loved not, treacherous curs? Why tear their flesh in Corpes wood with saddle-girths and spurs, And leave them to the beasts of prey? Villains throughout were ye! What answer ye can make to this 't is for the court to see." The Count Garcia was the first that rose to make reply. "So please ye, gracious king, of all the kings of Spain most high; Strange is the guise in which my Cid before you hath appeared; To grace your summoned court he comes, with that long straggling beard; With awe struck dumb, methinks, are some; some look as though they feared. The noble lords of Carrion of princely race are born; To take the daughters of my Cid for lemans they should scorn; Much more for brides of equal birth: in casting them aside-- We care not for his blustering talk--we hold them justified." Upstood the Champion, stroked his beard, and grasped it in his hands. "Thanks be to God above," he cried, "who heaven and earth commands, A long and lordly growth it is, my pleasure and my pride; In this my beard, Garcia, say, what find you to deride? Its nurture since it graced my chin hath ever been my care; No son of woman born hath dared to lay a finger there; No son of Christian or of Moor hath ever plucked a hair. Remember Cabra, Count! of thine the same thou canst not say: On both thy castle and thy beard I laid my hand that day: Nay! not a groom was there but he his handful plucked away. Look, where my hand hath been, my lords, all ragged yet it grows!" With noisy protest breaking in Ferran Gonzalez rose: "Cid, let there be an end of this; your gifts you have again, And now no pretext for dispute between us doth remain. Princes of Carrion are we, with fitting brides we mate; Daughters of emperors or kings, not squires of low estate: We brook not such alliances, and yours we rightly spurned." My Cid, Ruy Diaz, at the word, quick to Bermuez turned. "Now is the time, Dumb Peter, speak, O man that sittest mute! My daughters' and thy cousins' name and fame are in dispute; To me they speak, to thee they look to answer every word. If I am left to answer now, thou canst not draw thy sword." Tongue-tied Bermuez stood, awhile he strove for words in vain, But, look you, when he once began he made his meaning plain. "Cid, first I have a word for you: you always are the same, In Cortes ever jibing me, 'Dumb Peter' is the name: It never was a gift of mine, and that long since you knew; But have you found me fail in aught that fell to me to do? You lie, Ferrando; lie in all you say upon that score. The honor was to you, not him, the Cid Campeador; For I know something of your worth, and somewhat I can tell. That day beneath Valencia wall--you recollect it well-- You prayed the Cid to place you in the forefront of the fray; You spied a Moor, and valiantly you went that Moor to slay; And then you turned and fled--for his approach, you would not stay. Right soon he would have taught you 't was a sorry game to play, Had I not been in battle there to take your place that day. I slew him at the first onfall; I gave his steed to you; To no man have I told the tale from that hour hitherto. Before the Cid and all his men you got yourself a name, How you in single combat slew a Moor--a deed of fame; And all believed in your exploit; they wist not of your shame. You are a craven at the core; tall, handsome, as you stand: How dare you talk as now you talk, you tongue without a hand? Again, Ferrando, call to mind--another tale for you-- That matter of the lion; it was at Valencia too. My Cid lay sleeping when you saw the unchained lion near; What did you do, Ferrando, then, in your agony of fear? Low did you crouch behind the couch whereon the Champion lay: You did, Ferrando, and by that we rate your worth to-day. We gathered round to guard our lord, Valencia's conqueror. He rose, and to the lion went, the brave Campeador; The lion fawned before his feet and let him grasp its mane; He thrust it back into its cage; he turned to us again: His trusty vassals to a man he saw around him there; Where were his sons-in-law? he asked, and none could tell him where. Now take thou my defiance as a traitor, trothless knight: Upon this plea before our King Alfonso will I fight; The daughters of my lord are wronged, their wrong is mine to right. That ye those ladies did desert, the baser are ye then; For what are they?--weak women; and what are ye?--strong men. On every count I deem their cause to be the holier, And I will make thee own it when we meet in battle here. Traitor thou shalt confess thyself, so help me God on high, And all that I have said to-day my sword shall verify." Thus far these two. Diego rose, and spoke as ye shall hear: "Counts by our birth are we, of stain our lineage is clear. In this alliance with my Cid there was no parity. If we his daughters cast aside, no cause for shame we see. And little need we care if they in mourning pass their lives, Enduring the reproach that clings to scorned rejected wives. In leaving them we but upheld our honor and our right, And ready to the death am I, maintaining this, to fight." Here Martin Antolinez sprang upon his feet: "False hound! Will you not silent keep that mouth where truth was never found? For you to boast! the lion scare have you forgotten too? How through the open door you rushed, across the court-yard flew; How sprawling in your terror on the wine-press beam you lay? Ay! never more, I trow, you wore the mantle of that day. There is no choice; the issue now the sword alone can try; The daughters of my Cid ye spurned; that must ye justify. On every count I here declare their cause the cause of right, And thou shall own the treachery the day we join in fight." He ceased, and striding up the hall Assur Gonzalez passed; His cheek was flushed with wine, for he had stayed to break his fast; Ungirt his robe, and trailing low his ermine mantle hung; Rude was his bearing to the court, and reckless was his tongue. "What a to-do is here, my lords! was the like ever seen? What talk is this about my Cid--him of Bivar, I mean? To Riodouirna let him go to take his millers' rent, And keep his mills agoing there, as once he was content. He, forsooth, mate his daughters with the Counts of Carrion!" Up started Muño Gustioz: "False, foul-mouthed knave, have done! Thou glutton, wont to break thy fast without a thought of prayer, Whose heart is plotting mischief when thy lips are speaking fair; Whose plighted word to friend or lord hath ever proved a lie; False always to thy fellow-man, falser to God on high. No share in thy good will I seek; one only boon I pray, The chance to make thee own thyself the villain that I say." Then spoke the king: "Enough of words: ye have my leave to fight, The challenged and the challengers; and God defend the right." * * * * * The marshals leave them face to face and from the lists are gone; Here stand the champions of my Cid, there those of Carrion; Each with his gaze intent and fixed upon his chosen foe, Their bucklers braced before their breasts, their lances pointing low, Their heads bent down, as each man leans above his saddle-bow. Then with one impulse every spur is in the charger's side, And earth itself is felt to shake beneath their furious stride; Till, midway meeting, three with three, in struggle fierce they lock, While all account them dead who hear the echo of the shock. Ferrando and his challenger, Pero Bermuez, close; Firm are the lances held, and fair the shields receive the blows. Through Pero's shield Ferrando drove his lance, a bloodless stroke; The point stopped short in empty space, the shaft in splinters broke. But on Bermuez, firm of seat, the shock fell all in vain; And while he took Ferrando's thrust he paid it back again. The armored buckler shattering, right home his lance he pressed, Driving the point through boss and plate against his foeman's breast. Three folds of mail Ferrando wore, they stood him in good stead; Two yielded to the lance's point, the third held fast the head. But forced into the flesh it sank a hand's breadth deep or more, Till bursting from the gasping lips in torrents gushed the gore. Then, the girths breaking, o'er the croup borne rudely to the ground, He lay, a dying man it seemed to all who stood around. Bermuez cast his lance aside, and sword in hand came on; Ferrando saw the blade he bore, he knew it was Tizon: Quick ere the dreaded brand could fall, "I yield me," came the cry. Vanquished the marshals granted him, and Pero let him lie. And Martin Antolinez and Diego--fair and true Each struck upon the other's shield, and wide the splinters flew. Then Antolinez seized his sword, and as he drew the blade, A dazzling gleam of burnished steel across the meadow played; And at Diego striking full, athwart the helmet's crown, Sheer through the steel plates of the casque he drove the falchion down, Through coif and scarf, till from the scalp the locks it razed away, And half shorn off and half upheld the shattered head-piece lay. Reeling beneath the blow that proved Colada's cruel might, Diego saw no chance but one, no safety save in flight: He wheeled and fled, but close behind him Antolinez drew; With the flat blade a hasty blow he dealt him as he flew; But idle was Diego's sword; he shrieked to Heaven for aid: "O God of glory, give me help! save me from yonder blade!" Unreined, his good steed bore him safe and swept him past the bound, And Martin Antolinez stood alone upon the ground. "Come hither," said the king; "thus far the conquerors are ye." And fairly fought and won the field the marshals both agree. So much for these, and how they fought: remains to tell you yet How meanwhile Muño Gustioz Assur Gonzalez met. With a strong arm and steady aim each struck the other's shield, And under Assur's sturdy thrusts the plates of Muño's yield; But harmless passed the lance's point, and spent its force in air. Not so Don Muño's; on the shield of Assur striking fair, Through plate and boss and foeman's breast his pennoned lance he sent, Till out between the shoulder blades a fathom's length it went. Then, as the lance he plucked away, clear from the saddle swung, With one strong wrench of Muno's wrist to earth was Assur flung; And back it came, shaft, pennon, blade, all stained a gory red; Nor was there one of all the crowd but counted Assur sped, While o'er him Muño Gustioz stood with uplifted brand. Then cried Gonzalo Assurez: "In God's name hold thy hand! Already have ye won the field; no more is needed now." And said the marshals, "It is just, and we the claim allow." And then the King Alfonso gave command to clear the ground, And gather in the relics of the battle strewed around. And from the field in honor went Don Roderick's champions three. Thanks be to God, the Lord of all, that gave the victory. But fearing treachery, that night upon their way they went, As King Alfonso's honored guests in safety homeward sent, And to Valencia city day and night they journeyed on, To tell my Cid Campeador that his behest was done. But in the lands of Carrion it was a day of woe, And on the lords of Carrion it fell a heavy blow. He who a noble lady wrongs and casts aside--may he Meet like requital for his deeds, or worse, if worse there be. But let us leave them where they lie--their meed is all men's scorn. Turn we to speak of him that in a happy hour was born. Valencia the Great was glad, rejoiced at heart to see The honored champions of her lord return in victory: And Ruy Diaz grasped his beard: "Thanks be to God," said he, "Of part or lot in Carrion now are my daughters free; Now may I give them without shame whoe'er the suitors be." And favored by the king himself, Alfonso of Leon, Prosperous was the wooing of Navarre and Aragon, The bridals of Elvira and of Sol in splendor passed; Stately the former nuptials were, but statelier far the _hast_. And he that in a good hour was born, behold how he _hath_ sped! His daughters now to higher rank and greater honor wed: Sought by Navarre and Aragon for queens his daughters twain; And monarchs of his blood to-day upon the thrones of Spain. And so his honor in the land grows greater day by day. Upon the feast of Pentecost from life he passed away. For him and all of us the Grace of Christ let us implore. And here ye have the story of my Cid Campeador. _Ormsby's Translation._ THE DIVINE COMEDY. "This Poem of the earth and air, This mediaeval miracle of song." Dante Alighieri was born at Florence, in May, 1265. His family belonged to the Guelph, or Papal faction, and he early took part in the struggle between the parties. In 1274 he first saw Beatrice Portinari, and he says of this meeting in the "Vita Nuova," "I say that thenceforward Love swayed my soul, which was even then espoused to him." Beatrice died in 1290, and Dante married Gemma Donati, between 1291 and 1294. In 1295 he joined the Art of Druggists, in order to become a member of the Administrative Council. In 1300 he was made Prior, and in 1301, when the Neri entered Florence, he was exiled, his property confiscated, and himself sentenced to be burned, if found within the republic. After this he became a Ghibeline, and took up arms against the city with his fellow-exiles, but withdrew from their council at last because of disagreements, and separating from them, spent his time at Verona, Padua, Sunigianda, and in the monastery of Gubbio. In 1316 the government of Florence issued a decree allowing the exiles to return on payment of a fine; but Dante indignantly refused to acknowledge thus that he had been in the wrong. He was in Ravenna in 1320, and died there Sept. 14, 1321, on his return from an embassy to Venice. The "Commedia" was written during Dante's nineteen years of exile. The three parts, Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise, are emblematic of the threefold state of man,--sin, grace, and beatitude. The thirty-three cantos into which each part is divided, are in allusion to the years of the Saviour's life, and the triple rhyme suggests the Trinity. The Divine Comedy is written in the _terza rima_, which consists of three verses arranged in such a way that the middle line of each triplet rhymes with the first or third verse of the succeeding triplet. The entire time occupied in the "Commedia" is eleven days, from March 25 to April 5, 1300. Dante called the poem a comedy because of its prosperous ending. The prefix "divine" was given it later by its admirers. The Divine Comedy is sometimes called the epic of mediaevalism, and again, the epic of man. Dante himself said: "The subject of the whole work, then, taken literally, is the state of the soul after death, regarded as a matter of fact; for the action of the whole work deals with this and is about this. But if the work be taken allegorically, its subject is man, in so far as by merit or demerit in the exercise of free will, he is exposed to the rewards or punishment of justice." For a time the Divine Comedy was neglected, and even in comparatively recent times the Inferno was the only portion read; but of late years there has been a re-awakening of interest in regard to the whole poem. In no other of the epics has the author put so much of himself as Dante has in the "Commedia." It was he himself who saw this vision; he himself, proud, tortured, who carried the sense of his wrongs with him through Hell and Purgatory, even into Paradise. We learn the history of his times, all the crimes committed by men in high position, and we also learn the history of the unhappy Florentine, of whose poem it has been said, "none other in the world is so deeply and universally sorrowful." BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE DIVINE COMEDY. J. Colomb de Batines's Bibliografia Dantesca, 2 vols., 1846; William Coolidge Lane's The Dante collections in the Harvard College and Boston Public Libraries (Bibliographical contributions of the library of Harvard University, 1885); William Coolidge Lane's Additions to the Dante collection in the Harvard Library (see the Annual Reports of the Dante Society of Cambridge, Mass., 1887); Brother Azarius's Spiritual Sense of the Divina Commedia (in his Phases of Thought and Criticism, 1892, pp. 125-182); Henry Clark Barlow's Critical Contributions to the Study of the Divine Comedy, 1865; Herbert Baynes's Dante and his Ideal, 1891; Vincenzo Botta's Introduction to the Study of Dante, 1887; Oscar Browning's Dante, his Life and Writing, 1890, pp. 70-104; A. J. Butler's Dante, his Time and Work, 1895; Richard William Church's Dante and Other Essays, 1888, pp. 1-191; J. Farrazzi's Manuale Dantesco, 5 vols., 1865-77; William Torrey Harris's Spiritual Sense of Dante's Divina Commedia, 1890; Francis Hettinger's Dante's Divina Commedia, its Scope and Value, Tr. by H. S. Bowden, 1887 (Roman Catholic standpoint); J. R. Lowell's Essay on Dante (in his Among my Books, 1876); Lewis E. Mott's Dante and Beatrice, an Essay on Interpretation, 1892; Giovanni Andrea Scartazzini's A Companion to Dante, from the German, by A. J. Butler, 1892; Denton J. Snider's Dante's Inferno: a Commentary, 1892; Augustus Hopkins Strong's Dante and the Divine Comedy (in his Philosophy and Religion, 1888, pp. 501-524); John Addington Symonds's An Introduction to the Study of Dante, Ed. 2, 1890; Paget Toynbee's Dictionary of the Divina Commedia, 2 parts; William Warren Vernon's Readings on the Purgatorio of Dante, chiefly based on the Commentary of Benvenuto da Imola; Intro. by the Dean of St. Paul's, 2 vols., 1889; Dr. Edward Moore's Time References in the Divina Commedia, London, 1887; Dr. E. Moore's Contributions to the Textual Criticism of the Divina Commedia, Cambridge, 1889. STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE DIVINE COMEDY. The Divine Comedy, the Inferno, a literal prose translation with the text of the original collated from the best editions, with explanatory notes by J. A. Carlyle, Ed. 6, 1891 (contains valuable chapters on manuscripts, translations, etc.); Divina Commedia, edited with translation and notes by A. J. Butler, 1892; Vision of Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise, Tr. by H. F. Cary, 1888; The Divine Comedy, Tr. by H. W. Longfellow, 1887; The Divine Comedy, Tr. by C. E. Norton, 1891-92 (rhythmical prose translation); The Divine Comedy, Tr. of the Commedia and Lanzoniere, notes, essays, and biographical introduction by E. H. Plumptre, 1887; Divina Commedia, Tr. into English verse with notes and illustrations by J. A. Wilstach, 2 vols., 1888. THE DIVINE COMEDY. THE HELL. The Hell conceived by Dante was made by the falling of Lucifer to the centre of the earth. It was directly under Jerusalem. The earth, displaced by Lucifer's fall, made the Mount of Purgatory, which was the antipodes of Jerusalem. The unbarred entrance gate, over which stands the inscription, "Leave hope behind, all ye who enter here," leads into a Vestibule, or Ante-Hell, a dark plain separated from Hell proper by the river Acheron. Hell proper then falls into three great divisions for the punishment of the sins of Incontinence, Bestiality, and Malice, which are punished in nine circles, each circle sub-divided. Circle One is the Limbo of the Unbaptized. Circles Two, Three, Four, and Five are reserved for the punishment of the sins of Incontinence, Lasciviousness, Gluttony, Avarice with Prodigality, and Anger with Melancholy. In Circle Six is punished the sin of Bestiality, under which fall Infidelity and Heresiarchy, Bestiality having here its Italian meaning of folly. In Circles Seven and Eight is punished Malice, subdivided into Violence and Fraud. There are three divisions of Violence,--the Violent against their neighbors (Tyrants, Murderers, etc.); the Violent against themselves (Suicides); and the violent against God (Blasphemers, etc.); and ten divisions of Circle Eight,--Fraud, _i.e._, Seducers, Flatterers, Simoniacs, Soothsayers, Barrators, Hypocrites, Thieves, False Counsellors, Schismatics, and Forgers and Falsifiers. Below these ten pits yawns the well of the giants, above which the giants tower so that half their persons is visible. Within this well in Circle Nine is Cocytus, a lake of ice divided into four belts,--Caina, Antenora, Ptolemaea, and Judecca, where are punished, respectively, the Betrayers of their kindred, of their country, of their friends and guests, and of their benefactors. At the bottom of the pit is Lucifer, half above the ice and half below it, the centre of his body being the centre of gravity. THE STORY OF THE DIVINE COMEDY. THE HELL. The poet Dante, in the thirty-fifth year of his life, this being the year 1300 A. D., on New Year's day of the old reckoning, lost his way in a rough and thorny forest, and when he attempted to regain it by mounting a hill that rose before him resplendent in sunshine, encountered a leopard, a lion, and a wolf. Driven back by these, and utterly despairing of rescue, he met one who declared himself to be that Vergil who had sung the fall of Troy and the flight of Aeneas, and who promised to take him through the lower world and Purgatory, even unto Paradise. Dante questioned why it was permitted to him to take the journey denied to so many others, and was told that Vergil had been sent to his rescue by the beauteous Beatrice, long since in Paradise. When the poet, trembling with fear, heard that the shining eyes of Beatrice had wept over his danger in the forest, and that she had sought the gates of hell to effect his rescue, his strength was renewed, even as the flowers, chilled by the frosts of night, uplift themselves in the bright light of the morning sun; and he entered without fear on the deep and savage way. This allegory, being interpreted, probably means that the poet, entangled in the dark forest of political anarchy, was driven from the hill of civil order by the Leopard of Pleasure (Florence), the Lion of Ambition (France), and the Wolf of Avarice (Rome), and was by divine grace granted a vision of the three worlds that he might realize what comes after death, and be the more firmly established in the right political faith,--Ghibellinism. "Through me is the way into the sorrowful city; into eternal dole among the lost people. Justice incited my sublime Creator. Divine Omnipotence, the highest wisdom, and the Primal Love created me. Before me, there were no created things. Only eternal, and I eternal, last. Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!" Such was the inscription over the doorway, after the reading of which Dante's ears were assailed by words of agony and heart-rending cries. "This," said Vergil, "is the home of those melancholy souls who lived without infamy and without praise. Cowards and selfish in life, they are denied even entrance to hell." As they looked, a long train passed by, stung by gadflies and following a whirling standard. Charon, about whose eyes were wheels of flame, endeavored to drive the poet and his guide away as they stood among the weary and naked souls that gathered shivering on the margin of Acheron; but as a blast of wind and a burst of crimson light caused a deep sleep to fall on the poet, he was wafted across the river, and awaking he found himself in the Limbo of the Unbaptized, the first of the nine circles of hell, where were the souls of many men, women, and infants, whose only punishment was, without hope, to live on in desire. Here was no torment, only the sadness caused by the ever-unsatisfied longing for the ever-denied divine grace. This was Vergil's abode, and in the noble castles set among the green enamelled meadows dwelt Homer, Horace, and Ovid, Electra, Hector, and Camilla. Passing down a narrow walk into a region of semi-darkness, they entered the second circle, where Minos stood, judging the sinners and girding himself with his tail as many times as was the number of the circle to which the spirit was to go. Here in darkness and storm were the carnal sinners, whose punishment was to be beaten hither and thither by the winds,--Semiramis, Dido, Cleopatra, Paris, Tristan, and all those who had sinned for love, and here Dante conversed with the spirit of Francesca da Rimini, whom he had known in life, and her lover Paolo, slain for their sin by her husband. Though there is no greater sorrow than to be mindful of the happy time in misery, she assured Dante that the sorrows of Hell were lightened by the presence of Paolo. At the sight of Paolo's grief Dante fell swooning with pity, and awoke to find himself in the circle where a cold rain fell forever on the gluttons. Cerberus guarded the entrance, and now and again devoured the unhappy ones who lay prone on their faces in the murk and mire. Here Ciacco of Florence recognized and spoke with Dante, falling back in the mire as the poet passed on, to rise no more until the Day of Judgment. Plutus guarded the fourth circle, where were confined the avaricious and prodigal, who, divided into two bands, rolled weights against each other, uttering wretched insults. Down the sloping banks to the marsh of the Styx the poets went, past the sullen and angry, who in life refused the comfort of the sweet air and gladdening sun, and were in consequence doomed forever to remain buried in the sullen mire. As Dante and Vergil passed over the Styx in the boat of the vile Phlegyas, Dante was saluted by the spirit of the once haughty and arrogant Philippo Argenti, whom he repulsed, and gladly saw set upon and torn by the people of the mire. Then appeared to him the mosques of the city of Dis, within the valley, vermilion-hued from the fire eternal. Deep were the moats; the walls appeared to be of iron. Upon the flaming summit sat the Furies, stained with blood, begirt with Hydras. Here even Vergil trembled as they waited the arrival of one sent from Heaven to open the gate and admit them. Within, over the plain, were scattered sepulchres heated red hot, with uplifted coverings, from which issued forth dire laments from the Infidels and Heresiarchs tormented within. To Farinata degli Uberti, who rose from his tomb to ask the news of Florence, Dante spoke, observing in the mean time a shade that, on hearing the Tuscan tongue, rose next Uberti, questioning, "Where is my son, my Guido?" Fancying from the poet's delay in answering, and his use of the past tense, that his beloved child no longer enjoyed the sweet light, Cavalcante fell back and appeared no more. Leaving the dismal plain, whose countless tombs would remain open until the Judgment Day, the poets entered upon the next and seventh circle, composed of three smaller circles in which were punished the Violent against their neighbors, against nature, and against God. The steep banks of the ravine were guarded by the huge Minotaur, from which Dante and Vergil escaped only by running. Within Phlegethon, the boiling river of blood, stood the tyrants, among whom were Dionysius, Azzolin, and Attila, uttering loud laments. If they ventured to stir from their place of torment they were pierced by the arrows of the Centaurs that guarded the banks. The Centaur Nessus conveyed Dante across the river into the second circle, the dolorous forest, where the Violent against nature, the Suicides, were transformed into closely set, twisted thorn-trees, infested with harpies that fed on their leaves, inflicting perpetual pain; thence into the third circle, where the Violent against God, chief among whom was the arrogant Capaneus, dwelt in a sandy plain surrounded by the dolorous forest. Upon the naked souls, some of whom were lying supine, some crouching, others moving about continually, fell a perpetual shower of flakes of fire. Picking their way along the edge of the forest, not daring to step on the sand waste, the poets came upon a little blood-red rivulet quenching the flames above it, Phlegethon again, formed by the rivers Acheron and Styx, whose source is the tears of Time. As they skirted the forest they saw a troop of spirits hastening past, one of whom, after a sharp look, grasped Dante's garment exclaiming, "What a wonder!" The baked countenance, the ghastly face, was that of his old teacher Ser Brunetto, who not daring to stop for fear of increasing his punishment, followed him, questioning him on his appearance below, and comforting him by the assurance of his future greatness. Deep were the burns in the limbs of the other Florentines Dante met below, to whom he gave tidings of the state of affairs in their former home. Mounting on the shoulders of the hideous monster Geryon, the poets were carried into a fearful abyss whose sides were Alp-like in steepness. This was the eighth circle, Malebolge, or Evil pits, consisting of ten concentric bolge, or ditches of stone with dikes between and rough bridges running across them to the centre. In the first pit Jason and other deceivers of women were being lashed by horned demons. In pit two, a Florentine friend of Dante's was submerged with others in filth as a punishment for flattery. In pit three the Simoniacs were placed head down in purses in the earth, their projecting feet tortured with flames. The poets crossed the bridge, and Vergil carried Dante down the sloping bank so that he could speak to one who proved to be the unhappy Nicholas III., who accused Boniface for his evil deeds and expressed a longing for his arrival in this place of torture. From the next bridge-top Dante dimly perceived the slow procession of weeping soothsayers with heads reversed on their shoulders. There walked Amphiarus, Tiresias, Manto, and Michael Scott. So great was Dante's sorrow on beholding the misery of these men who had once been held in such great esteem, that he leaned against a crag and wept until reproved by Vergil as a reprobate for feeling compassion at the doom divine. Through the semi-darkness the poets looked down into pit five, where devils with fantastic names pitched barrators into a lake of boiling pitch and speared those who dared to raise their heads above the surface. From these Evil Claws Dante and Vergil escaped only by running into the sixth pit, where walked the hypocrites in richly gilded mantles. When Dante wondered at their weary faces and their tears, he was told by two of the Frati Gaudenti (Jolly Friars) of Florence who suffered here, that the cloaks and hoods were of heaviest lead, a load that grew more irksome with the ages. Caiaphas, Annas, and the members of the council that condemned Christ lay on the ground transfixed with stakes, and over their bodies passed the slow moving train of the hypocrites. The next bridge lay in ruins as a result of the earthquake at the Crucifixion, and Vergil experienced the utmost difficulty in conveying Dante up the crags to a point where he could look down into the dark dungeon of thieves, where the naked throng were entwined with serpents and at their bite changed from man to serpent and back again. Some burned and fell into ashes at the venomous bite, only to rise again and suffer new tortures. Here Dante spoke with Vanni Fucci of Pistoja, who robbed the sacristy of Florence, and whose face "was painted with a melancholy shame" at being seen in his misery. The eighth pit was brightly lighted by the flames that moved back and forth, each concealing within an evil counsellor. Ulysses and Diomed walked together in a flame cleft at the top, for the crime of robbing Deidamia of Achilles, of stealing the Palladium, and of fabricating the Trojan horse. As Dante looked into pit nine he saw a troop compelled to pass continually by a demon with a sharp sword who mutilated each one each time he made the round of the circle, so that the wounds never healed. These were the evil counsellors. Mahomet was there; there too was Ali. But ghastliest of sights was that of a headless trunk walking through the grim plain, holding its severed head by the hair like a lantern, and exclaiming "O me!" This was the notorious Bertrand de Born, the Troubadour, who had caused dissension between Henry II. of England and his son. Among this throng Dante recognized his kinsman Geri del Bello, who gave him a disdainful look because he had not yet avenged his death. From the tenth and last pit of Malebolge came a stench as great as though it came from all the hospitals of Valdichiana, Maremma, and Sardinia, between July and September. All the loathsome diseases were gathered into this moat to afflict the forgers and falsifiers. Here Dante saw Athamas, mad king of Thebes, the mad Gianni Schicchi, and Messer Adam of Brescia, the false coiner, who, distorted with dropsy, was perishing of thirst, and thinking constantly of the cool rivulets that descended from the verdant hills of Casentino. As Dante and his guide turned their backs on the wretched valley and ascended the bank that surrounded it, the blare of a loud horn fell upon their ears, louder than Roland's blast at Roncesvalles. This came from the plain of the giants between Malebolge and the mouth of the infernal pit. All around the pit, or well, were set the giants with half their bodies fixed in earth. Nimrod, as a punishment for building the tower of Babel, could speak no language, but babbled some gibberish. Ephialtes, Briareus, and Antaeus were here, all horrible in aspect; Antaeus, less savage than the others, lifted the two poets, and stooping set them down in the pit below. This was the last and ninth circle, a dismal pit for the punishment of traitors, who were frozen in the vast lake that Cocytus formed here. In Caina were the brothers Alessandro and Napoleone degli Alberti, mutual fratricides, their heads frozen together. In Antenora was that Guelph Bocca who had caused his party's defeat; but the most horrible sight they encountered was in Ptolemaea, where Count Ugolino, who had been shut up with his sons and grandsons in a tower to starve by the Archbishop Ruggieri, was now revenging himself in their place of torture by continually gnawing the archbishop's head, frozen in the ice next his own. Farther down they walked among those who, when they shed tears over their woe had their teardrops frozen, so that even this solace was soon denied them. Dante promised to break the frozen veil from the eyes of one who prayed for aid, but when he learned that it was the Friar Alberigo, whose body was still on earth, and whose soul was already undergoing punishment, he refused, "for to be rude to him was courtesy." In the fourth and last division of the ninth circle, the Judecca, a strong wind was blowing. Then Dante saw the emperor of the kingdom frozen in the ice, a mighty giant foul to look upon, with three faces, vermilion, white and yellow, and black. The waving of his two featherless wings caused the great winds that froze Cocytus. Teardrops fell from his six eyes; in each mouth he was crunching a sinner, Judas Iscariot, Brutus, and Cassius. Being warned by Vergil that it was time to depart, Dante clasped his guide around his neck, and Vergil began to climb down the huge monster until they reached his middle, the centre of gravity, where with much difficulty they turned and climbed upward along the subterranean course of Lethe, until they again beheld the stars. THE DIVINE COMEDY. THE PURGATORY. The Purgatory of Dante is situated on a mountain top on the opposite side of the earth from Jerusalem, and is surrounded by the western ocean. The souls of those who go there collect on the banks of the Tiber, and are taken to the mountain in a boat by an angel pilot. The shores of the island are covered with the reeds of humility. Around the base of the mount dwell the souls that, repenting late, must "expiate each year of deferred penitence with thirty years of deferred Purgatory" unless the time be shortened by the prayers of their friends on earth. There are three stages of this Ante-Purgatory: the first, for those who put off conversion through negligence; the second, for those who died by violence and repented while dying; the third, for those monarchs who were too much absorbed in earthly greatness to give much thought to the world to come. The ascent of the terraces, as also those of Purgatory proper, is very difficult, and is not allowed to be made after sunset. The gate of St. Peter separates Ante-Purgatory from Purgatory proper. Three steps, the first of polished white marble, the second of purple, rough and cracked, and the third of blood-red porphyry, signifying confession, contrition, and penance, lead to the gate where sits the angel clad in a penitential robe, with the gold and silver keys with which to unlock the outer and inner gates. Purgatory proper consists of seven terraces, in each of which one of the seven capital sins, Pride, Anger, Sloth, Avarice, Gluttony, and Lasciviousness are punished; Pride first, because no other sin can be purged from the body until this deepest sin is eliminated. The soul, cleansed of these sins, mounts to the terrestrial paradise, which, above the sphere of air, crowns the Mount of Purgatory. THE STORY OF THE DIVINE COMEDY. THE PURGATORY. As morning dawned and the poets slowly climbed out of the infernal region and stepped upon the isle from which the Mount of Purgatory rises, they were accosted by an old man with long white hair and beard, Cato of Utica, who demanded the reason of their coming, and only permitted them to remain when he heard that a lady from Heaven had given the command. Then he ordered Vergil to lave the smoke of Hell from Dante's face in the waves of the sea, and to gird him with the reed of humility. As the sun rose a radiant angel, guiding a boat laden with souls, appeared, and the poets fell on their knees until he departed. As the newly-landed spirits questioned Vergil of the way up the mountain, Dante recognized among them his beloved friend Casella, the musician, and tried in vain to embrace his spirit body. At Dante's request, Casella began to sing, and the enchanted spirits were scattered only by the chiding voice of Cato. Vergil surveyed the insurmountable height before them, and hastened with Dante to inquire the way of a troop of souls coming towards them. As they talked, Dante recognized one, blond and smiling, with a gash over one eyebrow and another over his heart. It was Manfredi, King of Apulia and Sicily, who was slain at Benevento by Charles of Anjou, and, being under excommunication, was not allowed Christian burial. He asked Dante to make him happy by telling his daughter that by faith he was saved from eternal destruction, but because of his sins he must spend thirty times the time that his presumption had endured at the foot of the mount, unless his time was shortened by the righteous prayers of his friends on earth. It was with the greatest difficulty that the poets clambered up the steep and narrow path to the next terrace, and only the assurance that the ascent would grow easier as he neared the summit sustained Dante. As Vergil explained to him while resting on the next terrace that the sun appeared on his left because Purgatory and Jerusalem were in different hemispheres, some one spoke, and turning they saw a group of persons in an attitude of indolence, among them a Florentine acquaintance, Belacqua, a maker of musical instruments, who sat waiting the length of another lifetime for admission above because he had postponed conversion from time to time, through negligence. Proceeding, the poets met a concourse of souls who had suffered violent death, chanting the Miserere, who perceiving Dante to be living, sent messages to their friends on earth. Among these were Giacopo del Cassero and Buonconte di Montefeltro, son of Dante's friend, Guido di Montefeltro, who fell in the battle of Campaldino, in which Dante had taken part. Wounded in the neck, he fell, and had just time to breathe a prayer to Mary, thus saving his soul from the Evil One, who was so incensed that, raising a great storm, he caused the rivers to overflow and sweep away the lifeless body, tearing from it the cross he had made with his arms in his last agony, and burying it in the mire of the Arno. The third shade bade him think of her when, returned home, he sang of his journey. She was Pia, born at Sienna, who died at Maremma, by the hand of her husband. Dante at last managed to escape from these shades, who implored him to ask for prayers for them on earth, and moved on with Vergil until they met the haughty shade of Sordello, who clasped Vergil in his arms when he learned he was a Mantuan. Touched by this expression of love for his native land, Dante launched into an apostrophe to degenerate Italy, to that German Albert who refused to save the country groaning under oppression, and to lost Florence, torn by internecine wars. When Sordello learned that the Mantuan shade was Vergil, he humbled himself before him, and paid him reverence, asking eagerly in what part of the underworld he dwelt. The sun was sinking, and as the poets could not ascend by night, he urged them to pass the night with him. Leading them to a vale carpeted with emerald grass and brilliant with flowers, he pointed out the shades singing "Salve Regina" as the Emperor Rudolph,--he who made an effort to heal sick Italy,--Philip III. of France, Charles I. of Naples, and Henry III. of England. As the hour of twilight approached, that hour in which the sailor thinks of home, and the pilgrim thrills at the sound of vesper bells, Dante beheld a shade arise, and lifting its palms begin to sing the vesper hymn. Soon two radiant angels clad in delicate green descended from Heaven, holding flaming swords. These, Sordello explained, were to keep off the serpent that threatened this fair vale at night. As the hour of night approached in which the swallow laments its woes, Dante fell asleep on the grass and dreamed that he was Ganymede snatched from Mt. Ida by Jove's eagle. Awaking, he found himself alone with Vergil in a strange place, with the sun two hours high. Lucia, symbolical of the enlightening grace of Heaven, had conveyed him to the spot and pointed out to Vergil the gate of Purgatory. Cheered and confident, he rose, and they went together to the portal and mounted the three steps, the first of shining white marble, the second of purple stone, cracked and burnt, and the third of flaming red porphyry. There, on the diamond threshold, sat an angel with a naked sword, clad in a robe of ashen gray, whose face was too bright to look upon. When Dante fell on his knees and implored entrance, the angel imprinted on his forehead seven "P"'s for the seven sins (Peccata), and opening the gate with the gold and silver keys, ushered them into the mighty portals. "From Peter I have these keys. Me he instructed to err rather in opening than in keeping shut. But see that ye look not behind, or ye will at once return." With much difficulty the two poets ascended the steep and winding path, and paused to view the wonderful sculptures on the embankment, that would put Nature herself to shame, so natural were they. Many examples of Humility were there portrayed,--the Virgin Mary, the Holy Ark, drawn by oxen, the Psalmist dancing before the Lord, while Michal looked forth in scorn from her palace window, and Trajan, yielding to the widow's prayer. As they stood there, the souls came in sight. "Reader, attend not to the fashion of the torment, but think of what follows." The unhappy ones crept around the terrace, bowed under a heavy burden of stones, and the most patient, as he bent under his burden, exclaimed, with tears, "I can do no more!" As they walked they repeated the Lord's Prayer, and kept their eyes fixed on the life-like sculptures on the floor of those who had suffered before them for the sins of pride: Lucifer, falling from Heaven; Briareus and Nimrod overcome by the bolts of Jove; Niobe, weeping among her dead children; Cyrus's head taunted by Tomyris; Troy humbled in ashes. As Vergil approached the penitents to inquire the way to the next terrace, he and Dante were invited to join the procession and talk with one who could not lift his face enough to see them. This was Omberto, who had been slain by the Siennese for his unbearable pride. Dante also talked with his friend Oderigi, an illuminator of manuscript, who now humbly acknowledged that he was far surpassed by Franco Bolognese. "What is mundane glory?" he exclaimed, as he pointed out Provenzano Salvani, with whose fame Tuscany once rang, but who barely escaped Hell by his voluntary humiliation for a friend. "Lift up thy face!" commanded Vergil, as Dante walked with his head bowed, absorbed in the floor-sculptures; and as he looked, the white-robed angel whose face was like "a tremulous flame" approached, and struck Dante's forehead with his wings. Dante marvelled at the ease with which he mounted, until his master explained that the heaviest sin, the sin that underlies all others, had fallen from him when the angel struck the "P" from his forehead, and that the ascent would grow still lighter from terrace to terrace. "Blessed are the poor in spirit!" sung by sweet voices, greeted the mounting poets. The second terrace was of livid stone unrelieved by any sculpture. The air was full of voices inculcating charity and self-denial, and others lamenting the sin of envy. Here envy was punished, and here the sharpest pain pierced Dante's heart as he saw the penitents sit shoulder to shoulder against the cliff, robed in sackcloth of the same livid color, their eyelids, through which bitter tears trickled, sewed together with wire. Sapia of Sienna first greeted Dante and entreated him to pray for her. When she had told how, after having been banished from her city, she had prayed that her townsman might be defeated by the Florentines, Dante passed on and spoke with Guido of Duca, who launched into an invective against Florence to his companion Rinieri. "The whole valley of the Arno is so vile that its very name should die. Wonder not at my tears, Tuscan, when I recall the great names of the past, and compare them with the curs who have fallen heir to them. Those counts are happiest who have left no families." Guido himself was punished on this terrace because of his envy of every joyous man, and the spirit with whom he talked was Rinieri, whose line had once been highly honored. "Go, Tuscan," exclaimed Guido, "better now I love my grief than speech." As the poets passed on, the air was filled with the lamentations of sinful but now repentant spirits. Dazzled by the Angel's splendor, the poets passed up the stairs to the third terrace, Dante in the mean time asking an explanation of Guido's words on joint resolve and trust. "The less one thinks of another's possessions," replied his guide, "and the more he speaks of 'our' instead of 'my,' the more of the Infinite Good flows towards him. If you thirst for further instruction, await the coming of Beatrice." As they attained the next height, Dante, rapt in vision, saw the sweet Mother questioning her Son in the Temple, saw Pisistratus, his queen, and the martyred Stephen blessing his enemies in death. As he awoke, they passed on, to become involved in a thick cloud of smoke, through which it was impossible to distinguish any object, and whose purpose was to purge away anger, the sin-cloud that veils the mortal eye. As they passed from the thick smoke into the sunset, Dante fell into a trance, and saw Itys, Haman, and other notable examples of unbridled angers, and as the visions faded away, was blinded by the splendor of the angel guide who directed them to the fourth terrace. As they waited for the dawn, Vergil answered Dante's eager questions. "Love," he said, "is the seed of every virtue, and also of every act for which God punished man. Natural love is without error; but if it is bent on evil aims, if it lacks sufficiency, or if it overleaps its bounds and refuses to be governed by wise laws, it causes those sins that are punished on this mount. The defective love which manifests itself as slothfulness is punished on this terrace." A troop of spirits rushed past them as morning broke, making up by their haste for the sloth that had marked their lives on earth. As they hurried on they urged themselves to diligence by cries of "In haste the mountains blessed Mary won!" "Caesar flew to Spain!" "Haste! Grace grows best in those who ardor feel!" As the poet meditated on their words, he lapsed into a dream in which he saw the Siren who drew brave mariners from their courses; and even as he listened to her melodious song, he beheld her exposed by a saint-like lady, Lucia, or Illuminating Grace. Day dawned, the Angel fanned the fourth "P" from his forehead, and the poet ascended to the fifth terrace, where lay the shades of the avaricious, prostrate on the earth, weeping over their sins. They who in life had resolutely turned their gaze from Heaven and fixed it on the things of the earth, must now grovel in the dust, denouncing avarice, and extolling the poor and liberal until the years have worn away their sin. Bending over Pope Adrian the Fifth, Dante heard his confession that he was converted while he held the Roman shepherd's staff. Then he learned how false a dream was life, but too late, alas! to escape this punishment. As Dante spoke with the shade of Capet the elder, a mighty trembling shook the mountain, which chilled his heart until he learned from the shade of Statius, whom they next met, that it was caused by the moving upward of a purified soul, his own, that had been undergoing purgation on this terrace five hundred years and more. "Statius was I," said the shade, "and my inspiration came from that bright fountain of heavenly fire, the Aeneid; it was my mother; to it I owe my fame. Gladly would I have added a year to my banishment here, could I have known the Mantuan." Vergil's glance said "Be mute!" but Dante's smile betrayed the secret, and Statius fell at Vergil's feet adoring. Statius had suffered for the sin of prodigality, which was punished, together with avarice, on this terrace. The three proceeded upward to the sixth terrace, the ascent growing easier on the disappearance of the "P" of avarice from Dante's forehead. Vergil and Statius moved on in loving conversation, Dante reverently following. "Your Pollio led me to Christianity," said Statius, "but my cowardice caused me long to conceal it. Prodigality brought me hither." On the sixth terrace two trees stood in opposite parts of the pathway that the gluttons were compelled to tread, the first with branches broad at the top and tapering downward, so that it was impossible to mount it; upon it fell a fount of limpid water. From its branches a voice cried, "Of this food ye shall have a scarcity. In the primal age, acorns furnished sweet food and each rivulet seemed nectar." Towards the next tree, grown from a twig of the tree of knowledge, the gluttons stretched eager hands, but a voice cried, "Pass on; approach not!" Such desire for food was excited by these tempting fruits, that the gluttons were emaciated beyond recognition. By his voice alone did Dante recognize his kinsman Forese, whose time in Purgatory had been shortened by the prayers of his wife Nella. Forese talked with Dante for a while on the affairs of Florence, and predicted the fall of his brother Corso Donati. The dazzling splendor of the angel of the seventh terrace warned them of his approach, and, lightened of one more "P," Dante and his companions climbed to where two bands of spirits, lascivious on earth, moved through paths of purifying flames, stopping as they passed to greet each other, and singing penitential hymns. Here, Statius explained to Dante why the shades of the sixth terrace were lean from want of food when they possessed no longer their physical bodies. "After death the soul keeps its memory, intelligence, and will more active than before, and as soon as it reaches either the banks of Acheron or the Tiber, a shade form is attached to it which acquires the soul's semblance, and has every sense given it, even that of sight." Guido Guinicelli, from out the flame-furnace, explained to Dante the punishments of the terrace: "Thus are our base appetites burned out that we may enjoy future happiness," and Arnaud the Troubadour, hating his past follies, weeping and singing, implored Dante's prayers. It was only by telling him that the fire lay between him and Beatrice that Vergil prevailed on Dante to walk into the flames, which, though they tortured him by the intensity of their heat, did not consume even his garments. As they left the fire, the sun was setting, and they passed the night on the steps of the next terrace, Statius and Vergil watching Dante as the goatherds watch their flocks. In a dream the sleeping poet saw Leah, symbolical of the active life, in contrast to her sister Rachel, of contemplative life. On waking, Vergil told him that he would accompany him further, but not as a guide; henceforth his own free will must lead him. "Crowned, mitred, now thyself thou 'lt rule aright." Dense green were the heavenly woodlands of the terrestrial paradise; sweet were the bird songs, as sweet the songs of the whispering foliage; and on the pleasant mead, beyond the dimpling waters of a stream so small that three paces would span it, walked a beautiful lady, Matilda, gathering flowers and singing an enchanting melody. At Dante's request, she came nearer, and explained to him that God had created the terrestrial paradise from which man was banished by his fault alone. To vex him it was raised to this height. Its atmosphere was not that of the earth below, but given it from the free sphere of ether. Here every plant had its origin; here each river had its virtue; Lethe destroyed the memory of sin; Eunoë restored to the mind the memory of things good. As they talked, Hosannas were heard, and in the greatest splendor appeared the Car of the Church Triumphant. First came the seven golden candlesticks; following them, many people in resplendent white garments; next, the four and twenty elders, lily crowned--the twenty-four books of the Old Testament--singing to Beatrice "O blessed Thou!" Then four six-winged, many-eyed living creatures described both by Ezekiel and John surrounded the massive car drawn by the Gryphon, emblem of our Lord in his divine and human nature, white, gold, and vermilion-hued, part lion, part eagle, whose wings pierced the heavens. Three maidens, red, emerald, and white, the Theological Virtues, Faith, Hope, and Charity, danced at the right wheel of the car; four clad in purple, Prudence, Justice, Fortitude, and Temperance, walked at the left wheel. With them came two old men, Luke and Paul; then four together, James, Peter, John, and Jude, and last an aged man walking in slumber, Saint John, writer of the Revelation. These last were crowned with red roses and other tinted flowers. With a crash as of thunder, the car stopped before Dante, and a hundred angels, chanting, showered on it roses and lilies. In the midst of the shower, Beatrice descended, clad in a crimson robe, with a green mantle and a white veil, and crowned with an olive wreath. Thrilling with his ancient love, Dante turned to Vergil to sustain him, but Vergil was gone. As he looked again, her eyes, less severe from the veil that enveloped her, were fixed on him as she rebuked him, and he was sustained only by the compassion in the sweet voices of the angels, which soothed him until the tears rained down his cheeks. After her death, when she had arisen from flesh to spirit, Beatrice complained that her influence was dimmed, and that he had sought such depths that she had been compelled to go to the gates of hell to implore Vergil to bring him hither that he might learn his future sufferings if he did not repent. As he answered her, blaming the things that had led him aside with joys deceitful, he tried to gaze into her eyes, but stung with penitential thorns, fell senseless to the ground. Matilda, who stood by, seized him and plunged him into the river Lethe, that he might forget his past sin. Dripping, he was given to the four lovely maidens, who led him before Beatrice that he might look into her eyes, fixed on the Gryphon. A thousand longings held him fast while, "weary from ten years' thirsting," he gazed upon her lovely eyes, now unveiled in their full splendor. Reproached at last by the seven virtues for his too intent gaze, Dante watched the car move on to the Tree of Knowledge, to which its pole was attached by the Gryphon. Dante, lulled to sleep by the hymn, was aroused by Matilda, who pointed out to him the radiant Beatrice, sitting under a tree surrounded by the bright forms of her attendants. The other attendants of the car had followed the Gryphon to the skies. "Observe the car," said Beatrice, "and write what thou hast seen when thou returnest home." As she spoke, the car was attacked in turn by the eagle of persecution, the fox of heresy, and the dragon of Islamism; these driven away, it was disturbed by inward dissensions, the alliance between Boniface and Philip the Fair. Rising, Beatrice called Dante, Statius, and Matilda to her, and as they walked upon that pleasant mead, she asked Dante the meaning of his continued silence. She explained the attacks on the chariot to him, but he declared that he could not understand her language. Then, at Beatrice's nod, Matilda called him and Statius, and plunged them into Eunoë, whence he rose regenerate, and prepared to mount to the stars. THE DIVINE COMEDY. THE PARADISE. The Paradise of Dante consists of nine heavens, each a revolving crystalline sphere, enclosed in another; without them, the boundless Empyrean. The first or innermost heaven, of the Moon, revolved by the angels, is the habitat of wills imperfect through instability. The second, of Mercury, revolved by the Archangels, is the abode of wills imperfect through love of fame. The third, of Venus, revolved by the Principalities, is the abode of wills imperfect through excess of human love. The fourth, of the Sun, revolved by the Powers, is the abode of the great intellectual lights, the doctors of the Church. The fifth heaven, of Mars, revolved by the Virtues, is the abode of the martyrs, warriors, and confessors, and is sacred to the Faith. The sixth, of Jupiter, revolved by the Dominations, is inhabited by just rulers. The seventh, of Saturn, revolved by the Thrones, is inhabited by monks and hermits. The eighth, of the Fixed Stars, revolved by the Cherubim, is inhabited by the apostles and saints. The ninth, or Primum Mobile, revolved by the Seraphim, is the abode of the moral philosophers. These abodes, however, are not real, but representative, to illustrate the differences in glory of the inhabitants of Paradise, for the real seat of each is in the Rose of the Blessed. In the heavens, the saints appear swathed in cocoons of light; in the Rose they are seen in their own forms. They know all because they behold God continually. In the Empyrean is the Rose of the Blessed, whose myriad leaves form the thrones of the spirits, and whose centre of light is the Father himself. Dividing the Rose horizontally, the lower thrones are held by those who died in infancy; among them are varying degrees of glory. Above it, are those who died adults. Supposing a vertical division, the thrones to the left are for those who looked forward to Christ's coming; those to the right, not yet all occupied, by those who died after Christ's coming. Along the division lines are the holy women, the Virgin, Eve, Rachel, Beatrice, Sarah, Rebecca, Judith, and Ruth, Saint Anne and Saint Lucia, and the saints, John the Baptist, John the Evangelist, Adam, Moses, Saint Francis, Saint Benedict, Saint Augustine, Saint Peter, and in the midst, the Everlasting Glory of the Universe, whose light so fills the Rose that "naught can form an obstacle against it." THE STORY OF THE DIVINE COMEDY. THE PARADISE. The ascent to Paradise was accomplished by a fixed gaze into Beatrice's eyes, by which Dante, like Glaucus, was made divine, and by which he was lifted, with incredible swiftness, through the heavens. As soon as he had fixed his eyes on Beatrice's, who in turn looked towards heaven, they found themselves in the Heaven of the Moon, whose luminous yet pearl-like light enfolded them. While Beatrice was explaining to him that the spots on the moon were not caused by the varying degrees of atmospheric density, as he had supposed, but by the Divine Virtue infused in divine measure through the angelic dwellers in the first heaven, he met Piccarda, his sister-in-law, whose brother, Corso Donati, had torn her from her convent to wed her to Rosselin della Tosa, soon after which she died. Here also was Costanza, daughter of Roger I. of Sicily, grandmother of that Manfredi whom he had seen in Purgatory. Here Beatrice instructed Dante as to the imperfection of those wills that held not to their vows, but allowed violence to thwart them. Another look into the smiling eyes, and the two were in the Heaven of Mercury, where those wills abide in whom love of fame partly extinguished love of God. One of the thousand splendors that advanced towards them was the soul of the Emperor Justinian, who reviewed the Empire, the Church, condemning severely the behavior of the Guelphs and Ghibellines, and told of the spirits who inhabited the little planet, whose lives were sweetened by living justice, and whose ears were gladdened by the sweetest harmonies. Dante was unaware of his ascent into, Venus, where dwelt those souls who were lovers on earth, until he perceived Beatrice's added beauty. Amid revolving lights Charles Martel of Hungary appeared, denounced his brother Robert of Sicily, and instructed Dante on the subjects of heredity and degeneracy; that "sweet seed can come bitter" because the influence of the star under which the child is born can counteract that of the parent, and because his state is not always adapted to him by his parents and advisers. In the sphere of the Sun, consecrated to the great doctors of divinity, Beatrice became still more beautiful; but so absorbed was the poet in the love for the Eternal Source of all this splendor that for the first time he forgot her. Out of the whirling lights, shining like precious jewels, came Saint Thomas Aquinas, who pointed out to Dante his noted companions, Gratian, Peter Lombard, Solomon, Dionysius, Boethius, and Baeda. Thomas then related the story of Saint Francis of Assisi and the founding of his order of the Franciscans, upon which Saint Bonaventura of the Franciscans, from the next flame garland, told of Saint Dominic and the Dominican order. Alas! while both orders were great in the beginning, both narrators had to censure their present corruption. The array of brilliant lights, dividing itself, formed into two disks which, revolving oppositely, sang the praises of the Trinity. The song of praise finished, Saint Thomas explained that Solomon was elevated to this sphere for his wisdom and his regal prudence, and warned Dante against the error of rash judgment. The splendor of Mars was almost blinding; it was ruddier than the others, and in it dwelt the souls of the crusaders and martyrs. While Dante's ears were ravished by exquisite music, his eyes were dazzled by the lights, which had arranged themselves in the form of a cross. From out the splendor, one star saluted Dante. It was the soul of his ancestor Cacciaguida, who had waited long for the coming of his descendant. He related to Dante the story of his life, commenting on the difference between the simple life of the Florentines of his day and the corrupt practices of Dante's time, and broke to the poet what had already been darkly hinted to him in Hell and Purgatory,--his banishment; how he must depart from Florence and learn how salt is the bread of charity, how wearisome the stairs in the abode of the stranger. As Cacciaguida ceased and pointed out the other well-known dwellers in Mars, each one on the cross flashed as his name was called,--Joshua, Judas Maccabeus, Charlemagne and Roland, Godfrey of Bouillon, Robert Guiscard, and others. In Jupiter, whose whiteness contrasted with the ruddiness of Mars, dwelt the souls of great rulers, certain of whom arranged themselves first to form the golden letters of _Diligite Justitiam qui judicatis terram_ ("Love righteousness, ye that be judges of the earth"), and then formed themselves into the Roman eagle and sang of the justice and mercy that caused their elevation to this position, and of events about to occur in history. Had Beatrice smiled as they ascended to Saturn, Dante would have perished as did Semele, from excess of light. In Saturn dwelt the spirits of the contemplative, the monks and hermits, and here was Jacob's ladder, up and down whose bars of gold sparkled the spirits of the saints, silent for the same reason that Beatrice smiled not. By divine election, Saint Peter Damian descended and spoke with Dante, accusing the churchmen of the time of worldliness and luxury. "Cephas and our Lord came on earth barefoot and poorly clad, but these men are covered with gorgeous raiment and ride upon sleek palfreys." As he closed, a thunder cry of approval went up from the other saints. Up the wonderful ladder passed Dante and his lady into the eighth heaven of the Fixed Stars, and looking down saw the little earth and the starry heavens through which they had passed. Then, as Beatrice paused with her face all aflame, and her eyes full of ecstasy, down came the hosts of Christ's triumphal march, and within the living light, which dazzled Dante's eyes until he could not see, also appeared Mary, mother of God, crowned by Gabriel, rising into the Empyrean. Of those who remained behind, Beatrice asked that Dante be sprinkled with the waters of the living Fountain; and while they gave their consent, Saint Peter appeared as a fire whirling ecstatically, and singing a divine song. He examined the trembling poet on faith, and his questions being answered satisfactorily, encircled him thrice with his light. Saint James, who next came forth, was likewise pleased with his response on Hope, and he was then blinded by the effulgence of John, so that for a time he could not see the face of his lady. Of Love he spoke with John, and then talked with Adam. As he listened to the strains of richest melody, he noticed one of the lights--Saint Peter--change from white to red, and then, as silence fell, speak, enraged at the worldliness of the Holy See. "My cemetery has been made a sewer of blood and stench. When thou returnest to earth, reveal what thou hast heard. Do not thou conceal what I have not concealed." Commanded by Beatrice, Dante looked back at earth once more, and as he looked, was carried up into the heaven of the Primum Mobile, where dwelt the moral philosophers. Here the angelic spirits circled round the point of intense light, the divine centre. The nearer God was the circle, the greater virtue it possessed. This order was inverse to that of the heavens, but Dante learned from Beatrice that the orbs revolved through narrow paths or wide according to the virtue of their parts, and that a strict agreement of harmony prevailed between the great and the small. The angel and the heavens were created simultaneously, and, as direct emanations from God, know no decay. Of this and many things concerning the Creation, did Beatrice enlighten Dante before the beauty of her smile told him that they were in the Empyrean. "Now shall thou look upon the mighty hosts of Paradise." The poet's dazzled eyes saw then a river of light from which issued living sparks sunk down into the flowers like rubies set in gold. Instructed by Beatrice he drank of the stream and the river changed into a lake; then he saw the Courts of Heaven made manifest, and the splendor of God. The ample Rose unfolded its leaves before him, breathing praise and perfume, and as he gazed into it Beatrice pointed out the radiant spirits and the thronged seats, one of which was reserved for the Emperor Henry of Luxembourg, from whom Dante expected so much, and who died before aught was accomplished. As Dante gazed, the hosts with wings of gold and faces of living flame, singing anthems, alternately sank into the Rose, like a swarm of bees sinking into summer flowers, and rose again to view the Divine splendor. Turning to question Beatrice again, Dante found in her place Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, an old man full of the tenderest pity, who pointed out to him Beatrice in her own place, the third round of the first rank. As from afar, Dante pleaded with the beautiful lady who had left her place in heaven to go even unto the gates of hell for his sake, to aid him still; she seemed to smile upon him before she again turned her gaze upon the Eternal Fountain of Light. Saint Bernard explained to the poet the divisions of the Rose and the seats of the saints, and then addressed a prayer to the Virgin, asking that Dante be permitted to look upon the Almighty Father. As he prayed, Beatrice and all the blessed ones clasped their hands to her who likes so well prayers of divine fervor. At a gesture from Bernard, the poet looked upward. Then what a radiant vision met his eyes! Three circles he saw of threefold color and one dimension. As he looked, one seemed to take our image, and again was lost in the infinite glory of the Light Divine. As he tried to describe it, imagination failed him, though his will remained, moving on with the even motion of the sun and stars. SELECTIONS FROM THE DIVINE COMEDY. COUNT UGOLINO. In the frozen lake of Cocytus in the ninth circle of the Inferno, where were punished the traitors to kindred, country, friends, or benefactors, the poets beheld Count Ugolino, a Guelph, who, because of his treachery, was taken prisoner by the people with his sons and grandsons and thrust into a tower, where they were left to starve. Ugolino was frozen in the ice, where he forever gnawed the head of the Archbishop Ruggieri, his enemy. At the request of Dante he stopped to tell his story. "Thy will 'tis I renew A desperate sorrow that doth crush my heart Even before my lips its tale impart. But if my words may be a seed that, sowed, Shall fruit of infamy to this traitor bear, Then, though I weep, speech too shall be my care. "Who thou may'st be I know not, nor what mode Hath brought thee here below, but then I glean, From words of thine, thou art a Florentine. That I Count Ugolino was, know thou, And this the Archbishop Ruggieri. Why I will thee tell we are such neighbors nigh. Needs not to say that him I did allow A friend's own trusts, but so his treachery wrought; That first my liberty, then my life, it sought. "But that which thou canst not have hitherto learned That is, how cruel was my death, I thee Will tell; judge thou if he offended me. Within the Mew, a tower which well hath earned From me its name of Famine, and where wrath Yet others waits, a narrow opening hath, Through which of several moons the broken light Had strayed, when unto me in sleep was sent A dream whereby the future's veil was rent. "This ill dream me this man set forth in might: He wolf and whelps upon those mounts pursued Which Pisa 'twixt and Lucca's domes obtrude. Hounds had he with him, lank and shrewd and keen, And in their front Gualandi's sword had place, Sismondi's lash and sour Lanfranchi's mace. Father and sons' undoing soon was seen; Methought the sharp fangs on them closed, and tore Their flanks, which now the hue of crimson wore. "Before the dawn I woke and heard my sons, The helpless children with me, in their sleep, Cry out for bread, cries pushed from sobbings deep. Right cruel art thou, if not e'en now runs To tears thy grief at what my heart forbode, If tears of thine at misery's tale e'er flowed. And then they woke, and came the hour around Which had been wont our scanty meal to bring; But from our dreams dumb terrors seemed to spring; "When from below we heard the dreadful sound Of nails; the horrible tower was closed; all dumb I let my gaze into my sons' eyes come. Weep I did not, like stone my feelings lay. They wept, and spoke my little Anselm: 'Pray Why lookest so? Father, what ails thee, say?' Shed I no tear, nor answered all that day Nor the next night, until another sun His journey through the wide world had begun. "Then came a small ray into our sad, sad den, And when in their four faces I beheld That carking grief which mine own visage held, Mine hands for grief I bit, and they, who then Deemed that I did it from desire to eat, Stood up each one at once upon his feet, And said: 'Father, 'twill give us much less pain If thou wilt eat of us: of thee was born This hapless flesh, and be it by thee torn.' "Myself I calmed that they might not so grieve; Mute that day and the next we were; O thou Most cruel earth, that didst not open now! When we the fourth day's agony did receive Stretched at my feet himself my Gaddo threw, And said: 'My father, canst thou nothing do?' There died he, and, as now sees me thy sight, The three I saw fall one by one; first died One on the fifth; deaths two the sixth me tried. "Then blind, I groped o'er them to left and right, And for three days called on their spirits dead; Then grief before the power of fasting fled." _Wilstach's Translation, Inferno. Canto XXXIII._ BUONCONTE DI MONTEFELTRO. On the second terrace of the Ante-Purgatory, on the Purgatorial Mount, were the spirits of those whose lives were ended by violence. Among those who here addressed Dante was Buonconte di Montefeltro, who was slain in the battle of Campaldino, and whose body was never found. Another then: "Ah, be thy cherished aim Attained that to the lofty Mount thee draws, As thou with pity shalt advance my cause. Of Montefeltro I Buonconte am; Giovanna, and she only, for me cares; Hence among those am I whom waiting wears." "What violence or what chance led thee so wide From Campaldino," I of him inquired, "That's still unknown thy burial-place retired?" "Oh, Casentino's foot," he thus replied, "Archiano's stream o'erflows, which hath its rise Above the Hermitage under Apennine skies. There where its name is lost did I arrive, Pierced through and through the throat, in flight, Upon the plain made with my life-blood bright; "There sight I lost, and did for speech long strive; At last I uttered Mary's name, and fell A lifeless form, mine empty flesh a shell. Truth will I speak, below do thou it hymn; Took me God's Angel up, and he of Hell Cried out: 'O thou from Heaven, thou doest well To rob from me the eternal part of him For one poor tear, that me of him deprives; In other style I'll deal with other lives!' "Well know'st thou how in air is gathered dim That humid vapor which to water turns Soon as the cold its rising progress learns. The fiend that ill-will joined (which aye seeks ill) To intellectual power, which mist and wind Moved by control which faculties such can find, And afterwards, when the day was spent, did fill The space from Protomagno to where tower The Mounts with fog; and high Heaven's covering power "The pregnant atmosphere moist to water changed. Down fell the rain, and to the ditches fled, Whate'er of it the soil's thirst had not sped; And, as it with the mingling torrents ranged Towards the royal river, so it flowed That over every obstacle wild it rode. The robust river found my stiffened frame Near to its outlet, and it gave a toss To Arno, loosening from my breast the cross "I made of me when agony me o'ercame; Along his banks and bottoms he me lapped, Then in his muddy spoils he me enwrapped." _Wilstach's Translation, Purgatorio, Canto V._ BEATRICE DESCENDING FROM HEAVEN. Dante and Vergil mounted to the Terrestial Paradise, where, while they talked with Matilda, the Car of the Church Triumphant appeared in the greatest splendor. As it stopped before Dante it was enveloped in a shower of roses from the hands of a hundred angels. I have beheld ere now, when dawn would pale, The eastern hemisphere's tint of roseate sheen, And all the opposite heaven one gem serene, And the uprising sun, beneath such powers Of vapory influence tempered, that the eye For a long space its fiery shield could try: E'en so, embosomed in a cloud of flowers, Which from those hands angelical upward played, And roseate all the car triumphal made, And showered a snow-white veil with olive bound, Appeared a Lady, green her mantle, name Could not describe her robe unless 't were flame. And mine own spirit, which the past had found Often within her presence, free from awe, And which could never from me trembling draw, And sight no knowledge giving me at this time, Through hidden virtue which from her came forth, Of ancient love felt now the potent worth. As soon as on my vision smote sublime The heavenly influence that, ere boyhood's days Had fled, had thrilled me and awoke my praise, Unto the leftward turned I, with that trust Wherewith a little child his mother seeks, When fear his steps controls, and tear-stained cheeks, To say to Vergil: "All my blood such gust Of feeling moves as doth man's bravery tame; I feel the traces of the ancient flame." _Wilstach's Translation, Paradiso, Canto XXX._ THE EXQUISITE BEAUTY OF BEATRICE. While Dante and Beatrice rose from the Heaven of Primal Motion to the Empyrean, the poet turned his dazzled eyes from the heavens, whose sight he could no longer bear, to the contemplation of Beatrice. Wherefore my love, and loss of other view, Me back to Beatrice and her homage drew. If what of her hath been already said Were in one single eulogy grouped, 't would ill Her meed of merit at this moment fill. The beauty which in her I now beheld B'yond mortals goes; her Maker, I believe, Hath power alone its fulness to receive. Myself I own by obstacles stronger spelled Than in his labored theme was ever bard Whose verses, light or grave, brought problems hard; For, as of eyes quelled by the sun's bright burst, E'en so the exquisite memory of that smile Doth me of words and forming mind beguile. Not from that day when on this earth I first Her face beheld, up to this moment, song Have I e'er failed to strew her path along, But now I own my limping numbers lame; An artist sometimes finds his powers surpassed, And mine succumbs to beauty's lance at last. And I must leave her to a greater fame Than any that my trumpet gives, which sounds, Now, hastening notes, which mark this labor's bounds. _Wilstach's Translation, Paradiso, Canto XXX._ THE ORLANDO FURIOSO. Ludovico Ariosto, author of the Orlando Furioso was born in Reggio, Italy, Sept. 8, 1474. In 1503 he was taken into the service of the Cardinal Hippolito d'Este, and soon after began the composition of the Orlando Furioso, which occupied him for eleven years. It was published in 1516, and brought him immediate fame. Ariosto was so unkindly treated by his patron that he left him and entered the service of the cardinal's brother, Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara. By him he was appointed governor of a province, in which position he repressed the banditti by whom it was infested, and after a successful administration of three years, returned to Ferrara to reside. The latter part of his life was spent in writing comedies and satires, and in revising the Orlando Furioso. He died in Ferrara, June 6, 1533. The Orlando Furioso is a sequel to Boiardo's Orlando Innamorata, Ariosto taking up the story at the end of that poem. Its historical basis is the wars of Charlemagne with the Moors, which were probably confused with those of Charles Martel. As the Orlando of the poem is the same Roland whose fall at Roncesvalles in 778 is celebrated in the Song of Roland, its events must have occurred before that time. Although the poem is called Orlando Furioso, Orlando's madness occupies a very small part of it, the principal threads of the story being Orlando's love for Angelica and his consequent madness, the wars of Charlemagne, and the loves of Bradamant and Rogero. From this Rogero the family of Este claimed to be derived, and for this reason Ariosto made Rogero the real hero of the poem, and took occasion to lavish the most extravagant praises upon his patron and his family. With these principal threads are interwoven innumerable episodes which are not out of place in the epic, and lend variety to a story which would otherwise have become tiresome. The lightness of treatment, sometimes approaching ridicule, the rapidity of movement, the grace of style, and the clearness of language, the atmosphere created by the poet which so successfully harmonizes all his tales of magic and his occasional inconsistencies, and the excellent descriptions, have all contributed to the popularity of the poem, which is said to be the most widely read of the epics. These descriptions outweigh its faults,--the taking up the story of Boiardo without an explanation of the situation, the lack of unity, and the failure to depict character; for with the exception of Bradamant and Rogero, Ariosto's heroes and heroines are very much alike, and their conversation is exceedingly tiresome. The Furioso is written in the octave stanza, and originally consisted of forty cantos, afterwards increased to forty-six. The poem is the work of a practical poet, one who could govern a province. It is marred by an over-profusion of ornament, and contains no such lofty flights of fancy as are to be found in the Jerusalem Delivered. To this, no doubt, it owes, in part at least, its great popularity, for the poet's poem is never the people's poem. BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE ORLANDO FURIOSO. Dublin University Magazine, 1845, xxvi., 187-201, 581-601, xxvii., 90-104; Retrospective Review, 1823, viii., 145-170, ix., 263-291; William T. Dobson's Classic Poets, 1879, pp. 186-238; Leigh Hunt's Stories from the Italian Poets, n. d. vol. ii., pp. 134-151; William Hickling Prescott's Italian Narrative Poetry. (See his Biographical and Critical Miscellanies, 1873, pp. 441-454); M. W. Shelley's Lives of the most eminent Literary and Scientific Men of Italy, Spain, and Portugal, 1835, pp. 239-255. (In Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopedia, vol. i.); John Addington Symonds's Italian Literature, 1888, vol. i., pp. 493-522, vol. ii. pp. 1-50. STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE ORLANDO FURIOSO. Orlando Furioso, Tr. from the Italian by Sir James Harrington, 1724; Orlando Furioso, Tr. by John Hoole, 1819; Orlando Furioso, Tr. into English verse by W. S. Rose, 2 vols., 1864-5. THE STORY OF THE ORLANDO FURIOSO. The Emperor Charlemagne was at war with the Moors and had camped near the Pyrenees with his host, determined to conquer their leaders, Marsilius of Spain and Agramant of Africa. To his camp came Orlando, the great paladin, with the beautiful Angelica, princess of Cathay, in search of whom he had roamed the world over. Orlando's cousin, Rinaldo, another of the great lords of Charlemagne, also loved Angelica, for he had seen her immediately after drinking of the Fountain of Love in the forest of Arden, and Charlemagne, fearing trouble between the cousins on her account, took Angelica from Orlando's tent and placed her in the care of Duke Namus of Bavaria. Angelica did not like Orlando and she loathed Rinaldo, for he had been the first to meet her after she had tasted the waters of the Fountain of Hate. So when the Christian forces were one day routed in battle and the tents forsaken, she leaped on her palfrey and fled into the forest. Here the first person she met was the hated Rinaldo; and fleeing from him she encountered the fierce Moor Ferrau, who, being also in love with her, drew his sword and attacked the pursuing paladin. But when the two discovered that Angelica had taken advantage of their duel to flee, they made peace and went in search of her. As she fled, Angelica met Sacripant, an eastern lover who had followed her to France, and put herself under his protection. But when Sacripant was first defeated by Bradamant and then engaged in battle with the pursuing Rinaldo, she deemed herself safer without him and fled; and presently a page appeared, a shade conjured there by a hermit magician whom Angelica had met, and announced to the warriors that Orlando had appeared and carried the maid to Paris. Rinaldo immediately hastened to Paris, to find Orlando absent and Charlemagne, defeated by the Moors, entrenching himself in the city and preparing to send to England for aid. Rinaldo must be his ambassador, and that without a day's delay. Frantic with jealousy, Rinaldo leaped into a ship in the midst of a storm, and hastened on his errand. Driven upon the coast of Scotland, he won the king's gratitude by saving his daughter Ginevra from shame and death, and secured from him a promise of all the horsemen and arms that could be spared. He was equally successful in England, and was soon reviewing the troops preparatory to their embarkation. The warrior maid, Bradamant, sister of Rinaldo, after overthrowing Sacripant, pursued her way through the forest in search of Rogero the pagan. They had met once in battle and had loved, and since then she had ever roamed through the land in search of him. In the forest she found Pinabel, lamenting because his beloved lady had been snatched from him by a wizard on a winged steed, and carried to an impregnable castle. Thither he had seen many warriors conveyed, among them Rogero and Gradasso, conquered first by the lance and then thrown into profound slumber by the glare of a magic shield carried by the wizard. Bradamant, anxious to save Rogero, offered to rescue Pinabel's lady if he would guide her to the castle. But when the treacherous knight learned that she was Bradamant, between whose house and his there was a deadly feud, he planned to slay her, and soon, by his treachery, managed to hurl her down a precipice. Bradamant was only stunned by the fall, however, and soon awoke, to find herself at the entrance of a cave, which was the tomb of Merlin. Melissa, the prophetess maid, welcomed her, assured her that Rogero should be her spouse, and showed her their phantom descendants, brave princes and beautiful princesses of the house of Este. She then told her that Brunello, a knight of King Agramant, was hastening to the castle to release the prisoners by means of a magic ring, formerly the property of Angelica, which when put in the mouth would render one invisible, and, worn on the finger, made one proof against magic spells. Bradamant must overcome Brunello, wrest the ring from him, and herself free Rogero. Following Melissa's advice, Bradamant overtook Brunello, seized the ring, and hastening to the castle, challenged Atlantes to battle. When he displayed the shield she pretended to become unconscious; but when he ran up to bind her she sprang up and seized him. He declared that he had imprisoned Rogero, his nephew, only to save him from the fate foretold by the stars, death by treachery at the hands of the Christians, and had brought the other knights and ladies there for his entertainment. Then Atlantes broke the spell and disappeared, together with the castle, and the prisoners trooped forth, Rogero among them. Bradamant was happy, but alas! only for a moment; for as she and Rogero went down the mountain together he thoughtlessly leaped on the hippogrif, which alighted near him, and the winged steed, refusing his control, rose in the air, leaving the tearful Bradamant behind. The hippogrif flew rapidly over land and sea until it was directly above a small island, upon which it descended. Rogero sprang from its back, tied it to a myrtle tree, and, weary from his three thousand mile ride in heavy armor, prepared to drink from a rippling spring. The groves were of cedar, laurel, palm, and myrtle; roses and lilies filled the air with their perfume, and the wild stag and timid hare ran fearlessly through the groves. As he stooped to drink he heard a voice issuing from the myrtle to which he had tied the hippogrif. It was that of Astolpho, the English knight, who told him that the greater part of the island was under the control of Alcina the enchantress, who had left only a small portion to her sister Logistilla, to whom it all rightfully belonged. He himself had been enticed thither by Alcina, who had loved him for a few weeks, and then, serving him as she did all her lovers, had transformed him to a tree. Rogero determined to profit by this advice; but when he was driven from the narrow path to Logistilla's domain and met Alcina he fell under the power of her beauty, and thought Astolpho a traducer. The days passed so gayly in her beautiful home that Rogero forgot the pagan cause, forgot his duty, forgot Bradamant, and was roused from his lethargy only by Melissa, to whom Bradamant had given the magic ring to enable her to find and rescue her lover. Melissa found the young knight when apart from Alcina, and gave him the ring that he might with it be enabled to see the enchantress in her true form. She then instructed him how to escape and seek the kingdom of Logistilla. Rogero was disgusted when the beautiful enchantress appeared as a hideous, wrinkled old woman, but concealing his change of feeling, waited until the opportunity presented itself to get his armor, take a steed, and pass by the warders of the gate. With great difficulty he reached a stream which separated Alcina's lands from those of Logistilla, and while ferrying across was overtaken by the boats of Alcina. With the help of Atlantes' shield, they were overcome, and Alcina was forced to depart, weeping, with only one boat, while Rogero entered the castle of the fairy Logistilla, from whom he learned many noble lessons. Here came the other knights freed from Alcina's enchantment by Melissa, and Melissa herself with Astolpho, on the hippogrif, which she had learned to control. Astolpho was in his own armor and bore his wondrous spear, which had the power of overthrowing every one whom it so much as touched. After a short rest among the pleasant gardens of Logistilla, Rogero departed on the hippogrif, and although anxious to see his Bradamant again, took the opportunity to pass over all the known world by this novel method of travel. He saw the troops in England gathering to go to the aid of Charlemagne, and rescued the beautiful Angelica, who had been taken by pirates and sold to the people of Ebuda, who chained her upon a rock as a victim for the orc. Rogero put the orc to sleep with his magic shield, giving Angelica the ring that the sight of the shield might not affect her as well. But when, charmed by the maid, he became too lover-like in his attentions, she put the ring in her mouth and disappeared. The angry Rogero turned, only to find that his hippogrif had broken its rein and was gone. Hastening through the forest, vexed with himself and the maiden, he fancied he saw 'Bradamant carried off by a giant, and following her, entered a magic castle of Atlantes, where he spent his days vainly trying to overtake his beloved and her captor. Orlando could think only of his lost Angelica; and forgetful of the fact that his uncle Charlemagne was sorely pressed by the heathen, he stole from the camp one night in disguise, and went in search of her. Passing the isle of Ebuda he slew the ore, rescued Olympia, who was exposed as its victim, avenged her wrongs, and continued on his way until he reached the castle of Atlantes, and, fancying he saw Angelica, entered, and began the mad round of pursuit with many other Christian and pagan knights who were rendered unconscious of one another's presence by the magic of the wizard. Hither came Angelica, invisible by means of the ring, to find a knight to protect her on her way to Cathay. Unfortunately as she showed herself to Sacripant, she was seen by Ferrau and Orlando, and all three pursued her from the castle. When they were sufficiently removed from it Angelica slipped the ring in her mouth and disappeared, and Ferrau and Orlando began to quarrel about Orlando's helmet, which the Moor was determined to win and wear. As Ferrau wore no helm until he could win Orlando's, that paladin hung his on a tree while they fought. Unseen by them, Angelica took it down, intending to restore it to Orlando later, and slipped away. When the knights discovered her absence they went in search of her, and Ferrau, coming upon her, took the helmet as she disappeared in fright. Orlando, assuming another crest, which he did not need, as his body was charmed and could not be hurt by any weapon, went forward, still in search of his love, and on the way encountered and almost totally destroyed two squadrons of Moors, and rescued from a robber's cave the beautiful Isabel, betrothed of Zerbino. Melissa returned to Bradamant with the news that while Rogero was freed from the enchantment of Aleina, he was imprisoned in Atlantes' castle, from which she herself could rescue him by slaying the wizard, who would appear to her in the form of her lover. Bradamant resolved to do so; but when she saw the seeming Rogero set upon by two giants, she forgot her resolution, believed Melissa to be false, and spurring after him, became a prisoner in that wondrous castle, through which day and night she pursued her ever-fleeing lover. When the Moors discovered the destruction of the two squadrons, Mandricardo, the Tartar king, determined to seek and do battle with the knight (unknown to him by name) who had wrought such destruction. The Tartar wore the arms of Hector save the sword, which was the property of Orlando, and until he gained it, he bore no weapon save the lance. With this, however, he stormed through the battlefield, striking terror to the hearts of all. With it alone, he destroyed a band of men conveying to Rodomont, the Saracen chief, his betrothed bride, Doralice, and won the maid for himself. Outside Paris raged the infidel, chief among them the giant King Rodomont. Smiting those of his troops who hesitated to mount the scaling ladders, he waded through the wet moat, scaled the first wall, leaped the dry ditch, mounted the second wall, and ran alone through the city, spreading terror, death, and fire, while Charlemagne, ignorant of his presence, was busied in the defence of one of the gates against Agramant. Now Rinaldo's army approached, unsuspected by the heathen, because of the aid of Silence, summoned by Saint Michael. Through these, welcomed by Charlemagne, Rodomont cut his way, hewing down fifteen or twenty foes at once, and, casting himself into the Seine, escaped, angry that he had not succeeded in destroying the city. Discord, also summoned by Michael to the aid of the Christians, informed Rodomont on his return to the camp of the capture of Doralice, and the chief set forth raging, in search of Mandricardo, thoughtlessly abandoning King Agramant, struggling against the English re-inforcements. As night fell on a furious battle, the Moors were driven back, and Charlemagne pitched his tents without the city, opposite those of the Moors. In the Moorish camp were two youths who loved one another with a love passing wonderful, Medoro and Cloridan. Both served Dardinello, and had crossed the sea with him. As they stood on guard that night they talked of their lord's death on the field that day, and Medoro suggested that they go in search of his body and bury it. Cloridan agreed, and they crept through the sleeping lines of the Christians, slaughtering many, found the body, and were hurrying into the forest when they heard the troops of Zerbino. Cloridan fled, fancying that Medoro would do the same, but on finding himself unaccompanied, retraced his footsteps, only to see his friend surrounded by a troop of horsemen. From his ambush he shot his arrows at the foe, until Zerbino in wrath seized Medoro by the throat, exclaiming, "Thou shall die for this!" But when Medoro prayed to be allowed first to bury his lord, pity touched Zerbino, and he freed the youth, who fell, however, wounded by a thrust from a churlish horseman, in pursuit of whom Zerbino at once fled. Cloridan sprang in among the horsemen and fell dead by their thrusts at the side of the unconscious Medoro. The bleeding youth was found by Angelica, who passed by, clad in rustic raiment; and the maid, struck with his beauty, recalled her knowledge of chirturgery and revived him. After Dardinello was buried, she and a shepherd assisted Medoro to a neighboring cottage, where she attended him until his wound was healed. But as he grew well, Angelica, who had scorned the suit of the proudest knights, fell sick of love for the humble youth, and resolved to take him with her to Cathay. When Astolpho left the castle of Logistilla he carried with him as her gift a book from which he could learn to overcome all magic cheats, and a horn whose sound would put the boldest man to flight. Following her directions, he sailed past Scythia and India into the Persian Gulf, and there disembarking, passed through Arabia and along the Red Sea. There he overcame the giant Caligorantes, slew Orillo, who guarded the outlet of the Nile, and met there the brother knights Gryphon and Aquilant. Gryphon, led astray by an unworthy love, stole away from his brother, but was found again after many adventures, and the three, together with Sansonet and Marphisa, a warlike virgin, embarked for France. A great storm arose, and the vessel was forced to land in Syria. This was the land of the Amazons, and the troop escaped only by the warning and assistance of Guido, the savage, who was a bondsman in the land. Astolpho became separated from the rest of the party and reached Europe alone. One day, while he was stooping to drink at a spring in the forest, a rustic sprang from a thicket, and leaping upon Rabican, rode him away. Astolpho, hastening after him, entered the enchanted castle of Atlantes, and soon recognized it as a house of magic. He broke the spell by the aid of his book, freed the captive knights, and finding the hippogrif, which he had learned to guide from Melissa, mounted it and rode away. When the castle was destroyed, Rogero recognized Bradamant and clasped her in his arms, rejoicing to find her again. The maid, anxious to avoid further separation, promised to wed him if he would become a Christian, and demand her of her father, Duke Aymon. Rogero gladly promised to do so. and the two were hastening to Vallombrosa that he might be baptized when they encountered a maid, who prayed them to hasten to the relief of a youth doomed to death by fire. They hurried on, but paused to free Guido the savage, Gryphon. Aquilant, and Sansonet, who had been imprisoned by Pinabel, and Bradamant, pursuing Pinabel into the forest, slew him. But there, unfortunately, she lost her way, and while she was wandering about, Rogero, ignorant of her whereabouts, pushed on and freed the youth, who proved to be Bradamant's brother. As Bradamant wandered through the forest she found Astolpho, who had just made a bridle for the hippogrif, and recognizing him, took his horse and spear in charge. A long time she wandered forlorn. She did not know the way to Vallombrosa; she did not know the whereabouts of Rogero. Her home was in sight, but if her mother saw her she would not again be suffered to depart. As she stood debating with herself, she was recognized by one of her brothers, and was forced to accompany him home. Thence she secretly sent her maid Hippalca to Vallombrosa with Rogero's horse Frontino, and a message explaining her absence. After the capture of Doralice, Mandricardo hastened on, and overtook Orlando just as he had freed Zerbino and united him to Isabel. Recognizing Orlando by his crest as the chief who had destroyed the squadrons, the Tartar challenged him to combat. In courtesy to his foe, who would bear no sword until he could have Durindana, Orlando hung the blade on a tree, and the two knights spurred their steeds and broke their lances together. Then grappling, each endeavored to unhorse the other. The breaking of Orlando's saddle girth caused his fall just as he had slipped the bridle from the head of his enemy's horse, and the frightened steed, freed from its rein, ran madly through the wood, followed by Doralice. Orlando told Zerbino to inform Mandricardo if he overtook him that he would wait in that spot three days for him to return and renew the combat, and bade the lovers farewell. As he wandered through the region while waiting, he found a peaceful little spot where a limpid rill rippled through a meadow dotted here and there with trees. Here the weary warrior sought repose; but as he looked about him he espied the name of Angelica carved on the trees, entwined with that of Medoro. Persuading himself that this was a fanciful name by which the maid intended to signify himself, he entered a little ivy-covered grotto, arching over a fountain, and there discovered on the rocky wall some verses in which Medoro celebrated his union with Angelica. For a moment he stood as if turned to stone. Unable to weep, he again mounted his horse and sought a peasant's house to pass the night. There he heard the story of Angelica's infatuation, and saw the bracelet she had left them in return for their hospitality. The unhappy Orlando passed a sleepless night, weeping and groaning, and the next morning hastened to the forest that he might give way to his grief unobserved. There madness came upon him, and he uprooted the hateful trees, cut the solid stone of the grotto with his sword, making a desolation of the beautiful spot, and, casting off his armor, ran naked through the country, pillaging, burning, and slaying. Zerbino and Isabel sought the spot in a few days to learn if Mandricardo had returned, found the scattered armor, and heard of Orlando's madness from a shepherd. Lamenting over their protector's misfortune, they gathered up the armor, hung it on a sapling, and wrote thereon Orlando's name. But while they were thus engaged, Mandricardo arrived, took the long coveted sword, and gave Zerbino, who attempted to prevent the theft, a mortal wound. The unhappy Isabel, intent on self-destruction, was comforted by a hermit, who promised to take her to a monastery near Marseilles. Mandricardo had had but a few moments for repose after this combat with Zerbino, when the furious Rodomont overtook him and a terrible combat between the two began, the beautiful cause of it looking on with interest. But so strong were the champions that the struggle might have been prolonged indefinitely had not a messenger announced to the knights that they must postpone their private quarrels for a moment and hasten to the relief of King Agramant. After Rogero had freed Richardetto, Bradamant's brother, and had attempted in vain to find Bradamant, he was troubled by the thought of King Agramant. He was determined to wed the warrior maid and become a Christian, but first came his vow to the pagan king. He therefore wrote her a note, saying that honor required his presence with Agramant for at least fifteen or twenty days, but after that time he would find means to justify himself with Agramant and would meet her at Vallombrosa to be baptized. He, with Richardetto, Aldigier, and Marphisa, whom they met on her way to the pagan camp, rode on together, and freed Vivian and Malagigi from the Moors and Manganese. While they rested at a little fountain, Hippalca rode up, and told them that she had just met Rodomont, who took Frontino from her. She also managed secretly to give Rogero Bradamant's message and receive his letter in return. While the party still remained at the fountain, Rodomont came up with Mandricardo and Doralice, and all engaged in a fierce battle, which was at last interrupted by Malagigi, who, versed in wizard arts, conjured a demon into Doralice's horse so that it ran away; and Rodomont and Mandricardo, frightened by her screams, started in pursuit. With the assistance of Rogero, Marphisa, Rodomont, and Mandricardo, Agramant was enabled to drive Charlemagne back into Paris, where he was saved only by the interposition of Discord, who stirred up the old quarrels between Rodomont, Mandricardo, Rogero, and Gradasso over weapons, bearings, and horses, until Agramant announced that they should settle their difficulties by single combat, drawing lots to see who should first engage in battle. But when they were ready for the lists, fresh quarrels broke out, until the king despaired of ever having peace in his ranks. Finally, at his command, Doralice publicly declared Mandricardo her choice, and the furious Rodomont fled from the camp. On his way to Africa he found a little abandoned church between France and Spain, and decided to remain there instead of returning home. From this spot he saw Isabel on her way to Marseilles, and falling in love with her, he slew the hermit, dragged her to his retreat, and tried to win her. But she, loathing him and faithful to Zerbino, caused him to slay her, pretending that she was rendered invulnerable by an ointment which she had prepared, and the secret of which she would impart to him. The unhappy Rodomont walled up the church to form her tomb, and threw a narrow bridge across the stream. On this bridge he met every knight who came thither, and having overthrown him, took his arms to deck the tomb, on which he determined to hang a thousand such trophies. If the vanquished knight was a Moor he was set free without his arms; if a Christian he was imprisoned. Thither came the mad Orlando, and wrestled with Rodomont on the bridge until both fell into the stream. The madman then passed on through the country and met Medoro and Angelica on their way to India. They escaped with difficulty, Medoro's horse falling a victim to the madman, who continued to lay waste the land until he reached Zizera on the bay of Gibraltar, and, plunging into the sea, swam to Africa. After Doralice had decided the quarrel between Mandricardo and Rodomont, Rogero and the Tartar met in the lists to decide their quarrel over their bearings. The battle was fearful, and when both fell to the ground it was supposed that Mandricardo was the victor. But when the crowd rushed to the lists they found the Tartar dead and Rogero only wounded. But the cheers of the crowd gave little pleasure to the hero, who grieved that he must lie on a sick-bed instead of seeking Bradamant, according to his promise. Bradamant too, who had looked forward so eagerly to the day he had set, wept when it came without her lover. Soon she heard that Rogero's coming was prevented by his wounds; but when she also heard that he was attended by the warrior maid Marphisa, and that their names were frequently coupled in the pagan camp, she at once felt the pangs of jealousy. Unable to endure it longer, she armed herself, changing her usual vest for one whose colors denoted her desperation and desire to die, and set forth to meet and slay Marphisa, taking with her the spear left her by Astolpho, whose magic properties she did not know. With this she overthrew Rodomont and caused him to depart from his tomb and free his captives, and then, proceeding to Aries, challenged Rogero, who was sadly puzzled, not recognizing his challenger on account of her changed vest. Several knights attacked her before Rogero came forth, only to be overthrown by the spear, and then Marphisa, who had rushed forth before Rogero could arm, met her, and the two women fought like tigers. When Rogero at last went forth he recognized Bradamant's voice, and suspecting the cause of her hostility, implored her to withdraw with him to a wood near by to hear his explanation. Marphisa followed them and attacked Bradamant so fiercely that Rogero was forced to her rescue, and lifting his sword would have struck the maid had he not been stopped by a voice from a tomb near by. It was that of Atlatites, who announced to Rogero and Marphisa that they were brother and sister, children of Rogero of Pisa and Galiciella; that Rogero had been treacherously slain and his town betrayed to Almontes, who cast Galiciella adrift on the sea. Atlantes rescued her, and took her children when she died; but Marphisa was stolen from him by a band of Arabs. From this speech it was plainly the duty of Rogero and Marphisa to espouse the cause of Charlemagne and take arms against Agramant, who was their enemy. Bradamant and Marphisa then embraced, bade Rogero farewell, and proceeded to Charlemagne's camp, where Marphisa was received with honor and baptized, while Rogero promised to follow them as soon as he could find an excuse to leave Agramant. When Astolpho left Bradamant in the forest, he quickly rose in the air and passed rapidly over the kingdoms of the world, Aragon, Navarre, Cadiz, Egypt, Morocco, Fez, over the sandy desert until he reached the kingdom of Nubia, whose king he rescued from the harpies by the sound of his magic horn. Then, mounted on his hippogrif again, he rose to the terrestrial Paradise, where he was welcomed by John, who informed him that he was sent thither by the grace of God that he might get instruction how to furnish aid to Charles and the Church, who were sorely in need of it. With John he rose in a chariot to the Heaven of the Moon, where, after seeing many strange things, he was given the wits of Orlando enclosed in a vial. They had been taken from him as a punishment for his loving a pagan, but were now to be restored to him that he might aid Charlemagne in conquering the Moors. Astolpho then descended to Nubia, restored sight to its king, and asking for his forces, went with them into Africa and attacked Biserta, the city of Agramant. When these tidings were borne to Agramant he was greatly troubled, and desiring to end the war in Europe and hasten to his own country, he proposed to Charlemagne that the war be decided by single combat between two champions. Great was the agony of Rogero, the pagan champion, when he recognized in his opponent Rinaldo, the brother of Bradamant. He would never dare to slay him, so he parried the blows rained upon him, and struck back so feebly that the spectators, not understanding his motives, deemed him unable to cope with Rinaldo. But Melissa, determined that Merlin's prophecy should come true, appeared to Agramant in the guise of Rodomont, and urged him to break the compact and fall upon the Christians. Delighted to have the mighty king with him again, Agramant did not scruple to break his word, and rushed upon the Christian forces, breaking up the combat. After a sharp conflict, the Saracens were put to flight and Agramant hastened into Africa. His people in Biserta, their strength drained by the long war, were unable to withstand the Christian foe, soon re-enforced by a powerful enemy. One day, as Astolpho and his friends were standing on the beach, a madman came raging towards them, whom Astolpho recognized as Orlando. The warriors attempted in vain to hold him until Astolpho ordered the ship's hawsers to be brought, and knotting them flung them at the count's limbs, and so threw him down and tied him. Then, after having had his body cleansed from mud and filth, he stopped his mouth with herbs so that he could breathe only through his nostrils, and holding the vial there, the lost senses were quickly inhaled, and Orlando was himself again, astonished and delighted to find himself with his friends. With Orlando's help, Biserta was soon taken, and Agramant, who had met the Christian fleet under the leadership of Dudon and had barely escaped with his life, saw from afar the flames devouring his beloved city. Landing with Sobrino upon a little isle, he found there King Sericane, who advised him to challenge the Christians to single combat in order to decide the outcome of the war, he, Gradasso, and Sobrino to stand in the lists against three Christian champions. Orlando agreed to do so, and selected for his companions in the fight Brandimart and Olivier. But the pagans were no match for Orlando, whom no weapon could injure, and Agramant and Gradasso soon fell, while Sobrino was wounded. But the joy over the Christian victory was not unalloyed by sorrow, for Olivier was severely wounded and the beloved Brandimart was slain. The champions were now joined by Rinaldo, who after the breaking of the pact by Agramant, had set off for India in search of Angelica, whom he still madly loved. But Disdain guided his steps to the Fountain of Hate, one draught of which changed his love to loathing, so that he abandoned his undertaking and hastened to join the Christian forces in Africa. Olivier's wound proved slow to heal, and when at last the warriors heard of a hermit on a lonely isle who could help him, they hastened to take their wounded comrade thither. There they found Rogero, who had been shipwrecked while sailing to Africa, and had been baptized by the hermit, who was warned in a dream of his coming. The Christian warriors gladly welcomed Rogero to their ranks, for they knew of his valor; and Rinaldo, who had learned how the young hero had saved the life of Richardetto and had preserved Vivian and Malagigi, embraced him, and at the suggestion of the hermit, plighted him to his sister. Before they left the isle, Sobrino was converted by the pious hermit, and Olivier's wound was healed. The knights were received with the greatest honor by Charlemagne, especially Rogero, the new convert. But what unhappiness awaited him! In his absence Bradamant's father had promised the maid to Leo, the son of the Greek emperor, Constantine, in spite of her prayers and entreaties. Although Bradamant declared that she would die sooner than wed another, the heart-broken Rogero hastily departed for Constantinople to slay his rival. In his absence, Bradamant besought Charlemagne not to compel her to marry Leo unless he could defeat her in single combat; and her angry parents, on learning of this, took her from the court and shut her up in the tower of Rocca Forte. Rogero, in the mean time, reached Leo's realms just as the Greeks engaged in battle with the Bulgarians. Because of his hatred for Leo, he fought with the Bulgarians, and when their king fell he rallied their scattered troops and put the Greeks to flight. Rogero then followed the fleeing Greeks unaccompanied, and being recognized, was taken captive that night as he slept in a hostelry. At the entreaty of a kinswoman whose son Rogero had slain that day, the emperor surrendered his captive to her, and he was thrust into a gloomy dungeon, where he suffered agonies from hunger and cold. But Leo, who had admired his valor in battle and had longed to know him, rescued him, recovered his horse and armor, and by his generosity compelled Rogero to admire him as much as he had before hated him. The news of Charlemagne's decree now reached Leo, and he, fearing to fight Bradamant, asked the unknown knight of the unicorn to take his place. Rogero's heart sank within him, but he dared not refuse. His life was Leo's, and he must sacrifice himself for him, must either slay Bradamant, or be slain by her for his deliverer's sake. He accompanied Leo to France, and feigning a cheerfulness he did not feel, changed armor and steed that he might not be known, and, while Leo remained in his tent outside the city, entered the lists and encountered Bradamant, who was determined to slay her hated suitor. Rogero was equally determined not to slay her nor to allow himself to be conquered. When twilight fell and king and court saw that while the young knight had not overcome the maid, he had not allowed himself to be overcome, they declared that the couple were well matched and that they should wed. The hopeless Rogero hastened back to Leo's camp, changed armor and steed, and during the night stole away from the hateful place to the greenwood that he might die there, since he could never possess his beloved. At the same time, Bradamant gave way to her grief in such a manner that Marphisa, already indignant at the treatment of her brother, appeared before the king in his behalf. She declared that Rogero and Bradamant had already exchanged all the vows of those who marry and therefore she was not free to wed another. She then suggested that since the matter had gone so far, Leo and Rogero should meet in the lists to decide to whom the lady belonged. Leo at once set out in search of his knight of the unicorn, who he believed would defend him from all peril, and found him in the forest, almost fainting from fasting and sleeplessness. The Greek embraced Rogero tenderly and implored him to betray the cause of his grief, and so tender were his words and so gracious his manner that Rogero could not but unbosom himself. And when Leo learned that his unknown champion was no other than Rogero himself he declared that he would gladly forego Bradamant for him, and would rather have forfeited his life than caused such grief to such a faithful friend. Joy filled the court when the story of Rogero's fidelity was made known, and the joy was increased when ambassadors came from Bulgaria, seeking the unknown knight of the unicorn that they might offer their throne to him. Duke Aymon and his wife were reconciled when they found that Rogero was to be a king, and the wedding was celebrated with the greatest splendor, Charlemagne providing for Bradamant as though she were his daughter. In the midst of the celebrations Rodomont appeared to defy Rogero, and that knight, nothing loath, met him in the lists. The Moor fell under Rogero's blows, and all the Christian court rejoiced to see the last of the pagan knights fall by the hand of their champion. SELECTION FROM THE ORLANDO FURIOSO. THE DEATH OF ZERBINO. As Orlando talked with Zerbino, whose life he had saved and to whom he had given his lady Isabel, also rescued by him, Mandricardo the Tartar king came up and challenged Orlando to single combat. While they fought, Mandricardo's steed, from which Orlando had slipped the rein, became unmanageable, and fled with its rider. Orlando asked Zerbino and Isabel to tell Mandricardo, if they overtook him, that he would wait for him in that place for three days to renew the battle. But while waiting, Orlando learned of Angelica's love for Medoro, and losing his senses from grief, threw away his armor, and went wandering through France. Zerbino and Isabel returned to the place to see if Mandricardo had returned, and there learned of Orlando's condition. Far off, he [Zerbino] saw that something shining lay, And spied Orlando's corselet on the ground; And next his helm; but not that head-piece gay Which whilem African Almontes crowned: He in the thicket heard a courser neigh, And, lifting up his visage at the sound, Saw Brigliadoro the green herbage browse, With rein yet hanging at his saddle-bows, For Durindane, he sought the greenwood, round, Which separate from the scabbard met his view; And next the surcoat, but in tatters, found; That, in a hundred rags, the champaign strew, Zerbino and Isabel, in grief profound, Stood looking on, nor what to think they knew: They of all matters else might think, besides The fury which the wretched count misguides. Had but the lovers seen a drop of blood, They might have well believed Orlando dead: This while the pair, beside the neighboring flood, Beheld a shepherd coming, pale with dread. He just before, as on a rock he stood, Had seen the wretch's fury; how he shed His arms about the forest, tore his clothes, Slew hinds, and caused a thousand other woes. Questioned by good Zerbino, him the swain Of all which there had chanced, informed aright. Zerbino marvelled, and believed with pain, Although the proofs were clear: This as it might, He from his horse dismounted on the plain, Full of compassion, in afflicted plight; And went about, collecting from the ground The various relics which were scattered round. Isabel lights as well; and, where they lie Dispersed, the various arms uniting goes. * * * * * Here Prince Zerbino all the arms unites, And hangs like a fair trophy, on a pine. And, to preserve them safe from errant knights, Natives or foreigners, in one short line Upon the sapling's verdant surface writes, ORLANDO'S ARMS, KING CHARLES'S PALADINE. As he would say, "Let none this harness move, Who cannot with its lord his prowess prove!" Zerbino having done the pious deed, Is bowning him to climb his horse; when, lo! The Tartar king arrives upon the mead. He at the trophied pine-tree's gorgeous show, Beseeches him the cause of this to read; Who lets him (as rehearsed) the story know. When, without further pause, the paynim lord Hastes gladly to the pine, and takes the sword. "None can (he said) the action reprehend, Nor first I make the faulchion mine to-day; And to its just possession I pretend Where'er I find it, be it where it may. Orlando, this not daring to defend, Has feigned him mad, and cast the sword away; But if the champion so excuse his shame, This is no cause I should forego my claim." "Take it not thence," to him Zerbino cried, "Nor think to make it thine without a fight: If so thou tookest Hector's arms of pride, By theft thou hadst them, rather than by right." Without more parley spurred upon each side, Well matched in soul and valor, either knight. Already echoed are a thousand blows; Nor yet well entered are the encountering foes. In 'scaping Durindane, a flame in show (He shifts so swiftly), is the Scottish lord. He leaps about his courser like a doe, Where'er the road best footing does afford. And well it is that he should not forego An inch of vantage; who, if once that sword Smite him, will join the enamored ghosts, which rove Amid the mazes of the myrtle grove. As the swift-footed dog, who does espy Swine severed from his fellows, hunts him hard, And circles round about; but he lies by Till once the restless foe neglect his guard; So, while the sword descends, or hangs on high, Zerbino stands, attentive how to ward, How to save life and honor from surprise; And keeps a wary eye, and smites and flies. On the other side, where'er the foe is seen To threaten stroke in vain, or make it good, He seems an Alpine wind, two hills between, That in the month of March shakes leafy wood; Which to the ground now bends the forest green, Now whirls the broken boughs, at random strewed. Although the prince wards many, in the end One mighty stroke he cannot 'scape or fend. In the end he cannot 'scape one downright blow, Which enters, between sword and shield, his breast. As perfect was the plate and corselet, so Thick was the steel wherein his paunch was drest: But the destructive weapon, falling low, Equally opened either iron vest; And cleft whate'er it swept in its descent, And to the saddle-bow, through cuirass, went. And, but that somewhat short the blow descends It would Zerbino like a cane divide; But him so little in the quick offends, This scarce beyond the skin is scarified. More than a span in length the wound extends; Of little depth: of blood a tepid tide To his feet descending, with a crimson line, Stains the bright arms which on the warrior shine. 'T is so, I sometimes have been wont to view A hand more white than alabaster, part The silver cloth with ribbon red of hue; A hand I often feel divide my heart. Here little vantage young Zerbino drew From strength and greater daring, and from art; For in the temper of his arms and might, Too much the Tartar king excelled the knight. The fearful stroke was mightier in show, Than in effect, by which the prince was prest; So that poor Isabel, distraught with woe, Felt her heart severed in her frozen breast. The Scottish prince, all over in a glow, With anger and resentment was possest, And putting all his strength in either hand, Smote full the Tartar's helmet with his brand. Almost on his steed's neck the Tartar fell, Bent by the weighty blow Zerbino sped; And, had the helmet been unfenced by spell The biting faulchion would have cleft his head. The king, without delay, avenged him well, "Nor I for you till other season," said, "Will keep this gift;" and levelled at his crest, Hoping to part Zerbino to the chest. Zerbino, on the watch, whose eager eye Waits on his wit, wheels quickly to the right; But not withal so quickly, as to fly The trenchant sword, which smote the shield outright, And cleft from top to bottom equally; Shearing the sleeve beneath it, and the knight Smote on his arm; and next the harness rended, And even to the champion's thigh descended. Zerbino, here and there, seeks every way By which to wound, nor yet his end obtains; For, while he smites upon that armor gay, Not even a feeble dint the coat retains. On the other hand, the Tartar in the fray Such vantage o'er the Scottish prince obtains, Him he has wounded in seven parts or eight, And reft his shield and half his helmet's plate. He ever wastes his blood; his energies Fail, though he feels it not, as't would appear; Unharmed, the vigorous heart new force supplies To the weak body of the cavalier. His lady, during this, whose crimson dyes Were chased by dread, to Doralice drew near, And for the love of Heaven, the damsel wooed To stop that evil and disastrous feud. Doralice, who as courteous was as fair, And ill-assured withal, how it would end, Willingly granted Isabella's prayer, And straight to truce and peace disposed her friend. As well Zerbino, by the other's care, Was brought his vengeful anger to suspend; And, wending where she willed, the Scottish lord, Left unachieved the adventure of the sword. For to leave Durindana such misdeed To him appeared, it past all other woes; Though he could hardly sit upon his steed, Through mighty loss of life-blood, which yet flows. Now, when his anger and his heat secede, After short interval, his anguish grows; His anguish grows, with such impetuous pains, He feels that life is ebbing from his veins. For weakness can the prince no further hie, And so beside a fount is forced to stay: Him to assist the pitying maid would try, But knows not what to do, nor what to say. For lack of comfort she beholds him die; Since every city is too far away, Where in this need she could resort to leech, Whose succor she might purchase or beseech. She, blaming fortune, and the cruel sky, Can only utter fond complaints and vain. "Why sank I not in ocean," (was her cry), "When first I reared my sail upon the main?" Zerbino, who on her his languid eye Had fixt, as she bemoaned her, felt more pain Than that enduring and strong anguish bred, Through which the suffering youth was well-nigh dead. "So be thou pleased, my heart," (Zerbino cried), "To love me yet, when I am dead and gone, As to abandon thee without a guide, And not to die, distresses me alone. For did it me in place secure betide To end my days, this earthly journey done, I cheerful, and content, and fully blest Would die, since I should die upon thy breast "But since to abandon thee, to whom a prize I know not, my sad fate compels, I swear, My Isabella, by that mouth, those eyes, By what enchained me first, that lovely hair; My spirit, troubled and despairing, hies Into hell's deep and gloomy bottom; where To think, thou wert abandoned so by me, Of all its woes the heaviest pain will be." At this the sorrowing Isabel, declining Her mournful face, which with her tears o'erflows, Towards the sufferer, and her mouth conjoining To her Zerbino's, languid as a rose; Rose gathered out of season, and which, pining Fades where it on the shadowy hedgerow grows, Exclaims, "Without me think not so, my heart, On this your last, long journey to depart. "Of this, my heart, conceive not any fear. For I will follow thee to heaven or hell; It fits our souls together quit this sphere, Together go, for aye together dwell. No sooner closed thine eyelids shall appear, Than either me internal grief will quell, Or, has it not such power, I here protest, I with this sword to-day will pierce my breast. "I of our bodies cherish hope not light, That they shall have a happier fate when dead; Together to entomb them, may some wight, Haply by pity moved, be hither led." She the poor remnants of his vital sprite Went on collecting, as these words she said; And while yet aught remains, with mournful lips, The last faint breath of life devoutly sips. 'T was here his feeble voice Zerbino manned, Crying, "My deity, I beg and pray, By that love witnessed, when thy father's land Thou quittedst for my sake; and, if I may In anything command thee, I command, That, with God's pleasure, thou live-out thy day; Nor ever banish from thy memory, That, well as man can love, have I loved thee. "God haply will provide thee with good aid, To free thee from each churlish deed I fear; As when in the dark cavern thou wast stayed, He sent, to rescue thee. Andante's peer; So he (grammercy!) succored thee dismayed At sea, and from the wicked Biscayneer. And, if thou must choose death, in place of worse, Then only choose it as a leaser curse." I think not these last words of Scotland's knight Were so exprest, that he was understood: With these, he finished, like a feeble light, Which needs supply of wax, or other food. --Who is there, that has power to tell aright The gentle Isabella's doleful mood? When stiff, her loved Zerbino, with pale face, And cold as ice, remained in her embrace. On the ensanguined corse, in sorrow drowned, The damsel throws herself, in her despair, And shrieks so loud that wood and plain resound For many miles about; nor does she spare Bosom or cheek; but still, with cruel wound, One and the other smites the afflicted fair; And wrongs her curling locks of golden grain, Aye calling on the well-loved youth in vain. She with such rage, such fury, was possest, That, in her transport, she Zerbino's glaive Would easily have turned against her breast, Ill keeping the command her lover gave; But that a hermit, from his neighboring rest, Accustomed oft to seek the fountain-wave, His flagon at the cooling stream to fill, Opposed him to the damsel's evil will. The reverend father, who with natural sense Abundant goodness happily combined, And, with ensamples fraught and eloquence, Was full of charity towards mankind, With efficacious reasons her did fence, And to endurance Isabel inclined; Placing, from ancient Testament and new, Women, as in a mirror, for her view. The holy man next made the damsel see, That save in God there was no true content, And proved all other hope was transitory, Fleeting, of little worth, and quickly spent; And urged withal so earnestly his plea, He changed her ill and obstinate intent; And made her, for the rest of life, desire To live devoted to her heavenly sire. Not that she would her mighty love forbear For her dead lord, nor yet his relics slight; These, did she halt or journey, everywhere Would Isabel have with her, day and night. The hermit therefore seconding her care, Who, for his age, was sound and full of might, They on his mournful horse Zerbino placed, And traversed many a day that woodland waste. * * * * * He thought to bear her to Provence, where, near The city of Marseilles, a borough stood, Which had a sumptuous monastery; here Of ladies was a holy sisterhood. _Rose's Translation, Canto XXIV_. THE LUSIAD. "The discovery of Mozambique, of Melinda, and of Calcutta has been sung by Camoens, whose poem has something of the charm of the Odyssey and of the magnificence of the Aeneid." MONTESQUIEU. The Portuguese epic, the Lusiad, so-called from Lusitania, the Latin name for Portugal, was written by Luis de Camoens. He was born in Lisbon in 1524, lost his father by shipwreck in infancy, and was educated by his mother at the University of Coimbra. On leaving the university he appeared at court, where his graces of person and mind soon rendered him a favorite. Here a love affair with the Donna Catarina de Atayde, whom the king also loved, caused his banishment to Santarem. At this place he began the Lusiad, and continued it on the expedition against the Moors in Africa sent out by John III., an expedition on which he displayed much valor and lost an eye. He was recalled to court, but jealousies soon drove him thence to India, whither he sailed in 1553, exclaiming, "Ungrateful country, thou shall not possess my bones." In India his bravery and accomplishments won him friends, but his imprudences soon caused his exile to China, where he accumulated a small fortune and finished his poem. Happier circumstances permitted him to return to Goa; but on the way the ship laden with his fortune sank, and he escaped, saving only his poem. After sixteen years of misfortune abroad, Camoens returned to Lisbon in 1569. The pestilence that was then raging delayed the publication of the Lusiad until 1572. The poem received little attention; a small pension was bestowed on the poet, but was soon withdrawn, and the unfortunate Camoens was left to die in an almshouse. On his death-bed he deplored the impending fate of his country, which he alone could see. "I have loved my country. I have returned not only to die on her bosom, but to die with her." The Lusiad tells the story of the voyage of Vasco da Gama. The sailors of Prince Henry of Portugal, commander of the Portuguese forces in Africa, had passed Cape Nam and discovered the Cape of Storms, which the prince renamed the Cape of Good Hope. His successor Emmanuel, determined to carry out the work of his predecessor by sending out da Gama to undertake the discovery of the southern passage to India. The Portuguese were generally hostile to the undertaking, but da Gama, his brother, and his friend Coello gathered a company, part of which consisted of malefactors whose sentence of death was reversed on condition that they undertake the voyage, and reached India. The Lusiad is divided into ten cantos, containing one thousand one hundred and two stanzas. Its metre is the heroic iambic, in rhymed octave stanzas. The Lusiad is marred by its mythological allusions in imitation of Homer and Virgil, but these are forgotten when the poet sings in impassioned strains of his country's past glory. The Lusiad is simple in style; its subject is prosaic; it is a constant wonder that out of such unpromising materials Camoens could construct a poem of such interest. He could not have done so had he not been so great a poet, so impassioned a patriot. Camoens was in one sense of the word a practical man, like Ariosto; he had governed a province, and governed it successfully. But he had also taken up arms for his country, and after suffering all the slights that could be put upon him by an ungrateful and forgetful monarch, still loved his native land, loved it the more, perhaps, that he had suffered for it and was by it neglected. He foresaw, also, as did no one else, the future ruin of his country, and loved it the more intensely, as a parent lavishes the fondest, most despairing affection on a child he knows doomed to early death. The Lusiad is sometimes called the epic of commerce; it could be called far more appropriately the epic of patriotism. BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE LUSIAD. J. Adamson's Memoirs of Life and Writing of Camoens, 2 vols., 1820 (vol. 2, account of works of Camoens in Portuguese and other languages, and of the works founded on his life or suggested by his writings); R. F. Burton's Camoens, his Life and his Lusiad, 2 vols., 1881; M. W. Shelley's Lives of the most Eminent Literary and Scientific Men of Italy, Spain, and Portugal, vol. 3; F. Bouterwek's History of Spanish and Portuguese Literature, 1823 (Tr. by T. Ross); Chambers's Repository, no. 32, Spirit of Camoens's Lusiad; W. T. Dobson's Classic Poets, pp. 240-278; Montgomery's Men of Italy, iii., 295; Sismondi's Literature of the South of Europe, ii., 475-528; Southey's Sketch of Portuguese Literature in vol. i. of Quarterly Review, 1809; Fortnightly Review, i., 184; Quarterly, i., 235; Monthly Review, clx., 505; Edinburgh Review, 1805, vi., 43; New England Magazine, liii., 542; Revue de Deux Mondes, 1832, vi., 145. STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE LUSIAD. The Lusiad, Tr. by J. J. Aubertin, 2 vols., 1881 (Portuguese text and English Tr., in verse); The Lusiad, Englished by R. F. Burton, 2 vols., 1881; The Lusiad, Tr. into Spenserian verse by R. F. Duff, 1880; The Lusiad, Tr. by Sir Richard Fanshawe, 1655; The Lusiad, Tr. by W. J. Mickle, 3 vols., Ed. 5, 1807; The Lusiad, Tr. by T. M. Musgrave (blank verse), 1826; The Lusiad, Tr. by Edward Quillinan, with notes by John Adamson, 1853. THE STORY OF THE LUSIAD. When Jupiter, looking down from Olympus, saw the Lusitanian fleet sailing over the heretofore untravelled seas, he called the gods together, and reviewing the past glory of the Portuguese, their victories over the Castilians, their stand against the Romans, under their shepherd-hero Viriatus, and their conquest of Africa, he foretold their future glories and their discovery and conquest of India. Bacchus, who had long since made conquests in India, fearful lest his ancient honors should be forgotten, bitterly opposed the scheme of the Portuguese; Venus, however, was favorable to them, and Mars interceded, counselling Jove not to heed Bacchus, but to permit the Lusitanians to reach India's shore in safety. When the council of the gods was dismissed, Mercury was sent to guide the Armada, which made its first landing at Mozambique. Canoes with curious palm-leaf sails, laden with dark-skinned natives, swarmed round the ships and were hailed with joy by Gama and his men, who invited them on board. A feast was spread for them, and to them Gama declared his intention of seeking India. Among them was a Moor who had at first thought the Portuguese Moors, on account of their dark skins. Feigning cordiality while plotting their ruin, he offered them a pilot to Quiloa, where, he assured them, they would find a Christian colony. He and his friends also laid a plot to place some soldiers in ambush to attack Gama's men when they landed next day to get water; in this way many would be destroyed, and certain death awaited the survivors at Quiloa, whither the promised pilot would conduct them. But the Moors had not counted on the strength of the Portuguese. Gama's vengeance was swift and certain. The thunder of his guns terrified the Moors, and the regent implored his pardon, and with make-believe tears insisted on his receiving at his hands the promised pilot. Many questions were asked by Gama concerning the spicy shores of India, of the African coasts, and of the island to the north. "Quiloa, that," replied the Moor, "where from ancient times, the natives have worshipped the blood-stained image of the Christ." He knew how the Moorish inhabitants hated the Christians, and was secretly delighted when Gama directed him to steer thither. A storm swept the fleet past Quiloa, but the pilot, still determined on revenge, pointed out the island town of Mombaça, as a stronghold of the Christians, and steering the fleet thither, anchored just outside the bar. Bacchus, now intent on the destruction of the Lusitanians, assumed the character of a priest to deceive the heralds sent ashore by Gama, who assured their commander that they saw a Christian priest performing divine rites at an altar above which fluttered the banner of the Holy Ghost. In a few moments the Christian fleet would have been at the mercy of the Moors, but Cytherea, beholding from above the peril of her favorites, hastily descended, gathered together her nymphs, and formed an obstruction, past which the vessels strove in vain to pass. As Gama, standing high on the poop, saw the huge rock in the channel, he cried out, and the Moorish pilots, thinking their treason discovered, leaped into the waves. Warned in a dream by Mercury that the Moors were preparing to cut his cables, De Gama roused his fleet and set sail for Melinda, whose monarch, Mercury had told him, was both powerful and good. The fleet, decorated with purple streamers and gold and scarlet tapestry in honor of Ascension Day sailed with drums beating and trumpets sounding, into the harbor of Melinda, where they were welcomed by the kind and truthful people. The fame of the Lusitanians had reached Melinda, and the monarch gladly welcomed them to his land. His herald entreated them to remain with him, and brought them sheep, fowls, and the fruits of the earth, welcome gifts to the mariners. Gama had vowed not to leave the ship until he could step on Indian ground, so the next day the king and the commander, clad in their most splendid vestments, met in barges, and the monarch of Melinda asked Gama to tell him of the Lusian race, its origin and climate, and of all his adventures up to the time of his arrival at Melinda. "O king," said Gama, "between the zones of endless winter and eternal summer lies beautiful Europe, surrounded by the sea. To the north are the bold Swede, the Prussian, and the Dane; on her south-eastern line dwelt the Grecian heroes, world-renowned, and farther south are the ruins of proud Rome. Among the beauteous landscapes of Italy lies proud Venice, queen of the sea, and north of her tower the lofty Alps. The olive groves and vineyards of fair Gallia next greet the eye, and then the valorous fields of Spain, Aragon, Granada, and--the pride of Spain--Castile. On the west, a crown to it, lies Lusitania, on whom last smiles the setting sun,--against whose shores roll the waves of the western sea. "Noble are the heroes of my country. They were the first to rise against the Moors and expel them from the kingdom. The forces of Rome were routed by our shepherd-hero, Viriatus. After his death our country languished until Alonzo of Spain arose, whose renown spread far and wide because of his battles against the Moors. "Alonzo rewarded generously the heroes who fought under him, and to Prince Henry of Hungaria he gave the fields through which the Tagus flows and the hand of his daughter. To them was born a son, Alfonso, the founder of the Lusian throne. After the death of his father Henry, Alfonso's mother became regent, and ere long wedded her minister Perez and plotted to deprive her young son of his inheritance. The eighteen year old son arose, won the nobility to his side, and defeated his guilty mother and her husband in the battle of Guimaraens. Forgetful of the reverence due to parents, he cruelly imprisoned his mother, whose father, the king of Spain, indignant at such treatment of his daughter, now marched against the young prince and defeated him. As he lay in prison, his faithful guardian Egas knelt before the king, and vowed that his master, if released, would pay homage to him. Well he knew that his master would never bow his proud head to pay homage to Castile. So when the day arrived, Egas, and all his family, clad in gowns of white like sentenced felons, with unshod feet, and with the halter around their necks, sought Castile. 'O king, take us as a sacrifice for my perjured honor. Turn in friendship to the prince thy grandson, and wreak thy vengeance on us alone.' "Fortunately Alonzo was noble enough to release the self-sacrificing Egas, and to forgive his grandson. "The young Alfonso, pardoned by his grandfather, proceeded to Ourique, whither marched five Moorish kings. Over his head appeared the sacred cross; but he prayed heaven to show it to his army instead, that they might be inspired with the hope of victory. Filled with joy at the token, the Portuguese defeated the Moors, and on the bloody battle-field Alfonso was proclaimed King of Portugal, and from that day placed on his hitherto unadorned buckler five azure shields, arranged as a cross. He continued the wars with the Moors until, wounded and taken prisoner at Badajoz, he resigned the throne to his son, Don Sancho, who in turn won many victories. Alfonso II., Sancho II., Alfonso III., and Alfonso the Brave succeeded him. At the court of the latter was a beautiful maiden, Inez de Castro, whom Alfonso's son Don Pedro had married secretly. The courtiers, fearful lest Pedro should show favor to the Castilians because Inez was the daughter of a Castilian, told the king of his son's amour. In the absence of Pedro, Inez was led before the king, bringing with her her children, to help her to plead for mercy. But the king was merciless, his counsellors, brutal, and at his signal they stabbed her. Pedro never recovered from the shock given him by the fate of his beautiful wife, and after his succession to the throne, as a partial atonement for her suffering, he had her body taken from the grave and crowned Queen of Portugal. "The weak Fernando, who took his wife Eleanora from her lawful husband, succeeded Pedro, and their daughter Beatrice not being recognized by the Portuguese, at his death Don John, a natural brother, came to the throne. In the mean time a Spanish prince had married Beatrice and invaded Portugal, claiming it as his right. The Portuguese were divided until Nuño Alvarez Pereyra came forward. 'Has one weak reign so corrupted you?' he cried. 'Have you so soon forgotten our brave sires? Fernando was weak, but John, our godlike king, is strong. Come, follow him! Or, if you stay, I myself will go alone; never will I yield to a vassal's yoke; my native land shall remain unconquered, and my monarch's foes, Castilian or Portuguese, shall heap the plain!' "Inspired by Nuño's eloquence the Lusians took the field and defeated the Spanish in the battle of Aljubarota. Still dissatisfied, Nuño pressed into Spain and dictated the terms of peace at Seville. Having established himself upon the throne of Portugal, John carried the war into Africa, which wars were continued after his death by his son Edward. While laying siege to Tangier, Edward and his brother Fernando were taken prisoners, and were allowed to return home only on promise to surrender Ceuta. Don Fernando remained as the hostage they demanded. The Portuguese would not agree to surrender Ceuta, and Don Fernando was forced to languish in captivity, since the Moors would accept no other ransom. He was a patriotic prince than whom were none greater in the annals of Lusitania. "Alfonso V., victorious over the Moors, dreamed of conquering Castile, but was defeated, and on his death was succeeded by John II., who designed to gain immortal fame in a way tried by no other king. His sailors sought a path to India, but 'though enriched with knowledge' they perished at the mouth of the Indus. To his successor, Emmanuel, in a dream appeared the rivers Ganges and Indus, hoary fathers, rustic in aspect, yet with a majestic grace of bearing, their long, uncombed beards dripping with water, their heads wreathed with strange flowers, and proclaimed to him that their countries were ordained by fate to yield to him; that the fight would be great, and the fields would stream with blood, but that at last their shoulders would bend beneath the yoke. Overjoyed at this dream, Emmanuel proclaimed it to his people. I, O king, felt my bosom burn, for long had I aspired to this work. Me the king singled out, to me the dread toil he gave of seeking unknown seas. Such zeal felt I and my youths as inspired the Mynian youths when they ventured into unknown seas in the Argo, in search of the golden fleece. "On the shore was reared a sacred fane, and there at the holy shrine my comrades and I knelt and joined in the solemn rites. Prostrate we lay before the shrine until morning dawned; then, accompanied by the 'woful, weeping, melancholy throng' that came pressing from the gates of the city, we sought our ships. "Then began the tears to flow; then the shrieks of mothers, sisters, and wives rent the air, and as we waved farewell an ancient man cried out to us on the thirst for honor and for fame that led us to undertake such a voyage. "Soon our native mountains mingled with the skies, and the last dim speck of land having faded, we set our eyes to scan the waste of sea before us. From Madeira's fair groves we passed barren Masilia, the Cape of Green, the Happy Isles, Jago, Jalofo, and vast Mandinga, the hated shore of the Gorgades, the jutting cape called by us the Cape of Palms, and southward sailed through the wild waves until the stars changed and we saw Callisto's star no longer, but fixed our eyes on another pole star that rises nightly over the waves. The shining cross we beheld each night in the heavens was to us a good omen. "While thus struggling through the untried waves, and battling with the tempests, now viewing with terror the waterspouts, and the frightful lightnings, now comforted by the sight of mysterious fire upon our masts, we came in sight of land, and gave to the trembling negro who came to us some brass and bells. Five days after this event, as we sailed through the unknown seas, a sudden darkness o'erspread the sky, unlighted by moon or star. Questioning what this portent might mean, I saw a mighty phantom rise through the air. His aspect was sullen, his cheeks were pale, his withered hair stood erect, his yellow teeth gnashed; his whole aspect spoke of revenge and horror. "'Bold are you,' cried he, 'to venture hither, but you shall suffer for it. The next proud fleet that comes this way shall perish on my coast, and he who first beheld me shall float on the tide a corpse. Often, O Lusus, shall your children mourn because of me!' 'Who art thou?' I cried. 'The Spirit of the Cape,' he replied, 'oft called the Cape of Tempests.'" The king of Melinda interrupted Gama. He had often heard traditions among his people of the Spirit of the Cape. He was one of the race of Titans who loved Thetis, and was punished by Jove by being transformed into this promontory. Gama continued: "Again we set forth, and stopped at a pleasant coast to clean our barks of the shell-fish. At this place we left behind many victims of the scurvy in their lonely graves. Of the treason we met with at Mozambique and the miracle that saved us at Quiloa and Mombas, you know already, as well as of your own bounty." Charmed with the recital of Gama, the King of Melinda had forgotten how the hours passed away. After the story was told the company whiled away the hours with dance, song, the chase, and the banquet, until Gama declared that he must go on to India, and was furnished with a pilot by the friendly king. Bacchus, enraged at seeing the voyage so nearly completed, descended to the palace of Neptune, with crystal towers, lofty turrets, roofs of gold, and beautiful pillars inwrought with pearls. The sculptured walls were adorned with old Chaos's troubled face, the four fair elements, and many scenes in the history of the earth. Roused by Bacchus, the gods of the sea consented to let loose the winds and the waves against the Portuguese. During the night, the Lusians spent the time in relating stories of their country. As they talked, the storm came upon them, and the vessels rose upon the giant waves, so that the sailors saw the bottom of the sea swept almost bare by the violence of the storm. But the watchful Venus perceived the peril of her Lusians, and calling her nymphs together, beguiled the storm gods until the storm ceased. While the sailors congratulated themselves on the returning calm, the cry of "Land!" was heard, and the pilot announced to Gama that Calicut was near. Hail to the Lusian heroes who have won such honors, who have forced their way through untravelled seas to the shores of India! Other nations of Europe have wasted their time in a vain search for luxury and fame instead of reclaiming to the faith its enemies! Italy, how fallen, how lost art thou! and England and Gaul, miscalled "most Christian!" While ye have slept, the Lusians, though their realms are small, have crushed the Moslems and made their name resound throughout Africa, even to the shores of Asia. At dawn Gama sent a herald to the monarch; in the mean time, a friendly Moor, Monçaide, boarded the vessel, delighted to hear his own tongue once more. Born at Tangiers, he considered himself a neighbor of the Lusians; well he knew their valorous deeds, and although a Moor, he now allied himself to them as a friend. He described India to the eager Gama: its religions, its idolaters, the Mohammedans, the Buddhists, the Brahmins. At Calicut, queen of India, lived the Zamorin, lord of India, to whom all subject kings paid their tribute. His arrival having been announced, Gama, adorned in his most splendid garments, and accompanied by his train, also in bright array, entered the gilded barges and rowed to the shore, where stood the Catual, the Zamorin's minister. Monçaide acted as an interpreter. The company passed through a temple on their way to the palace, in which the Christians were horrified at the graven images there worshipped. On the palace walls were the most splendid pictures, relating the history of India. One wall, however, bore no sculptures; the Brahmins had foretold that a foreign foe would at some time conquer India, and that space was reserved for scenes from those wars. Into the splendid hall adorned with tapestries of cloth of gold and carpets of velvet, Gama passed, and stood before the couch on which sat the mighty monarch. The room blazed with gems and gold; the monarch's mantle was of cloth of gold, and his turban shone with gems. His manner was majestic and dignified; he received Gama in silence, only nodding to him to tell his story. Gama proclaimed that he came in friendship from a valorous nation that wished to unite its shores with his by commerce. The monarch responded that he and his council would weigh the proposal, and in the mean time Gama should remain and feast with them. The next day the Indians visited the fleet, and after the banquet Gama displayed to his guests a series of banners on which were told the history of Portugal and her heroes. First came Lusus, the friend of Bacchus, the hero-shepherd Viriatus, the first Alonzo, the self-sacrificing Egas, the valiant Fuaz, every hero who had strengthened Lusitania and driven out her foes, down to the gallant Pedro and the glorious Henry. Awed and wondering at the deeds of the mighty heroes, the Indians returned home. In the night Bacchus appeared to the king, warning him against the Lusians and urging him to destroy them while in his power. The Moors bought the Catual with their gold. They also told the king that they would leave his city as soon as he allied himself with the odious strangers. When Gama was next summoned before the king he was received with a frown. "You are a pirate! Your first words were lies. Confess it; then you may stay with me and be my captain." "I know the Moors," replied Gama. "I know their lies that have poisoned your ears. Am I mad that I should voluntarily leave my pleasant home and dare the terrors of an unknown sea? Ah, monarch, you know not the Lusian race! Bold, dauntless, the king commands, and we obey. Past the dread Cape of Storms have I ventured, bearing no gift save friendly peace, and that noblest gift of all, the friendship of my king. I have spoken the truth. Truth is everlasting!" A day passed and still Gama was detained by the power of the Catual, who ordered him to call his fleets ashore if his voyage was really one of friendship. "Never!" exclaimed Gama. "My fleet is free, though I am chained, and they shall carry to Lisbon the news of my discovery." As he spoke, at a sign from the Catual, hostile ships were seen surrounding the Lusian vessels. "Not one shall tell on Lisbon's shores your fate." Gama smiled scornfully, as the fleet swept on towards his vessels. Loud sounded the drums, shrill the trumpets. The next moment sudden lightning flashed from Gama's ships and the skies echoed with the thunder of the guns. No word fell from Gama's lips as, the battle over, they saw the sea covered with the torn hulks and floating masts; but the populace raged around the palace gates, demanding justice to the strangers. The troubled king sought to make peace with Gama. "My orders have been given. To-day, when the sun reaches its meridian, India shall bleed and Calicut shall fall. The time is almost here. I make no terms. You have deceived me once." The Moors fell fainting on the floor; the monarch trembled. "What can save us?" he cried. "Convey me and my train to the fleet. Command at once; it is even now noon." Once more safe within his ship, with him the faithful Monçaide, who had kept him informed of the treason of the Moors, his ships laden with cinnamon, cloves, pepper, and gems, proofs of his visit, Gama, rejoicing, set sail for home. Venus saw the fleet setting out, and planned a resting-place for the weary sailors, a floating isle with golden sands, bowers of laurel and myrtle, beautiful flowers and luscious fruits. Here the sea nymphs gathered, Thetis, the most beautiful, being reserved for Gama, and here days were spent in joyance. At the banquet the nymphs sang the future glories of the Lusians, and taking Gama by the hand, led him and his men to a mountain height, whence they could look upon a wondrous globe, the universe. The crystal spheres whirled swiftly, making sweet music, and as they listened to this, they saw the sun go by, the stars, Apollo, the Queen of Love, Diana, and the "yellow earth, the centre of the whole." Asia and Africa were unrolled to their sight, and the future of India, conquered by the Lusians, Cochin China, China, Japan, Sumatra,--all these countries given to the world by their voyage around the terrible cape. "Spread thy sails!" cried the nymphs; "the time has come to go!" The ships departed on their homeward way, and the heroes were received with the wildest welcome by the dwellers on Tago's bosom. SELECTIONS FROM THE LUSIAD. INEZ DE CASTRO. During the reign of Alfonso the Brave, his son Don Pedro secretly wedded a beautiful maiden of the court, Inez de Castro. The courtiers, jealous because Inez was a Castilian, betrayed Pedro's secret to the king, who, in the absence of his son, had Inez brought before him and slain by hired ruffians. While glory, thus, Alonzo's name adorn'd, To Lisbon's shores the happy chief return'd, In glorious peace and well-deserv'd repose, His course of fame, and honor'd age to close. When now, O king, a damsel's fate severe, A fate which ever claims the woful tear, Disgraced his honors--On the nymph's 'lorn head Relentless rage its bitterest rancor shed: Yet, such the zeal her princely lover bore, Her breathless corse the crown of Lisbon wore. 'Twas thou, O Love, whose dreaded shafts control The hind's rude heart, and tear the hero's soul; Thou, ruthless power, with bloodshed never cloy'd, 'Twas thou thy lovely votary destroy'd. Thy thirst still burning for a deeper woe, In vain to thee the tears of beauty flow; The breast that feels thy purest flames divine, With spouting gore must bathe thy cruel shrine. Such thy dire triumphs!--Thou, O nymph, the while, Prophetic of the god's unpitying guile, In tender scenes by love-sick fancy wrought, By fear oft shifted, as by fancy brought, In sweet Mondego's ever-verdant bowers, Languish'd away the slow and lonely hours: While now, as terror wak'd thy boding fears, The conscious stream receiv'd thy pearly tears; And now, as hope reviv'd the brighter flame, Each echo sigh'd thy princely lover's name. Nor less could absence from thy prince remove The dear remembrance of his distant love: Thy looks, thy smiles, before him ever glow, And o'er his melting heart endearing flow: By night his slumbers bring thee to his arms, By day his thoughts still wander o'er thy charms: By night, by day, each thought thy loves employ, Each thought the memory, or the hope, of joy. Though fairest princely dames invok'd his love, No princely dame his constant faith could move: For thee, alone, his constant passion burn'd, For thee the proffer'd royal maids he scorn'd. Ah, hope of bliss too high--the princely dames Refus'd, dread rage the father's breast inflames; He, with an old man's wintry eye, surveys The youth's fond love, and coldly with it weighs The people's murmurs of his son's delay To bless the nation with his nuptial day. (Alas, the nuptial day was past unknown, Which, but when crown'd, the prince could dare to own.) And, with the fair one's blood, the vengeful sire Resolves to quench his Pedro's faithful fire. Oh, thou dread sword, oft stain'd with heroes' gore, Thou awful terror of the prostrate Moor, What rage could aim thee at a female breast, Unarm'd, by softness and by love possess'd! Dragg'd from her bower, by murd'rous ruffian hands, Before the frowning king fair Inez stands; Her tears of artless innocence, her air So mild, so lovely, and her face so fair, Mov'd the stern monarch; when, with eager zeal, Her fierce destroyers urg'd the public weal; Dread rage again the tyrant's soul possess'd, And his dark brow his cruel thoughts confess'd; O'er her fair face a sudden paleness spread, Her throbbing heart with gen'rous anguish bled, Anguish to view her lover's hopeless woes, And all the mother in her bosom rose. Her beauteous eyes, in trembling tear-drops drown'd, To heaven she lifted (for her hands were bound); Then, on her infants turn'd the piteous glance, The look of bleeding woe; the babes advance, Smiling in innocence of infant age, Unaw'd, unconscious of their grandsire's rage; To whom, as bursting sorrow gave the flow, The native heart-sprung eloquence of woe, The lovely captive thus:--"O monarch, hear, If e'er to thee the name of man was dear, If prowling tigers, or the wolf's wild brood (Inspired by nature with the lust of blood), Have yet been mov'd the weeping babe to spare, Nor left, but tended with a nurse's care, As Rome's great founders to the world were given; Shall thou, who wear'st the sacred stamp of Heaven The human form divine, shalt thou deny That aid, that pity, which e'en beasts supply! Oh, that thy heart were, as thy looks declare, Of human mould, superfluous were my prayer; Thou couldst not, then, a helpless damsel slay, Whose sole offence in fond affection lay, In faith to him who first his love confess'd, Who first to love allur'd her virgin breast. In these my babes shalt thou thine image see, And, still tremendous, hurl thy rage on me? Me, for their sakes, if yet thou wilt not spare, Oh, let these infants prove thy pious care! Yet, Pity's lenient current ever flows From that brave breast where genuine valor glows; That thou art brave, let vanquish'd Afric tell, Then let thy pity o'er my anguish swell; Ah, let my woes, unconscious of a crime, Procure mine exile to some barb'rous clime: Give me to wander o'er the burning plains Of Libya's deserts, or the wild domains Of Scythia's snow-clad rocks, and frozen shore; There let me, hopeless of return, deplore: Where ghastly horror fills the dreary vale, Where shrieks and howlings die on every gale, The lion's roaring, and the tiger's yell, There with my infant race, consigned to dwell, There let me try that piety to find, In vain by me implor'd from human kind: There, in some dreary cavern's rocky womb, Amid the horrors of sepulchral gloom, For him whose love I mourn, my love shall glow, The sigh shall murmur, and the tear shall flow: All my fond wish, and all my hope, to rear These infant pledges of a love so dear, Amidst my griefs a soothing glad employ, Amidst my fears a woful, hopeless joy." In tears she utter'd--as the frozen snow Touch'd by the spring's mild ray, begins to flow, So just began to melt his stubborn soul, As mild-ray'd Pity o'er the tyrant stole; But destiny forbade: with eager zeal (Again pretended for the public weal), Her fierce accusers urg'd her speedy doom; Again, dark rage diffus'd its horrid gloom O'er stern Alonzo's brow: swift at the sign, Their swords, unsheath'd, around her brandish'd shine. O foul disgrace, of knighthood lasting stain, By men of arms a helpless lady slain! Thus Pyrrhus, burning with unmanly ire, Fulfilled the mandate of his furious sire; Disdainful of the frantic matron's prayer, On fair Polyxena, her last fond care, He rush'd, his blade yet warm with Priam's gore, And dash'd the daughter on the sacred floor; While mildly she her raving mother eyed, Resigned her bosom to the sword, and died. Thus Inez, while her eyes to heaven appeal, Resigns her bosom to the murd'ring steel: That snowy neck, whose matchless form sustain'd The loveliest face, where all the graces reign'd, Whose charms so long the gallant prince enflam'd, That her pale corse was Lisbon's queen proclaim'd, That snowy neck was stain'd with spouting gore, Another sword her lovely bosom tore. The flowers that glisten'd with her tears bedew'd, Now shrunk and languished with her blood embru'd. As when a rose ere-while of bloom so gay, Thrown from the careless virgin's breast away, Lies faded on the plain, the living red, The snowy white, and all its fragrance fled; So from her cheeks the roses died away, And pale in death the beauteous Inez lay: With dreadful smiles, and crimson'd with her blood, Round the wan victim the stern murd'rers stood, Unmindful of the sure, though future hour, Sacred to vengeance and her lover's power. O Sun, couldst thou so foul a crime behold, Nor veil thine head in darkness, as of old A sudden night unwonted horror cast O'er that dire banquet, where the sire's repast The son's torn limbs supplied!--Yet you, ye vales! Ye distant forests, and ye flow'ry dales! When pale and sinking to the dreadful fall, You heard her quiv'ring lips on Pedro call; Your faithful echoes caught the parting sound, And Pedro! Pedro! mournful, sigh'd around. Nor less the wood-nymphs of Mondego's groves Bewail'd the memory of her hapless loves: Her griefs they wept, and, to a plaintive rill Transform'd their tears, which weeps and murmurs still. To give immortal pity to her woe They taught the riv'let through her bowers to flow, And still, through violet-beds, the fountain pours Its plaintive wailing, and is named Amours. Nor long her blood for vengeance cried in vain: Her gallant lord begins his awful reign, In vain her murderers for refuge fly, Spain's wildest hills no place of rest supply. The injur'd lover's and the monarch's ire, And stern-brow'd Justice in their doom conspire: In hissing flames they die, and yield their souls in fire. _Mickle's Translation, Canto III._ THE SPIRIT OF THE CAPE. Vasco de Gama relates the incidents of his voyage from Portugal to the King of Melinda. The southern cross had appeared in the heavens and the fleet was approaching the southern point of Africa. While at anchor in a bay the Portuguese aroused the hostility of the savages, and hastily set sail. "Now, prosp'rous gales the bending canvas swell'd; From these rude shores our fearless course we held: Beneath the glist'ning wave the god of day Had now five times withdrawn the parting ray, When o'er the prow a sudden darkness spread, And, slowly floating o'er the mast's tall head A black cloud hover'd: nor appear'd from far The moon's pale glimpse, nor faintly twinkling star; So deep a gloom the low'ring vapor cast, Transfix'd with awe the bravest stood aghast. Meanwhile, a hollow bursting roar resounds, As when hoarse surges lash their rocky mounds; Nor had the black'ning wave nor frowning heav'n The wonted signs of gath'ring tempest giv'n. Amazed we stood. 'O thou, our fortune's guide, Avert this omen, mighty God!' I cried; 'Or, through forbidden climes adventurous stray'd, Have we the secrets of the deep survey'd, Which these wide solitudes of seas and sky Were doom'd to hide from man's unhallow'd eye? Whate'er this prodigy, it threatens more Than midnight tempests, and the mingled roar, When sea and sky combine to rock the marble shore.' "I spoke, when rising through the darken'd air, Appall'd, we saw a hideous phantom glare; High and enormous o'er the flood he tower'd, And 'thwart our way with sullen aspect lower'd: An earthy paleness o'er his cheeks was spread, Erect uprose his hairs of wither'd red; Writhing to speak, his sable lips disclose, Sharp and disjoin'd, his gnashing teeth's blue rows; His haggard beard flow'd quiv'ring on the wind, Revenge and horror in his mien combin'd; His clouded front, by with'ring lightnings scar'd, The inward anguish of his soul declar'd. His red eyes, glowing from their dusky caves, Shot livid fires: far echoing o'er the waves His voice resounded, as the cavern'd shore With hollow groan repeats the tempest's roar. Cold gliding horrors thrill'd each hero's breast, Our bristling hair and tott'ring knees confess'd Wild dread, the while with visage ghastly wan, His black lips trembling, thus the fiend began:-- "'O you, the boldest of the nations, fir'd By daring pride, by lust of fame inspir'd, Who, scornful of the bow'rs of sweet repose, Through these my waves advance your fearless prows, Regardless of the length'ning wat'ry way, And all the storms that own my sov'reign sway, Who, mid surrounding rocks and shelves explore Where never hero brav'd my rage before; Ye sons of Lusus, who with eyes profane Have view'd the secrets of my awful reign, Have passed the bounds which jealous Nature drew To veil her secret shrine from mortal view; Hear from my lips what direful woes attend, And, bursting soon, shall o'er your race descend. "'With every bounding keel that dares my rage, Eternal war my rocks and storms shall wage, The next proud fleet that through my drear domain, With daring search shall hoist the streaming vane, That gallant navy, by my whirlwinds toss'd, And raging seas, shall perish on my coast: Then he, who first my secret reign descried, A naked corpse, wide floating o'er the tide, Shall drive--Unless my heart's full raptures fail, O Lusus! oft shall thou thy children wail; Each year thy shipwreck'd sons thou shalt deplore, Each year thy sheeted masts shall strew my shore. "'With trophies plum'd behold a hero come, Ye dreary wilds, prepare his yawning tomb. Though smiling fortune bless'd his youthful morn, Though glory's rays his laurell'd brows adorn, Full oft though he beheld with sparkling eye The Turkish moons in wild confusion fly, While he, proud victor, thunder'd in the rear, All, all his mighty fame shall vanish here. Quiloa's sons, and thine, Mombaz, shall see Their conqueror bend his laurell'd head to me; While, proudly mingling with the tempest's sound, Their shouts of joy from every cliff rebound. "'The howling blast, ye slumb'ring storms prepare, A youthful lover and his beauteous fair Triumphant sail from India's ravag'd land; His evil angel leads him to my strand. Through the torn hulk the dashing waves shall roar, The shatter'd wrecks shall blacken all my shore. Themselves escaped, despoil'd by savage hands, Shall, naked, wander o'er the burning sands, Spar'd by the waves far deeper woes to bear, Woes, e'en by me, acknowledg'd with a tear. Their infant race, the promis'd heirs of joy, Shall now, no more, a hundred hands employ; By cruel want, beneath the parents' eye, In these wide wastes their infant race shall die; Through dreary wilds, where never pilgrim trod Where caverns yawn, and rocky fragments nod, The hapless lover and his bride shall stray, By night unshelter'd, and forlorn by day. In vain the lover o'er the trackless plain Shall dart his eyes, and cheer his spouse in vain. Her tender limbs, and breast of mountain snow, Where, ne'er before, intruding blast might blow, Parch'd by the sun, and shrivell'd by the cold Of dewy night, shall he, fond man, behold. Thus, wand'ring wide, a thousand ills o'er past, In fond embraces they shall sink at last; While pitying tears their dying eyes o'erflow, And the last sigh shall wail each other's woe. "'Some few, the sad companions of their fate, Shall yet survive, protected by my hate, On Tagus' banks the dismal tale to tell, How, blasted by my frown, your heroes fell.' "He paus'd, in act still further to disclose A long, a dreary prophecy of woes: When springing onward, loud my voice resounds, And midst his rage the threat'ning shade confounds. "'What art thou, horrid form that rid'st the air? By Heaven's eternal light, stern fiend, declare.' His lips he writhes, his eyes far round he throws, And, from his breast, deep hollow groans arose, Sternly askance he stood: with wounded pride And anguish torn, 'In me, behold,' he cried, While dark-red sparkles from his eyeballs roll'd, 'In me the Spirit of the Cape behold, That rock, by you the Cape of Tempests nam'd, By Neptune's rage, in horrid earthquakes fram'd, When Jove's red bolts o'er Titan's offspring flam'd. With wide-stretch'd piles I guard the pathless strand, And Afric's southern mound, unmov'd, I stand: Nor Roman prow, nor daring Tyrian oar Ere dash'd the white wave foaming to my shore; Nor Greece nor Carthage ever spread the sail On these my seas, to catch the trading gale. You, you alone have dar'd to plough my main, And with the human voice disturb my lonesome reign." "He spoke, and deep a lengthen'd sigh he drew, A doleful sound, and vanish'd from the view: The frighten'd billows gave a rolling swell, And, distant far, prolong'd the dismal yell, Faint and more faint the howling echoes die, And the black cloud dispersing, leaves the sky. High to the angel-host, whose guardian care Had ever round us watch'd, my hands I rear, And Heaven's dread King implore: 'As o'er our head The fiend dissolv'd, an empty shadow fled; So may his curses, by the winds of heav'n, Far o'er the deep, their idle sport, be driv'n!'" With sacred horror thrill'd, Melinda's lord Held up the eager hand, and caught the word. "Oh, wondrous faith of ancient days," he cries, "Concealed in mystic lore and dark disguise! Taught by their sires, our hoary fathers tell, On these rude shores a giant spectre fell, What time from heaven the rebel band were thrown: And oft the wand'ring swain has heard his moan. While o'er the wave the clouded moon appears To hide her weeping face, his voice he rears O'er the wild storm. Deep in the days of yore, A holy pilgrim trod the nightly shore; Stern groans he heard; by ghostly spells controll'd, His fate, mysterious, thus the spectre told: "'By forceful Titan's warm embrace compress'd, The rock-ribb'd mother, Earth, his love confess'd: The hundred-handed giant at a birth, And me, she bore, nor slept my hopes on earth; My heart avow'd my sire's ethereal flame; Great Adamastor, then, my dreaded name. In my bold brother's glorious toils engaged, Tremendous war against the gods I waged: Yet, not to reach the throne of heaven I try, With mountain pil'd on mountain to the sky; To me the conquest of the seas befell, In his green realm the second Jove to quell. Nor did ambition all my passions hold, 'Twas love that prompted an attempt so bold. Ah me, one summer in the cool of day, I saw the Nereids on the sandy bay, With lovely Thetis from the wave advance In mirthful frolic, and the naked dance. In all her charms reveal'd the goddess trod, With fiercest fires my struggling bosom glow'd; Yet, yet I feel them burning in my heart, And hopeless, languish with the raging smart. For her, each goddess of the heavens I scorn'd, For her alone my fervent ardor burn'd. In vain I woo'd her to the lover's bed, From my grim form, with horror, mute she fled. Madd'ning with love, by force I ween to gain The silver goddess of the blue domain; To the hoar mother of the Nereid band I tell my purpose, and her aid command: By fear impell'd, old Doris tried to move, And win the spouse of Peleus to my love. The silver goddess with a smile replies, 'What nymph can yield her charms a giant's prize! Yet, from the horrors of a war to save, And guard in peace our empire of the wave, Whate'er with honor he may hope to gain, That, let him hope his wish shall soon attain.' The promis'd grace infus'd a bolder fire, And shook my mighty limbs with fierce desire. But ah, what error spreads its dreadful night, What phantoms hover o'er the lover's sight! "The war resign'd, my steps by Doris led, While gentle eve her shadowy mantle spread, Before my steps the snowy Thetis shone In all her charms, all naked, and alone. Swift as the wind with open arms I sprung, And, round her waist with joy delirious clung: In all the transports of the warm embrace, A hundred kisses on her angel face, On all its various charms my rage bestows, And, on her cheek, my cheek enraptur'd glows. When oh, what anguish while my shame I tell! What fix'd despair, what rage my bosom swell! Here was no goddess, here no heavenly charms, A rugged mountain fill'd my eager arms, Whose rocky top, o'erhung with matted brier, Received the kisses of my am'rous fire. Wak'd from my dream, cold horror freez'd my blood; Fix'd as a rock, before the rock I stood; 'O fairest goddess of the ocean train, Behold the triumph of thy proud disdain; Yet why,' I cried, 'with all I wish'd decoy, And, when exulting in the dream of joy, A horrid mountain to mine arms convey?' Madd'ning I spoke, and furious sprung away. Far to the south I sought the world unknown, Where I, unheard, unscorn'd, might wail alone, My foul dishonor, and my tears to hide, And shun the triumph of the goddess' pride. My brothers, now, by Jove's red arm o'erthrown, Beneath huge mountains pil'd on mountains groan; And I, who taught each echo to deplore, And tell my sorrows to the desert shore, I felt the hand of Jove my crimes pursue, My stiff'ning flesh to earthy ridges grew, And my huge bones, no more by marrow warm'd, To horrid piles, and ribs of rock transform'd, Yon dark-brow'd cape of monstrous size became, Where, round me still, in triumph o'er my shame, The silv'ry Thetis bids her surges roar, And waft my groans along the dreary shore.'" _Mickle's Translation, Canto V_. THE JERUSALEM DELIVERED. The Gerusalemme Liberata, or Jerusalem Delivered, was written by Torquato Tasso, who was born at Sorrento, March 11, 1544. He was educated at Naples, Urbino, Rome, Venice, Padua, and Bologna. In 1572 he attached himself to the court of Ferrara, which he had visited in 1565 in the suite of the Cardinal d'Este, and by whose duke he had been treated with great consideration. Here his pastoral drama "Aminta" was written and performed, and here he began to write his epic. The duke, angry because of Tasso's affection for his sister Eleanora, and fearful lest the poet should dedicate his poem to the Medicis, whom he visited in 1575, and into whose service he was asked to enter, kept him under strict surveillance, and pretended to regard him as insane. Feigning sympathy and a desire to restore his mind, he had the unfortunate poet confined in a mad-house. Tasso escaped several times, but each time returned in the hope of a reconciliation with the duke. During his confinement his poem was published without his permission: first in 1580, a very imperfect version; in 1581, a genuine one. This at once brought him great fame; but while its publishers made a fortune, Tasso received nothing. Neither did the duke relent, although powerful influences were brought to bear on him. Tasso was not released until 1586, and then, broken in health, he passed the rest of his life in Rome and Naples, living on charity, though treated with great honor. He died in Rome, April 25, 1595, just before he was to have been crowned at the capitol. The Jerusalem Delivered has for its subject the first Crusade, and the events recorded in its twenty cantos comprise the happenings in the camp of the Crusaders during forty days of the campaign of 1099. Its metre is the _octava rima_, the eight lined rhymed stanza. Tasso was not so successful in the delineation of character and in the description of actions as in the interpretation of feeling, being by nature a lyric rather than an epic poet. But his happy choice of subject,--for the Crusades were still fresh in the memory of the people, and chivalry was a thing of the present--his zeal for the Christian cause, his impassioned delineations of love, and his exquisitely poetical treatment of his whole theme, rendered his epic irresistible. BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, THE JERUSALEM DELIVERED. J. Black's Life of Tasso (with a historical and critical account of his writings), 2 vols. 1810; E. J. Hasell's Tasso, 1882; Rev. Robert Milman's Life of Tasso, 2 vols. 1850; Dennistown's Memoirs of the Dukes of Urbino, 1851, iii., 292-316; Hallam's Introduction to the Literature of Europe in the 15th, 16th, and 17th Centuries, 1839, ii., 192-199; Leigh Hunt's Stories from Italian Poets, 1888, ii., 289-474; Longfellow's Poets and Poetry of Europe, 1845, pp. 568-577; Sismondi's Literature of the South of Europe, Ed. 2, 1846, i., 359-391; J. A. Symonds's Renaissance in Italy, 1886, vol. 2, chapters 7-8; Edin. Rev., Oct. 1850, xcii., 294-302; Blackwood, 1845, lvii., 401-414; Quarterly Review, Jan. 1857, ci., 59-68. STANDARD ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS, THE JERUSALEM DELIVERED. Jerusalem Delivered, Tr. from the Italian by John Hoole. First American from Eighth London Edition, 2 vols., 1810; Jerusalem Delivered, Tr. into English Spenserian verse with life of the author by J. H. Wiffen. New ed., 1883; Jerusalem Delivered, Tr. by Sir John Kingston James, 2 vols., 1884; Jerusalem Delivered, Tr. into the metre of the original by C. L. Smith, 1876-79; Jerusalem Delivered, Tr. by Sir Edward Fairfax and edited by Prof. Henry Morley, 1889. THE STORY OF THE JERUSALEM DELIVERED. The Eternal Father looked down from His lofty throne upon the Christian powers in Syria. In the six years they had spent in the East they had taken Nice and Antioch. Now, while inactive in winter quarters, Bohemond was strengthening himself in Antioch, and the other chiefs were thinking of glory or love; but Godfrey, to whom renown was the meanest of glories, was burning to win Jerusalem and restore it to the faith. Inspired by Gabriel, despatched by the Eternal Father, Godfrey called a council, and with an eloquence and fire more than mortal, roused the Christians to action. "We came not here to raise empires; the period has come when all the world is waiting for our next step. Now is the propitious moment. If we delay longer, Egypt will step in to the aid of our Syrian foe!" Godfrey was unanimously elected chief, and immediate arrangements were made for the setting out to Jerusalem. Godfrey first reviewed the army. A thousand men marched under the lilied banner of Clotharius; a thousand more from the Norman meads under Robert; from Orange and Puy, troops came under the priests William and Ademar. Baldwin led his own and Godfrey's bands, and Guelpho, allied to the house of Este, brought his strong Carinthians. Other troops of horse and foot were led by William of England. After him came the young Tancred, the flower of chivalry, blighted now, alas! by unrequited love. He had seen by chance the pagan maid Clorinda, the Amazon, drinking at a pool in the forest, and had forgot all else in his love for her. After him came the small Greek force under Tatine; next, the invincible Adventurers under Dudon, bravest of men. Following these were Otho, Edward and his sweet bride Gildippe, who, unwilling to be separated from her husband, fought at his side, and, excellent above all others, the young Rinaldo, whose glorious deeds were yet but a promise of his great future. While but a boy he had escaped from the care of his foster mother, Queen Matilda, and hastened to join the Crusaders. The review was closed by the array of foot soldiers led by Raymond, Stephen of Amboise, Alcasto, and Camillus. The pageant having passed by, Godfrey despatched a messenger to summon Sweno the Dane, who with his forces was still tarrying in Greece, and at once set out for Jerusalem. Swift rumor had conveyed the tidings of his approach to Aladine, King of Jerusalem, a merciless tyrant, who, enraged, immediately laid heavier taxes upon the unfortunate Christians in his city. Ismeno, a sorcerer, once a Christian, but now a pagan who practised all black arts, penetrated to the presence of the king and advised him to steal from the temple of the Christians an image of the Virgin and put it in his mosque, assuring him that he would thus render his city impregnable. This was done, and Ismeno wrought his spells about the image, but the next morning it had disappeared. After a fruitless search for the image and the offender, the angry king sentenced all the Franks to death. The beautiful maid Sophronia, determined to save her people, assumed the guilt, and was sentenced to be burned. As she stood chained to the stake, her lover, Olindo, to whom she had ever been cold, saw her, and in agony at her sacrifice, declared to the king that Sophronia had lied and that he was the purloiner of the image. The cruel monarch ordered him also to be tied to the stake, that they might die together; and the flames had just been applied when the two were saved by the Amazon Clorinda, who convinced the king that the Christians were innocent and that Allah himself, incensed at the desecration, had snatched away the image. To the camp of Godfrey at Emmaus came two ambassadors from the king of Egypt, Alethes, a supple crafty courtier of low lineage, and Argantes, a haughty and powerful warrior. But their efforts to keep Godfrey from Jerusalem, first by persuasion, and then by threats, were in vain. They were dismissed from the camp, and the army proceeded on its way. When the walls and towers of the city where Messias died came in sight, the Christian army, crying "All Hail, Jerusalem!" laid aside their casques, and, shedding tears, trod barefoot the consecrated way. At sight of the Franks, the pagans hastened to strengthen the fortifications of their city, and Aladine from a lofty tower watched Clorinda attack a band of Franks returning from a foray. At his side was the lovely Erminia, daughter of the King of Antioch, who had sought Jerusalem after the downfall of her city. Erminia instructed Aladine of the various crusaders, and when she pointed out the noble Tancred, who had treated her with such consideration in Antioch, she felt her love for him revive, though she pretended to the king to hate him for his cruelty. Tancred recognized among the leaders of the pagans Clorinda, bereft of her helmet, and for love of her, refused to fight her. The pagans, driven back by the Christians, were rallied by Argantes, but only to be met by the matchless Adventurers under Dudon. When Dudon fell, the troops under Rinaldo, burning for revenge, reluctantly obeyed Godfrey's summons to return. The funeral rites over, the artificers were sent to the forest to fell the trees, that engines might be fabricated for the destruction of the city walls. Angry at the success of the Franks, Satan stirred up the infernal regions, and set loose his friends to work destruction to the Christians. One he despatched to the wizard Idraotes, at Damascus, who conceived the scheme of sending his beautiful niece Armida to ensnare the Christians. In a few days Armida appeared among the white pavilions of the Franks, attracting the attention and winning the love of all who saw her. Her golden locks appeared through her veil as the sunshine gleams through the stormy skies; her charms were sufficiently hidden to make them the more alluring. So attired, modestly seeking the camp of Godfrey, she was met by Eustace, his young brother, and taken to the prince. With many tears and sighs, she told her pitiful story. She had been driven from her kingdom, an orphan, by the envy and wickedness of her uncle, and had come to ask the Christians to aid her in regaining her rights. Unfortunately for her success, she and her uncle had not calculated on Godfrey's absorption in his divine undertaking. He was proof against her charms, and was determined not to be delayed longer in laying siege to the city. It required the utmost persuasion of Eustace to induce him to permit ten of the Adventurers to accompany her. Armida, though disappointed in Godfrey's lack of susceptibility, employed her time so well while in camp that when she departed with the ten Adventurers chosen by lot, she was followed secretly by Eustace and many others who had not been chosen, but who were madly in love with her. Before his departure, Eustace, jealous of Rinaldo, whom he was fearful Armida might admire, had persuaded him to aspire to the place of Dudon, to whom a successor must be elected. Gernando of Norway desired the same place, and, angry that the popular Rinaldo should be his rival, scattered through the camp rumors disparaging to his character: Rinaldo was vain and arrogant; Rinaldo was rash, not brave; Rinaldo's virtues were all vices. At last, stung past endurance by his taunts and insinuations, Rinaldo gave the lie to his traducer, and slew him in fair fight. False reports were taken to Godfrey by Rinaldo's enemies; and the ruler determined to punish the youth severely; but he, warned by his friends, escaped from camp and fled to Antioch. To Godfrey, deprived thus of Rinaldo and many of his brave Adventurers, was brought the tidings that the Egyptian expedition was on its way, and that a ship laden with provisions had been intercepted on its way to his camp. The bold Argantes, weary of the restraint of the siege, sent a challenge to the Christians, saying he would meet any Frank, high-born or low, in single combat, the conditions being that the vanquished should serve the victor. A thousand knights burned to accept the challenge, but Godfrey named Tancred, who proudly buckled on his armor and called for his steed. As he approached the field, he saw among the pagan hosts, who stood around to view the combat, the fair face of Clorinda, and stood gazing at her, forgetful of all else. Otho, seeing his delay, spurred on his horse, and fought till vanquished. Then Tancred woke from his stupor, and, burning with shame, rushed forward. The battle raged until night fell, and the weary warriors ceased, pledging themselves to return on the morrow. Erminia, shut up in Jerusalem, mourned over the wounds of Tancred. She knew many healing balms, by which, were she with him, she might heal him and make him ready for the morrow's fight; but she was forced to administer them to his enemy instead. Unable to endure the suspense longer, she put on her friend Clorinda's armor and fled to the Christian camp to find her beloved. The Franks, who spied her, supposed her Clorinda, and pursued her; but she succeeded in reaching a woodland retreat, where she determined to remain with the kind old shepherd and his wife who had fled from the disappointments of the court and had here sought and found peace in their humble home. When Tancred heard from his followers that they had driven Clorinda from the camps, he determined to pursue and speak with her. Rising from his bed he sought the forest only to fall into the wiles of Armida, and be lured into a castle, in whose dungeon he lay, consumed with shame at the thought of his unexplained absence from the morrow's combat. When morning dawned and Tancred did not appear, the good old Count Raymond went forth to meet Argantes. When he was about to overcome his antagonist, an arrow shot from the pagan ranks brought on a general conflict, in which the Christians were successful until a storm, summoned by the powers of darkness, put an end to the battle. The next morning a knight came to the camp of Godfrey to tell of Sweno's defeat and slaughter. He, the sole survivor of the band, had been commissioned by some supernatural visitants to bring Sweno's sword to Rinaldo. While Godfrey's heart was wrung by this disaster, the camp of Italians, led to suppose by some bloody armor found in a wood that Rinaldo had been treacherously slain with the connivance of Godfrey, accused the chief and stirred up the camp to revolt; but Godfrey, praying to Heaven for strength to meet his enemies, walked through the camp firmly and unfalteringly, unarmed and with head bare, his face still bright with the heavenly light left there by spiritual communion, and silenced the tumult by a few well-chosen words. His arch-accuser Argillan he sentenced to death; the others crept back to their tents in shame. The Soldan Solyman, driven from Nice at its capture, had joined the Turks, and, spurred on by hate and fury, made a night attack on the Frankish camp. The Franks, saved only by the interposition of the angel Michael, and by the troops just returned, released from Armida's enchantment, fought fiercely, and at dawn put Solyman to flight. By the arts of Ismeno he was conveyed to Jerusalem by a secret way, where he cheered the discouraged Aladine. Before attempting to storm the city, the Christian troops, by the advice of Peter the Hermit, walked in a long procession to Mt. Olivet, filling the heavens with melody, and there partook of the communion administered by the warrior priests, William and Ademar. The next morning, Godfrey, in the light armor of a foot-soldier, appeared with his barons, prepared for the storm. The troops were arranged carefully, the huge engines were moved forward, and the Franks made a bold attempt against the walls, from the top of which Clorinda aimed her arrows, wounding and slaying many men. Godfrey himself was wounded, but was healed by divine aid, and immediately returned to the field to rally his troops. Night fell, and the contest was deferred until another day. Clorinda, burning to distinguish herself, determined to fire the huge towers of the Christians. Her eunuch tried to dissuade her because he had been warned in a dream that she would this night meet her death. He told her her history. Her mother was a Christian who had been compelled to put her infant away from her. This eunuch had rescued her from death and brought her up, failing, however, to obey an angel's command to have her baptized a Christian. Clorinda would not heed his caution, but went forth and fired the Frankish machines. She and the fleeing pagans were pursued by the Christians; and while her companions reached the city in safety, she was accidentally shut out and met Tancred in mortal combat. She refused to tell her name until she felt her death-wound, and then she prayed her enemy to baptize her, that she might die a Christian. The broken-hearted Tancred fell fainting on her corpse, and was found there the next morning by the Franks. Neither his comrades, nor Godfrey and Peter the Hermit, were able to rouse him from his melancholy. Their machines destroyed, timbers were needed by the Franks to construct new ones. Knowing this, Ismeno laid spells on the forest, so that the warriors sent thither by Godfrey were frightened away by the sights they saw therein. Even Tancred was put to flight when one of the demons took the form of his beloved Clorinda. To add to the discomfort of the Franks, excessive heat overpowered them, and they suffered tortures from lack of water until the prayers of Godfrey moved the Ruler of the Earth with pity, and He sent down the longed-for showers. Delighted with the piety of Godfrey, the Great King sent him a dream by which he might know the will of Heaven. Lifted through the whirling spheres, his ears charmed with their music, his eyes dazzled by the brilliancy of the stars, he saw Duke Hugo, who told him that Rinaldo must be sought out before the conquest of Jerusalem could be accomplished. The same Power influenced the princes in council so that by the will of all, two knights, one of them him to whom Sweno's sword had been given, were despatched to seek Rinaldo. Instructed by Peter the Hermit, they sought the sea-coast, and found a wizard, who, after showing them the splendor of his underground abode beneath the river's bed, revealed to them the way in which they were to overcome the wiles of Armida. A beautiful maid with dove-like eyes and radiant smile received them in her small bark, and they were soon flying over the sea, marvelling at the rich cities and vast fleets by which they passed. Leaving rich Cadiz and the Pillars of Hercules, they sped out into the unknown sea, while the maiden told them of how some day Columbus would venture into unknown seas to find a new continent. On, on they flew, past the Happy Isles, the Fortunate, long the song of the poet; where the olive and honey made happy the land, and the rivers swept down from the mountains in silver streamlets; where every bird-song was heavenly music, a place so divine that there were placed of old the Elysian fields. To one of these islands the lady steered, and the knights disembarked, and started on their perilous journey up the mountain. Following the wizard's instructions, they waved the golden rod at the monstrous serpents hissing in their pathway, and they vanished; they steeled their hearts against the charms of the voluptuous maids bathing in the lake, and passed without tasting the fountain of laughter. Then the spacious palace met their eyes. Built round a garden, its marble courts and unnumbered galleries formed a trackless maze through which they could never have found their way without the aid of the wizard's map. As they trod the marble floors they paused many times to view the matchless carvings on the silver doors, which told anew the beautiful old stories of love triumphant. Once through the winding ways, they entered the wonderful garden which art and nature combined to render the most beautiful spot on earth. The same trees bore ripe fruit, buds, and blossoms; the birds sang joyfully in the green bowers; and the faint breezes echoed their song. One bird sang a song of love, and when the tender melody was done the other birds took it up and sang until the forest rang with melody, and all was love, love, love. Then the knights saw Rinaldo, lying in the grove, his head in the lap of the enchantress. His sword was gone from his side, and in its place hung a mirror in which he sometimes gazed at Armida's reflection. When Armida left him alone for a few hours, the knights surprised Rinaldo, and turned the wizard's diamond shield upon him. For the first time he saw himself as others saw him, and, blushing with shame, announced himself ready to return with them to rescue Jerusalem. Tearing off his ornaments, he hastened down the mountain, but not soon enough to escape Armida. Tears, prayers, threats she used in vain. She had captured him when he fled from the camp, intending to slay him; but moved by his beauty, she had spared him, and falling in love with him, had reared this palace that they might in it revel in love's pleasures. Now, miserable, she saw him desert her, and destroying the beautiful haunt, she drove her swift chariot across the seas to the camp of the Egyptian king, who was hastening towards Jerusalem. Intent on the slaughter of Rinaldo, her love for whom had changed to bitter hate, she offered the warriors of the Egyptian king, all of whom had fallen victims to her charms, her hand as a reward to the slayer of Rinaldo. When Rinaldo and his rescuers reached the abode of the wizard they found him waiting with new arms for the young hero. The sage reproached him gently for his dalliance, and then, seeing the blush of shame upon his countenance, showed him the shield, which bore the illustrious deeds of his ancestors of the house of Este. Great as were their past glories, still greater would be those of the family which he should found, greatest of whom would be the Duke Alphonso. Rinaldo, having told his story to Godfrey, and confessed his wrong-doing to Peter the Hermit, proceeded to the enchanted forest; and though as beauteous scenes, and as voluptuous sirens displayed themselves to him as dwelt in Armida's garden, yea, though one tree took the semblance of Armida herself, he boldly hacked the trunk and broke the magic spell. Joyfully the Franks set to work to fell the huge trees and construct vaster, stronger engines than before, under the direction of a master mechanic. At the same time, Vafrino, a cunning squire of Tancred, was commissioned to go forth in disguise and inspect the camp of the coming Egyptian king. Even before he departed, a carrier pigeon, driven back by a hawk, fell into Godfrey's hands, bearing a message to Aladine from Egypt, saying that in four or five days he would be with him in Jerusalem. Godfrey, determined to take the city before that day should come, made the utmost exertions to have the machines completed. In Jerusalem, also, great preparations were made, machines built, and a fearful fire concocted by Ismeno with which to drive the assaulters from the wall. Shriven by the priests, the Christian army went forth to battle. Godfrey took his stand against the northern gate; Raymond was assigned to the steep sharp crags at the southwest walls, and Guelph and the two Roberts were stationed on the track to Gaza to watch for the Egyptians. The pagans fought with great fury, bringing out new instruments to oppose the huge battering rams, raining down arrows, and throwing the suffocating fire. But Rinaldo, to whom all this work appeared too slow, urged on his bold Adventurers to form a tortoise, hastened to the wall, seized a scaling ladder, and, unmoved by any missile, mounted the wall and assisted his followers, in spite of the multitudes who surrounded him, attempting to hurl him down. But as Godfrey advanced, Ismeno launched his terrible fire-balls, more horrible than the flames of Mt. Etna; they affected even the vast tower, swelling and drying the heavy skins that covered its sides until protecting Heaven sent a breeze that drove the flames back to the city. Ismeno, accompanied by two witches, hurried to the wall, but was crushed by a stone that ground his and their bones to powder. Godfrey, inspired by a vision of the slain soldiery fighting in his ranks, leaped upon the wall and planted the red-cross flag. Raymond was also successful, and the Christians rushed over the walls into the town, following Aladine, who hastened to shut himself up in the citadel. While the battle was raging, but success was assured to the Christians, Tancred and the terrible Argantes met, and glad of an opportunity to settle their quarrel, withdrew to a glade in the forest. Tancred, stung by the taunts of cowardice for his former failure to keep his appointment, fought bitterly. He had not the sheer strength of his antagonist, but his sleight at last overcame, and Argantes fell. Weakened by pain and loss of blood, Tancred fell senseless, and was thus found by Erminia, who had met Vafrino the spy in the camp of the Egyptians and had fled with him. They revived Tancred, and carried him home to be nursed by the delighted Erminia. Vafrino had seen Armida in the camp and had learned through Erminia not only the princes' designs on Rinaldo, but also that they meant to assume the signs of the red-cross knights and thus reach the neighborhood of Godfrey and slay him. On this intelligence Godfrey changed the signs of his men that they might recognize the Egyptians on the following day and put them to death. Terrible to the Franks was the sight of the Egyptian army when they opened their eyes upon it next morning. Clouds of dust obscured all the heavens, hills, and valleys, so great was the coming host. But Godfrey, with an eloquence that fired each soul, told them of the helplessness of the enemy, of how many of them were slaves, scourged to the battle, and reminded them of the great undertaking before them, the saving of the Sepulchre, until fired with zeal, and burning to fight, they rushed into battle and dispersed the Egyptians. Many of the Christians fell by the sword of the terrible Soldan, among them Gildippe and her husband, united in death as in life. Rinaldo, hearing of their slaughter, speedily avenged it by laying the Soldan low on the battle-field. One after another of Armida's champions attacked Rinaldo, determined to win the prize, but his good sword sent them to earth, and Armida was left alone and unprotected. Rinaldo, having seen her fly away over the plain and knowing the victory achieved, followed and found her ready to put herself to death in a lonely glade. He snatched the sword from her hand and speedily changed back her hate to love. She fell upon his breast, and with the promise to become a Christian and give her life to him, accompanied him back to the city. During the battle, Aladine and those who were imprisoned in the citadel overpowered Count Raymond, and rushed out to battle, only to be overcome and slain. Prince Altamore, who, covered with blood, remained alone on the field, yielded himself to Godfrey, and was given his life and his kingdom. Then, from the field covered with spoil and floating with blood, the conquering troops, clad in their bloody armor, marched in solemn cavalcade to the Temple and paid their vowed devotions at the sacred tomb. SELECTION FROM THE JERUSALEM DELIVERED. SOPHRONIA AND OLINDO. At the instigation of the wizard Ismeno, Aladine, king of Jerusalem, stole an image of the Virgin from the temple of the Christians and put it in his mosque in order to render the city impregnable. When morning dawned the image was gone, and no search could reveal any clue to the theft. In every temple, hermitage, and hall, A long and eager search the monarch made, And tortures or rewards decreed to all Who screened the guilty, or the guilt betrayed; Nor ceased the Sorcerer to employ in aid Of the inquiry all his arts, but still Without success; for whether Heaven conveyed The prize away, or power of human will, Heaven close the secret kept, and shamed his vaunted skill. But when the king found all expedients vain To trace th' offender, then, beyond disguise, Flamed forth his hatred to the Christians; then, Fed by wild jealousies and sharp surmise, Immoderate fury sparkled in his eyes; Follow what may, he will revenge the deed, And wreak his rage: "Our wrath shall not," he cries, "Fall void, but root up all th' accursed seed; Thus in the general doom the guilty yet shall bleed! "So that he 'scapes not, let the guiltless die! But wherefore thus of guiltlessness debate? Each guilty is, nor 'mongst them all know I One, well-affected to the faith and state; And what if some be unparticipate In this new crime, new punishment shall pay For old misdeeds; why longer do ye wait, My faithful Mussulmans? up! up! away! Hence with the torch and sword: seize, fire, lay waste, and slay!" Thus to the crowd he spake, the mandate flew, And in the bosoms of the Faithful shed Astonishment and stupor; stupor threw On every face the paleness of the dead; None dared, none sought to make defence; none fled, None used entreaty, none excuse; but there They stood, like marble monuments of dread, Irresolute,--but Heaven conceived their prayer, And whence they least had hope, brought hope to their despair. Of generous thoughts and principles sublime Amongst them in the city lived a maid, The flower of virgins in her ripest prime, Supremely beautiful! but that she made Never her care, or beauty only weighed In worth with virtue; and her worth acquired A deeper charm from blooming in the shade; Lovers she shunned, nor loved to be admired, But from their praises turned, and lived a life retired. Yet could not this coy secrecy prevent Th' admiring gaze and warm desires of one Tutored by Love, nor yet would Love consent To hide such lustrous beauty from the sun; Love! that through every change delight'st to run, The Proteus of the heart I who now dost blind, Now roll the Argus eyes that nought can shun! Thou through a thousand guards unseen dost wind, And to the chastest maids familiar access find. Sophronia hers, Olindo was his name; Born in one town, by one pure faith illumed; Modest--as she was beautiful, his flame Feared much, hoped little, and in nought presumed; He could not, or he durst not speak, but doomed To voiceless thought his passion; him she slighted, Saw not, or would not see; thus he consumed Beneath the vivid fire her beauty lighted; Either not seen ill known, or, known, but ill requited. And thus it was, when like an omen drear That summoned all her kindred to the grave, The cruel mandate reached Sophronia's ear, Who, brave as bashful, yet discreet as brave, Mused how her people she from death might save; Courage inspired, but virginal alarm Repressed the thought, till maiden shyness gave Place to resolve, or joined to share the harm; Boldness awoke her shame, shame made her boldness charm. Alone amidst the crowd the maid proceeds, Nor seeks to hide her beauty, nor display; Downcast her eyes, close veiled in simple weeds, With coy and graceful steps she wins her way: So negligently neat, one scarce can say If she her charms disdains, or would improve,-- If chance or taste disposes her array; Neglects like hers, if artifices, prove Arts of the friendly Heavens, of Nature, and of Love. All, as she passed unheeding, all, admire The noble maid; before the king she stood; Not for his angry frown did she retire, But his indignant aspect coolly viewed: "To give,"--she said, "but calm thy wrathful mood, And check the tide of slaughter in its spring,-- To give account of that thou hast pursued So long in vain, seek I thy face, O king! The urged offence I own, the doomed offender bring!" The modest warmth, the unexpected light Of high and holy beauty, for a space O'erpowered him,--conquered of his fell despite, He stood, and of all fierceness lost the trace. Were his a spirit, or were hers a face Of less severity, the sweet surprise Had melted him to love; but stubborn grace Subdues not stubborn pride; Love's potent ties Are flattering fond regards, kind looks, and smiling eyes. If 't were not Love that touched his flinty soul, Desire it was, 't was wonder, 't was delight: "Safe be thy race!" he said, "reveal the whole, And not a sword shall on thy people light." Then she: "The guilty is before thy sight,-- The pious robbery was my deed; these hands Bore the blest Image from its cell by night; The criminal thou seek'st before thee stands,-- Justice from none but me her penalty demands." Thus she prepares a public death to meet, A people's ransom at a tyrant's shrine: Oh glorious falsehood! beautiful deceit! Can Truth's own light thy loveliness outshine? To her bold speech misdoubting Aladine With unaccustomed temper calm replied: "If so it were, who planned the rash design, Advised thee to it, or became thy guide? Say, with thyself who else his ill-timed zeal allied?" "Of this my glory not the slightest part Would I," said she, "with one confederate share; I needed no adviser; my full heart Alone sufficed to counsel, guide and dare." "If so," he cried, "then none but thou must bear The weight of my resentment, and atone For the misdeed." "Since it has been my care," She said, "the glory to enjoy alone, 'T is just none share the pain; it should be all mine own." To this the tyrant, now incensed, returned, "Where rests the Image?" and his face became Dark with resentment: she replied, "I burned The holy Image in the holy flame, And deemed it glory; thus at least no shame Can e'er again profane it--it is free From farther violation: dost thou claim The spoil or spoiler? this behold in me; But that, whilst time rolls round, thou never more shall see. "Albeit no spoiler I; it was no wrong To repossess what was by force obtained:" At this the tyrant loosed his threatening tongue, Long-stifled passion raging unrestrained: No longer hope that pardon may be gained, Beautiful face, high spirit, bashful heart! Vainly would Love, since mercy is disdained, And Anger flings his most envenomed dart, In aid of you his else protecting shield impart! Doomed in tormenting fire to die, they lay Hands on the maid; her arms with rough cords twining. Rudely her mantle chaste they tear away, And the white veil that o'er her drooped declining: This she endured in silence unrepining, Yet her firm breast some virgin tremors shook; And her warm cheek, Aurora's late outshining, Waned into whiteness, and a color took, Like that of the pale rose, or lily of the brook. The crowd collect; the sentence is divulged; With them Olindo comes, by pity swayed; It might be that the youth the thought indulged, What if his own Sophronia were the maid! There stand the busy officers arrayed For the last act, here swift the flames arise; But when the pinioned beauty stands displayed To the full gaze of his inquiring eyes,-- '_T is_ she! he bursts through all, the crowd before him flies. Aloud he cries: "To her, oh not to her The crime belongs, though frenzy may misplead! She planned not, dared not, could not, king, incur Sole and unskilled the guilt of such a deed! How lull the guards, or by what process speed The sacred Image from its vaulted cell? The theft was mine! and 't is my right to bleed!" Alas for him! how wildly and how well He loved the unloving maid, let this avowal tell. "I marked where your high Mosque receives the air And light of heaven; I climbed the dizzy steep; I reached a narrow opening; entered there, And stole the Saint whilst all were hushed in sleep: Mine was the crime, and shall another reap The pain and glory? Grant not her desire! The chains are mine; for me the guards may heap Around the ready stake the penal fire; For me the flames ascend; 't is mine, that funeral pyre!" Sophronia raised to him her face,--her eye Was filled with pity and a starting tear: She spoke--the soul of sad humanity Was in her voice, "What frenzy brings thee here, Unhappy innocent! is death so dear, Or am I so ill able to sustain A mortal's wrath, that thou must needs appear? I have a heart, too, that can death disdain, Nor ask for life's last hour companionship in pain." Thus she appeals to him; but scorning life, His settled soul refuses to retreat: Oh glorious scene, where in sublimest strife High-minded Virtue and Affection meet! Where death's the prize of conquest, and defeat Seals its own safety, yet remains unblest! But indignation at their fond deceit, And rage, the more inflames the tyrant's breast, The more this constant pair the palm of guilt contest. He deems his power despised, and that in scorn Of him they spurn the punishment assigned: "Let," he exclaimed, "the fitting palm adorn The brows of both! both pleas acceptance find!" Beckoning he bids the prompt tormentors bind Their galling chains around the youth--'t is done; Both to one stake are, back to back, consigned, Like sunflowers twisted from their worshipped sun, Compelled the last fond looks of sympathy to shun. Around them now the unctuous pyre was piled, And the fanned flame was rising in the wind, When, full of mournful thoughts, in accents wild, The lover to his mate in death repined: "Is this the bond, then, which I hoped should bind Our lives in blissful marriage? this the fire Of bridal faith, commingling mind with mind, Which, I believed, should in our hearts inspire Like warmth of sacred zeal and delicate desire? "For other flames Love promised to impart, Than those our envious planets here prepare; Too, ah too long they kept our hands apart, But harshly now they join them in despair! Yet does it soothe, since by a mode so rare Condemned to die, thy torments to partake, Forbid by fate thy sweetnesses to share; If tears I shed, 't is but for thy dear sake, Not mine,--with thee beside, I bless the burning stake! "And oh! this doom would be indeed most blest, My sharpest sufferings blandishments divine, Might I but be permitted, breast to breast, On thy sweet lips my spirit to resign; If thou too, panting toward one common shrine, Wouldst the next happy instant parting spend Thy latest sighs in sympathy on mine!" Sorrowing he spake; she, when his plaints had end, Did thus his fond discourse most sweetly reprehend. "Far other aspirations, other plaints Than these, dear friend, the solemn hour should claim. Think what reward God offers to his saints; Let meek repentance raise a loftier aim: These torturing fires, if suffered in his name, Will, bland as zephyrs, waft us to the blest; Regard the sun, how beautiful his flame! How fine a sky invites him to the west! These seem to soothe our pangs, and summon us to rest." The Pagans lifting up their voices, wept; In stifled sorrow wept the Faithful too; E'en the stern king was touched,--a softness crept O'er his fierce heart, ennobling, pure, and new; He felt, he scorned it, struggled to subdue, And lest his wavering firmness should relent, His eyes averted, and his steps withdrew; Sophronia's spirit only was unbent; She yet lamented not, for whom all else lament. In midst of their distress, a knight behold, (So would it seem) of princely port! whose vest And arms of curious fashion, grained with gold, Bespeak some foreign and distinguished guest; The silver tigress on the helm impressed, Which for a badge is borne, attracts all eyes,-- A noted cognizance, th' accustomed crest Used by Clorinda, whence conjectures rise, Herself the stranger is,--nor false is their surmise. All feminine attractions, aims, and parts, She from her childhood cared not to assume; Her haughty hand disdained all servile arts, The needle, distaff, and Arachne's loom; Yet, though she left the gay and gilded room For the free camp, kept spotless as the light Her virgin fame, and proud of glory's plume, With pride her aspect armed, she took delight Stern to appear, and stern, she charmed the gazer's sight. Whilst yet a girl, she with her little hand Lashed and reined in the rapid steed she raced, Tossed the huge javelin, wrestled on the sand, And by gymnastic toils her sinews braced; Then through the devious wood and mountain-waste Tracked the struck lion to his entered den, Or in fierce wars a nobler quarry chased; And thus in fighting field and forest glen, A man to savage beasts, a savage seemed to men. From Persia now she comes, with all her skill The Christians to resist, though oft has she Strewed with their blood the field, till scarce a rill Remained, that ran not purple to the sea. Here now arrived, the dreadful pageantry Of death presents itself,--the crowd--the pyre-- And the bound pair; solicitous to see, And know what crime condemns them to the fire, Forward she spurs her steed and hastens to inquire. The throng falls back, and she awhile remains, The fettered pair more closely to survey; One she sees silent, one she sees complains, The stronger spirit nerves the weaker prey; She sees him mourn like one whom the sad sway Of powerful pity doth to tears chastise, Not grief, or grief not for himself; but aye Mute kneels the maid, her blue beseeching eyes So fixed on heaven, she seems in heaven ere yet she dies. Clorinda melts, and with them both condoles; Some tears she sheds, but greater tenderness Feels for her grief who most her grief controls,-- The silence moves her much, the weeping less; No longer now does she delay to press For information; turning towards one Of reverend years, she said with eagerness, "Who are they? speak! and oh, what crime has won This death? in Mercy's name, declare the deed they've done!" Thus she entreats; a brief reply he gives, But such as well explains the whole event: Amazed she heard it, and as soon conceives That they are both sincerely innocent; Her heart is for them, she is wholly bent To avert their fate, if either arms can aid, Or earnest prayers secure the king's consent; The fire she nears, commands it to be stayed, That now approached them fast, and to th' attendants said: "Let none of you presume to prosecute Your barbarous office, till the king I see; My word I pledge that at Clorinda's suit, Your fault he will forgive, if fault it be." Moved by her speech and queenlike dignity The guards obey, and she departs in quest Of the stern monarch, urgent of her plea: Midway they met; the monarch she addressed And in this skilful mode her generous purpose pressed. "I am Clorinda; thou wilt know perchance The name, from vague remembrance or renown; And here I come to save with sword and lance Our common Faith, and thy endangered crown, Impose the labor, lay th' adventure down, Sublime, I fear it not, nor low despise; In open field or in the straitened town, Prepared I stand for every enterprise, Where'er the danger calls, where'er the labor lies!" "'T would be assuredly a thing most rare, If the reward the service should precede; But of thy bounty confident, I dare For future toils solicit, as my meed, Yon lovers' pardon; since the charge indeed Rests on no evidence, 't was hard to press The point at all, but this I waive, nor plead On those sure signs which, urged, thou must confess Their hands quite free from crime, or own their guilt far less. "Yet will I say, though here the common mind Condemns the Christians of the theft, for me, Sufficient reasons in mine own I find To doubt, dispute, disparage the decree; To set their idols in our sanctuary Was an irreverence to our laws, howe'er Urged by the sorcerer; should the Prophet see E'en idols of our own established there? Much less then those of men whose lips his faith forswear: "The Christian statue ravished from your sight To Allah therefore rather I impute, In sign that he will let no foreign rite Of superstition his pure place pollute: Spells and enchantments may Ismeno suit, Leave him to use such weapons at his will; But shall we warriors by a wand dispute? No! no! our talisman, our hope, our skill, Lie in our swords alone, and they shall serve us still!" She ceased; and he, though mercy could with pain Subdue a heart so full of rage and pride, Relents, her reasons move, her prayers constrain.-- Such intercessor must not be denied; Thus, though reluctant, he at length complied: "The plea for the fair pleader I receive; I can refuse thee nothing; this," he cried, "May justice be or mercy,--let them live; Guiltless--I set them free, or guilty I forgive!" Restored to life and liberty, how blest. How truly blest was young Olindo's fate! For sweet Sophronia's blushes might attest, That Love at length has touched her delicate And generous bosom; from the stake in state They to the altar pass; severely tried, In doom and love, already made his mate, She now objects not to become his bride. And grateful live with him who would for her have died. _Wiffen's Translation, Canto_ PARADISE LOST. Paradise Lost was written by John Milton, who was born in London, Dec. 9, 1608, and died Nov. 8, 1674. After leaving college, he spent five years in study at home, during which time he wrote L'Allegro, Il Penseroso, Arcades, Comus, and Lycidas. In 1638 he travelled on the continent and in Italy, where he met Galileo. He hastened home in 1639 on account of the political disturbances in England, and espousing the Puritan cause, devoted the next twenty years of his life to the writing of pamphlets in its defence. In 1649 he was appointed Latin Secretary under Cromwell. In 1652 he lost his sight in consequence of overwork. At the age of twenty-nine, Milton had decided to make an epic poem his life work, and had noted many historical subjects. By 1641 he had decided on a Biblical subject. He had probably conceived Paradise Lost at the age of thirty-two, although the poem was not composed until he was over fifty. It was written after his blindness and dictated in small portions to various persons, the work being collected and revised by Milton and Aubrey Phillips. It was completed, according to the authority of Phillips, in 1663, but on account of the Plague and the Great Fire, it was not published until 1667. Paradise Lost is divided into twelve books and is written, to use Milton's own words, "In English heroic verse without rhyme, as that of Homer in Greek and of Virgil in Latin, rhyme being no necessary adjunct or true ornament of poem or good verse." Paradise Lost was neglected until the time of the Whig supremacy in England. In 1688 Lord Somers, the Whig leader, published an _édition de luxe_ of the poem; Addison's papers on it, in 1712, increased its popularity, and through the influence of the Whigs a bust of the poet was placed in Westminster Abbey in 1737. There is no better proof of the greatness of Paradise Lost than the way in which it has survived hostile criticism. It has been criticised for the lengthy conversations and "arguments" of its characters; for its materialization of the Divine Being; because of its subject; because of Milton's vagueness of description of things awesome and terrible, in comparison with Dante's minute descriptions. But the earnest spirit in which it was conceived and written; the subject, giving it a "higher argument" than any merely national epic, even though many of Milton's, and his age's, special beliefs are things of the past, and its lofty and poetical style, have rendered unassailable its rank among the noblest of the epics. BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, PARADISE LOST. Joseph Addison's Notes upon the Twelve Books of Paradise Lost; by Albert S. Cook, 1892. (In the Spectator from Dec. 31, 1711-May 3, 1712); Samuel Austin Allibone's Dictionary of Authors, 1891, vol. ii., pp. 1301-1311; Matthew Arnold's A French Critic on Milton (see his Mixed Essays, 1880, pp. 260-273); Walter Bagehot's Literary Studies, by Richard Holt Hutton, 1879, vol. i., 202-219; Richard Bentley's Emendations on the Twelve Books of Paradise Lost, 1732; E. H. Bickersteth's Milton's Paradise Lost, 1876. (St. James Lectures, 2d series. Another edition, 1877); Hugh Blair's Paradise Lost (see his Lectures on Rhetoric and Belles Lettres, 1783, vol. ii., 471-476); Miss Christian Cann's A Scriptural and Allegorical Glossary to Paradise Lost, 1828; Charles Dexter Cleveland's Complete Concordance to Milton's Poetical Works, 1867; Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Lectures and Notes on Shakespeare and other English Poets collected by T. Ashe, 1893, pp. 518-529; William T. Dobson's The Classic Poets, their lives and times etc., 1879; Charles Eyre's Fall of Adam, from Milton's Paradise Lost, 1852; George Gilfillan's Second Gallery of Literary Portraits, 1852, pp. 17-25; S. Humphreys Gurteen's The Epic of the Fall of Man; a comparative Study of Caedmon, Dante, and Milton, 1896; William Hazlitt On the Character of Milton's Eve (see his Round Table ed. by W. Carew Hazlitt, 1889, pp. 150-158); William Hazlitt On Milton's Versification (see his Round Table, ed. by W. Carew Hazlitt, 1889, pp. 51-57); John A. Himes's Study of Milton's Paradise Lost, 1878; Samuel Johnson's Milton (see his Lives of the Poets; ed. by Mrs. Alexander Napier, 1890, vol. i.); Thomas Keightley's Introduction to Paradise Lost (see his An account of the Life, Opinions, and Writings of John Milton, 1855, pp. 397-484); Walter Savage Landor's Imaginary Conversations, Southey and Landor, 1853, vol. ii., 57-74, 156-159; Thomas Babington Macaulay's Milton (see his Critical and Historical Essays, ed. 10, 1860, vol. i., pp. 1-61); William Massey's Remarks upon Milton's Paradise Lost, 1761; David Masson's Introduction to Paradise Lost (see his edition of Milton's Poetical Works, 1893, vol. ii., pp. 1-57); David Masson's Life of Milton, 1880, vol. vi., 505-558, 621-636; David Masson's Three Devils (Luther's, Goethe's, and Milton's), (see his Three Devils and other Essays, 1874); James Peterson's A complete Commentary on Paradise Lost, 1744; Jonathan Richardson's Explanatory Notes and Remarks on Paradise Lost, 1734; Edmond Scherer's Milton and Paradise Lost (see his essays on English Literature; Tr. by George Saintsbury, 1891, pp. 134-149); John Robert Seeley's Milton (see his Roman Imperialism and other Lectures and Essays), 1871, pp. 142-152; First Edition of Paradise Lost, Book Lore, 1886, iii., 72-75; J. A. Himes's Cosmology of Paradise Lost, Lutheran Quarterly, 1876, vi., 187-204; J. A. Himes's Plan of Paradise Lost, New Englander, 1883, xlii., 196-211; Satan of Milton and the Lucifer of Byron compared, Knickerbocker, 1847, xxx., 150-155; Satan of Paradise Lost, Dublin University Magazine, 1876, lxxxviii., 707-714; Augustine Birrell's Obiter Dicta (2d series 1887, pp. 42-51); Isaac Disraeli's Curiosities of Literature; Bentley's Milton, 1867, pp. 138-139; Henry Hallam's Literary History of Europe, 1873, ed. 5, vol. iii., pp. 475-483; Mark Pattison's John Milton, n. d. (English Men of Letters Series); H. A. Taine's History of English Literature; Tr. by H. Van Laun, 1877, vol. ii., pp. 106-124. THE STORY OF PARADISE LOST. When that bright spirit, afterwards known as Satan, rose in rebellion against the Almighty Ruler of the Universe, presumptuously thinking himself equal to him in strength and following, he was overthrown by the Great Power and cast with his followers out of Heaven down to his future dwelling, flaming Hell. Nine days he and his horrid crew fell through Chaos into the flaming pit yawning to receive them, and there lay for nine days,--rendered still more miserable by the thought of their immortality and the eternal bliss they had forfeited. Then Satan, rousing himself from the stupor consequent upon the fall, half rose and addressed the next in power to himself, Beelzebub. "Thou art the same, yet not the same," said he; "changed, lost is some of thy former brightness. Yet why repine? While we live, while we have so large a following, all is not lost. Our hate still lives, and have we but strength enough, we may still revenge ourselves upon him who thrust us into this accursed place." Rising from the lake, his great shield slung over his shoulders, the unconquered archangel walked over the burning marl to the beach of that fiery sea, and there with chiding words addressed the legions strewn around him. The great army rose hastily at the voice of its chief and passed before him, spirits whose heavenly names were now forever lost, who later became the gods of the idolaters. There was mighty Moloch, Chemos, those who later went by the general names of Baalim and Ashtaroth,--Thammuz, Dagon, Rimmon, Osiris, Isis, Orus and their train, Belial, and last of all, the Ionian gods. His despair in part dissipated by the sight of this heroic array, their prince, towering high above all, addressed them. No one had foreseen the calamity that had overtaken them. Who could have guessed the power of the Almighty? But though overthrown they were not totally defeated. A rumor had long since been rife of the creation of another world with which they could interfere. At any rate, there must never be peace between them and the heavenly Powers. War there must be, war in secret, or war waged openly. As he ended, shield clashed against shield, and swords, quickly drawn, flashed before his eyes, and loud cries hurled defiance to Heaven. The legions, led by Mammon, who in Heaven had been an honored architect, sought a hill near by, and quickly emptying it of its rich store of gold and jewels, built a massive structure. Like a temple in form was it, and round about it stood Doric columns overlaid with gold. No king of any future state could boast of a grander hall than this palace of Pandemonium which was so quickly reared upon a hill in Hell, and to which the heralds' trumpets now summoned all the host. On the massive throne, blazing with jewels, sat the fallen spirit, and thus addressed his followers: "Our success is sure in whatever we undertake. We shall never be riven with internecine warfare, for surely no one will quarrel over precedence in Hell. Therefore, united, we can, sure of our success, debate of the way in which we shall take up our warfare with the powers that have overthrown us." Moloch, Belial, Mammon, and Beelzebub spoke. Moloch was in favor of open war, since nothing could be worse than Hell, and continued assault against the Most High would, in annoying him, be a sweet revenge. Belial, who though timorous and slothful, was a persuasive orator, denounced Moloch's plan. Since the ruler of Heaven was all-powerful, and they immortal, no one knew to what greater misery he could push them; perhaps he would bury them in boiling pitch to eternity, or inflict a thousand undreamed-of tortures. War, open and secret, he disliked, since it was impossible to conceal aught from the eye of the Most High. To make the best of Hell seemed all that was possible; in time they might become inured to its flames and better days might come, if they but accepted their doom patiently. Mammon also considered war impossible. They could never hope to overcome the Almighty; neither could they hope nor wish for a reconciliation, for how hateful would be an eternity spent in cringing to one whom they hated. The desert soil of Hell teemed with riches, they could find peaceful pursuits, and it was his advice to continue there in quiet, untroubled by any thoughts of revenge. Amid the murmur of applause that followed Mammon's speech, Beelzebub, than whom none towered higher save Satan, arose, his face grave, his attitude majestic. "Would you, Thrones and Imperial Powers," he cried, "think to build up a kingdom here, secure from the arm of Heaven? Have you so soon forgotten that this is not a kingdom ceded to you by the Most High, but a dungeon in which he has shut you for your everlasting punishment? Never will he forget that you are his prisoners; your lot will not be peace, but custody and stripes. What return can we make, then, but to think out some slow but sure and sweet revenge? It is not necessary to attempt to scale the walls of Heaven. Other things remain. There is this new world, his plaything. It may lie exposed, and we can at least make the attempt to seize it and lay it waste, and thus vex him." As he saw their eyes sparkle, he continued: "We may in this attempt come near to the steps of our old abode and breathe again its delicious airs instead of these hellish flames. But first we must find some one, strong, wary, and watchful, to send in search of it." Satan strode forth, his courage and his consciousness of it making his face shine with transcendent glory. "Long is the way and hard; its dangers unknown and terrible, but I should be a poor sovereign did I hesitate in the attempt to seek it out. I do not refuse the sovereignty, for I fear not to accept as great a share of hazard as of honor. Stay here; charm away your time, and I will seek deliverance abroad for all of us." As he spoke he rose to depart, fearful lest others might now offer to go and share the glory with him. The legions rose with a sound like thunder, bowed in deepest reverence and went forth, some, to explore their dismal abode, others to amuse themselves at games, others to discuss Free Will and Fate, while their leader pursued his way toward the gate of Hell. The nine-fold gates were of brass, iron, and adamantine rock, reaching high to the mighty roof, and most horrible were the Shapes that guarded it. On one side sat a creature, woman to the waist, below, a serpent, surrounded by a crew of hell hounds, forever barking and then seeking refuge within her. On the other, a Shape, black, fierce, terrible, crowned with the likeness of a kingly crown, and shaking in its hands a dreadful dart. As he strode, Hell trembled. Satan, undaunted, met him with fierce words. As the two stood, their lances pointed at each other, the woman shrieked and ran between them. "Father, rush not upon thy son! Son, raise not thy hand against thy father!" She then explained that she was Satan's daughter, Sin, who had sprung from his head full grown, and that she later became by him the mother of the creature called Death who sat with her to guard the gates. Satan at once unfolded to them his plan of seeking the new world and making a happy home for both Sin and Death, where they could forever find food to gratify their hideous cravings. Charmed by his highly-colored pictures, and forgetful of the commands from above, Sin opened the mighty doors, so that the flames of Hell spread far out into Chaos, but her strength failed her when she attempted to close them again. For a moment Satan looked out into the mixture of Hot and Cold and Moist and Dry that formed Chaos, and then started forth, now rising, now falling, his wings heavy with the dense masses, now wading, now creeping, until at last he reached the spot where was fixed the throne of Chaos and of Night. Here Satan learned of the situation of the new world and soon caught a glimpse of it, hanging like a star, by a golden chain, from Heaven. Sitting in Heaven, high throned above all, God, all-seeing, all-knowing, was conscious of Satan's escape from Hell and his approach to the new world. To his Son, sitting on his right hand, he pointed out the fallen spirit. "No prescribed bounds can shut our Adversary in; nor can the chains of hell hold him. To our new world he goes, and there, by no fault of mine, will pervert man, whom I have placed therein, with a free will; so to remain until he enthralls himself. Man will fall as did Satan, but as Satan was self-tempted, and man will be deceived by another, the latter shall find grace where his tempter did not." Great was the joy of the Son when he learned that man would receive mercy for his transgression. "Pardon and mercy he shall receive," declared the Father, "but some one must be willing to expiate his sin for him; the just must die for the unjust. Who in Heaven is willing to make the sacrifice?" For a moment all the Heavenly quire stood mute; then the Son of God spoke and implored his Father to let his anger fall on him, since he could not wholly die, but could arise from death and subdue his vanquisher. When his Father accepted the sacrifice, and named him Son of God and Man who should hereafter be Universal King, Ruler of Heaven and Earth, Heaven rang with the shouts of the Angels, who, casting down their amaranthine wreaths until the golden pavement was covered with the garlands, took their golden harps and sang the praises of the Father and the Son. While they sang, Satan walked over the vast globe on which he had alighted, through what in after years, when the world was peopled, was to be the Paradise of Fools, the spot to which the spirits of all things transitory and vain, of those who had worked for their reward in life instead of in Heaven, would come. He walked around the dark globe until, directed by a gleam of light, he found the spot where a ladder led up to Heaven. Just below it, down through the spheres, was the seat of Paradise to which he was bending his way. Down through the crystal spheres he bent his way toward the Sun, which attracted him by its superior splendor. Espying Uriel, the Angel of the Sun, he quickly took the form of a youthful Cherub, and, approaching Uriel, told him that having heard of the new world he had been seized by a longing to quit the bands of Cherubim and see for himself the wonderful work of the Creator. Directed by the unsuspecting Uriel, Satan sped downward and standing upon the top of Niphates, surveyed Eden. As he looked, his spirit was troubled. He had brought Hell with him, and his unhappy thoughts boiled and surged in his troubled mind. "Sun, I hate thee, because thy beams recall to me what I was and how I fell. The matchless King of Heaven deserved no such return from me. His service was easy. Had I only been created a lower Power!--But even then, might not some higher one have led me into temptation? What shall I do, whither shall I fly, to escape infinite wrath, and infinite despair? Hell is around me, I myself am Hell! There is no hope for me. Submission is the only way left, and I could not unsay what I have said; I could never bridge the gulf made by my revolt. Farewell to remorse! Good is forever lost to me, and I must now make Evil my good. I can at least divide the empire of the world with the King of Heaven." As he realized how his bitter thoughts had dimmed his countenance he smoothed it over with outward calm, but not before Uriel, from the Sun, had noted and wondered over his strange gestures. Leaping over the high natural walls of Paradise, Satan, in the form of a cormorant, perched himself on the Tree of Life. Beautiful was the scene before him. All the trees and plants were of the noblest kind. In the midst of them stood the Tree of Life with its golden fruit, and not far off the Tree of Knowledge. Southward through Eden ran a river, which, passing under a huge hill, emerged into four great streams wandering through many afterwards famous realms. Between the rows of trees stretched level lawns where grazed the happy flocks, and over the green mead were sprinkled flowers of every hue. No fairer scene ever met living eyes, and fairest of all were the two stately forms, in whose looks shone the divinity of their Maker. Hand in hand they passed through the garden, refreshed themselves with the delicious fruits, and were happy in each other. As he gazed on them while the animals fell asleep and the sun sank below the horizon, Satan, still torn with conflicting emotions, ruminated over the unhappiness he was to bring the lovely pair. He admired them, he could love them; they had not harmed him, but he must bring unhappiness upon them because of their likeness to their Creator. Through them only could he obtain his longed-for revenge. Anxious to learn where to attack them, he prowled about them, now as a lion, now as a tiger, listening to their conversation. They spoke of their garden, of the Tree of Life, and of the forbidden Tree of Knowledge. "In the day ye eat thereof, ye shall surely die," had been their warning. Eve recalled the day of her creation, when she had first fled from Adam, and then yielded to his embraces, and Satan, watching their caresses, envied and hardened his heart. "Live while ye may!" he muttered. "Soon will I return and offer you new woes for your present pleasures." In the mean time, Gabriel, warned by Uriel, who suspected that an evil spirit had crept into Paradise, had set watches around the garden. Ithuriel and Zephon, sent to search for him, spied Satan in the form of a toad, sitting near the ear of Eve, tainting her dreams with foul whispers. Touched by Ithuriel's spear, he was forced to resume his own shape and was taken to Gabriel. The angry Satan attempted to use force, but warned by a sign from Heaven that his strength was insufficient, fled, murmuring, through the night. When morning dawned on Eden, a morn of unimaginable beauty, Adam waked Eve from her restless slumbers, and heard her troubled dreams, in which she had been tempted to taste of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge. He comforted her, and after their morning hymn, in which they glorified their Creator, they set about their pleasant work of pruning the too luxuriant vines of their Paradise. In the mean time, the Father above, knowing the design of Satan, and determined that man should not fall without warning, sent Raphael down to Adam to tell him that he was threatened by an enemy, and that, as a free agent, if he fell, his sin would be upon his own head. Six-winged Raphael swept down through the spheres and stood in Paradise, welcomed by Adam. Eve hastened to set before their guest every delicacy that Eden knew, and while she was preparing these Adam listened to the Angel's warning. To emphasize the sin of disobedience, Raphael related to the pair the story of Satan's conspiracy with the other powers because the Father had proclaimed the power of his Son. The Father, knowing Satan's confidence in himself, had allowed him for two days to fight an equal number of his legions of angels, among whom was Abdiel who had fled, indignant, from Satan's ranks, and on the third day, when the legions of evil lay crushed beneath the mountains which the shining angels had heaped upon them, the Son of God drove forth in his chariot, and single-handed, forced them before him, terror-stricken, until, Heaven's wall having opened, they fell downward for nine days, in horror and confusion into the depths of Hell. The Messiah, returning home in triumph in his chariot, was welcomed by the bright orders into the home of his Father. Delighted by the recital of Raphael, Adam asked him to relate the story of the Creation, and explain to him the motion of the celestial bodies. He then told Raphael of his own creation; how he awoke as from a sleep and found the Sun above him and around him the pleasant groves of Paradise; how he named the animals as they passed before him, according to the will of God, and how he had pleaded with his Maker for a companion and equal, until the Creator, casting him into a sound sleep, took from his side a rib and formed from it his beauteous Eve. As Adam concluded, the setting sun warned Raphael to depart. Satan, after fleeing from Gabriel, had hidden in the dark parts of the earth, so that he could creep in at night unseen of Uriel. After the eighth night, he crept in past the watchful Cherubim, and stealing into Paradise, wrapped in the mist rising over the river that, shooting underground, rose up as a fountain near the Tree of Life, he crept, though not without loathing, into the serpent, in which form he could best evade the watchful eyes of the heavenly guards and accomplish his purpose. When morning dawned, Eve asked Adam for once to permit her to work alone, so that they might accomplish more. Adam, who constantly desired her presence, prayed her to remain, warning her of the enemy of whom Raphael had spoken, and telling her that they could resist temptation more easily together than when separated. But Eve was obdurate, and Adam finally consented that she should go alone to work. As she moved among the groves, tying up the drooping flowers, like to Pomona in her prime, or to Ceres, the sight of so much beauty, goodness, and innocence moved even the serpent, as he approached, intent on the destruction of her happiness. But as he looked, the thought of her joy but tortured him the more, since happiness was no longer possible for him. This was before the serpent had been compelled to crawl his whole length on the ground, and as he moved on, fold on fold, his head proudly reared, his scales brilliant in color, he was not an unpleasant object to look upon. He circled about Eve as though lost in admiration, until her attention was attracted, and then astounded her by addressing her in her own language. When she demanded by what means he had acquired speech, he told her by the plucking and eating of a certain tree in the garden, which he had no sooner tasted than he felt his inward powers to develop until he found himself capable of speech. Eve at once asked him to take her to the tree, but when she recognized the forbidden Tree of Knowledge, she demurred, assuring the serpent that God had commanded them not to touch it, for if they ate of it, they should surely die. "Am I not alive?" asked her tempter, "and have I not eaten of it? Is it not a rank injustice that you should be forbidden to taste it and to lack the Knowledge of Good and Evil which it would give you? Where can the offence lie? It must be envy that causes such a prohibition." His words, the sight of the fruit, and natural hunger all prevailed on Eve, and she plucked a branch from the tree and tasted the fruit. As she ate she saw Adam coming in search of her, holding a garland which he had been binding to crown her. To his reproaches, she replied with the arguments of her tempter, until Adam, in despair, determined to taste the apple that he might not lose Eve. Paradise without her would not be Paradise, and no new wife could make him forget her. After the first exhilaration of the food was past they began to reproach each other, mindful of their destiny, of which they had been warned by Raphael, and, engaged in this fruitless chiding, they were found by the Son, who, informed of their transgression by the angels, sought them out in their place of concealment. Adam and Eve he sentenced to a life of sorrow and labor, the serpent to go despised and ever at enmity with man. Then, pitying the unhappy pair, he clad them in skins and re-ascended to Heaven. While this was occurring in Eden, Sin and Death, feeling in some mysterious way the success of their parent, determined to leave Hell and seek their new home. Passing through Chaos, they pushed the heavy elements this way and that, cementing them with Death's mace until they constructed of them a bridge from the gates of Hell to the point on earth at which Satan had first alighted, and here met him, just returning, flushed with success, to Hell. All the followers of Satan were gathered in Pandemonium to hear the news of his success, which he related, overjoyed at having wrought the ruin of mankind and revenged himself on God by so small a thing as the eating of an apple. As he concluded and stood waiting their applause, he heard a universal hiss, and saw himself surrounded by serpents, and himself changing into an enormous dragon. The great hall was filled with the monsters, scorpions, asps, hydras, and those who stood waiting without with applause for their leader were likewise changed into loathsome reptiles. Without the hall a grove sprang up, loaded with tempting fruit, but when, tortured with thirst, they tried to eat, it turned in their mouths to bitter ashes. After a time they were permitted to take again their own shapes, but were compelled to resume this serpent-form for a certain number of days each year, to crush their pride. When God saw the entrance of Sin and Death into the world, he proclaimed to his Saints that their seeming victory was but temporary, and that eventually his Son would defeat Sin, Death, and the Grave, and seal up the mouth of Hell. Then, as the Halleluias rang out, he ordered the angels to make certain changes in the universe as a punishment to man. The Sun was so to move as to affect the earth alternately with a cold and heat almost unbearable; to the Moon were assigned her motions; the other planets were to join in various ways, often "unbenign." The winds were assigned their stations to torment the earth and sea, and the thunder was set to strike terror to the heart of man. The poles of the earth were pushed aslant, and soon the effects of the changes were felt in heat, cold, wind, and storm. Adam, though absorbed in his own misery and momentarily expecting Death, saw the changes, and bemoaned his woes the more. How would his mysterious progeny despise him, since he was the cause of their being brought into the world of woe! When Eve attempted to comfort him he drove her from him with harsh words, saying that in time to come women would be the unhappy cause of all man's misery, as she had been of his. At last, seeing the futility of his outcries Adam began to cheer his wife, recalling the promise that their offspring should crush the head of the serpent, and suggested to her that they go to their former place of prayer and pour forth to God their true contrition and repentance. The glad Son, presenting these prayers at his Father's throne, interceded with him for them, since their contrition now was worth more than their worship in a state of innocence. His intercession was accepted, but since they had lost the two gifts of Happiness and Immortality, they must leave the garden lest they be tempted to taste next of the Tree of Life and make their woe eternal. Michael was sent down to drive them from the garden, and if the pair seemed repentant and disconsolate he was ordered to comfort them with the promise of better days and to reveal to them somewhat of the future. In habit as a man Michael descended and declared to Adam and Eve that they could no longer abide in Paradise. When Adam, himself broken with grief, attempted to console the heart-broken Eve, the Angel comforted her also, and causing a sleep to fall upon her, led Adam to a hill-top, whence could be seen the hemisphere of the earth, soon to be covered by the seats of empires. Touching Adam's eyes with three drops from the well of life, the Angel showed him a long panorama, beginning with the crime of Cain, and showing the building of the Ark and its landing on Ararat. When he perceived that Adam's eyes were weary, he recited to him the story of Abraham, of the deliverance from Egypt, the wandering in the Wilderness, of the royal stock of David from which would spring the seed so often promised Adam, who should ascend the hereditary throne, and whose glory should be universal. Overjoyed, Adam inquired when would take place the final death stroke to Satan, the bruising with the Victor's heel. Michael responded that Satan was not to be destroyed, but his works in Adam and his seed, and that the sacrifice of the Son's life for man would forever crush the strength of Satan's progeny, Sin and Death. Then, to that Heaven to which he would reascend, the faithful would go when the time came for the world's dissolution, and there would be received into the bliss eternal. Strengthened and sustained, Adam went down from the mount and met Eve, just awaking from comforting dreams. The Cherubim descended, and, urged by the Angel, the two took their way into the wide world that lay before them, and looking back beheld the flaming swords of the Cherubim at the gates of their lost Paradise. SELECTIONS FROM PARADISE LOST. SATAN. After having been thrown out of Heaven with his crew, Satan lay nine days in the burning lake into which he fell. Then, rousing himself, he rose from the liquid flames, flew over the lake, and alighting upon the solid though burning land, thus addressed Beelzebub, who had accompanied him. "Is this the region, this the soil, the clime," Said then the lost Archangel, "this the seat That we must change for Heaven?--this mournful gloom For that celestial light? Be it so, since He Who now is sovran can dispose and bid What shall be right: farthest from Him is best, Whom reason hath equalled, force hath made supreme Above his equals. Farewell, happy fields, Where joy forever dwells! Hail, horrors! hail, Infernal World! and thou, profoundest Hell, Receive thy new possessor--one who brings A mind not to be changed by place or time. The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven. What matter where, if I be still the same, And what I should be, all but less than he Whom thunder hath made greater? Here at least We shall be free; the Almighty hath not built Here for his envy, will not drive us hence: Here we may reign secure; and, in my choice, To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell: Better to reign in Hell than serve in Heaven. But wherefore let we then our faithful friends, The associates and co-partners of our loss, Lie thus astonished on the oblivious pool, And call them not to share with us their part In this unhappy mansion, or once more With rallied arms to try what may be yet Regained in Heaven, or what more lost in Hell?" So Satan spake; and him Beelzebub Thus answered:--"Leader of those armies bright Which, but the Omnipotent, none could have foiled! If once they hear that voice, their liveliest pledge Of hope in fears and dangers--heard so oft In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge Of battle, when it raged, in all assaults Their surest signal--they will soon resume New courage and revive, though now they lie Grovelling and prostrate on yon lake of fire, As we erewhile, astounded and amazed; No wonder, fallen from such pernicious highth!" He scarce had ceased when the superior Fiend Was moving toward the shore; his ponderous shield, Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round, Behind him cast. The broad circumference Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views At evening, from the top of Fesolè, Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, Rivers, or mountains, in her spotty globe. His spear--to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast Of some great ammiral, were but a wand-- He walked with, to support uneasy steps Over the burning marle, not like those steps On Heaven's azure; and the torrid clime Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire. Nathless he so endured, till on the beach Of that inflamèd sea he stood, and called His legions--Angel Forms, who lay entranced Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shades High over-arched embower; or scattered sedge Afloat, when the fierce winds Orion armed Hath vexed the Red-Sea coast, whose waves o'erthrew Busiris and his Memphian chivalry, While with perfidious hatred they pursued The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld From the safe shore their floating carcases And broken chariot wheels. So thick bestrewn, Abject and lost, lay these, covering the flood, Under amazement of their hideous change. He called so loud that all the hollow deep Of Hell resounded:--"Princes, Potentates, Warriors, the Flower of Heaven--once yours; now lost, If such astonishment as this can seize Eternal Spirits! Or have ye chosen this place After the toil of battle to repose Your wearied virtue, for the ease you find To slumber here, as in the vales of Heaven? Or in this abject posture have ye sworn To adore the Conqueror, who now beholds Cherub and Seraph rolling in the flood With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon His swift pursuers from Heaven-gates discern The advantage, and descending, tread us down Thus drooping, or with linked thunderbolts Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf?-- Awake, arise, or be for ever fallen!" _Book I._, 240-330. APOSTROPHE TO LIGHT. This passage forms the beginning of Book III., in which the poet visits the realms of light after having described Hell and its inhabitants. Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven first-born! Or of the Eternal coeternal beam May I express thee unblamed? since God is light, And never but in unapproachèd light Dwelt from eternity--dwelt then in thee, Bright effluence of bright essence increate! Or hear'st thou rather pure Ethereal stream, Whose fountain who shall tell? Before the Sun, Before the Heavens, thou wert, and at the voice Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest The rising World of waters dark and deep, Won from the void and formless Infinite! Thee I revisit now with bolder wing, Escaped the Stygian Pool, though long detained In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight, Through utter and through middle Darkness borne, With other notes than to the Orphean lyre I sung of Chaos and eternal Night, Taught by the Heavenly Muse to venture down The dark descent, and up to re-ascend, Though hard and rare. Thee I revisit safe, And feel thy sovran vital lamp; but thou Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn; So thick a drop serene hath quenched their orbs, Or dim suffusion veiled. Yet not the more Cease I to wander where the Muses haunt Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill, Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath, That wash thy hallowed feet, and warbling flow, Nightly I visit: nor sometimes forget Those other two equalled with me in fate, So were I equalled with them in renown, Blind Thamyris and blind Mæonides, And Tiresias and Phineus, prophets old: Then feed on thoughts that voluntary move Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird Sings darkling, and, in shadiest covert hid, Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year Seasons return; but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud instead and ever-during dark Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men Cut off, and, for the book of knowledge fair, Presented with a universal blank Of Nature's works, to me expunged and rased, And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. So much the rather thou, Celestial Light, Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate; there plant eyes; all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight. _Book III_ PARADISE REGAINED. "A cold and noble epic."--TAINE. Paradise regained was written by Milton, judging from a passage in the Autobiography of Thomas Ellwood, in the winter of 1665-6, but was not published until 1671. It was printed at Milton's expense in a small volume together with Samson Agonistes. Paradise Regained tells the story of Christ's temptation in the Wilderness, and the material was taken from the accounts of Matthew and Luke, which the poet, with great skill, expanded without essentially deviating from them. The title has been criticised on the ground that the poem should have extended over the whole of Christ's life on earth. But Paradise Regained was written as a sequel to Paradise Lost, and, as in the first poem the poet showed that Paradise was lost by the yielding of Adam and Eve to Satan, so in the second, he wished to show that Paradise was regained by the resistance of Christ to temptation, Satan's defeat signifying the regaining of Paradise for men by giving them the hope of Christ's second coming. Therefore the poem naturally ends with Satan's rebuff and his final abandonment of the attempt on the pinnacle of the Temple. The poem has been criticised for its shortness, some scholars even affecting to believe it unfinished; its lack of variety, in that it has but two characters, its lack of action, and the absence of figurative language. But with all these faults, it has a charm of its own, entirely different from that of Paradise Lost. Satan has degenerated during his years of "roaming up and down the earth;" he is no longer the fallen angel of Paradise Lost, who struggled with himself before making evil his good. He is openly given over to evil practices, and makes little effort to play the hypocrite. His temptations are worked up from that of hunger to that of the vision of the kingdoms of the earth with a wonderful power of description which makes up for the lack of action and the few actors. The pathless, rockbound desert, the old man, poorly clad, who accosts the Christ, the mountain-top from which all the earth was visible, the night of horror in the desert, and the sublime figure of the Savior, are all enduring pictures which compensate for any rigidity of treatment. If figurative language is omitted it is because the theme does not need it, and does not show that the poem is less carefully finished than Paradise Lost. Its lack of action and similarity of subject to the longer poem sufficiently account for its not meeting with popular favor. Johnson was correct when he said, "had this poem been written not by Milton, but by some imitator, it would have claimed and received universal praise." BIBLIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM, PARADISE REGAINED. H. C. Beeching, On the Prosody of Paradise Regained and Samson Agonistes, 1889; Charles Dexter Cleveland's Complete Concordance to Milton's Poetical Works, 1867; William T. Dobson's The Classic Poets, their Lives and Times etc., 1879; George Gilfillan's Second Gallery of Literary Portraits, 1852, pp. 15-16; Samuel Johnson's Milton (see his Lives of the Poets, ed. by Mrs. Alexander Napier, 1890, vol. i.); Thomas Babington Macaulay's Milton (see his Critical and Historical Essays, ed, 10, 1860, vol. i.); David Masson's Introduction to Paradise Regained (see his ed. of Milton's Poetical works, 1893, vol. iii., pp. 1-14); David Masson's Life of Milton, 1880, vol. vi., 651-661; Richard Meadowcourt's Critique on Milton's Paradise Regained, 1732; A Critical Dissertation on Paradise Regained with Notes, 2d ed. 1748; John Robert Seeley's Milton (see his Roman Imperialism and other Lectures and Essays, 1871, pp. 152-157); Mark Pattison's John Milton (English Men of Letters Series), n. d.; H. A. Taine's History of English Literature, Tr. by H. Van Laun, 1877, vol. ii. THE STORY OF PARADISE REGAINED. After the expulsion from Paradise of Adam and Eve, Satan and his followers did not return to Hell, but remained on earth, the fallen angels becoming the evil gods of various idolatrous nations and Satan engaging in every kind of evildoing which he knew would vex the Powers of Heaven. All the time he was troubled by the thought of the heavenly foe who he had been told would one day appear on earth to crush him and his rebel angels. Now John had come out of the wilderness, proclaiming his mission, and among those who came to him to be baptized was one who was deemed the son of Joseph of Nazareth. John recognized in the obscure carpenter's son the one "mightier than he" whose coming he was to proclaim, and this fact was further made clear to the multitude and the observant Satan by the opening of the Heavens and the descent therefrom on Christ's head of the Dove, while a voice was heard declaring, "This is my beloved Son." Satan, enraged, fled to the council of the fiends to announce to them the presence on earth of their long-dreaded enemy. He was empowered by them to attempt his overthrow, and they were the more confident because of his success with Adam and Eve. Satan's purpose was known to the Eternal Father, who smiled to see him unwittingly fulfilling the plan so long foreordained for his destruction. After his baptism, the Father had sent his Son into the wilderness to gain strength for his struggle with Sin and Death, and there Satan, in the guise of an old, poorly clad rustic, found him. Although the Son of God had wandered through the rock-bound, pathless desert, among wild beasts, without food for forty days, he had no fear, believing that some impulse from above had guided him thither before he should go out among men to do his divinely appointed task. Then, when hunger came upon him as he wandered, thinking of past events and those to come, he met the aged man and was addressed by him. "Sir, how came you hither, where none who ventures alone escapes alive? I ask because you look not unlike the man I lately saw baptized by John and declared the Son of God." "I need no guide," replied the Son. "The Power who brought me here will bring me forth." "Not otherwise than by miracle. Here we subsist only upon dry roots and must often endure parching thirst. If thou art indeed the Son of God, save thyself and relieve us wretched people by changing these stones to bread." "Men live not by bread alone," replied the Son, "but by the word of God. Moses in the Mount was without food and drink for forty days. Elijah also wandered fasting in the wilderness. Thou knowest who I am as I know who thou art; why shouldest thou suggest distrust to me?" "'Tis true that I am that unfortunate spirit who fell from Heaven, but I have been permitted to roam around the earth and have not been altogether excluded from Heaven. God allowed me to test Job and prove his worth and to draw Ahab into fraud. Though I have lost much of my original brightness I can still admire all that is illustrious and good. The sons of men should not regard me as an enemy, for I have oft given them aid by oracles, dreams, and portents. My loss was not through them, so their restoration does not grieve me; only that fallen man will be restored and not I." "Thou deservest to grieve, tissue of lies that thou art!" exclaimed our Savior. "Thou boastest of being released from Hell and permitted to come into Heaven. No joy hast thou there! Thy own malice moved thee to torture Job. Brag not of thy lies, thy oracles for men. Henceforth oracles are dumb, since God has sent his living oracle into the world to teach the truth." Satan, though angry, still dissembled. "Accuse me, reprove me, if thou wilt. Fallen as I am, I still love to hear the truth fall from thy lips." Unmoved by his false words the Savior of men declared that he neither forbade nor invited his presence, and Satan, bowing low, disappeared as night fell over the desert. In the mean time, those at Bethabara who had rejoiced at the declaration of John and had talked with the Messiah, were deeply grieved to find him gone and with him their hope of deliverance. His mother, too, was troubled at his absence, but comforted herself with the thought of his former absences, afterwards explained. Satan, hastening from the desert, sought his troop of evil spirits to warn them that his undertaking was no easy one, and to summon them to his assistance. Night fell on the Son of God, still fasting, wondering what would be the end. In sleep he was visited by dreams of Elijah, raven-fed, and of the same prophet fed by the angel in the desert, and as he dreamed that he ate with them, the lark's song awoke him and he wandered into a pleasant grove. As he viewed it, charmed by its beauty, a man appeared before him, no rustic this time, but one attired in the apparel of city or court. "I have returned, wondering that thou still remainest here, hungering. Hagar once wandered here; the children of Israel, and the Prophet, but all these were fed by the hand of Heaven. Thou alone art forgotten and goest tormented by hunger." Though the Son of God declared that he had no need to eat, Satan invited his attention to a table, set under a spreading tree. Upon it was heaped every known delicacy; by it waited youths handsome as Ganymede, and among the trees tripped naiads and nymphs of Diana, with fruits and flowers. Exquisite music was heard, and the perfumes of Araby filled the air. "Why not sit and eat?" continued Satan. "These foods are not forbidden, and all these gentle ministers are ready to do thee homage." "What hast thou to do with my hunger?" demanded Jesus. "Should I receive as a gift from thee what I myself could command if I so desired? I too could bring a table here, and swift-winged angels to attend me. Thy gifts are but guiles." "I am forever suspected," responded Satan, as the table vanished. "Hunger cannot move thee, set on high designs. But what canst thou, a lowly carpenter's son, accomplish without aid? Where wilt thou find authority, where followers? First get riches; hearken to me, for fortune is in my hand. Wealth will win, while virtue, valor, and wisdom sit and wait in vain." "Yet what can wealth do without these?" replied Jesus patiently. "How can it gain dominion, and keep it when gained? Gideon, Jephtha, David, and among the heathen (for I am not ignorant of history) Quinctius, Fabricius, Curius, Regulus, all these have risen from the depths and achieved the highest deeds. Then, why may not I accomplish as much, even more, without wealth, which but cumbers the wise man, and slackens virtue, rather than prompts it to worthy deeds? Suppose I reject both riches and realms? Not because the regal diadem is a wreath of thorns and he who wears it bears each man's burden, for the king's chief praise is the manner in which he bears this burden for the public. But he who rules himself is greater than a king, and he who cannot do this should not aspire to royal power. But it is surely more kingly to lead nations blinded by error into the light of God's truth. This dominion is over the nobler part of man. And it has ever been thought greater and nobler to give a kingdom and to lay down authority than to assume it. Therefore thy riches are needless both in themselves, and to gain a kingdom which would better be missed than gained." Satan, though for a moment struck dumb by this answer to his arguments, soon collected himself and suggested that while the Savior knew so well what was best to know, say, and do, that if known he would be regarded as an oracle, still he did wrong to despise glory and deprive earth of his great deeds, citing as examples of more active spirits accomplishing much when younger than he, the young Alexander, Scipio, Pompey, and Caesar. But the Savior replied that the glory which consisted of the approval of the rabble was only to be despised. The true glory was that of the man who dared to be truly good, who though little known on earth, was famous in Heaven. Such men did not lay waste fields, sack, pillage, and slay, but by deeds of peace won the approval of the Father. Such was Job, oft tempted by Satan; such was Socrates, who suffered unjust death for teaching truth. And the Son of God had come upon earth not to win glory for himself as vain men do, but for Him who sent him. "Thy Father does not despise glory," sneered Satan. "He demands it from his angels, from men, even from us, his foes." "With reason," answered the Son, "since he created all things, though not for glory. And what slighter recompense could he expect from men who could return nothing else?" Satan, remembering his own ambition and his fall, was silent for a moment, and then spoke to remind the Savior that he was born to the throne of David, but that it must be wrested from the Roman by force of arms. It was his duty to do this and save his people from oppression. "All things in due time," replied the Savior. "If the Writ tells of my sufferings, my tribulations, of violence done unto me, it also tells of my reign without end. I can wait. He who suffers best, can do best; he who obeys first, reigns best; and why shouldest thou be so anxious to hasten my rule when it means thy destruction?" "When hope is gone, what is there left to fear? My punishment will come whether thou reign or no. I could hope that thy reign would stand between me and the anger of thy Father. And if I haste to the worst that can be, why shouldest thou go so slowly to the best? Perhaps thou fearest the dangerous enterprise, thou who, pent up in Galilean towns, hast seen so little." So saying, he took the Son up into a high mountain at the foot of which stretched a vast plain. Two rivers watered the fertile land. The hills were covered with flocks; vast cities could be seen, and here and there, so wide was the land, a barren desert. Then the Tempter pointed out the vast cities of Assyria, Nineveh, Babylon, Persepolis, Bactra, and the vast host of the Parthian king, even then marching against the Scythians. As they watched the great host of mailed warriors, accompanied by chariots, elephants, archers, engineers, Satan pursued his argument. Suppose the Son should take possession of his kingdom; how should he hope to keep it in peace between two such powerful enemies as the Parthians and the Romans? It would be better to conquer first the nearest, the Parthians, and this could be done with Satan's help. In doing this he would not only be able to occupy his throne but would deliver the offspring of the Ten Tribes of Israel, who, scattered among the Medes, still served as slaves. But the Savior, in response, only questioned Satan as to why he had suddenly become so solicitous for the salvation of the Tribes when he himself had once tempted David to number Israel and had thus brought pestilence upon them. And as to the Ten Tribes, they had brought their punishment upon themselves, and must serve the enemy and their idols until the Father should see fit to release them. Though embarrassed by the failure of his wiles, Satan could not yet yield. Turning to the western side of the mountain, he pointed out to the Savior a long, narrow plain, bordered on the south by the sea and protected from northern blasts by a mountain range. There, crowning the seven hills stood the imperial city adorned with porches, theatres, baths, aqueducts, and palaces. Satan pointed out the different objects of interest in splendid Rome, the Capitol, Mt. Palatine, crowned by the imperial palace, and the great gates, through which issued or entered a continuous stream of praetors, proconsuls, lictors, legions, embassies, on all the roads which led through the far-stretching empire, even to those of the Asian kings, and remote Britain. All the glory of the world, he argued, lay in Parthia and Rome, and Rome was greater. He who ruled her was indeed ruler of the world, and yet its present emperor was old, weak, lascivious, without heir, and lived at Capreae, his public cares entrusted to his favorite. How easily could the Son of God force from him the power and lift the yoke from his people! But the splendor of the scene allured neither the eye nor the mind of the Son. The gluttonies, the gorgeous feasts, the hollow compliments and lies of the people did not attract him. His mission, he told his Tempter, was not yet to free that people, once just and frugal, now debased by their insatiable ambition. When the time came for him to sit on David's throne, this with all other kingdoms of the earth would be shattered while his kingdom would be eternal. "Though thou despisest my offers," cried Satan, "thou knowest that I esteem them highly, and will not part with them for nought. This is the condition; Wilt thou fall down and worship me as thy superior lord?" "It is written, thou accursed one," responded the Savior in disdain, "that thou shouldst worship and serve the Lord thy God alone. Who gave thee the kingdoms of the earth if He did not? And what gratitude thou showest! Get thee behind me! Truly thou art Satan!" Satan, abashed but not silenced, pointed southwest toward Athens. Since the Savior seemed to prefer a contemplative life, why should he not seek that seat of learning? All wisdom was not contained in Moses' law and the writings of the prophets. Let him master the learning of the great Athenian teachers, philosophers and orators, and he would be a king within himself. But the Savior assured Satan that, having received light from above, he knew how false and fallacious were the boasted philosophies of the Greeks. Their philosophers, ignorant of themselves and of God, and arrogating all glory to themselves and ascribing none to Him, were unable to impart wisdom to any one. From Hebrew psalm and hymn, and captive harps in Babylon, the Greeks derived their arts, and the results, the odious praises of their vicious gods, could not compare with the songs of Sion in praise of the Father. Their orators, too, were far below the Hebrew prophets. "Stay in the wilderness, then," thundered Satan, wroth at this failure. "Since neither riches nor arms, nor power, nor yet the contemplative life please thee, it is for thee the fittest place! But the time will yet come when violence, stripes, and a cruel death will make thee long for me and my proffered power. Truly the stars promise thee a kingdom, but of what kind and when I cannot read." As he disappeared, darkness fell, and the Son of God, still hungry and cold, sought rest under a sheltering tree. But Satan watched near, and forbade rest. Thunder and lightning shook the Heavens; rain drenched the earth; the fury of the winds was loosed, and in their path the sturdiest trees were uprooted. Ghosts, furies, raved around the holy one, but, unshaken by fear, he endured all calmly, and came forth, as the bright sun shone upon the earth, to meet again the Prince of Darkness. Enraged that the terrors of the night had had no effect upon his enemy, Satan cried out that he still doubted that the wanderer in the wilderness was the Son of God in the true sense, and would therefore try him another way. So speaking, he caught him up and bore him through the air unto Jerusalem, and setting him on the highest pinnacle of the glorious Temple, said scornfully:-- "Stand there, if thou canst; I have placed thee highest in thy Father's house. Now show if thou art indeed the Son of God. Cast thyself down, for it is written that He will command his angels concerning thee, so that they in their hands shall uplift thee." "It is also written," said Jesus, "'Tempt not the Lord thy God.'" And as he so spoke and stood, Satan, overcome with amazement, fell whence he had expected to see his conqueror fall, and, struck with dread and anguish at his certain defeat, fled to his rebel angels. Straightway, a "fiery globe" of angels received the Son on their pinions, bore him from the pinnacle into a flowery vale, and there refreshed him with ambrosial food and water from the Fount of Life, while all around him the angelic choir sang his praises for the conquest of his enemy, and encouraged him to go forth on his work of saving mankind. Thence, rested and refreshed, he arose, and went, unobserved, home to his mother's house. SELECTION FROM PARADISE REGAINED. THE TEMPTATION OF THE VISION OF THE KINGDOMS OF THE EARTH. Satan, meeting the Savior in the wilderness, tempted him to change the stones to bread, and then, after endeavoring to awake in him a longing for wealth and power, appealed to his ambition by leading him to a mountain top, and displaying to him the kingdoms of the earth. With that (such power was given him then), he [Satan] took The Son of God up to a mountain high. It was a mountain at whose verdant feet A spacious plain outstretched in circuit wide Lay pleasant; from his side two rivers flowed, The one winding, the other straight, and left between Fair champaign, with less rivers interveined, Then meeting joined their tribute to the sea. Fertile of corn the glebe, of oil, and wine; With herds the pasture thronged, with flocks the hills; Huge cities and high-towered, that well might seem The seats of mightiest monarchs; and so large The prospect was that here and there was room For barren desert, fountainless and dry. To this high mountain-top the Tempter brought Our Saviour, and new train of words began:-- "Well have we speeded, and o'er hill and dale, Forest, and field, and flood, temples and towers, Cut shorter many a league. Here thou behold'st Assyria, and her empire's ancient bounds, Araxes and the Caspian lake; thence on As far as Indus east, Euphrates west, And oft beyond; to south the Persian bay, And, inaccessible, the Arabian drouth: Here, Nineveh, of length within her wall Several days' journey, built by Ninus old, Of that first golden monarchy the seat, And seat of Salmanassar, whose success Israel in long captivity still mourns; There Babylon, the wonder of all tongues, As ancient, but rebuilt by him who twice Judah and all thy father David's house Led captive, and Jerusalem laid waste, Till Cyrus set them free; Persepolis, His city, there thou seest, and Bactra there; Ecbatana her structure vast there shows, And Hecatompylos her hundred gates; There Susa by Choaspes, amber stream, The drink of none but kings; of later fame, Built by Emathian or by Parthian hands, The great Seleucia, Nisibis, and there Artaxata, Teredon, Ctesiphon, Turning with easy eye, thou may'st behold. All these the Parthian (now some ages past By great Arsaces led, who founded first That empire) under his dominion holds, From the luxurious kings of Antioch won. And just in time thou com'st to have a view Of his great power; for now the Parthian king In Ctesiphon hath gathered all his host Against the Scythian, whose incursions wild Have wasted Sogdiana; to her aid He marches now in haste. See though from far, His thousands, in what martial equipage They issue forth, steel bows and shafts their arms, Of equal dread in flight or in pursuit-- All horsemen, in which fight they most excel; See how in warlike muster they appear, In rhombs, and wedges, and half-moons, and wings." He looked, and saw what numbers numberless The city gates outpoured, light-armed troops In coats of mail and military pride. In mail their horses clad, yet fleet and strong, Prancing their riders bore, the flower and choice Of many provinces from bound to bound-- From Arachosia, from Candaor east, And Margiana, to the Hyrcanian cliffs Of Caucasus, and dark Iberian dales; From Atropatia, and the neighboring plains Of Adiabene, Media, and the south Of Susiana, to Balsara's haven. He saw them in their forms of battle ranged, How quick they wheeled, and flying behind them shot Sharp sleet of arrowy showers against the face Of their pursuers, and overcame by flight; The field all iron cast a gleaming brown. Nor wanted clouds of foot, nor, on each horn, Cuirassiers all in steel for standing fight, Chariots, or elephants indorsed with towers Of archers; nor of labouring pioneers A multitude, with spades and axes armed, To lay hills plain, fell woods, or valleys fill, Or where plain was raise hill, or overlay With bridges rivers proud, as with a yoke: Mules after these, camels and dromedaries, And waggons fraught with utensils of war. Such forces met not, nor so wide a camp, When Agrican, with all his northern powers, Besieged Albracca, as romances tell, The city of Gallaphrone, from thence to win The fairest of her sex, Angelica, His daughter, sought by many prowest knights, Both Paynim and the peers of Charlemain. Such and so numerous was their chivalry. _Book III._ He brought our Saviour to the western side Of that high mountain, whence he might behold Another plain, long, but in breadth not wide, Washed by the southern sea, and on the north To equal length backed with a ridge of hills That screened the fruits of the earth and seats of men From cold Septentrion blasts; thence in the midst Divided by a river, off whose banks On each side an imperial city stood, With towers and temples proudly elevate On seven small hills, with palaces adorned, Porches and theatres, baths, aqueducts, Statues and trophies, and triumphal arcs, Gardens and groves, presented to his eyes Above the highth of mountains interposed-- By what strange parallax, or optic skill Of vision, multiplied through air, or glass Of telescope, were curious to inquire. And now the Tempter thus his silence broke:-- "The city which thou seest no other deem Than great and glorious Rome Queen of the Earth So far renowned, and with the spoils enriched Of nations. There the Capitol thou seest, Above the rest lifting his stately head On the Tarpeian rock, her citadel Impregnable; and there Mount Palatine, The imperial palace, compass huge, and high The structure, skill of noblest architects, With gilded battlements, conspicuous far, Turrets, and terraces, and glittering spires. Many a fair edifice besides, more like Houses of gods--so well have I disposed My aery microscope--thou may'st behold, Outside and inside both, pillars and roofs Carved work, the hand of famed artificers In cedar, marble, ivory, or gold. Thence to the gates cast round thine eye, and see What conflux issuing forth, or entering in: Praetors, proconsuls to their provinces Hasting, or on return, in robes of state; Lictors and rods, the ensigns of their power; Legions and cohorts, turms of horse and wings; Or embassies from regions far remote, In various habits, on the Appian road, Or on the Aemilian--some from farthest south, Syene, and where the shadow both way falls, Meroe, Nilotic isle, and, more to west, The realm of Bocchus to the Blackmoor sea; From the Asian kings (and Parthian among these), From India and the Golden Chersoness, And utmost Indian isle Taprobane, Dusk faces with white silken turbants wreathed; From Gallia, Gades, and the British west; Germans, and Scythians, and Sarmatians north Beyond Danubius to the Tauric pool. All nations now to Rome obedience pay-- To Rome's great Emperor, whose wide domain, In ample territory, wealth and power, Civility of manners, arts and arms, And long renown, thou justly may'st prefer Before the Parthian. These two thrones except, The rest are barbarous, and scarce worth the sight, Shared among petty kings too far removed; These having shown thee, I have shown thee all The kingdoms of the world, and all their glory". _Book IV._ 
13983	----	THE BOOK OF THE EPIC The World's Great Epics Told in Story by H. A. GUERBER Author of _Myths of Greece and Rome_, _Myths of Northern Lands_, _Legends of the Middle Ages_, etc. With an Introduction by J. Berg Esenwein, Litt. D. With Sixteen Illustrations from the Masters of Painting 1913 INTRODUCTION Every now and then in our reading we come suddenly face to face with _first_ things,--the very elemental sources beyond which no man may go. There is a distinct satisfaction in dealing with such beginnings, and, when they are those of literature, the sense of freshness is nothing short of inspiring. To share the same lofty outlook, to breathe the same high air with those who first sensed a whole era of creative thoughts, is the next thing to being the gods' chosen medium for those primal expressions. All this is not to say that the epic is the oldest form of literary expression, but it is the expression of the oldest literary ideas, for, even when the epic is not at all primitive in form, it deals essentially with elemental moods and ideals. Epical poetry is poetic not because it is metrical and conformative to rhythmical standards,--though it usually is both,--but it is poetry because of the high sweep of its emotional outlook, the bigness of its thought, the untamed passion of its language, and the musical flow of its utterance. Here, then, we have a veritable source book of the oldest ideas of the race; but not only that--we are also led into the penetralia of the earliest thought of many separate nations, for when the epic is national, it is true to the earliest genius of the people whose spirit it depicts. To be sure, much of literature, and particularly the literature of the epic, is true rather to the tone of a nation than to its literal history--by which I mean that Achilles was more really a Greek hero than any Greek who ever lived, because he was the apotheosis of Greek chivalry, and as such was the expression of the Greeks rather than merely a Greek. The Iliad and the Odyssey are not merely epics of Greece--they are Greek. This is an age of story-telling. Never before has the world turned so attentively to the shorter forms of fiction. Not only is this true of the printed short-story, of which some thousands, more or less new, are issued every year in English, but oral story-telling is taking its deserved place in the school, the home, and among clubs specially organized for its cultivation. Teachers and parents must therefore be increasingly alert, not only to invent new stories, but--this even chiefly--to familiarize themselves with the oldest stories in the world. So it is to such sources as these race-narratives that all story-telling must come for recurrent inspirations. The setting of each new story may be tinged with what wild or sophisticated life soever, yet must the narrator find the big, heart-swelling movements and passions and thraldoms and conquests and sufferings and elations of mankind stored in the great epics of the world. It were a life-labor to become familiar with all of these in their expressive originals; even in translation it would be a titanic task to read each one. Therefore how great is our indebtedness to the ripe scholarship and discreet choice of the author of this "Book of the Epic" for having brought to us not only the arguments but the very spirit and flavor of all this noble array. The task has never before been essayed, and certainly, now that it has been done for the first time, it is good to know that it has been done surpassingly well. To find the original story-expression of a nation's myths, its legends, and its heroic creations is a high joy--a face-to-face interview with any great first-thing is a big experience; but to come upon whole scores of undefiled fountains is like multiplying the Pierian waters. Even as all the epics herein collected in scenario were epoch-making, so will the gathering of these side by side prove to be. Literary judgments must be comparative, and now we may place each epic in direct comparison with any other, with a resultant light, both diffused and concentrated, for the benefit of both critics and the general reader. The delights of conversation--so nearly, alas, a lost art!--consist chiefly in the exchange of varied views on single topics. So, when we note how the few primal story-themes and plot developments of all time were handled by those who first told the tales in literate form, the satisfaction is proportionate. One final word must be said regarding the interest of epical material. Heretofore a knowledge of the epics--save only a few of the better known--has been confined to scholars, or, at most, students; but it may well be hoped that the wide perusal of this book may serve to show to the general reader how fascinating a store of fiction may be found in epics which have up till now been known to him only by name. J. Berg Esenwein CONTENTS Introduction by J. Berg Esenwein Foreword Greek Epics The Iliad The Odyssey Latin Epics The Aeneid French Epics The Song of Roland Aucassin and Nicolette Spanish Epics The Cid Portuguese Epics The Lusiad Italian Epics Divine Comedy The Inferno Purgatory Paradise The Orlandos Gerusalemme Liberata, or Jerusalem Delivered Epics of the British Isles Beowulf The Arthurian Cycle Robin Hood The Faerie Queene Paradise Lost Paradise Regained German Epics The Nibelungenlied Story of the Holy Grail Epics of the Netherlands Scandinavian Epics The Volsunga Saga Russian and Finnish Epics The Kalevala, or the Land of Heroes Epics of Central Europe and of the Balkan Peninsula Hebrew and Early Christian Epics Arabian and Persian Epics The Shah-Nameh, or Epic of Kings Indian Epics The Ramayana The Mahabharata Chinese and Japanese Poetry American Epics Index ILLUSTRATIONS Odin Bids Farewell to Brunhild before He Surrounds Her by a Barrier of Fire (Frontispiece) From the painting by Th. Pixis Oedipus Solving the Sphinx's Riddle From the painting by Ingres Achilles Disguised as a Girl Testing the Sword in Ulysses' Pack From the painting by Battoni Circe and Ulysses' Companions Turned into Swine By L. Chalon Venus Meeting Aeneas and Achates Near Carthage From the painting by Cortona Roland at Roncevaux From the painting by L.F. Guesnet The Palace Where Inez de Castro Lived and was Murdered Dante Interviewing Hugues Capet From an illustration by R. Galli Hermione Finds Tancred Wounded From the painting by Nicolas Poussin The Body of Elaine on its Way to King Arthur's Palace By Gustave Dora Una and the Red Cross Knight From the painting by George Frederick Watts The Heralds Summon Lucifer's Host to a Council at Pandemonium By Gustave Dore The Dead Sigfried Rome Back to Worms From the painting by Th. Pixis St. John the Evangelist at Patmos Writing the Apocalypse From the painting by Correggio Sita Soothing Rama to Sleep From a Calcutta print The Monk Breaks into the Robbers' House to Rescue White Aster From a Japanese print "It is in this vast, dim region of myth and legend the sources of the literature of modern times are hidden; and it is only by returning to them, by constant remembrance that they drain a vast region of vital human experience, that the origin and early direction of that literature can be recalled."--Hamilton Wright Mabie. FOREWORD Derived from the Greek _epos_, a saying or oracle, the term "epic" is generally given to some form of heroic narrative wherein tragedy, comedy, lyric, dirge, and idyl are skilfully blended to form an immortal work. "Mythology, which was the interpretation of nature, and legend, which is the idealization of history," are the main elements of the epic. Being the "living history of the people," an epic should have "the breadth and volume of a river." All epics have therefore generally been "the first-fruits of the earliest experience of nature and life on the part of imaginative races"; and the real poet has been, as a rule, the race itself. There are almost as many definitions of an epic and rules for its composition as there are nations and poets. For that reason, instead of selecting only such works as in the writer's opinion can justly claim the title of epic, each nation's verdict has been accepted, without question, in regard to its national work of this class, be it in verse or prose. The following pages therefore contain almost every variety of epic, from that which treats of the deity in dignified hexameters, strictly conforms to the rule "one hero, one time, and one action of many parts," and has "the massiveness and dignity of sculpture," to the simplest idylls, such as the Japanese "White Aster," or that exquisite French mediaeval compound of poetry and prose, "Aucassin et Nicolette." Not only are both Christian and pagan epics impartially admitted in this volume, but the representative works of each nation in the epic field are grouped, according to the languages in which they were composed. Many of the ancient epics are so voluminous that even one of them printed in full would fill twenty-four volumes as large as this. To give even the barest outline of one or two poems in each language has therefore required the utmost condensation. So, only the barest outline figures in these pages, and, although the temptation to quote many choice passages has been well-nigh irresistible, space has precluded all save the scantiest quotations. The main object of this volume consists in outlining clearly and briefly, for the use of young students or of the busy general reader, the principal examples of the time-honored stories which have inspired our greatest poets and supplied endless material to painters, sculptors, and musicians ever since art began. THE BOOK OF THE EPIC GREEK EPICS The greatest of all the world's epics, the Iliad and the Odyssey, are attributed to Homer, or Melesigenes, who is said to have lived some time between 1050 and 850 B.C. Ever since the second century before Christ, however, the question whether Homer is the originator of the poems, or whether, like the Rhapsodists, he merely recited extant verses, has been hotly disputed. The events upon which the Iliad is based took place some time before 1100 B.C., and we are told the poems of Homer were collected and committed to writing by Pisistratus during the age of Epic Poetry, or second age of Greek literature, which ends 600 B.C. It stands to reason that the Iliad must have been inspired by or at least based upon previous poems, since such perfection is not achieved at a single bound. Besides, we are aware of the existence of many shorter Greek epics, which have either been entirely lost or of which we now possess only fragments. A number of these ancient epics form what is termed the Trojan Cycle, because all relate in some way to the War of Troy. Among them is the Cypria, in eleven books, by Stasimus of Cyprus (or by Arctinus of Miletus), wherein is related Jupiter's frustrated wooing of Thetis, her marriage with Peleus, the episode of the golden apple, the judgment of Paris, the kidnapping of Helen, the mustering of the Greek forces, and the main events of the first nine years of the Trojan War. The Iliad (of which a synopsis is given) follows this epic, taking up the story where the wrath of Achilles is aroused and ending it with the funeral of Hector. This, however, does not conclude the story of the Trojan War, which is resumed in the "Aethiopia," in five books, by Arctinus of Miletus. After describing the arrival of Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons, to aid the Trojans, the poet relates her death at the hand of Achilles, who, in his turn, is slain by Apollo and Paris. This epic concludes with the famous dispute between Ajax and Ulysses for the possession of Achilles' armor. The Little Iliad, whose authorship is ascribed to sundry poets, including Homer, next describes the madness and death of Ajax, the arrival of Philoctetes with the arrows of Hercules, the death of Paris, the purloining of the Palladium, the stratagem of the wooden horse, and the death of Priam. In the Ilion Persis, or Sack of Troy, by Arctinus, in two books, we find the Trojans hesitating whether to convey the wooden steed into their city, and discover the immortal tales of the traitor Sinon and that of Laocoon. We then behold the taking and sacking of the city, with the massacre of the men and the carrying off into captivity of the women. In the Nostroi, or Homeward Voyage, by Agias of Troezene, the Atridae differ in opinion; so, while Agamemnon delays his departure to offer propitiatory sacrifices, Menelaus sets sail for Egypt, where he is detained. This poem also contains the narrative of Agamemnon's return, of his assassination, and of the way in which his death was avenged by his son Orestes. Next in sequence of events comes the Odyssey of Homer (of which a complete synopsis follows), and then the Telegonia of Eugammon of Cyrene, in two books. This describes how, after the burial of the suitors, Ulysses renews his adventures, and visits Thesprotia, where he marries and leaves a son. We also have his death, a battle between two of his sons, and the marriage of Telemachus and Circe, as well as that of the widowed Penelope to Telegonus, one of Ulysses' descendants. Another sequel, or addition to the Odyssey, is found in the Telemachia, also a Greek poem, as well as in a far more modern work, the French classic, Télémaque, written by Fénelon for his pupil the Dauphin, in the age of Louis XIV. Another great series of Greek poems is the Theban Cycle, which comprises the Thebais, by some unknown author, wherein is related in full the story of Oedipus, that of the Seven Kings before Thèbes, and the doings of the Epigoni. There exist also cyclic poems in regard to the labors of Heracles, among others one called Oechalia, which has proved a priceless mine for poets, dramatists, painters, and sculptors.[1] In the Alexandra by Lycophron (270 B.C.), and in a similar poem by Quintus Smyrnaeus, in fourteen books, we find tedious sequels to the Iliad, wherein Alexander is represented as a descendant of Achilles. Indeed, the life and death of Alexander the Great are also the source of innumerable epics, as well as of romances in Greek, Latin, French, German, and English. The majority of these are based upon the epic of Callisthenes, 110 A.D., wherein an attempt was made to prove that Alexander descended directly from the Egyptian god Jupiter Ammon or, at least, from his priest Nectanebus. Besides being told in innumerable Greek versions, the tale of Troy has frequently been repeated in Latin, and it enjoyed immense popularity all throughout Europe in the Middle Ages. It was, however, most beloved in France, where Benoit de St. Maur's interminable "Roman de Troie," as well as his "Roman d'Alexandre," greatly delighted the lords and ladies of his time. Besides the works based on the story of Troy or on the adventures of Alexander, we have in Greek the Theogony of Hesiod in some 1022 lines, a miniature Greek mythology, giving the story of the origin and the doings of the Greek gods, as well as the Greek theory in regard to the creation of the world. Among later Greek works we must also note the Shield of Heracles and the Eoiae or Catalogue of the Boetian heroines who gave birth to demi-gods or heroes. In 194 B.C. Apollonius Rhodius at Alexandria wrote the Argonautica, in four books, wherein he relates the adventures of Jason in quest of the golden fleece. This epic was received so coldly that the poet, in disgust, withdrew to Rhodes, where, having remodelled his work, he obtained immense applause. The principal burlesque epic in Greek, the Bactrachomyomachia, or Battle of Frogs and Mice, is attributed to Homer, but only some 300 lines of this work remain, showing what it may have been. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: A detailed account of Oedipus, Heracles, the Argonauts, and the "War of Troy" is given in the author's "Myths of Greece and Rome."] THE ILIAD _Introduction._ Jupiter, king of the gods, refrained from an alliance with Thetis, a sea divinity, because he was told her son would be greater than his father. To console her, however, he decreed that all the gods should attend her nuptials with Peleus, King of Thessaly. At this wedding banquet the Goddess of Discord produced a golden apple, inscribed "To the fairest," which Juno, Minerva, and Venus claimed. Because the gods refused to act as umpires in this quarrel, Paris, son of the King of Troy, was chosen. As an oracle had predicted before his birth that he would cause the ruin of his city, Paris was abandoned on a mountain to perish, but was rescued by kindly shepherds. On hearing Juno offer him worldly power, Minerva boundless wisdom, and Venus the most beautiful wife in the world, Paris bestowed the prize of beauty upon Venus. She, therefore, bade him return to Troy, where his family was ready to welcome him, and sail thence to Greece to kidnap Helen, daughter of Jupiter and Leda and wife of Menelaus, King of Sparta. So potent were this lady's charms that her step-father had made all her suitors swear never to carry her away from her husband, and to aid in her recovery should she ever be kidnapped. Shortly after his arrival at Sparta and during a brief absence of its king, Paris induced Helen to elope with him. On his return the outraged husband summoned the suitors to redeem their pledge, and collected a huge force at Aulis, where Agamemnon his brother became leader of the expedition. Such was the popularity of this war that even heroes who had taken no oath were anxious to make part of the punitive expedition, the most famous of these warriors being Achilles, son of Thetis and Peleus. After many adventures the Greeks, landing on the shores of Asia, began besieging the city, from whose ramparts Helen watched her husband and his allies measure their strength against the Trojans. Such was the bravery displayed on both sides that the war raged nine years without any decisive advantage being obtained. At the end of this period, during a raid, the Greeks secured two female captives, which were awarded to Agamemnon and to Achilles in recognition of past services. Although the above events are treated in sundry other Greek poems and epics,--which no longer exist entire, but form part of a cycle,--"The Iliad," accredited to Homer, takes up the story at this point, and relates the wrath of Achilles, together with the happenings of some fifty days in the ninth year. _Book I._ After invoking the Muse to aid him sing the wrath of Achilles, the poet relates how Apollo's priest came in person to the Greek camp to ransom his captive daughter, only to be treated with contumely by Agamemnon. In his indignation this priest besought Apollo to send down a plague to decimate the foe's forces, and the Greeks soon learned from their oracles that its ravages would not cease until the maiden was restored to her father. Nor will the god's awaken'd fury cease, But plagues shall spread, and funeral fires increase, Till the great king, without a ransom paid, To her own Chrysa send the black-eyed maid.[2] In a formal council Agamemnon is therefore asked to relinquish his captive, but violently declares that he will do so only in case he receives Achilles' slave. This insolent claim so infuriates the young hero that he is about to draw his sword, when Minerva, unseen by the rest, bids him hold his hand, and state that should Agamemnon's threat be carried out he will withdraw from the war. Although the aged Nestor employs all his honeyed eloquence to soothe this quarrel, both chiefs angrily withdraw, Agamemnon to send his captive back to her father, and Achilles to sulk in his tent. It is while he is thus engaged that Agamemnon's heralds appear and lead away his captive. Mindful of Minerva's injunctions, Achilles allows her to depart, but registers a solemn oath that, even were the Greeks to perish, he will lend them no aid. Then, strolling down to the shore, he summons his mother from the watery deep, and implores her to use her influence to avenge his wrongs. Knowing his life will prove short though glorious, Thetis promises to visit Jupiter on Olympus in his behalf. There she wins from the Father of the Gods a promise that the Greeks will suffer defeat as long as her son does not fight in their ranks,--a promise confirmed by his divine nod. This, however, arouses the wrath and jealousy of Juno, whom Jupiter is compelled to chide so severely that peace and harmony are restored in Olympus only when Vulcan, acting as cup-bearer, rouses the inextinguishable laughter of the gods by his awkward limp. _Book II._ That night, while all are sleeping, Zeus sends a deceptive dream to Agamemnon to suggest the moment has come to attack Troy. At dawn, therefore, Agamemnon calls an assembly, and the chiefs decide to test the mettle of the Greeks by ordering a return home, and, in the midst of these preparations, summoning the men to fight. These signs of imminent departure incense Juno and Minerva, who, ever since the golden apple was bestowed upon Venus, are sworn foes of Paris and Troy. In disguise, therefore, Minerva urges Ulysses, wiliest of the Greeks, to silence the clown Thersites, and admonish his companions that if they return home empty-handed they will be disgraced. Only too pleased, Ulysses reminds his countrymen how, just before they left home, a serpent crawled from beneath the altar and devoured eight young sparrows and the mother who tried to defend them, adding that this was an omen that for nine years they would vainly besiege Troy but would triumph in the tenth. His eloquent reminder, reinforced by patriotic speeches from Nestor and Agamemnon, determines the Greeks to attempt a final attack upon Troy. So, with the speed and destructive fury of a furious fire, the Greek army, whose forces and leaders are all named, sweeps on toward Troy, where Iris has flown to warn the Trojans of their approach. As on some mountain, through the lofty grove The crackling flames ascend and blaze above; The fires expanding, as the winds arise, Shoot their long beams and kindle half the skies: So from the polish'd arms and brazen shields A gleamy splendor flash'd along the fields. It is in the form of one of Priam's sons that this divinity enters the palace, where, as soon as Hector hears the news, he musters his warriors, most conspicuous among whom are his brother Paris, and Aeneas, son of Venus and Anchises. _Book III._ Both armies now advance toward each other, the Trojans uttering shrill cries like migratory cranes, while the Greeks maintain an impressive silence. When near enough to recognize his wife's seducer, Menelaus rushes forward to attack Paris, who, terrified, takes refuge in the ranks of the Trojan host. So cowardly a retreat, however, causes Hector to express the bitter wish that his brother had died before bringing disgrace upon Troy. Although conscious of deserving reproof, Paris, after reminding his brother all men are not constituted alike, offers to redeem his honor by fighting Menelaus, provided Helen and her treasures are awarded to the victor. This proposal proves so welcome, that Hector checks the advance of his men and proposes this duel to the Greeks, who accept his terms, provided Priam will swear in person to the treaty. Meanwhile Iris, in guise of a princess, has entered the Trojan palace and bidden Helen hasten to the ramparts to see the two armies--instead of fighting--offering sacrifices as a preliminary to the duel, of which she is to be the prize. Donning a veil and summoning her attendants, Helen seeks the place whence Priam and his ancient counsellors gaze down upon the plain. On beholding her, even these aged men admit the two nations are excusable for so savagely disputing her possession, while Priam, with fatherly tact, ascribes the war to the gods alone. These, when the Spartan queen approach'd the tower, In secret own'd resistless beauty's power: They cried, "No wonder such celestial charms For nine long years have set the world in arms; What winning grace! what majestic mien! She moves a goddess and she looks a queen!" Then he invites Helen to sit beside him and name the Greeks he points out, among whom she recognizes, with bitter shame, her brother-in-law Agamemnon, Ulysses the wily, and Ajax the bulwark of Greece. Then, while she is vainly seeking the forms of her twin brothers, messengers summon Priam down-to the plain to swear to the treaty, a task he has no sooner performed than he drives back to Troy, leaving Hector and Ulysses to measure out the duelling ground and to settle by lot which champion shall strike first. Fate having favored Paris, he advances in brilliant array, and soon contrives to shatter Menelaus' sword. Thus deprived of a weapon, Menelaus boldly grasps his adversary by his plumed helmet and drags him away, until, seeing her protégé in danger, Venus breaks the fastenings of his helmet, which alone remains in Menelaus' hands. Then she spirits Paris back to the Trojan palace, where she leaves him resting on a couch, and hurries off, in the guise of an old crone, to twitch Helen's veil, whispering that Paris awaits her at home. Recognizing the goddess in spite of her disguise, Helen reproaches her, declaring she has no desire ever to see Paris again, but Venus, awing Helen into submission, leads her back to the palace. There Paris, after artfully ascribing Menelaus' triumph to Minerva's aid, proceeds to woo Helen anew. Meantime Menelaus vainly ranges to and fro, seeking his foe and hotly accusing the Trojans of screening him, while Agamemnon clamors for the immediate surrender of Helen, saving the Greeks have won. _Book IV._ The gods on Mount Olympus, who have witnessed all, now taunt each other with abetting the Trojans or Greeks, as the case may be. After this quarrel has raged some time, Jupiter bids Minerva go down, and violate the truce; so, in the guise of a warrior, she prompts a Trojan archer to aim at Menelaus a dart which produces a nominal wound. This is enough, however, to excite Agamemnon to avenge the broken treaty. A moment later the Greek phalanx advances, urged on by Minerva, while the Trojans, equally inspired by Mars, rush to meet them with similar fury. Streams of blood now flow, the earth trembles beneath the crash of falling warriors, and the roll of war chariots is like thunder. Although it seems for a while as if the Greeks are gaining the advantage, Apollo spurs the Trojans to new efforts by reminding them that Achilles, their most dreaded foe, is absent. _Book V._ Seeing the battle well under way, Minerva now drags Mars out of the fray, suggesting that mortals settle their quarrel unaided. Countless duels now occur, many lives are lost, and sundry miracles are performed. Diomedes, for instance, being instantly healed of a grievous wound by Minerva, plunges back into the fray and fights until Aeneas bids an archer check his destructive career. But this man is slain before he can obey, and Aeneas himself would have been killed by Diomedes had not Venus snatched him away from the battle-field. While she does this, Diomedes wounds her in the hand, causing her to drop her son, whom Apollo rescues, while she hastens off to obtain from Mars the loan of his chariot, wherein to drive back to Olympus. There, on her mother's breast, Venus sobs out the tale of her fright, and, when healed, is sarcastically advised to leave fighting to the other gods and busy herself only with the pleasures of love. The sire of gods and men superior smiled, And, calling Venus, thus address'd his child: "Not these, O daughter, are thy proper cares, Thee milder arts befit, and softer wars; Sweet smiles are thine, and kind endearing charms; To Mars and Pallas leave the deeds of arms." Having snatched Aeneas out of danger, Apollo conveys him to Pergamus to be healed, leaving on the battle-field in his stead a phantom to represent him. Then Apollo challenges Mars to avenge Venus' wound, and the fray which ensues becomes so bloody that "Homeric battle" has been ever since the accepted term for fierce fighting. It is because Mars and Bellona protect Hector that the Trojans now gain some advantage, seeing which, Juno and Minerva hasten to the rescue of the Greeks. Arriving on the battle-field, Juno, assuming the form of Stentor (whose brazen tones have become proverbial), directs the Greek onslaught. Meanwhile, instigated by Minerva, Diomedes attacks Mars, who, receiving a wound, emits such a roar of pain that both armies shudder. Then he too is miraculously conveyed to Olympus, where, after exhibiting his wound, he denounces Minerva who caused it. But, although Jupiter sternly rebukes his son, he takes such prompt measures to relieve his suffering, that Mars is soon seated at the Olympian board, where before long he is joined by Juno and Minerva. _Book VI._ Meanwhile the battle rages, and in the midst of broken chariots, flying steeds, and clouds of dust, we descry Menelaus and Agamemnon doing wonders and hear Nestor cheering on the Greeks. The Trojans are about to yield before their onslaught, when a warrior warns Hector, and the just returned Aeneas, of their dire peril. After conferring hastily with his friends, Hector returns to Troy to direct the women to implore Minerva's favor, while Aeneas goes to support their men. At the Scaean Gate, Hector meets the mothers, wives, and daughters of the combatants, who, at his suggestion, gladly prepare costly offerings to be borne to Minerva's temple in solemn procession. Then Hector himself rushes to the palace, where, refusing all refreshment, he goes in quest of Paris, whom he finds in the company of Helen and her maids, idly polishing his armor. Indignantly Hector informs his brother the Trojans are perishing without the walls in defence of the quarrel he kindled, but which he is too cowardly to uphold! Although admitting he deserves reproaches, Paris declares he is about to return to the battle-field, for Helen has just rekindled all his ardor. Seeing Hector does not answer, Helen timidly expresses her regret at having caused these woes, bitterly wishing fate had bound her to a man noble enough to feel and resent an insult. With a curt recommendation to send Paris after him as soon as possible, Hector hastens off to his own dwelling, for he longs to embrace his wife and son, perhaps for the last time. There he finds none but the servants at home, who inform him that his wife has gone to the watch-tower, whither he now hastens. The meeting between Hector and Andromache, her tender reproaches at the risks he runs, and her passionate reminder that since Achilles deprived her of her kin he is her sole protector, form the most touching passage in the Iliad. Gently reminding her he must go where honor calls, and sadly admitting he is haunted by visions of fallen Troy and of her plight as a captive, Hector adds that to protect her from such a fate he must fight. But when he holds out his arms to his child, the little one, terrified by the plumes on his helmet, refuses to come to him until he lays it aside. Having embraced his infant son, Hector fervently prays he may grow up to defend the Trojans, ere he hands him back to Andromache, from whom he also takes tender leave. Thus having spoke, the illustrious chief of Troy Stretch'd his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, Seared at the dazzling helm and nodding crest. With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled And Hector hasted to relieve his child, The glittering terrors from his brows unbound, And placed the beaming helmet on the ground; Then kiss'd the child, and, lifting high in air, Thus to the gods preferr'd a father's prayer: "O thou! whose glory fills the ethereal throne, And all ye deathless powers! protect my son! Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown, Against his country's foes the war to wage, And rise the Hector of the future age! So when triumphant from successful toils Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils, Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim, And say, 'This chief transcends his father's fame:' While pleased amidst the general shouts of Troy, His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy." Then, resuming his helmet, Hector drives out of the Scaean Gate and is joined by his brother Paris, now full of ambition to fight. _Book VII._ Joyfully the Trojans hail the arrival of both brothers, before whose fierce onslaught the Greeks soon fall back in their turn. Meanwhile Minerva and Apollo, siding with opposite forces, decide to inspire the Trojans to challenge the Greeks to a single fight, and, after doing this, perch upon a tree, in the guise of vultures, to watch the result. Calling for a suspension of hostilities, Hector dares any Greek to fight him, stipulating that the arms of the vanquished shall be the victor's prize, but that his remains shall receive honorable burial. Conscious that none of their warriors--save Achilles--match Hector, the Greeks at first hesitate, but, among the nine who finally volunteer, Ajax is chosen by lot to be the Greek champion. Overjoyed at this opportunity to distinguish himself, Ajax advances with boastful confidence to meet Hector, who, undismayed by his size and truculent speeches, enters into the fight. The duel is, however, not fought to a finish, for the heralds interrupt it at nightfall, pronouncing the champions equal in strength and skill and postponing its issue until the morrow. In his elation Ajax offers thanks to Jupiter before attending a banquet, where Nestor prudently advises his friends to fortify their camp by erecting earthworks. While the Greeks are feasting, the Trojans debate whether it would not be wise to apologize for the broken truce and restore Helen and her treasures to the Greeks. But this suggestion is so angrily rejected by Paris that Priam suggests they propose instead an armistice of sufficient length to enable both parties to bury their dead. At dawn, therefore, Trojan heralds visit Agamemnon's tent to propose a truce, and offer any indemnification save Helen's return. But, although the Greeks consent to an armistice, they feel so confident of success that they refuse all offers of indemnity. Both parties now bury their dead, a sight witnessed by the gods, who, gazing down from Olympus, become aware of the earthen ramparts .erected during the night to protect the Greek fleet. This sight prompts Neptune to express jealous fears lest these may eclipse the walls he built around Troy, but Jupiter pacifies him by assuring him he can easily bury them beneath the sand as soon as the war is over. _Book VIII._ At daybreak Jupiter summons the gods, forbidding them to lend aid to either party, under penalty of perpetual imprisonment in Tartarus. Having decreed this, Jupiter betakes himself to Mount Ida, whence he proposes to watch all that is going on. It is there, at noon, that he takes out his golden balances, and places in opposite scales the fates of Troy and Greece. A moment later a loud clap of thunder proclaims the day's advantage will remain with the Trojans, whose leader, Hector, is protected by Jupiter's thunder-bolts each time that Diomedes attacks him. This manifestation of divine favor strikes terror in the hearts of the Greeks, but encourages the Trojans. They, therefore, hotly pursue the Greeks to their ramparts, which Hector urges them to scale when the foe seeks refuge behind them. Seeing the peril of the Greeks, Juno urges Agamemnon to visit Ulysses' tent, and there proclaim, in such loud tones that Achilles cannot fail to overhear him, that their vessels will soon be in flames. Then, fearing for his companions, Agamemnon prays so fervently for aid that an eagle flies over the camp and drops a lamb upon the Greek altar. This omen of good fortune renews the courage of the Greeks, and stimulates the archer Teucer to cause new havoc in the Trojan ranks with his unfailing arrows, until Hector hurls a rock, which lays him low, and rushes into the Greek camp. Full of anxiety for their protégés, Juno and Minerva forget Jupiter's injunctions, and are about to hurry off to their rescue, when the king of the gods bids them stop, assuring them the Greeks will suffer defeat, until, Patroclus having fallen, Achilles arises to avenge him. When the setting sun signals the close of the day's fight, although the Greeks are still in possession of their tents, the Trojans bivouac in the plain, just outside the trench, to prevent their escape. _Book IX._ Such anxiety reigns in the Greek camp that Agamemnon holds a council in his tent. There, almost choked by tears, he declares no alternative remains save flight, but Diomedes so hotly contradicts him that the Greeks decide to remain. At Nestor's suggestion, Agamemnon then tries to atone for his insult to Achilles by gifts and apologies, instructing the bearers to promise the return of the captive and to offer an alliance with one of his daughters, if Achilles will only come to their aid. Wending their way through the moonlit camp, these emissaries find Achilles idly listening to Patroclus' music. After delivering the message, Ulysses makes an eloquent appeal in behalf of his countrymen, but Achilles coldly rejoins the Greeks will have to defend themselves as he is about to depart. Such is his resentment that he refuses to forgive Agamemnon, although his aged tutor urges him to be brave enough to conquer himself. Most reluctantly therefore Ulysses and Ajax return, and, although sleep hovers over Achilles' tent, dismay reigns within that of Agamemnon, until Diomedes vows they will yet prove they do not need Achilles' aid. _Book X._ Exhausted by the day's efforts, most of the Greeks have fallen asleep, when Agamemnon, after conversing for a while with Menelaus, arouses Nestor, Ulysses, and Diomedes to inspect their posts. It is in the course of these rounds that Nestor suggests one of their number steal into the Trojan camp to discover their plans. This suggestion is eagerly seized by Diomedes and Ulysses, who, on their way to the enemy's camp, encounter Dolon, a Trojan spy, who is coming to find out what they are planning. Crouching among the corpses, Diomedes and Ulysses capture this man, from whom they wring all the information they require, together with exact directions to find the steeds of Rhesus. To secure this prize, Ulysses and Diomedes steal into the Trojan camp, where, after slaying a few sleepers, they capture the steeds and escape in safety, thanks to Minerva's aid. On seeing his friends emerge from the gloom with so glorious a prize, Nestor, who has been anxiously watching, expresses great joy, and invites his companions to refresh themselves after their exertions. Old Nestor first perceived the approaching sound, Bespeaking thus the Grecian peers around: "Methinks the noise of trampling steeds I hear, Thickening this way, and gathering on my ear; Perhaps some horses of the Trojan breed (So may, ye gods! my pious hopes succeed) The great Tydides and Ulysses bear, Return'd triumphant with this prize of war." _Book XI._ At daybreak Jupiter sends Discord to waken the Greeks and, when they appear in battle array, hurls a thunder-bolt as a signal for the fight to begin. Stimulated by Hector's ardor, the Trojans now pounce like ravening wolves upon their foes, but, in spite of their courage, are driven back almost to the Scean Gate. To encourage Hector, however, Jupiter warns him, that once Agamemnon is wounded the tide will turn. Soon after, a javelin strikes Agamemnon, and Hector, seeing him borne to his tent, urges his men on with new vehemence until he forces back the Greeks in his turn. In the ensuing medley both Diomedes and Ulysses are wounded, and Achilles, moodily lounging on the prow of his ship, sees Nestor bring them into camp. Wishing to ascertain who has been hurt, he sends Patroclus to find out. Thus this warrior learns how many of the Greeks are wounded, and is persuaded to try to induce Achilles to assist their countrymen, or at least to allow his friend to lead his forces to their rescue. _Book XII._ Although the Trojans are now fiercely trying to enter the Greek camp, their efforts are baffled until Hector, dismounting from his chariot, attacks the mighty wall which the gods are to level as soon as the war is over. Thanks to his efforts, its gates are battered in, and the Trojans pour into the Greek camp, where many duels occur, and where countless warriors are slain on both sides. _Book XIII._ Having effected an entrance into the camp, the Trojans rush forward to set fire to the ships, hoping thus to prevent the escape of their foes. Perceiving the peril of the Greeks, Neptune, in the guise of a priest, urges them to stand fast. Then with his sceptre, that the deep controls, He touched the chiefs and steel'd their manly souls: Strength, not their own, the touch divine imparts, Prompts their light limbs, and swells their daring hearts. Then, as a falcon from the rocky height, Her quarry seen, impetuous at the sight, Forth-springing instant, darts herself from high, Shoots on the wing, and skims along the sky: Such, and so swift, the power of ocean flew; The wide horizon shut him from their view. But the advantage does not remain continuously with the Trojans, for Hector is soon beaten back, and, seeing his people's peril, again hotly reviles Paris, whose crime has entailed all this bloodshed. _Book XIV._ In the midst of the gloom caused by a new irruption of the Trojans in the Greek camp, Nestor hastens to the spot where the wounded Agamemnon, Ulysses, and Diomedes are watching the fight. But, although Agamemnon renews his former suggestion that they depart, Diomedes and Ulysses, scorning it, prepare to return to the fray, in spite of their wounds. This renewal of Greek courage pleases Juno, who, fearing Jupiter will again interfere in behalf of the Trojans, proceeds by coquettish wiles and with the aid of the God of Sleep to lull him into a state of forgetfulness. This feat accomplished, Juno sends Sleep to urge the Greeks to make the most of this respite, and, thus stimulated, they fight on, until Ajax hurls a rock which lays Hector low. But, before he and his companions can secure this victim, Hector is rescued by his men, who speedily convey him to the river, where plentiful bathing soon restores his senses. _Book XV._ Thus temporarily deprived of a leader, the Trojans fall back to the place where they left their chariots. They are just mounting in confusion, in order to flee, when Jupiter, rousing from his nap, and realizing how he has been tricked, discharges his wrath upon Juno's head. Hearing her attribute the blame to Neptune, Jupiter wrathfully orders his brother back to his realm and despatches Apollo to cure Hector. Then he reiterates that the Greeks shall be worsted until Patroclus, wearing Achilles' armor, takes part in the fray. He adds that, after slaying his son Sarpedon, this hero will succumb beneath Hector's sword, and that, to avenge Patroclus' death, Achilles will slay Hector and thus insure the fall of Troy. Once more the Trojans drive back the Greeks, who would have given up in despair had not Jupiter encouraged them by a clap of thunder. Hearing the Trojans again burst into camp, Patroclus rushes out of Achilles' tent and sees Teucer winging one deadly arrow after another among the foe. But, in spite of his skill, and although Ajax fights like a lion at bay, Hector and the Trojans press fiercely forward, torch in hand, to fire the Greek ships. _Book XVI._ Appalled by this sight, Patroclus rushes back to Achilles, and, after vainly urging him to fight, persuades him to lend him his armor, chariot, and men. But, even while furthering his friend's departure, Achilles charges him neither to slay Hector nor take Troy, as he wishes to reserve that double honor for himself. It is just as the first vessels are enveloped in flames that Patroclus rushes to the rescue of his countrymen. At the sight of a warrior whom they mistake for Achilles, and at this influx of fresh troops, the Trojans beat a retreat, and the Greeks, fired with new courage, pursue them across the plain and to the very gates of Troy. Such is Patroclus' ardor that, forgetting Achilles' injunctions, he is about to attack Hector, when Sarpedon challenges him to a duel. Knowing this fight will prove fatal to his beloved son, Jupiter causes a bloody dew to fall upon earth, and despatches Sleep and Death to take charge of his remains, which they are to convey first to Olympus to receive a fatherly kiss and then to Lycia for burial. No sooner is Sarpedon slain than a grim fight ensues over his spoil and remains, but while the Greeks secure his armor, his corpse is borne away by Apollo, who, after purifying it from all battle soil, entrusts it to Sleep and Death. Meantime, renewing his pursuit of the Trojans, Patroclus is about to scale the walls of Troy, when Apollo reminds him the city is not to fall a prey either to him or to his friend. Then, in the midst of a duel in which Patroclus engages with Hector, Apollo snatches the helmet off the Greek hero's head, leaving him thus exposed to his foe's deadly blows. The dying Patroclus, therefore, declares that had not the gods betrayed him he would have triumphed, and predicts that Achilles will avenge his death. Meantime, pleased with having slain so redoubtable a foe, Hector makes a dash to secure Achilles' chariot and horses, but fails because the driver (Automedon) speeds away. _Book XVII._ On seeing Patroclus fall, Menelaus rushes forward to defend his remains and rescue Achilles' armor from the foe. Warned of this move, Hector abandons the vain pursuit of Achilles' chariot, and returns to claim his spoil. He has barely secured it when Menelaus and Ajax attack him, and a mad battle takes place over Patroclus' remains, while Achilles' horses weep for the beloved youth who so often caressed them. _Book XVIII._ No sooner is the death of Patroclus known in Achilles' tent than the female captives wail, while the hero groans so loudly that Thetis hears him. Rising from the depths of the sea, she hurries to his side, regretting his brief life should be marred by so much sorrow. Then, hearing him swear to avenge his friend, she entreats him to wait until the morrow, so she can procure him armor from Vulcan. Having obtained this promise, she hastens off to visit the god and bespeak his aid in behalf of her son. Meanwhile the Greeks, who are trying to bear away Patroclus' remains, are so hard pressed by the Trojans that Juno sends word Achilles must interfere. Hampered by a lack of armor and by the promise to his mother, the hero ventures only as far as the trench, where, however, he utters so threatening a war-cry that the Trojans flee, and the Greeks are thus able to bring Patroclus' body safely into camp, just as the sun sets and the day's fighting ends. Having unharnessed their steeds, the Trojans assemble to consider whether it will not be best to retreat within their walls, for they know Achilles will appear on the morrow to avenge Patroclus. But Hector so vehemently insists that they maintain the advantage gained, that they camp on the plain, where Jupiter predicts his wife's wish will be granted and her favorite Achilles win great glory. It is in the course of that night that Thetis visits Vulcan's forge and in the attitude of a suppliant implores the divine blacksmith to make an armor for her son. Not only does Vulcan consent, but hurries off to his anvil, where he and Cyclops labor to such good purpose that a superb suit of armor is ready by dawn. _Book XIX._ Aurora has barely risen from the bosom of the sea, when Thetis enters her son's tent, bearing these wonderful weapons. Finding him still weeping over his friend's remains, Thetis urges him to rouse himself and fight. At the sight of the armor she brings, Achilles' ardor is so kindled that he proclaims he will avenge his friend. Pleased to think the Greeks will have the help of this champion, Agamemnon humbly apologizes for the past, proffering gifts and a feast, which latter Achilles refuses to attend as long as Patroclus is unavenged. Before entering into battle, however, our hero implores his divine steeds to do their best, only to be warned by one of them that, although they will save him to-day, the time is fast coming when he too will fall victim to the anger of the gods. Undaunted by this prophecy, Achilles jumps into his chariot and sets out for the fray, uttering his blood-curdling war-cry. With unabated rage--"So let it be! Portents and prodigies are lost on me. I know my fate: to die, to see no more My much-loved parents and my native shore-- Enough--when heaven ordains, I sink in night: Now perish Troy!" He said, and rush'd to fight. _Book XX._ The gods, assembled on Mount Olympus, are told by Jupiter that, whereas he intends merely to witness the fight, they may all take part in it, provided they remember Achilles is to reap the main honors of the day. Hearing this, the gods dart off to side with Troy and Greece, as their inclinations prompt, and thus take an active part in the battle, for which Jupiter gives the signal by launching a thunder-bolt. Not only do the gods fight against each other on this day, but use all their efforts to second their favorites in every way. Before long, however, it becomes so evident they are merely delaying the inevitable issue, that they agree to withdraw from the field, leaving mortals to settle the matter themselves. There are vivid descriptions of sundry encounters, including one between Achilles and Aeneas, wherein both heroes indulge in boastful speeches before coming to blows. At one time, when Aeneas is about to get the worst of it, the gods, knowing he is reserved for greater things, snatch him from the battle-field and convey him to a place of safety. Thus miraculously deprived of his antagonist, Achilles resumes his quest for Hector, who has hitherto been avoiding him, but who, seeing one of his brothers fall beneath the Greek's blows, meets him bravely. But, as the moment of Hector's death has not yet come, the gods separate these two fighters, although their hatred is such that, whenever they catch a glimpse of each other, they rush forward to renew the fight. _Book XXI._ Fleeing before the Greeks, the Trojans reach the Xanthus River, into which Achilles plunges after them, and where, after killing hosts of victims, he secures a dozen prisoners to sacrifice on his friend's tomb. Hearing Achilles refuse mercy to a young Trojan, and enraged because he has choked his bed with corpses, the River God suddenly rises to chide him, but Achilles is now in so defiant a mood that he is ready to fight even the gods themselves. In spite of his courage he would, however, have been drowned, had not Neptune and Minerva come to his rescue, fighting the waters with fire, and assuring him Hector will soon lie lifeless at his feet. He ceased; wide conflagration blazing round; The bubbled waters yield a hissing sound. As when the flames beneath a cauldron rise, To melt the fat of some rich sacrifice, Amid the fierce embrace of circling fires The waters foam, the heavy smoke aspires: So boils the imprison'd flood, forbid to flow, And choked with vapors feels his bottom glow. The course of this day's fighting is anxiously watched by old King Priam from the top of the Trojan ramparts, and, when he sees Achilles' forces pursuing his fleeing army across the plain, he orders the gates opened to admit the fugitives, and quickly closed again so the foe cannot enter too. To facilitate this move, Apollo assumes the guise of Hector and decoys Achilles away from the gates until the bulk of the Trojan army is safe. _Book XXII._ Meantime the real Hector is stationed beside the gate, and Achilles, suddenly perceiving he has been pursuing a mere phantom, darts with a cry of wrath toward his foe. Seeing him coming, Hector's parents implore him to seek refuge within the walls, but the young man is too brave to accept such a proposal. Still, when he sees the fire in Achilles' eyes, he cannot resist an involuntary recoil, and turning, flees, with Achilles in close pursuit, hurling taunts at him. These warriors circle the citadel, until the gods, looking on, knowing they can no longer defer Hector's death, but wishing it to be glorious, send Apollo down to urge him to fight. In the guise of one of Hector's brothers, this god offers to aid him, so, thus supported, Hector turns to meet Achilles, with whom before fighting he tries to bargain that the victor shall respect the remains of the vanquished. But Achilles refuses to listen to terms, and in the course of the ensuing duel is ably seconded by Minerva, while Hector, who depends upon his supposed brother to supply him with weapons when his fail, is basely deserted by Apollo. Seeing him disarmed, Achilles finally deals him a deadly blow, and, although the dying hero tries to abate his resentment, loudly proclaims he shall be a prey to vultures and wolves. Hearing this, Hector curses his conqueror and dies, predicting Achilles shall be slain by Paris. His victim having breathed his last, Achilles ties him by the heels to his chariot, and then drives off with Hector's noble head trailing in the dust! Meantime Andromache, busy preparing for her husband's return, is so startled by loud cries that she rushes off to the ramparts to find out what has occurred. Arriving there just in time to see her husband dragged away, she faints at the pitiful sight, and, on coming back to her senses, bewails her sad fate, foresees an unhappy fate for her infant son, and regrets not being able to bury her beloved husband. _Book XXIII._ On reaching his tent with his victim, Achilles drags it around Patroclus' remains, apostrophizing him and assuring him that twelve Trojans shall be executed on his pyre, while his slayer's body shall be a prey to the dogs. Then, having cast Hector's corpse on the refuse heap, Achilles assembles the Greeks in his tent for a funeral repast, after which they retire, leaving him to mourn. That night he is visited by Patroclus' spirit, which warns him he will soon have to die, and bespeaks funeral rites. This vision convinces Achilles that the human soul does not perish with the body, and impels him to rouse his companions at dawn to erect a huge pyre on the shore, where innumerable victims are to be sacrificed to satisfy his friend's spirit. Then he renews his promise that Hector's body shall be a prey to the dogs, little suspecting that Venus has mounted guard over it, so that no harm may befall it. In describing the building and lighting of the pyre, the poet relates how the flames were fanned by opposite winds, depicts the sacrifices offered, the funeral games celebrated, and explains how the ashes were finally placed in an urn, where those of Achilles were in time to mingle with those of his friend. _Book XXIV._ Although most of the Greek warriors are resting after the strenuous pleasures of the day, Achilles weeps in his tent until daybreak, when he harnesses his horses to his chariot and again drags Hector's body around Patroclus' tomb, little suspecting how Venus and Apollo guard it from all harm. It is only on the twelfth day after Patroclus' death, that the gods interfere in behalf of the Trojans, by sending Iris to Priam to guide him to Achilles' tent, where they assure him his prayers will obtain his son's body. The rainbow goddess not only serves as guide to the mourning father, but brings him unseen into Achilles' tent, where, falling at the hero's feet, the aged Priam sues in such touching terms that the Greek warrior's heart melts and tears stream down his cheeks. Not only does he grant Priam's request, but assures him he is far happier than Peleus, since he still has several sons to cheer him although Hector has been slain. These words soft pity in the chief inspire, Touch'd with the dear remembrance of his sire. Then with his hand (as prostrate still he lay) The old man's cheek he gently turn'd away. Now each by turns indulged the gush of woe; And now the mingled tides together flow: This low on earth, that gently bending o'er; A father one, and one a son deplore: But great Achilles different passions rend, And now his sire he mourns, and now his friend. The infectious softness through the heroes ran One universal solemn shower began; They bore as heroes, but they felt as man. Still guided by Iris, Priam conveys the body of his son back to Troy, where his mother, wife, and the other Trojan women utter a touching lament. Then a funeral pyre is built, and the Iliad of Homer closes with brave Hector's obsequies. All Troy then moves to Priam's court again, A solemn, silent, melancholy train: Assembled there, from pious toil they rest, And sadly shared the last sepulchral feast. Such honors Ilion to her hero paid, And peaceful slept the mighty Hector's shade. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 2: All the quotations from the Iliad are taken from Pope's translation.] THE ODYSSEY _Book I._ Homer's second great epic covers a period of forty-two days. After the opening invocation he proceeds to relate the adventures of Ulysses. Nearly ten years have elapsed since the taking of Troy, when the gods looking down from Olympus behold him--sole survivor of his troop--stranded on the Island of Calypso. After some mention of the fate of the other Greeks, Jupiter decrees that Ulysses shall return to Ithaca, where many suitors are besieging his wife Penelope. In obedience with this decree, Pallas (Minerva) dons golden sandals--which permit her to flit with equal ease over land and sea--and visits Ithaca, where Ulysses' son, Telemachus, mournfully views the squandering of his father's wealth. Here she is hospitably received, and, after some conversation, urges Telemachus to visit the courts of Nestor and Menelaus to inquire of these kings whether his father is dead. Telemachus has just promised to carry out this suggestion, when the suitors' bard begins the recital of the woes which have befallen the various Greek chiefs on their return from Troy. These sad strains attract Penelope, who passionately beseeches the bard not to enhance her sorrows by his songs! Assuming a tone of authority for the first time, Telemachus bids his mother retire and pray, then, addressing the suitors, vows that unless they depart he will call down upon them the vengeance of the gods. These words are resented by these men, who continue their revelry until the night, when Telemachus retires, to dream of his projected journey. _Book II._ With dawn, Telemachus rises and betakes himself to the market-place, where in public council he complains of the suitors' depredations, and announces he is about to depart in quest of his sire. In reply to his denunciations the suitors accuse Penelope of deluding them, instancing how she promised to choose a husband as soon as she had finished weaving a winding sheet for her father-in-law Laertes. But, instead of completing this task as soon as possible, she ravelled by night the work done during the day, until the suitors discovered the trick. "The work she plied; but, studious of delay, By night reversed the labors of the day. While thrice the sun his annual journey made, The conscious lamp the midnight fraud survey'd; Unheard, unseen, three years her arts prevail: The fourth, her maid unfolds the amazing tale. We saw as unperceived we took our stand, The backward labors of her faithless hand"[3] They now suggest that Telemachus send Penelope back to her father, but the youth indignantly refuses, and the council closes while he prays for vengeance. That he has not been unheard is proved by the appearance of two eagles, which peck out the eyes of some of the spectators. This is interpreted by an old man as an omen of Ulysses' speedy return, and he admonishes all present to prove faithful, lest they incur a master's wrath. The assembly having dispersed, Telemachus hastens down to the shore, where Minerva visits him in the guise of his tutor Mentor, and instructs him to arrange for secret departure. Telemachus, therefore, returns to the palace, where the suitors are preparing a new feast. Refusing to join their revels, he seeks his old nurse Eurycleia, to whom he entrusts the provisioning of his vessel, bidding her if possible conceal his departure from Penelope for twelve days. Meantime, in the guise of Telemachus, Minerva scours the town to secure skilful oarsmen, and at sunset has a vessel ready to sail. Then, returning to the palace, she enchains the senses of the suitors in such deep slumber that Telemachus effects his, departure unseen, and embarking with Mentor sets sail, his vessel speeding smoothly over the waves all night. _Book III._ At sunrise Telemachus reaches Pylos and finds Nestor and his friends offering a sacrifice on the shore. Joining the feasters,--who gather by fifties around tables groaning beneath the weight of nine oxen apiece,--Telemachus makes known his name and errand. In return, Nestor mentions the deaths of Patroclus and Achilles, the taking of Troy, and the Greeks' departure from its shores. He adds that, the gods having decreed they should not reach home without sore trials, half the army lingered behind with Agamemnon to offer propitiatory sacrifices, while the rest sailed on. Among these were Nestor and Ulysses, but, while the former pressed on and reached home, the latter, turning back to pacify the gods, was seen no more! Since his return, Nestor has been saddened by the death of Agamemnon, slain on his arrival at Mycenae by his faithless wife Clytemnestra and her lover Aegistheus. His brother, Menelaus, more fortunate, has recently reached home, having been long delayed in Egypt by contrary winds. While Nestor recounts these tales, day declines, so he invites Telemachus to his palace for the night, promising to send him on the morrow to Sparta, where he can question Menelaus himself. Although Mentor urges Telemachus to accept this invitation, he declares he must return to the ship, and vanishes in the shape of a bird, thus revealing to all present his divine origin. A sumptuous meal in the palace ensues, and the guest, after a good night, participates at break of day in a solemn sacrifice. _Book IV._ Riding in a chariot skilfully guided by one of Nestor's sons, Telemachus next speeds on to Sparta, where he finds Menelaus celebrating the marriages of a daughter and son. On learning that strangers have arrived, Menelaus orders every attention shown them, and only after they have been refreshed by food and drink, inquires their errand. He states that he himself reached home only after wandering seven years, and adds that he often yearns to know what has become of Ulysses. At this name Telemachus' tears flow, and Helen, who has just appeared, is struck by his resemblance to his father. When Telemachus admits his identity, Menelaus and Helen mingle their tears with his, for the memory of the past overwhelms them with sorrow. Then to restore a more cheerful atmosphere, Helen casts "nepenthe" into the wine, thanks to which beneficent drug all soon forget their woes. She next relates how Ulysses once entered Troy in the guise of a beggar, and how she alone recognized him in spite of his disguise. This reminds Menelaus of the time when Ulysses restrained him and the other Greeks in the wooden horse, and when Helen marched around it mimicking the voices of their wives! Soothed by "nepenthe," all retire to rest, and when morning dawns Telemachus inquires whether Menelaus knows aught of his father. All the information Menelaus vouchsafes is that when he surprised Proteus, counting sea-calves on the island of Pharos, he was told he would reach home only after making due sacrifices in Egypt to appease the gods, that his brother had been murdered on arriving at Mycenae, and that Ulysses--sole survivor of his crew--was detained by Calypso in an island, whence he had no means of escape. The sea-god had further promised that Menelaus should never die, stating that, as husband of Helen and son-in-law of Jupiter, he would enjoy everlasting bliss in the Elysian Fields. Then, after describing the sacrifices which insured his return to Sparta, Menelaus invites Telemachus to tarry with him, although the youth insists he must return home. Meantime the suitors in Ulysses' palace entertain themselves with games, in the midst of which they learn that Telemachus has gone. Realizing that if he were dead Penelope's fortunate suitor would become possessor of all Ulysses' wealth, they decide to man a vessel to guard the port and slay Telemachus on his return. This plot is overheard by a servant, who hastens to report it to Penelope. On learning her son has ventured out to sea, she wrings her hands, and reviles the nurse who abetted his departure until this wise woman advises her rather to pray for her son's safe return! While Penelope is offering propitiatory sacrifices, the suitors despatch a vessel in Antinous' charge to lie in wait for the youth. But, during the sleep which overcomes Penelope after her prayers, she is favored by a vision, in which her sister assures her Telemachus will soon be restored to her arms, although she refuses to give her any information in regard to Ulysses. _Book V._ Aurora has barely announced the return of day to gods and men, when Jupiter assembles his council on Mount Olympus. There Minerva rehearses Ulysses' grievances, demanding that he be at last allowed to return home and his son saved from the suitors' ambush. In reply Jupiter sends Mercury to bid Calypso provide her unwilling guest with the means to leave her shores. Donning his golden sandals, the messenger-god flits to the Island of Ogygia, enters Calypso's wonderful cave, and delivers his message. Although reluctant to let Ulysses depart, Calypso--not daring oppose the will of Jupiter--goes in quest of her guest. Finding him gazing tearfully in the direction of home, she promises to supply him with the means to build a raft which, thanks to the gods, will enable him to reach Ithaca. After a copious repast and a night's rest, Ulysses fells twenty trees and constructs a raft, in which, after it has been provisioned by Calypso, he sets sail. For seventeen days the stars serve as his guides, and he is nearing the island of Phaeacia, when Neptune becomes aware that his hated foe is about to escape. One stroke of the sea-god's mighty trident then stirs up a tempest which dashes the raft to pieces, and Ulysses is in imminent danger of perishing, when the sea-nymph Leucothea gives him her life-preserving scarf, bidding him cast it back into the waves when it has borne him safely to land! Buoyed up by this scarf, Ulysses finally reaches the shore, where, after obeying the nymph's injunctions, he buries himself in dead leaves and sinks into an exhausted sleep. Close to the cliff with both his hands he clung, And stuck adherent, and suspended hung; Till the huge surge roll'd off; then backward sweep The refluent tides, and plunge him in the deep. And when the polypus, from forth his cave Torn with full force, reluctant beats the wave, His ragged claws are stuck with stones and sands; So the rough rock had shagg'd Ulysses' hands. And now had perish'd, whelm'd beneath the main, The unhappy man; e'en fate had been in vain; But all-subduing Pallas lent her power, And prudence saved him in the needful hour. _Book VI._ While Ulysses is thus sleeping, Minerva, in a dream admonishes Nausicaa, daughter of the Phaeacian king, to wash her garments in readiness for her wedding. On awakening, the princess, after bespeaking a chariot with mules to draw the clothes to the washing place, departs with her maids for the shore. The clothes washed and hung out to dry, the princess and her attendants play ball, until their loud shrieks awaken Ulysses. Veiling his nakedness behind leafy branches, he timidly approaches the maidens, and addresses them from afar. Convinced he is, as he represents, a shipwrecked man in need of aid, the princess provides him with garments, and directs him to follow her chariot to the confines of the city. There he is to wait until she has reached home before presenting himself before her parents, as she does not wish his presence with her to cause gossip in town. _Book VII._ Having left Ulysses behind her, Nausicaa returns home, where her chariot is unloaded; but shortly after she has retired, Ulysses, guided by Minerva in disguise, enters the town and palace unseen. It is only when, obeying Nausicaa's instructions, he seeks her mother's presence and beseeches her aid, that he becomes visible to all. King and queen gladly promise their protection to the suppliant, who, while partaking of food, describes himself as a shipwrecked mariner and asks to be sent home. After he has refreshed himself, the queen, who has recognized the clothes he wears, learning how he obtained them, delights in her daughter's charity and prudence. Then she and her husband promise the wanderer their protection before retiring to rest. _Book VIII._ At daybreak the king conducts his guest to the public square, where Minerva has summoned all the inhabitants. To this assembly Alcinous makes known that a nameless stranger bespeaks their aid, and proposes that after a banquet, where blind Demodocus will entertain them with his songs, they load the suppliant with gifts and send him home. The projected festive meal is well under way when the bard begins singing of a quarrel between Ulysses and Achilles, strains which so vividly recall happier days that Ulysses, drawing his cloak over his head, gives way to tears. Noting this emotion, Alcinous checks the bard and proposes games. After displaying their skill in racing, wrestling, discus-throwing, etc., the contestants mockingly challenge Ulysses to give an exhibition of his proficiency in games of strength and skill. Stung by their covert taunts, the stranger casts the discus far beyond their best mark, and avers that although out of practice he is not afraid to match them in feats of strength, admitting, however, that he cannot compete with them in fleetness of foot or in the dance. His prowess in one line and frank confession of inferiority in another disarm further criticism, and the young men dance until the bard begins singing of Vulcan's stratagem to punish a faithless spouse.[4] All the Phaeacians now present gifts to the stranger, who finds himself rich indeed, but who assures Nausicaa he will never forget she was the first to lend him aid. Toward the close of the festivities the blind bard sings of the wooden horse devised by Ulysses and abandoned on the shore by the retreating Greeks. Then he describes its triumphant entry into Troy, where for the first time in ten years all sleep soundly without dread of a surprise. But, while the too confident Trojans are thus resting peacefully upon their laurels, the Greeks, emerging from this wooden horse, open the gates to their comrades, and the sack of Troy begins! Because the stranger guest again shows great emotion, Alcinous begs him to relate his adventures and asks whether he has lost some relative in the war of Troy? Touch'd at the song, Ulysses straight resign'd To soft affliction all his manly mind: Before his eyes the purple vest he drew, Industrious to conceal the falling dew: But when the music paused, he ceased to shed The flowing tear, and raised his drooping head: And, lifting to the gods a goblet crown'd, He pour'd a pure libation to the ground. _Book IX._ Thus invited to speak, Ulysses, after introducing himself and describing his island home, relates how, the ruin of Troy completed, he and his men left the Trojan shores. Driven by winds to Ismarus, they sacked the town, but, instead of sailing off immediately with their booty as Ulysses urged, tarried there until surprised by their foes, from whom they were glad to escape with their lives! Tossed by a tempest for many days, the Greek ships next neared the land of the Lotus-Eaters, people who feasted upon the buds and blossoms of a narcotic lotus. Sending three men ashore to reconnoitre, Ulysses vainly awaited their return; finally, mistrusting what had happened, he went in quest of them himself, only to find that having partaken of the lotus they were dead to the calls of home and ambition. Seizing these men, Ulysses conveyed them bound to his ship, and, without allowing the rest to land, sailed hastily away from those pernicious shores. Before long he came to the land of the Cyclops, and disembarked on a small neighboring island to renew his stock of food and water. Then, unwilling to depart without having at least visited the Cyclops, he took twelve of his bravest men, a skin-bottle full of delicious wine, and set out to find Polyphemus, chief of the Cyclops. On entering the huge cave where this giant pursued his avocation of dairyman, Ulysses and his companions built a fire, around which they sat awaiting their host's return. Before long a huge one-eyed monster drove in his flocks, and, after closing the opening of his cave with a rock which no one else could move, proceeded to milk his ewes and make cheese. It was only while at supper that he noticed Ulysses and his men, who humbly approached him as suppliants. After shrewdly questioning them to ascertain whether they were alone, believing Ulysses' tale that they were shipwrecked men, he seized and devoured two of them before he lay down to rest. Although sorely tempted to slay him while he was thus at their mercy, Ulysses refrained, knowing he and his companions would never be able to move the rock. At dawn the giant again milked his flock, and devoured--as a relish for his breakfast--two more Greeks. Then he easily rolled aside the rock, which he replaced when he and his flock had gone out for the day, thus imprisoning Ulysses and his eight surviving men. During that long day Ulysses sharpened to a point a young pine, and, after hardening this weapon in the fire, secured by lot the helpers he needed to execute his plan. That evening Polyphemus, having finished his chores and cannibal repast, graciously accepted the wine which Ulysses offered him. Pleased with its taste, he even promised the giver a reward if he would only state his name. The wily Ulysses declaring he was called Noman, the giant facetiously promised to eat him last, before he fell into a drunken sleep. Then Ulysses and his four men, heating the pointed pine, bored out the eye of Polyphemus, who howled with pain: "Sudden I stir the embers, and inspire With animating breath the seeds of fire; Each drooping spirit with bold words repair, And urge my train the dreadful deed to dare. The stake now glow'd beneath the burning bed (Green as it was) and sparkled fiery red. Then forth the vengeful instrument I bring; With beating hearts my fellows form a ring. Urged by some present god, they swift let fall The pointed torment on his visual ball. Myself above them from a rising ground Guide the sharp stake, and twirl it round and round. As when a shipwright stands his workmen o'er, Who ply the wimble, some huge beam to bore; Urged on all hands it nimbly spins about, The grain deep-piercing till it scoops it out; In his broad eye so whirls the fiery wood; From the pierced pupil spouts the boiling blood; Singed are his brows; the scorching lids grow black; The jelly bubbles, and the fibres crack." His fellow-Cyclops, awakened by his cries, gathered without his cave, asking what was the matter. But, hearing him vehemently howl that Noman was hurting him, they all declared he was evidently being punished by the gods and left him to his plight! When morning came, the groaning Cyclops rolled aside the rock, standing beside it with arms outstretched to catch his prisoners should they attempt to escape. Seeing this, Ulysses tied his men under the sheep, and, clinging to the fleece of the biggest ram, had himself dragged out of the cave. Passing his hand over the backs of the sheep to make sure the strangers were not riding on them, Polyphemus recognized by touch his favorite ram, and feelingly ascribed its slow pace to sympathy with his woes. The master ram at last approach'd the gate, Charged with his wool and with Ulysses' fate. Him, while he pass'd, the monster blind bespoke: "What makes my ram the lag of all the flock? First thou wert wont to crop the flowery mead, First to the field and river's bank to lead, And first with stately step at evening hour Thy fleecy fellows usher to their bower. Now far the last, with pensive pace and slow Thou movest, as conscious of thy master's woe! Seest thou these lids that now unfold in vain, (The deed of Noman and his wicked train?) Oh! didst thou feel for thy afflicted lord, And would but fate the power of speech afford; Soon might'st thou tell me where in secret here The dastard lurks, all trembling with his fear: Swung round and round and dash'd from rock to rock, His batter'd brains should on the pavement smoke. No ease, no pleasure my sad heart receives, While such a monster as vile Noman lives." Once out of the cave, Ulysses cut the bonds of his men, with whose aid he drove part of Polyphemus' flock on board of his ship, which he had hidden in a cove. He and his companions were scudding safely past the headland where blind Polyphemus idly sat, when Ulysses tauntingly raised his voice to make known his escape and real name. With a cry of rage, the giant flung huge masses of rock in the direction of his voice, hotly vowing his father Neptune would yet avenge his wrongs! _Book X._ After leaving the island of the Cyclops, Ulysses visited Aeolus, king of the winds, and was hospitably entertained in his cave. In token of friendship and to enable Ulysses to reach home quickly, Aeolus bottled up all the contrary winds, letting loose only those which would speed him on his way. On leaving Aeolus, Ulysses so carefully guarded the skin bottle containing the adverse gales that his men fancied it must contain jewels of great price. For nine days and nights Ulysses guided the rudder, and only when the shores of Ithaca came in sight closed his eyes in sleep. This moment was seized by his crew to open the bottle, whence the captive winds escaped with a roar, stirring up a hurricane which finally drove them back to Aeolus' isle. "They said: and (oh cursed fate!) the thongs unbound! The gushing tempest sweeps the ocean round; Snatch'd in the whirl, the hurried navy flew, The ocean widen'd and the shores withdrew. Roused from my fatal sleep, I long debate If still to live, or desperate plunge to fate; Thus doubting, prostrate on the deck I lay, Till all the coward thoughts of death gave way." On seeing them return with tattered sails, Aeolus averred they had incurred the wrath of some god and therefore drove them away from his realm. Toiling at the oar, they reached, after seven days, the harbor of the Laestrigonians, cannibal giants, from whose clutches only a few ships escaped. Sorrowing for their lost friends, the Greeks next landed in the island of Circe, where Ulysses remained with half his men by the ships, while the rest set out to renew their supplies. This party soon discovered the abode of the enchantress Circe, who, aware of their approach, had prepared a banquet and a magic drug. Enticed by her sweet voice, all the men save one sat down to her banquet, and ate so greedily that the enchantress, contemptuously waving her wand over them, bade them assume the forms of the animals they most resembled! A moment later a herd of grunting pigs surrounded her, pigs which, however, retained a distressing consciousness of their former human estate. Milk newly press'd, the sacred flour of wheat, And honey fresh, and Pramnian wines the treat: But venom'd was the bread, and mix'd the bowl, With drugs of force to darken all the soul: Soon in the luscious feast themselves they lost, And drank oblivion of their native coast. Instant her circling wand the goddess waves, To hogs transforms them, and the sty receives. No more was seen the human form divine; Head, face, and members, bristle into swine: Still cursed with sense, their minds remain alone, And their own voice affrights them when they groan. This dire transformation was viewed with horror by the man lurking outside, who fled back to the ships, imploring Ulysses to depart. Unwilling to desert his men, Ulysses on the contrary set out for Circe's dwelling, meeting on the way thither Mercury in disguise, who gave him an herb to annul the effect of Circe's drugs and directed him how to free his companions. Following these instructions, Ulysses entered Circe's abode, partook of the refreshments offered him, and, when she waved her wand over him, threatened to kill her unless she restored his men to their wonted forms! The terrified Circe not only complied, but detained Ulysses and his companions with her a full year. As at the end of that time the men pleaded to return home, Ulysses told his hostess he must leave. Then she informed him he must first visit the Cimmerian shore and consult the shade of the blind seer Tiresias. The prospect of such a journey greatly alarmed Ulysses, but when Circe had told him just how to proceed, he bravely set out. Wafted by favorable winds, Ulysses' ship soon reached the country of eternal night. On landing there he dug a trench, and slew the black victims Circe had given him, and with drawn sword awaited the approach of a host of shades, among whom he recognized a man killed by accident on Circe's island, who begged for proper funeral rites. By Circe's order, Ulysses, after allowing the ghost of Tiresias to partake of the victim's blood, learned from him that, although pursued by Neptune's vengeance, he and his men would reach home safely, provided they respected the cattle of the Sun on the island of Trinacria. The seer added that all who attacked them would perish, and that, even if he should escape death and return home, he would have to slay his wife's insolent suitors before he could rest in peace. After this had been accomplished, Ulysses was to resume his wanderings until he came to a land where the oar he carried would be mistaken for a winnowing fan. There he was to offer a propitiatory sacrifice to Neptune, after which he would live to serene old age and die peacefully among his own people. His conversation with Tiresias finished, Ulysses interviewed his mother--of whose demise he had not been aware--and conversed with the shades of sundry women noted for having borne sons to gods or to famous heroes. _Book XI._ This account had been heard with breathless interest by the Phaeacians, whose king now implored Ulysses to go on. The hero then described his interview with the ghost of Agamemnon,--slain by his wife and her paramour on his return from Troy,--who predicted his safe return home, and begged for tidings of his son Orestes, of whom Ulysses knew nought. Ulysses next beheld Achilles, who, although ruler of the dead, bitterly declared he would rather be the meanest laborer on earth than monarch among shades! "Talk not of ruling in this dolorous gloom, Nor think vain words (he cried) can ease my doom. Rather I'd choose laboriously to bear A weight of woes and breathe the vital air, A slave to some poor hind that toils for bread, Than reign the sceptered monarch of the dead." To comfort him, Ulysses described how bravely his son had fought at the taking of Troy, where he had been one of the men in the wooden horse. The only shade which refused to approach Ulysses was that of Ajax, who still resented his having won the armor of Achilles. Besides these shades, Ulysses beheld the judges of Hades and the famous culprits of Tartarus. But, terrified by the "innumerable nation of the dead" crowding around him, he finally fled in haste to his vessel, and was soon wafted back to Circe's shore. _Book XII._ There Ulysses buried his dead companion and, after describing his visit to Hades, begged his hostess' permission to depart. Circe consented, warning him to beware of the Sirens, of the threatening rocks, of the monster Scylla and the whirlpool Charybdis on either side of the Messenian Strait, and of the cattle of Trinacria, giving him minute directions how to escape unharmed from all these perils. Morning having come, Ulysses took leave of Circe, and, on nearing the reef of the Sirens, directed his men to bind him fast to the mast, paying no heed to his gestures, after he had stopped their ears with soft wax. In this way he heard, without perishing, the Sirens' wonderful song, and it was only when it had died away in the distance and the spell ceased that his men unbound him from the mast. "Thus the sweet charmers warbled o'er the main; My soul takes wing to meet the heavenly strain; I give the sign, and struggle to be free: Swift row my mates, and shoot along the sea; New chains they add, and rapid urge the way, Till, dying off, the distant sounds decay: Then scudding swiftly from the dangerous ground, The deafen'd ears unlock'd, the chains unbound." Not daring describe to his companions the threatened horrors of Charybdis and Scylla, Ulysses bade his steersman avoid the whirlpool, and, fully armed, prepared to brave the monster Scylla. But, notwithstanding his preparations, she snatched from his galley six men who were seen no more! Although reluctant to land on Trinacria for fear his sailors would steal the cattle of the Sun, Ulysses was constrained to do so to allow them to rest. While they were there, unfavorable winds began to blow, and continued so long that the Greeks consumed all their provisions, and, in spite of their efforts to supply their larder by hunting and fishing, began to suffer from hunger. During one of Ulysses' brief absences the men, breaking their promises, slew some of the beeves of the Sun, which although slain moved and lowed as if still alive! Undeterred by such miracles, the men feasted, but, on embarking six days later, they were overtaken by a tempest in which all perished save Ulysses. Clinging to the mast of his wrecked ship, he drifted between Charybdis and Scylla, escaping from the whirlpool only by clinging to the branches at an overhanging fig-tree. Then, tossed by the waves for nine days longer, Ulysses was finally cast on the isle of Ogygia, whence he had come directly to Phaeacia as already described. _Book XIII._ Having finished this account of his ten years' wanderings, Ulysses, after banqueting with Alcinous, was conveyed with his gifts to the ship which was to take him home. Then, while he slept in the prow, the skilful Phaeacian rowers entered a sheltered Ithacan bay, where they set sleeper and gifts ashore and departed without awaiting thanks. They were about to re-enter their own port when Neptune, discovering they had taken his enemy home, struck their vessel with his trident, thus transforming it into the galley-shaped rock still seen there to-day. Meantime Ulysses, awakening, hid his treasures away in a cave. Then, accosted by Minerva in disguise, he gave a fantastic account of himself, to which she lent an amused ear, before assuring him of her identity and of his wife's fidelity. She then reported the insolence of the suitors lying in wait to murder Telemachus at his return, and suggested that Ulysses, in the guise of an aged beggar, should visit his faithful swineherd until time to make his presence known. _Book XIV._ Transformed by Minerva into a sordid mendicant, Ulysses next visits the swineherd, who sets before him the best he has, complaining that the greedy suitors deplete his herds. This old servant is comforted when the beggar assures him his master will soon return and reports having seen him lately. Ulysses' fictitious account of himself serves as entertainment until the hour for rest, when the charitable swineherd covers his guest with his best cloak. _Book XV._ Meantime Minerva, hastening to Sparta, awakens in the heart of the sleeping Telemachus a keen desire to return home, warns him of the suitors' ambush, instructs him how to avoid it, and cautions him on his return to trust none save the women on whose fidelity he can depend. At dawn, therefore, Telemachus, after offering a sacrifice and receiving Menelaus' and Helen's parting gifts, sets out, cheered by favorable omens. Without pausing to visit Nestor,--whose son is to convey his thanks,--Telemachus embarks, and, following Minerva's instructions, lands near the swineherd's hut. _Book XVI._ The swineherd is preparing breakfast, when Ulysses warns him a friend is coming, for his dogs fawn upon the stranger and do not bark. A moment later Telemachus enters the hut, and is warmly welcomed by his servant, who wishes him to occupy the place of honor at his table. But Telemachus modestly declines it in favor of the aged stranger, to whom he promises clothes and protection as soon as he is master in his own house. Then he bids the swineherd notify his mother of his safe arrival, directing her to send word to Laertes of his return. This man has no sooner gone than Minerva restores Ulysses to more than his wonted vigor and good looks, bidding him make himself known to his son and concert with him how to dispose of the suitors. Amazed to see the beggar transformed into an imposing warrior, Telemachus is overjoyed to learn who he really is. The first transports of joy over, Ulysses advises his son to return home, lull the suitors' suspicions by specious words, and, after removing all weapons from the banquet hall, await the arrival of his father who will appear in mendicant's guise. While father and son are thus laying their plans, Telemachus' vessel reaches port, where the suitors mourn the escape of their victim. They dare not, however, attack Telemachus openly, for fear of forfeiting Penelope's regard, and assure her they intend to befriend him. Meantime, having delivered his message to his mistress, the swineherd returns to his hut, where he spends the evening with Telemachus and the beggar, little suspecting the latter is his master. _Book XVII._ At daybreak Telemachus hastens back to the palace, whither the swineherd is to guide the stranger later in the day, and is rapturously embraced by his mother. After a brief interview, Telemachus sends her back to her apartment to efface the trace of her tears, adding that he is on his way to the market-place to meet a travelling companion whom he wishes to entertain. After welcoming this man with due hospitality, Telemachus gives his mother an account of his trip. While he is thus occupied, Ulysses is wending his way to the palace, where he arrives just as the suitors' wonted revels reach their height. But as he enters the court-yard, his favorite hunting dog expires for joy on recognizing him. He knew his lord;--he knew, and strove to meet; In vain he strove to crawl and kiss his feet; Yet (all he could) his tail, his ears, his eyes, Salute his master and confess his joys. Soft pity touch'd the mighty master's soul: Adown his cheek a tear unbidden stole; Stole unperceived: he turn'd his head, and dried The drop humane. Humbly making the rounds of the tables like the beggar he seems, Ulysses is treated kindly by Telemachus, but grossly insulted by the suitors, one of whom, Antinous, actually flings a stool at him. Such a violation of the rights of hospitality causes some commotion in the palace, and so rouses the indignation of Penelope that she expresses a wish to converse with the beggar, who may have heard of her absent spouse. _Book XVIII._ Meantime Ulysses has also come into conflict with the town-beggar (Irus), a lusty youth, who challenges him to fight. To his dismay, Ulysses displays such a set of muscles on laying aside his robe that the insolent challenger wishes to withdraw. He is, however, compelled by the suitors to fight, and is thoroughly beaten by Ulysses, whose strength arouses the suitors' admiration. Then, in reply to their questions, Ulysses favors them with another of those tales which do far more honor to his imagination than to his veracity. Meantime Penelope indulges in a nap, during which Minerva restores all her youthful charms. Then she descends into the hall, to chide Telemachus for allowing a stranger to be insulted beneath his father's roof. She next remarks that she foresees she will soon have to choose a husband among the suitors present, as it is only too evident Ulysses is dead, and, under pretext of testing their generosity, induces them all to bestow upon her gifts, which she thriftily adds to her stores. Beside themselves with joy at the prospect that their long wooing will soon be over, the suitors sing and dance, until Telemachus advises them to return home. _Book XIX._ The suitors having gone, Ulysses helps Telemachus remove all the weapons, while the faithful nurse mounts guard over the palace women. Secretly helped by Minerva, father and son accomplish their task, and are sitting before the fire when Penelope comes to ask the beggar to relate when and how he met Ulysses. This time the stranger gives so accurate a description of Ulysses, that Penelope, wishing to show him some kindness, summons the old nurse to bathe his feet. Because she herself dozes while this homely task is being performed, she is not aware that the old nurse recognizes her master by a scar on his leg, and is cautioned by him not to make his presence known. Deep o'er his knee inseam'd, remain'd the scar: Which noted token of the woodland war When Euryclea found, the ablution ceased; Down dropp'd the leg, from her slack hand released: The mingled fluids from the base redound; The vase reclining floats the floor around! Smiles dew'd with tears the pleasing strife express'd Of grief, and joy, alternate in her breast. Her fluttering words in melting murmurs died; At length abrupt--"My son!--my king!" she cried. Her nap ended, Penelope resumes her conversation with the beggar, telling him she has been favored by a dream portending the death of the suitors. Still, she realizes there are two kinds of dreams,--those that come true issuing from Somnus' palace by the gate of horn, while deceptive dreams pass through an ivory gate. After providing for the beggar's comfort, Penelope retires, and as usual spends most of the night mourning for her absent partner. _Book XX._ Sleeping beneath the portico on the skins of the animals slain to feast the horde of suitors, Ulysses sees the maids slip out of the palace to join the suitors, who have wooed them surreptitiously. Then he falls asleep and is visited by Minerva, who infuses new strength and courage in his veins. At dawn Ulysses is awakened by Telemachus, and soon after the house is once more invaded by the suitors, who with their own hands slay the animals provided for their food. Once more they display their malevolence by ill treating the beggar, and taunt Telemachus, who apparently pays no heed to their words. _Book XXI._ Meantime Minerva has prompted Penelope to propose to the suitors to string Ulysses' bow and shoot an arrow through twelve rings. Armed with this weapon, and followed by handmaids bearing bow, string, and arrows, Penelope appears in the banquet-hall, where the suitors eagerly accept her challenge. But, after Antinous has vainly striven to bend the bow, the others warily try sundry devices to ensure its pliancy. Meantime, noticing that the swineherd and one of his companions--upon whose fidelity he counts--have left the hall, Ulysses follows them, makes himself known by means of his scar, and directs them what to do. Then, returning into the hall, he silently watches the suitors' efforts to bend the bow, and, when the last has tried and failed, volunteers to make the attempt, thereby rousing general ridicule. All gibes are silenced, however, when the beggar not only spans the bow, but sends his first arrow through the twelve rings. At the same time the faithful servants secure the doors of the apartment, and Telemachus, darting to his father's side, announces he is ready to take part in the fray. _Book XXII._ Then fierce the hero o'er the threshold strode; Stript of his rags, he blazed out like a god. Full in their face the lifted bow he bore, And quiver'd deaths, a formidable store; Before his feet the rattling shower he threw, And thus, terrific, to the suitor-crew: "One venturous game this hand hath won to-day; Another, princes! yet remains to play: Another mark our arrow must attain. Phoebus, assist! nor be the labor vain." Swift as the word the parting arrow sings; And bears thy fate, Antinous, on its wings. Wretch that he was, of unprophetic soul! High in his hands he rear'd the golden bowl: E'en then to drain it lengthen'd out his breath; Changed to the deep, the bitter draught of death! For fate who fear'd amidst a feastful band? And fate to numbers, by a single hand? Full through his throat Ulysses' weapon pass'd, And pierced his neck. He falls, and breathes his last. Grimly announcing his second arrow will reach a different goal by Apollo's aid, Ulysses shoots the insolent Antinous through the heart and then begins to taunt and threaten the other suitors. Gazing wildly around them for weapons or means of escape, these men discover how cleverly they have been trapped. One after another now falls beneath the arrows of Ulysses, who bids his son hasten to the storeroom and procure arms for them both as there are not arrows enough to dispose of his foes. Through Telemachus' heedlessness in leaving the doors open, the suitors contrive to secure weapons too, and the fight in the hall rages until they all have been slain. Then the doors are thrown open, and the faithless maids are compelled to remove the corpses and purify the room, before they are hanged! _Book XXIII._ The old nurse has meantime had the privilege of announcing Ulysses' safe return to his faithful retainers, and last of all to the sleeping Penelope. Unable to credit such tidings,--although the nurse assures her she has seen his scar,--Penelope imagines the suitors must have been slain by some god who has come to her rescue. She decides, therefore, to go down and congratulate her son upon being rid of those who preyed upon his wealth. Seeing she does not immediately fall upon his father's neck, Telemachus hotly reproaches her, but she rejoins she must have some proof of the stranger's identity and is evidently repelled by his unprepossessing appearance. Hearing this, Ulysses suggests that all present purify themselves, don fresh garments, and partake of a feast, enlivened by the songs of their bard. While he is attended by the old nurse, Minerva sheds upon him such grace that, when he reappears, looking like a god, he dares reproach Penelope for not recognizing him. Then, hearing her order that his bed be removed to the portico, he hotly demands who cut down the tree which formed one of its posts? Because this fact is known only to Penelope and to the builder of the bed, she now falls upon Ulysses' neck, begging his pardon. Their joy at being united is marred only by Ulysses' determination soon to resume his travels, and pursue them until Tiresias' prediction has been fulfilled. That night is spent in mutual confidences in regard to all that has occurred during their twenty years' separation, and when morning dawns Ulysses and his son go to visit Laertes. _Book XXIV._ Mindful of his office as conductor of souls to Hades, Mercury has meanwhile entered the palace of Ulysses, and, waving his wand, has summoned the spirits of the suitors, who, uttering plaintive cries, follow him down to the infernal regions. Cyllenius now to Pluto's dreary reign Conveys the dead, a lamentable train! The golden wand, that causes sleep to fly, Or in soft slumber seals the wakeful eye, That drives the ghosts to realms of night or day, Points out the long uncomfortable way. Trembling the spectres glide, and plaintive vent Thin hollow screams, along the deep descent. As in the cavern of some rifty den, Where flock nocturnal bats and birds obscene, Cluster'd they hang, till at some sudden shock, They move, and murmurs run through all the rock: So cowering fled the sable heaps of ghosts; And such a scream fill'd all the dismal coasts. There they overhear Ajax giving Achilles a minute account of his funeral,--the grandest ever seen,--and when questioned describe Penelope's stratagem in regard to the Web and to Ulysses' bow. Meanwhile Ulysses has arrived at his father's farm, where the old man is busy among his trees. To prepare Laertes for his return, Ulysses relates one of his fairy tales ere he makes himself known. Like Penelope, Laertes proves incredulous, until Ulysses points out the trees given him when a child and exhibits his scar. Smit with the signs which all his doubts explain, His heart within him melts; his knees sustain Their feeble weight no more; his arms alone Support him, round the loved Ulysses thrown: He faints, he sinks, with mighty joys oppress'd: Ulysses clasps him to his eager breast. To celebrate their reunion, a banquet is held, which permits the Ithacans to show their joy at their master's return. Meanwhile the friends of the suitors, having heard of the massacre, determine to avenge them by slaying father and son. But, aided by Minerva and Jupiter, these two heroes present so formidable an appearance, that the attacking party concludes a treaty, which restores peace to Ithaca and ends the Odyssey. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 3: The quotations of the Odyssey are taken from Pope's translation.] [Footnote 4: See chapter on Venus in the author's "Myths of Greece and Rome."] LATIN EPICS Latin literature took its source in the Greek, to which it owes much of its poetic beauty, for many of its masterpieces are either translations or imitations of the best Greek writings. There have been, for instance, numerous translations of the Iliad and Odyssey, the first famous one being by the "father of Roman dramatic and epic poetry," Livius Andronicus, who lived in the third century B.C. He also attempted to narrate Roman history in the same strain, by composing an epic of some thirty-five books, which are lost. Another poet, Naevius, a century later composed the Cyprian Iliad, as well as a heroic poem on the first Punic war (Bellum Punicum), of which only fragments have come down to us. Then, in the second century before our era, Ennius made a patriotic attempt to sing the origin of Rome in the Annales in eighteen books, of which only parts remain, while Hostius wrote an epic entitled Istria, which has also perished. Lucretius' epic "On the Nature of Things" is considered an example of the astronomical or physical epic. The Augustan age proved rich in epic poets, such as Publius Terentius Varro, translator of the Argonautica and author of a poem on Julius Caesar; Lucius Varius Rufus, whose poems are lost; and, greatest of all, Virgil, of whose latest and greatest work, the Aeneid, a complete synopsis follows. Next to this greatest Latin poem ranks Lucan's Pharsalia, wherein he relates in ten books the rivalry between Caesar and Pompey, while his contemporary Statius, in his Thebais and unfinished Achilleis, works over the time-honored cycles of Thèbes and Troy. During the same period Silius Italicus supplied a lengthy poem on the second Punic war, and Valerius Flaccus a new translation or adaptation of the Argonautica. In the second century of our own era Quintius Curtius composed an epic on Alexander, and in the third century Juvencus penned the first Christian epic, using the Life of Christ as his theme. In the fifth century Claudianus harked back to the old Greek myths of the battle of the Giants and of the Abduction of Persephone, although by that time Christianity was well established in Italy. From that epoch Roman literature practically ceased to exist, for although various attempts at Latin epics were made by mediaeval poets, none of them proved of sufficient merit to claim attention here. THE AENEID _Book I._ After stating he is about to sing the deeds of the heroic ancestor of the Romans, Virgil describes how, seven years after escaping from burning Troy, Aeneas' fleet was overtaken by a terrible storm off the coast of Africa. This tempest, raised by the turbulent children of Aeolus at Juno's request, threatened before long to destroy the Trojan fleet. But, disturbed by the commotion overhead and by Aeneas' frantic prayers for help, Neptune suddenly arose from the bottom of the sea, angrily ordered the winds back to their cave, and summoned sea-nymphs and tritons to the Trojans' aid. Soon, therefore, seven of the vessels came to anchor in a sheltered bay, where Aeneas landed with his friend Achates. While reconnoitring, they managed to kill seven stags with which to satisfy the hunger of the men, whom Aeneas further cheered by the assurance that they were the destined ancestors of a mighty people. Meantime Venus, beholding the plight of her son Aeneas, had hastened off to Olympus to remind Jupiter of his promise to protect the remnant of the Trojan race. Bestowing a kiss, the King of the Gods assured her that after sundry vicissitudes Aeneas would reach Italy, where in due time his son would found Alba Longa. Jupiter added a brief sketch of what would befall this hero's race, until, some three hundred years after his death, one of his descendants, the Vestal Ilia, would bear twin sons to Mars, god of War. One of these, Romulus, would found the city of Rome, where the Trojan race would continue its heroic career and where Caesar would appear to fill the world with his fame. "From Troy's fair stock shall Caesar rise, The limits of whose victories Are ocean, of his fame the skies."[5] Having thus quieted Venus' apprehensions in regard to her son, Jupiter directed Mercury to hasten off to Carthage so as to warn Dido she is to receive hospitably the Trojan guests. After a sleepless night Aeneas again set out with Achates to explore, and encountered in the forest his goddess mother in the guise of a Tyrian huntress. In respectful terms--for he suspected she was some divinity in disguise--Aeneas begged for information and learned he has landed in the realm of Dido. Warned in a vision that her brother had secretly slain her husband and was plotting against her life, this Tyrian queen had fled from Tyre with friends and wealth, and, on reaching this part of Africa, had, thanks to the clever device of a bull's hide, obtained land enough to found the city of Byrsa or Carthage. In return Aeneas gave the strange huntress his name, relating how the storm had scattered all his vessels save the seven anchored close by. To allay his anxiety in regard to his friends, Venus assured him that twelve swans flying overhead were omens of the safety of his ships, and it was only when she turned to leave him that Aeneas recognized his mother, who, notwithstanding his desire to embrace her, promptly disappeared. The two Trojans now walked on in the direction she indicated until dazzled by the beauty of the new city of Carthage, which was rising rapidly, thanks to the activity of Dido's subjects. In its centre stood a wonderful temple, whose brazen gates were decorated with scenes from the War of Troy. Hidden from all eyes by a divine mist, Aeneas and Achates tearfully gazed upon these reminders of the glories past and mingled with the throng until Queen Dido appeared. She was no sooner seated upon her throne than she summoned into her presence some prisoners just secured, in whom Aeneas recognized with joy the various captains of his missing ships. Then he overheard them bewail the storm which robbed them of their leader, and was pleased because Dido promised them entertainment and ordered a search made for their chief. The right moment having come, the cloud enveloping Aeneas and Achates parted, and Dido thus suddenly became aware of the presence of other strangers in their midst. Endowed by Venus with special attractions so as to secure the favor of the Libyan queen, Aeneas stepped gracefully forward, made himself known, and, after paying due respect to the queen, joyfully greeted his comrades. Happy to harbor so famous a warrior, Dido invited Aeneas to a banquet in her palace, an invitation he gladly accepted, charging Achates to hasten back to the ships to announce their companions' safety and to summon Iulus or Ascanius to join his father. To make quite sure Aeneas should captivate Dido's heart, Venus now substituted Cupid for Iulus, whom she meantime conveyed to one of her favorite resorts. It was therefore in the guise of the Trojan prince that Cupid, during the banquet, caressingly nestled in Dido's arms and stealthily effaced from her heart all traces of her former husband's face, filling it instead with a resistless passion for Aeneas, which soon impelled her to invite him to relate his escape from Troy. _Book II._ With the eyes of all present upon him, Aeneas related how the Greeks finally devised a colossal wooden horse, wherein their bravest chiefs remained concealed while the remainder of their forces pretended to sail home, although they anchored behind a neighboring island to await the signal to return and sack Troy. Overjoyed by the departure of the foe, the Trojans hastened down to the shore, where, on discovering the huge wooden horse, they joyfully proposed to drag it into their city as a trophy. In vain their priest, Laocoon, implored them to desist, hurling his spear at the horse to prove it was hollow and hence might conceal some foe. This daring and apparent sacrilege horrified the Trojans, who, having secured a Greek fugitive in a swamp near by, besought him to disclose what purpose the horse was to serve. Pretending to have suffered great injustice at the Greeks' hands, the slave (Sinon) replied that if they removed the wooden horse into their walls the Trojans would greatly endanger the safety of their foes, who had left it on the shore to propitiate Neptune. Enticed by this prospect, the Trojans proved more eager than ever to drag the horse into their city, even though it necessitated pulling down part of their walls. Meantime part of the crowd gathered about Laocoon who was to offer public thanks on the sea-shore, but, even while he was standing at the altar, attended by his sons, two huge serpents arose out of the sea and, coiling fiercely around priest and both acolytes, throttled them in spite of their efforts. He strains his strength their knots to tear, While gore and slime his fillets smear, And to the unregardful skies Sends up his agonizing cries. On seeing this, the horror-struck Trojans immediately concluded Laocoon was being punished for having attacked the wooden horse, which they joyfully dragged into Troy, although the prophet-princess, Cassandra, besought them to desist, foretelling all manner of woe. Night now fell upon the city, where, for the first time in ten years, all slept peacefully without fear of surprise. At midnight Sinon released the captive Greeks from the wooden steed, and, joined by their companions, who had noiselessly returned, they swarmed all over the undefended city. Aeneas graphically described for Dido's benefit his peaceful sleep, when the phantom of the slaughtered Hector bade him arise and flee with his family, because the Greeks had already taken possession of Troy! At this moment loud clamors awakened him, confirming what he had just heard in dream. Aeneas immediately rushed to the palace to defend his king, he and his men stripping the armor from fallen Greeks to enable them to get there unmolested. Still, they arrived only in time to see Achilles' son rush into the throne-room and cruelly murder the aged Priam after killing his youngest son. They also beheld the shrieking women ruthlessly dragged off into captivity, Cassandra wildly predicting the woes which would befall the Greek chiefs on their way home. Ah see! the Priameian fair, Cassandra, by her streaming hair Is dragged from Pallas' shrine, Her wild eyes raised to Heaven in vain-- Her eyes, alas! for cord and chain Her tender hands confine. The fall of aged Priam and the plight of the women reminding Aeneas of the danger of his own father, wife, and son, he turned to rush home. On his way thither he met his mother, who for a moment removed the mortal veil from his eyes, to let him see Neptune, Minerva, and Juno zealously helping to ruin Troy. Because Venus passionately urged her son to escape while there was yet time, Aeneas, on reaching home, besought his father Anchises to depart, but it was only when the old man saw a bright flame hover over the head of his grandson, Iulus, that he realized heaven intended to favor his race and consented to leave. Seeing him too weak to walk, his son bade him hold the household goods, and carried him off on his back, leading his boy by the hand and calling to his wife and servants to follow. Thus burdened, Aeneas reached a ruined fane by the shore, only to discover his beloved wife was missing. Anxiously retracing his footsteps, he encountered her shade, which bade him cease seeking for her among the living and hasten to Hesperia, where a new wife and home awaited him. "Then, while I dewed with tears my cheek And strove a thousand things to speak, She melted into night: Thrice I essayed her neck to clasp: Thrice the vain semblance mocked my grasp, As wind or slumber light." Thus enlightened in regard to his consort's fate and wishes, Aeneas hastened back to his waiting companions, and with them prepared to leave the Trojan shores. _Book III._ Before long Aeneas' fleet landed on the Thracian coast, where, while preparing a sacrifice, our hero was horrified to see blood flow from the trees he cut down. This phenomenon was, however, explained by an underground voice, relating how a Trojan was robbed and slain by the inhabitants of this land, and how trees had sprung from the javelins stuck in his breast. Unwilling to linger in such a neighborhood, Aeneas sailed to Delos, where an oracle informed him he would be able to settle only in the land whence his ancestors had come. Although Anchises interpreted this to mean they were to go to Crete, the household gods informed Aeneas, during the journey thither, that Hesperia was their destined goal. After braving a three-days tempest, Aeneas landed on the island of the Harpies, horrible monsters who defiled the travellers' food each time a meal was spread. They not only annoyed Aeneas in this way, but predicted, when attacked, that he should find a home only when driven by hunger to eat boards. "But ere your town with walls ye fence, Fierce famine, retribution dread For this your murderous violence, Shall make you eat your boards for bread." Sailing off again, the Trojans next reached Epirus, which they found governed by Helenus, a Trojan, for Achilles' son had already been slain. Although Hector's widow was now queen of the realm where she had been brought a captive, she still mourned for her noble husband, and gladly welcomed the fugitives for his sake. It was during the parting sacrifice that Helenus predicted that, after long wanderings, his guests would settle in Italy, in a spot where they would find a white sow suckling thirty young. He also cautioned Aeneas about the hidden dangers of Charybdis and Scylla, and bade him visit the Cumaean Sibyl, so as to induce her, if possible, to lend him her aid. Restored and refreshed by this brief sojourn among kinsmen, Aeneas and his followers resumed their journey, steering by the stars and avoiding all landing in eastern or southern Italy which was settled by Greeks. After passing Charybdis and Scylla unharmed, and after gazing in awe at the plume of smoke crowning Mt. Aetna, the Trojans rescued one of the Greeks who had escaped with Ulysses from the Cyclops' cave but who had not contrived to sail away. To rest his weary men, Aeneas finally landed at Drepanum, in Sicily, where his old father died and was buried with all due pomp. It was shortly after leaving this place, that Aeneas' fleet had been overtaken by the terrible tempest which had driven his vessels to Dido's shore. So King Aeneas told his tale While all beside were still, Rehearsed the fortunes of his sail And fate's mysterious will: Then to its close his legend brought And gladly took the rest he sought. _Book IV._ While Aeneas rested peacefully, Dido's newborn passion kept her awake, causing her at dawn to rouse her sister Anna, so as to impart to her the agitated state of her feelings. Not only did Anna encourage her sister to marry again, but united with her in a prayer to which Venus graciously listened, although Juno reminded her that Trojans and Carthaginians were destined to be foes. Still, as Goddess of Marriage, Juno finally consented that Aeneas and Dido be brought together in the course of that day's hunt. We now have a description of the sunrise, of the preparations for the chase, of the queen's dazzling appearance, and of the daring huntsmanship of the false Iulus. But the brilliant hunting expedition is somewhat marred in the middle of the day by a sudden thunderstorm, during which Aeneas and Dido accidentally seek refuge in the same cave, where we are given to understand their union takes place. So momentous a step, proclaimed by the hundred-mouthed Goddess of Fame, rouses the ire of the native chiefs, one of whom fervently hopes Carthage may rue having spared these Trojan refugees. This prayer is duly registered by Jupiter, who further bids Mercury remind Aeneas his new realm is to be founded in Italy and not on the African coast! Thus divinely ordered to leave, Aeneas dares not disobey, but, dreading Dido's reproaches and tears, he prepares to depart secretly. His plans are, however, detected by Dido, who vehemently demands, how he dares forsake her now? By Jupiter's orders, Aeneas remains unmoved by her reproaches, and sternly reminds her that he always declared he was bound for Italy. So, leaving Dido to brood over her wrongs, Aeneas hastens down to the shore to hasten his preparations for departure. Seeing this, Dido implores her sister to detain her lover, and, as this proves vain, orders a pyre erected, on which she places all the objects Aeneas has used. That night the gods arouse Aeneas from slumber to bid him sail without taking leave of the Tyrian queen. In obedience to this command, our hero cuts with his sword the rope which moors his vessel to the Carthaginian shore, and sails away, closely followed by the rest of his fleet. From the watch-tower at early dawn, Dido discovers his vanishing sails, and is so overcome by grief that, after rending "her golden length of hair" and calling down vengeance upon Aeneas, she stabs herself and breathes her last in the midst of the burning pyre. The Carthaginians, little expecting so tragical a denouement, witness the agony of their beloved queen in speechless horror, while Anna wails aloud. Gazing down from heaven upon this sad scene, Juno directs Iris to hasten down and cut off a lock of Dido's hair, for it is only when this mystic ceremony has been performed that the soul can leave the body. Iris therefore speedily obeys, saying: "This lock to Dis I bear away And free you from your load of clay:" So shears the lock: the vital heats Disperse, and breath in air retreats. _Book V._ Sailing on, Aeneas, already dismayed by the smoke rising from the Carthaginian shore, is further troubled by rapidly gathering clouds. His weather-wise pilot, Palinurus, suggests that, since "the west is darkening into wrath," they run into the Drepanum harbor, which they enter just one year after Anchises' death. There they show due respect to the dead by a sacrifice, of which a serpent takes his tithe, and proceed to celebrate funeral games. We now have a detailed account of the winning of prizes for the naval, foot, horse and chariot races, and the boxing and archery matches. While all the men are thus congenially occupied, the Trojan women, instigated by Juno in disguise, set fire to the ships, so they need no longer wander over seas they have learned to loathe. One of the warriors, seeing the smoke, raises the alarm, and a moment later his companions dash down to the shore to save their ships. Seeing his fleet in flames, Aeneas wrings his hands, and prays with such fervor that a cloudburst drenches his burning vessels. Four, however, are beyond repair; so Aeneas, seeing he no longer has ship-room for all his force, allows the Trojans most anxious to rest to settle in Drepanum, taking with him only those who are willing to share his fortunes. Before he leaves, his father's ghost appears to him, bidding him, before settling in Latium, descend into Hades by way of Lake Avernus, and visit him in the Elysian Fields to hear what is to befall his race. When Aeneas leaves Drepanum on the next day, his mother pleads so successfully in his behalf that Neptune promises to exact only one life as toll. "One life alone shall glut the wave; One head shall fall the rest to save." _Book VI._ Steering to Cumae, where the Sibyl dwells, Aeneas seeks her cave, whose entrance is barred by bronzen gates, on which is represented the story of Daedalus,--the first bird man,--who, escaping from the Labyrinth at Crete, gratefully laid his wings on this altar. We are further informed that the Sibyl generally wrote her oracles on separate oak leaves, which were set in due order in her cave, but which the wind, as soon as the doors opened, scattered or jumbled together, so that most of her predictions proved unintelligible to those who visited her shrine. After a solemn invocation, Aeneas besought her not to baffle him by writing on oak leaves, and was favored by her apparition and the announcement that, after escaping sundry perils by land and sea and reddening the Tiber with blood, he would, thanks to Greek aid, triumph over his foes and settle in Latium with a new bride. Undaunted by the prospect of these trials, Aeneas besought the Sibyl to guide him down to Hades, to enable him to visit his father, a journey she flatly refused to undertake, unless he procured the golden bough which served as a key to that region, and unless he showed due respect to the corpse of his friend. Although both conditions sounded mysterious when uttered, Aeneas discovered, on rejoining his crew, that one of his Trojans had been slain. After celebrating his funeral, our hero wandered off into a neighboring forest, where some doves--his mother's birds--guided him to the place where grew the golden bough he coveted. Armed with this talisman and escorted by the Sibyl, Aeneas, by way of Lake Avernus, entered the gloomy cave which formed the entrance to Hades. Following the flying footsteps of his mystic guide, he there plunged into the realm of night, soon reaching the precinct of departed souls, where he saw innumerable shades. Although he immediately crossed the river in Charon's leaky punt, many spirits were obliged to wait a hundred years, simply because they could not pay for their passage. Among these unfortunates Aeneas recognized his recently drowned pilot, who related how he had come to his death and by what means he was going to secure funeral honors. In spite of the three-headed dog and sundry other grewsome sights, Aeneas and his guide reached the place where Minos holds judgment over arriving souls, and viewed the region where those who died for love were herded together. Among these ghosts was Dido, but, although Aeneas pityingly addressed her, she sullenly refused to answer a word. Farther on Aeneas came to the place of dead heroes, and there beheld brave Hector and clever Teucer, together with many other warriors who took part in the Trojan War. After allowing him to converse a brief while with these friends, the Sibyl vouchsafed Aeneas a passing glimpse of Tartarus and of its great criminals, then she hurried him on to the Elysian Fields, the home of "the illustrious dead, who fighting for their country bled," to inquire for Anchises. The visitors were immediately directed to a quiet valley, where they found the aged Trojan, pleasantly occupied contemplating the unborn souls destined to pass gradually into the upper world and animate the bodies of his progeny. On beholding his son, who, as at Drepanum, vainly tried to embrace him, Anchises revealed all he had learned in regard to life, death, and immortality, and gave a synopsis of the history of Rome for the next thousand years, naming its great worthies, from Romulus, founder of Rome, down to Augustus, first emperor and ruler of the main part of the world. This account of the glories and vicissitudes of his race takes considerable time, and when it is finished the Sibyl guides Aeneas back to earth by one of the two gates which lead out of this dismal region. Pleased with having accomplished his errand so successfully and duly encouraged by all he has learned, Aeneas returns to his fleet and sets sail for the home he is so anxious to reach. _Book VII._ We now skirt with Aeneas the west coast of Italy, sail past Circe's island, and see his ships driven up the winding Tiber by favorable winds. On his first landing the Muse Erato rehearses for our benefit the history of the Latins, whose royal race, represented at present by Latinus, claims to descend from Saturn. Although Latinus has already betrothed his daughter Lavinia to Turnus, a neighboring prince, he is favored by an omen at the moment when the Trojans land. On seeking an interpretation of this sign, he learns he is not to bestow his daughter upon Turnus, but is to reserve her hand for a stranger, whose descendants will be powerful indeed. Meantime the Trojans feast upon meat which is served to each man on a wheaten cake. Young Iulus, greedily devouring his, exclaims playfully that he is so hungry he has actually eaten the board on which his meal was spread! Hearing these significant words, his happy father exclaims they have reached their destined goal, since the Harpies' terrifying prophecy has been fulfilled. "Hail, auspicious land!" he cries, "So long from Fate my due! All hail, ye Trojan deities, To Trojan fortunes true! At length we rest, no more to roam. Here is our country, here our home." Then the Trojans begin to explore, and, discovering Latinus' capital, send thither an embassy of a hundred men, who are hospitably entertained. After hearing all they have to say, Latinus assures them that men of his race once migrated from Asia, and that the gods have just enjoined upon him to bestow his daughter upon a foreign bridegroom. When he proposes to unite Lavinia to Aeneas, Juno, unable to prevent a marriage decreed by Fate, tries to postpone it by infuriating Amata, mother of the bride, and causing her to flee into the woods with her daughter. Not satisfied with one manifestation of power, Juno despatches Discord to ask Turnus if he will tamely allow his promised bride to be given to another man? Such a taunt is sufficient to determine hot-headed Turnus to make war, but, as a pretext is lacking, one of the Furies prompts Iulus to pursue and wound the pet stag of a young shepherdess called Sylvia. The distress of this rustic maid so excites her shepherd brothers that they fall upon the Trojans, who, of course, defend themselves, and thus the conflict begins. Having successfully broken the peace, Discord hastens back to Juno, who, seeing Latinus would fain remain neutral, compels him to take part in the war by opening with her own hand the gates of the temple of Janus. Here the poet recites the names of the various heroes about to distinguish themselves on either side, specially mentioning in the Rutules' force Mezentius, his son Lausus, and the Volscian maid Camilla, who prefers the stirring life of a camp to the peaceful avocations of her sex. _Book VIII._ Because Turnus is reinforced by many allies, Aeneas is anxious to secure some too, and soon sets out to seek the aid of Evander, king of Etruria, formerly a Greek. On his way to this realm, Aeneas perceives on the banks of the Tiber a white sow with thirty young, which he sacrifices to the gods in gratitude for having pointed out to him the spot where his future capital will rise. On reaching the Etruscan's stronghold, Aeneas readily secures the promise of a large contingent of warriors, who prepare to join him under the command of Pallas, son of the king. He then assists at a great Etruscan banquet in honor of one of Hercules' triumphs, and while he is sleeping there his mother, Venus, induces her blacksmith husband, Vulcan, to make him a suit of armor. Dawn having appeared, Evander entertains his guests with tales, while his son completes his preparations. Aeneas' departure, however, is hastened by Venus, who warns her son that his camp is in danger when she delivers to him the armor she has procured. This is adorned by many scenes in the coming history of Rome, among which special mention is made of the twins suckled by the traditional wolf, of the kidnapping of the Sabines, and of the heroic deeds of Cocles, Cloelia, and Manlius, as well as battles and festivals galore.[6] _Book IX._ Meantime, obedient to Turnus' orders, the Rutules have surrounded the Trojan camp and set fire to Aeneas' ships. But, as Fate has decreed these vessels shall be immortal, they sink beneath the waves as soon as the flames touch them, only to reappear a moment later as ocean-nymphs and swim down the Tiber to warn Aeneas of the danger of his friends. This miracle awes the foe, until Turnus boldly interprets it in his favor, whereupon the Rutules attack the foreigners' camp so furiously that the Trojans gladly accept the proposal made by Nisus and Euryalus to slip out and summon Aeneas to return. Stealing out of the Trojan camp by night, these two heroes bravely thread their way through their sleeping foes, killing sundry famous warriors as they go, and appropriating choice bits of their spoil. Leaving death in their wake, the two Trojans pass through the enemy's ranks and finally enter a forest, where they are pursued by a troop of the Volscians, who surround and slay Euryalus. But, although Nisus first manages to escape from their hands, he returns to defend his comrade and is slain too. The Volscians therefore bear two bloody heads to the Rutules camp to serve as their war standards on the next day. It is thus that Euryalus' mother becomes aware of the death of her son, whom she mourns in touching terms. "Was it this, ah me, I followed over land and sea? O slay me, Rutules! if ye know A mother's love, on me bestow The tempest of your spears! Or thou, great Thunderer, pity take, And whelm me 'neath the Stygian lake, Since otherwise I may not break This life of bitter tears!" To recount all the deeds of valor performed on this day would require much space, but, although Mars inspires the party of Aeneas with great courage, it is evidently on the verge of defeat when Jupiter orders Turnus to withdraw. _Book X._ Having convoked his Olympian council, Jupiter forbids the gods to interfere on either side, and decrees that the present quarrel shall be settled without divine aid. Hearing this, Venus vehemently protests that, having promised her son should found a new realm in Italy, he is bound to protect him, while Juno argues with equal force that the Trojans should be further punished for kidnapping Helen. Silencing both goddesses, Jupiter reiterates his orders and dissolves the assembly. The scene now changes back to earth, where the Trojans, closely hemmed in by foes, long for Aeneas' return. He, on his way back, encounters the sea-nymphs, who explain they were once his ships and bid him hasten and rescue his son. Thus admonished, Aeneas hurries back, to take part in a battle where many heroic deeds are performed, and where Turnus, Mezentius, and Lausus prove bravest on the enemy's side, although they find their match in Aeneas, Pallas, and Iulus. Among the brilliant duels fought, mention must be made of one between Pallas and Turnus, where notwithstanding his courage the Trojan prince succumbs. After stripping his companion of his armor, Turnus abandons his corpse to his friends, who mourn to think that he lost his life while helping them. Vowing to avenge him, Aeneas next attacks his foe with such fury that it seems as if Turnus' last day has come, but Juno pleads so eloquently in his behalf, that, although Fate has decreed he shall perish, she grants him brief respite. To preserve Turnus from the deadly blows of the real Aeneas, Juno causes him to pursue a phantom foe on board a ship, whose moorings she loosens, thus setting him adrift upon the Tiber. Perceiving only then how he has been tricked, Turnus threatens to slay himself, but is restrained by Juno, who after awhile allows him to land and return to the battle. Thus deprived of his principal foe, Aeneas ranges over the battle-field, where he wounds Mezentius and kills Lausus. Seeing his beloved son is gone, Mezentius is so anxious to die that he now offers an unresisting throat to Aeneas, who slays him on the spot. "One boon (if vanquished foe may crave The victor's grace) I ask--a grave. My wrathful subjects round me wait: Protect me from their savage hate, And let me in the tomb enjoy The presence of my slaughtered boy." _Book XI._ Having made a trophy of the enemies' spoil, Aeneas, even before proceeding to bury his own comrades, adorns the body of Pallas and sends it back to Etruria. Then he bargains with Turnus' ambassadors for a twelve-days truce, during which both parties celebrate pompous funerals, the finest of all being that of Pallas. Hoping to check further bloodshed, Latinus now proposes a peace, whose terms Aeneas is willing to accept, but which Turnus angrily rejects since they deprive him of his promised bride. The conflict is therefore resumed, and the next interesting episode refers to Camilla, the warrior maid, whose father when she was only a babe tied her to the shaft of his spear and flung her across a torrent he was unable to stem with her in his arms. Having thus saved her from the enemy's clutches, this father taught Camilla to fight so bravely, that she causes dire havoc among the Trojans before she dies, using her last breath to implore Turnus to hasten to the rescue. "Go: my last charge to Turnus tell, To haste with succor, and repel The Trojans from the town--farewell." She spoke, and speaking, dropped her rein, Perforce descending to the plain. Then by degrees she slips away From all that heavy load of clay: Her languid neck, her drowsy head She droops to earth, of vigor sped: She lets her martial weapons go: The indignant soul flies down below. _Book XII._ Unappeased by Latinus' reiterated assertions that he is bestowing Lavinia upon a stranger merely to obey the gods, or by the entreaties in which Amata now joins, Turnus still refuses peace. More fighting therefore ensues, during which Aeneas is wounded in the thigh. While his leech is vainly trying to stanch his blood, Venus drops a magic herb into the water used for bathing his wounds and thus miraculously cures him. Plunging back into the fray, which becomes so horrible that Amata brings Lavinia home and commits suicide, Turnus and Aeneas finally meet in duel, but, although Juno would fain interfere once more in behalf of her protégé, Jupiter refuses to allow it. But he grants instead his wife's petition that the Trojan name and language shall forever be merged into that of the Latin race. "Let Latium prosper as she will, Their thrones let Alban monarchs fill; Let Rome be glorious on the earth, The centre of Italian worth; But fallen Troy be fallen still, The nation and the name." Toward the end of this momentous encounter, during which both heroes indulged in sundry boastful speeches, a bird warns Turnus that his end is near, and his sister Juturna basely deserts him. Driven to bay and deprived of all other weapons, Turnus finally hurls a rock at Aeneas, who, dodging this missile, deals him a deadly wound. Turnus now pitifully begs for mercy, but the sight of Pallas' belt, which his foe proudly wears, so angers Aeneas that, after wrathfully snatching it from him, he deals his foe the deadly blow which ends this epic. "What! in my friend's dear spoils arrayed To me for mercy sue? 'Tis Pallas, Pallas guides the blade: From your cursed blood his injured shade Thus takes atonement due." Thus as he spoke, his sword he drave With fierce and fiery blow Through the broad breast before him spread: The stalwart limbs grow cold and dead: One groan the indignant spirit gave, Then sought the shades below. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 5: All the quotations in this article are from Virgil's Aeneid, Conington's translation.] [Footnote 6: See the author's "Story of the Romans."] FRENCH EPICS The national epic in France bears the characteristic name of Chanson de Geste, or song of deed, because the trouvères in the north and the troubadours in the south wandered from castle to castle singing the prowesses of the lords and of their ancestors, whose reputations they thus made or ruined at will. In their earliest form these Chansons de Geste were invariably in verse, but in time the most popular were turned into lengthy prose romances. Many of the hundred or more Chansons de Geste still preserved were composed in the northern dialect, or langue d'oil, and, although similar epics did exist in the langue d'oc, they have the "great defect of being lost," and only fragments of Flamença, etc., now exist. There are three great groups or cycles of French epics: first the Cycle of France, dealing specially with Charlemagne,--the champion of Christianity,--who, representing Christ, is depicted surrounded by twelve peers instead of twelve disciples. Among these, to carry out the scriptural analogy, lurks a traitor, Ganelon; so, in the course of the poems, we are favored with biblical miracles, such as the sun pausing in its course until pagans can be punished, and angels appearing to comfort dying knights. The finest sample of this cycle is without doubt the famous Chanson de Roland, of which a complete synopsis follows. Other remarkable examples of this cycle are Aliscans, Raoul de Cambrai, Garin le Lorrain, Guillaume d'Orange, Les Quatre Fils d'Aymon, Ogier le Danois, etc. Even the character of the hero varies from age to age, for whereas Charlemagne in the Chanson de Roland--which dates perhaps as far back as the tenth century--is a heroic figure, he becomes during later periods, when vassals rise up against their overlords,--an object of contempt and ridicule. A marked example of this latter style of treatment is furnished by Les Quatre Fils d'Aymon.[7] The second group, or cycle of Brittany, animated by a chivalrous spirit, and hence termed court epic, finds its greatest exponent in the poet Chrestien de Troyes, whose hero Arthur, King of Brittany, gathers twelve knights around his table, one of whom, Mordred, is to prove traitor. The principal poems of this cycle are Launcelot du Lac, Ivain le Chevalier au Lion, Erec and Enide, Merlin, Tristan, and Perceval. These poems all treat of chivalry and love, and introduce the old pagan passion-breeding philtre, as well as a whole world of magic and fairies. These epics will be noticed at greater length when we treat of the English versions of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, because many of the poems have been reworked in modern English and are hence most popular in that language. Besides the Chansons de Geste pertaining to various phases of this theme, the Breton cycle includes many shorter works termed lais, which also treat of love, and were composed by Marie de France or her successors. The best known of all these "cante-fables" is the idyllic Aucassin et Nicolette, of which a full account is embodied in this volume. One of the best samples of the domestic epic in this cycle is the twelfth century Amis and Amiles, in which two knights, born and baptized on the same day, prove so alike as to become interchangeable. Still, brought up in separate provinces, Amis and Amiles meet and become friends only when knighted by Charlemagne, whose graciousness toward them rouses the jealousy of the felon knight Hardré. When Charlemagne finally offers his niece to Amiles (who, through modesty, passes her on to Amis), the felon accuses the former of treacherously loving the king's daughter Bellicent, and thereupon challenges him to fight. Conscious of not being a traitor, although guilty of loving the princess, Amiles dares not accept this challenge, and changes places with Amis, who personates him in the lists. Because Amis thus commits perjury to rescue his friend from a dilemma, he is in due time stricken with leprosy, deserted by his wife, and sorely ill treated by his vassals. After much suffering, he discovers his sole hope of cure consists in bathing in the blood of the children which in the meanwhile have been born to Amiles and to his princess-wife. When the leper Amis reluctantly reveals this fact to his friend Amiles, the latter, although broken-hearted, unhesitatingly slays his children. Amis is immediately cured, and both knights hasten to church together to return thanks and inform the mother of the death of her little ones. The princess rushes to their chamber to mourn over their corpses, only to discover that meantime they have been miraculously restored to life! This story is very touchingly told in the old Chanson, which contains many vivid and interesting descriptions of the manners of the time. In this cycle are also included Gérard de Roussillon, Hugues Capet, Macaire (wherein occurs the famous episode of the Dog of Montargis), and Huon de Bordeaux, which latter supplied Shakespeare, Wieland, and Weber with some of the dramatis personae of their well-known comedy, poem, and opera. We must also mention what are often termed the Crusade epics, of which the stock topics are quarrels, challenges, fights, banquets, and tournaments, and among which we note les Enfances de Godefroi, Antioche, and Tudela's Song of the Crusade against the Albigenses. The third great cycle is known as Matière de Rome la grand, or as the antique cycle. It embodies Christianized versions of the doings of the heroes of the Iliad, Odyssey, Aeneid, Thebais, Alexandreid, etc. In their prose forms the Roman de Thèbes, Roman de Troie, and Roman d'Alexandre contain, besides, innumerable mediaeval embellishments, among others the first mention in French of the quest for the Fountain of Youth. Later on in French literature we come across the animal epic, or Roman du Renard, a style of composition which found its latest and most finished expression in Germany at the hands of Goethe, and the allegorical epic, Le Roman de la Rose, wherein abstract ideas were personified, such as Hope, Slander (Malebouche), Danger, etc. There are also epic poems based on Le Combat des Trente and on the doings of Du Guesclin. Ronsard, in his Franciade, claims the Franks as lineal descendants from Francus, a son of Priam, and thus connects French history with the war of Troy, just as Wace, in the Norman Roman de Rou, traces a similar analogy between the Trojan Brutus and Britain. Later French poets have attempted epics, more or less popular in their time, among which are Alaric by Scudéri, Clovis by St. Sorlin, and two poems on La Pucelle, one by Chapelain, and the other by Voltaire. Next comes la Henriade, also by Voltaire, a half bombastic, half satirical account of Henry IV's wars to gain the crown of France. This poem also contains some very fine and justly famous passages, but is too long and too artificial, as a whole, to please modern readers. The most popular of all the French prose epics is, without dispute, Fénelon's Télémaque, or account of Telemachus' journeys to find some trace of his long-absent father Ulysses. Les Martyrs by Chateaubriand, and La Légende des Siècles by Victor Hugo, complete the tale of important French epics to date. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 7: See the author's "Legends of the Middle Ages."] THE SONG OF ROLAND[8] _Introduction._ The earliest and greatest of the French epics, or chansons de geste, is the song of Roland, of which the oldest copy now extant is preserved in the Bodleian Library and dates back to the twelfth century. Whether the Turoldus (Théroulde) mentioned at the end of the poem is poet, copyist, or mere reciter remains a matter of conjecture. The poem is evidently based on popular songs which no longer exist. It consists of 4002 verses, written in langue d'oil, grouped in stanzas or "laisses" of irregular length, in the heroic pentameter, having the same assonant rhyme, and each ending with "aoi," a word no one has succeeded in translating satisfactorily. It was so popular that it was translated into Latin and German (1173-1177), and our version may be the very song sung by Taillefer at the battle of Hastings in 1066. It has inspired many poets, and Roland's death has been sung again by Goethe, Schiller, Pulci, Boiardo, Ariosto, Berni, Bornier, etc. History claims that French armies, once in the reign of Dagobert and once in that of Charlemagne, were attacked and slaughtered in the Pyrenees, but not by the Saracens. Besides, Charlemagne's secretary, Eginhart, briefly mentions in his chronicles that in 778, Roland, prefect of the Marches of Brittany, was slain there.[9] Although the remainder of the story has no historical basis, the song of Roland is a poetical asset we would not willingly relinquish. PART I. A COUNCIL HELD BY KING MARSILE AT SARAGOSSA.--The Song of Roland opens with the statement that, after spending seven years in Spain, Charlemagne is master of all save the city of Saragossa. The king, our Emperor Carlemaine, Hath been for seven full years in Spain. From highland to sea hath he won the land; City was none might his arm withstand; Keep and castle alike went down-- Save Saragossa the mountain town.[10] It is in Saragossa that King Marsile, holding an open-air council, informs his followers he no longer has men to oppose to the French. When he inquires what he shall do, the wisest of his advisers suggests that, when might fails, craft can gain the day. Therefore, he moots sending gifts to Charlemagne, with a promise to follow him to France to do homage and receive baptism. Even should Charlemagne exact hostages, this councillor volunteers to give his own son, arguing it is better a few should fall than Spain be lost forever. This advice is adopted by Marsile, who then despatches bearers of olive branches and gifts to Charlemagne. _Council held by Charlemagne at Cordova._ The Saracen emissaries find the French emperor seated on a golden throne in an orchard, his peers around him, watching the martial games of fifty thousand warriors. After receiving Marsile's message, Charlemagne dismisses the ambassadors for the night, promising answer on the morrow. When he bids his courtiers state their opinions, Roland impetuously declares that, as Marsile has tricked them once, it would not become them to believe him now. His step-father, Ganelon, thereupon terms him a hot-headed young fool, and avers he prizes his own glory more than his fellow-men's lives. The wisest among Charlemagne's advisers, however, Duke Naimes, argues that the Saracen's offers of submission should be met half-way, and, as the remainder of the French agree with him, Charlemagne calls for a messenger to bear his acceptance to Marsile. Although Roland, Oliver, and Naimes eagerly sue for this honor, Charlemagne, unwilling to spare his peers, bids them appoint a baron. When Roland suggests his step-father, Ganelon--who deems the expedition hazardous--becomes so angry that he reviles his step-son in the emperor's presence, vowing the youth is maliciously sending him to his death, and muttering he will have revenge. These violent threats elicit Roland's laughter, but Charlemagne checks the resulting quarrel by delivering message and emblems of office to Ganelon. To the dismay of all present, he, however, drops the glove his master hands him, an accident viewed as an omen of ill luck. Then, making speedy preparations and pathetically committing wife and son to the care of his countrymen, Ganelon starts out, fully expecting never to return. _The Embassy and the Crime of Ganelon._ On his way to Saragossa, Ganelon converses with the Saracens, who express surprise that Charlemagne--whom they deem two hundred years old--should still long for conquest. In return Ganelon assures them his master will never cease fighting as long as Roland is one of his peers, for this knight is determined to conquer the world. The Saracens, noticing his bitter tone, now propose to rid Ganelon of his step-son, provided he will arrange that Roland command the rear-guard of the French army. Thus riding along, they devise the plot whereby this young hero is to be led into an ambush in the Valley of Roncevaux (Roncesvalles), where, by slaying him, they will deprive Charlemagne of his main strength. "For whoso Roland to death shall bring, From Karl his good right arm will wring, The marvellous host will melt away, No more shall he muster a like array." Arriving in the presence of the Saracen king, Ganelon reports Charlemagne ready to accept his offers, provided he do homage for one half of Spain and abandon the other to Roland. Because Ganelon adds the threat that, should this offer be refused, Charlemagne proposes to seize Saragossa and bear Marsile a prisoner to Aix, the Saracen king angrily orders the execution of the insolent messenger. But the Frenchmen's truculent attitude forbids the guards' approach, and thus gives the ambassadors a chance to inform Marsile that Ganelon has promised to help them to outwit Charlemagne by depriving him of his most efficient general. Hearing this, Marsile's anger is disarmed; and he not only agrees to their plan to surprise Roland while crossing the Pyrenees, but sends Ganelon back laden with gifts. On rejoining his master at the foot of the mountains, Ganelon delivers the keys of Saragossa, and reports that the caliph has sailed for the East, with one hundred thousand men, none of whom care to dwell in a Christian land. Hearing this, Charlemagne, imagining his task finished, returns thanks to God, and prepares to wend his way back to France, where he expects Marsile to follow him and do homage for Spain. Karl the Great hath wasted Spain, Her cities sacked, her castles ta'en; But now "My wars are done," he cried, "And home to gentle France we ride." _The Rear-guard and Roland Condemned to Death._ On the eve of his return to "sweet France," Charlemagne's rest is disturbed by horrible dreams, in one of which Ganelon breaks his lance, while in the other wild animals are about to attack him. On awaking from this nightmare, Charlemagne divides his army so as to thread his way safely through the narrow passes of the mountains, arranging that a force shall remain twenty miles in his rear to make sure he shall not be surprised by the foe. When he inquires to whom this important command shall be entrusted, Ganelon eagerly suggests that, as Roland is the most valiant of the peers, the task be allotted to him. Anxious to keep his nephew by him, Charlemagne resents this suggestion, but, when he prepares to award the post to some one else, Roland eagerly claims it, promising France shall lose nothing through him. "God be my judge," was the count's reply, "If ever I thus my race belie. But twenty thousand with me shall rest, Bravest of all your Franks and best; The mountain passes in safety tread, While I breathe in life you have nought to dread." Because it is patent to all that his step-father proposed his name through spite, Roland meaningly remarks that he at least will not drop the insignia of his rank, and in proof thereof proudly clutches the bow Charlemagne hands him, and boastfully declares twelve peers and twenty thousand men will prove equal to any emergency. Fully armed and mounted on his steed (Veillantif), Roland, from an eminence, watches the vanguard of the French army disappear in the mountain gorges, calling out to the last men that he and his troop will follow them soon! This vanguard is led by Charlemagne and Ganelon, and, as it passes on, the heavy tramp of the mailed steeds causes the ground to shake, while the clash of the soldiers' arms is heard for miles around. They have already travelled thirty miles and are just nearing France, whose sunny fields the soldiers greet with cries of joy, when Duke Naimes perceives tears flowing down the emperor's cheeks, and learns that they are caused by apprehension for Roland. High were the peaks, and the valleys deep, The mountains wondrous dark and steep; Sadly the Franks through the passes wound, Fully fifteen leagues did their tread resound. To their own great land they are drawing nigh, And they look on the fields of Gascony. They think of their homes and their manors there, Their gentle spouses and damsels fair. Is none but for pity the tear lets fall; But the anguish of Karl is beyond them all. His sister's son at the gates of Spain Smites on his heart, and he weeps amain. The evident anxiety of Charlemagne fills the hearts of all Frenchmen with nameless fear, and some of them whisper that Ganelon returned from Saragossa with suspiciously rich gifts. Meantime Roland, who has merely been waiting for the vanguard to gain some advance, sets out to cross the mountains too; where, true to his agreement with Ganelon, Marsile has concealed a force of one hundred thousand men, led by twelve Saracen generals, who are considered fully equal to the French peers, and who have vowed to slay Roland in the passes of Roncevaux. PART II. PRELUDE TO THE GREAT BATTLE. It is only when the Saracen army is beginning to close in upon the French, that the peers become aware of their danger. Oliver, Roland's bosom friend, the first to descry the enemy, calls out that this ambush is the result of Ganelon's treachery, only to be silenced by Roland, who avers none shall accuse his step-father without proof. Then, hearing of the large force approaching, Roland exclaims, "Cursed be he who flees," and admonishes all present to show their mettle and die fighting bravely. _The Pride of Roland._ Because the enemies' force so greatly outnumbers theirs, Oliver suggests that Roland sound his horn to summon Charlemagne to his aid; but, unwilling to lose any glory, this hero refuses, declaring he will strike one hundred thousand such doughty blows with his mighty sword (Durendal), that all the pagans will be laid low. "Roland, Roland, yet wind one blast! Karl will hear ere the gorge be passed, And the Franks return on their path full fast." "I will not sound on mine ivory horn: It shall never be spoken of me in scorn, That for heathen felons one blast I blew; I may not dishonor my lineage true. But I will strike, ere this fight be o'er, A thousand strokes and seven hundred more, And my Durindana shall drip with gore. Our Franks will bear them like vassals brave. The Saracens flock but to find a grave." In spite of the fact that Oliver thrice implores him to summon aid, Roland thrice refuses; so his friend, perceiving he will not yield, finally declares they must do their best, and adds that, should they not get the better of the foe, they will at least die fighting nobly. Then Archbishop Turpin--one of the peers--assures the soldiers that, since they are about to die as martyrs, they will earn Paradise, and pronounces the absolution, thus inspiring the French with such courage that, on rising from their knees, they rush forward to earn a heavenly crown. Riding at their head, Roland now admits to Oliver that Ganelon must have betrayed them, grimly adding that the Saracens will have cause to rue their treachery before long. Then he leads his army down the valley to a more open space, where, as soon as the signal is given, both friends plunge into the fray, shouting their war-cry ("Montjoie"). _The Medley._ In the first ranks of the Saracens is a nephew of Marsile, who loudly boasts Charlemagne is about to lose his right arm; but, before he can repeat this taunt, Roland, spurring forward, runs his lance through his body and hurls it to the ground with a turn of his wrist. Then, calling out to his men that they have scored the first triumph, Roland proceeds to do tremendous execution among the foe. The poem describes many of the duels which take place,--for each of the twelve peers specially distinguishes himself,--while the Saracens, conscious of vastly superior numbers, return again and again to the attack. Even the archbishop fights bravely, and Roland, after dealing fifteen deadly strokes with his lance, resorts to his sword, thus meeting the Saracens at such close quarters that every stroke of his blade hews through armor, rider, and steed. At the last it brake; then he grasped in hand His Durindana, his naked brand. He smote Chernubles' helm upon, Where, in the centre, carbuncles shone: Down through his coif and his fell of hair, Betwixt his eyes came the falchion bare, Down through his plated harness fine, Down through the Saracen's chest and chine, Down through the saddle with gold inlaid, Till sank in the living horse the blade, Severed the spine where no joint was found, And horse and rider lay dead on ground. In spite of Roland's doughty blows, his good sword suffers no harm, nor does that of Oliver (Hauteclaire), with which he does such good work that Roland assures him he will henceforth consider him a brother. Although the French slay the pagans by thousands, so many of their own warriors fall, that, by the time they have repulsed the first Saracen division, only sixty of Roland's men remain alive. All nature seems to feel the terrible battle raging in the valley of Roncevaux, for a terrible storm breaks forth, in France, where, hearing the roll of the thunder, seeing the flash of the lightning, and feeling the earth shake beneath their feet, the French fear the end of the world has come. These poor warriors are little aware that all this commotion is due to "nature's grief for the death of Roland." Now a wondrous storm o'er France hath passed, With thunder-stroke and whirlwind's blast; Rain unmeasured, and hail, there came, Sharp and sudden the lightning's flame; And an earthquake ran--the sooth I say, From Besançon city to Wissant Bay; From Saint Michael's Mount to thy shrine, Cologne, House unrifted was there none. And a darkness spread in the noontide high-- No light, save gleams from the cloven sky. On all who saw came a mighty fear. They said, "The end of the world is near." Alas, they spake but with idle breath,-- 'Tis the great lament for Roland's death. _The Horn._ During the brief respite allowed them, Roland informs Oliver that he wishes to notify Charlemagne that France has been widowed of many men. In reply, Oliver rejoins that no Frenchman will leave this spot to bear such a message, seeing all prefer death and honor to safety! Such being the case, Roland proposes to sound his horn, whereupon Oliver bitterly rejoins, had his friend only done so at first, they would have been reinforced by now, and that the emperor can no longer reach them in time. He can, however, avenge them and give them an honorable burial, Roland argues, and he and his friend continue bickering until the archbishop silences them, bidding Roland blow his horn. Placing Olifant to his lips, the hero, after drawing a powerful breath, blows so mighty a blast that it re-echoes thirty miles away. This sound, striking Charlemagne's ear, warns him that his army is in danger, although Ganelon insists Roland is hunting. While blowing a second blast, Roland makes so mighty an effort that he actually bursts the blood-vessels in his temples, and the Frenchmen, hearing that call, aver with awe that he would never call that way unless in dire peril. Ganelon, however, again insists that his step-son is in no danger and is merely coursing a hare. With deadly travail, in stress and pain, Count Roland sounded the mighty strain. Forth from his mouth the bright blood sprang, And his temples burst for the very pang. On and onward was borne the blast, Till Karl hath heard as the gorge he passed, And Naimes and all his men of war. "It is Roland's horn," said the Emperor, "And, save in battle, he had not blown." With blood pouring from mouth and ears, Roland sounds his horn a third and last time, producing so long and despairing a note, that Naimes vows the French must be at the last extremity, and that unless they hurry they will not find any alive! Bidding all his horns sound as a signal that he is coming, Charlemagne--after ordering Ganelon bound and left in charge of the baggage train--leads his men back to Spain to Roland's rescue. As the day is already far advanced, helmets and armors glitter beneath the rays of the setting sun as the Frenchmen spur along, tears coursing down their cheeks, for they apprehend what must have befallen Roland, who was evidently suffering when he blew that third blast! _The Rout._ Meanwhile, casting his eyes over the battle-field, now strewn with corpses, Roland mourns his fallen companions, praying God to let their souls rest in Paradise on beds of flowers. Then, turning to Oliver, he proposes that they fight on as long as breath remains in their bodies, before he plunges back into the fray, still uttering his war-cry. By this time the French are facing a second onslaught of the pagans, and Roland has felled twenty-four of their bravest fighters before Marsile challenges him to a duel. Although weak and weary, Roland accepts, and with his first stroke hews off the Saracen's right hand; but, before he can follow this up with a more decisive blow, Marsile is borne away by his followers. Seeing their master gallop off towards Spain, the remainder of the Saracens, crying that Charlemagne's nephew has triumphed, cease fighting and flee. Thus, fifty thousand men soon vanish in the distance, leaving Roland temporary master of the battle-field, which he knows the emperor will reach only after he has breathed his last. _The Death of Oliver._ Although the Saracens have fled, some Moors remain to charge the Frenchmen, whom they wish to annihilate before Charlemagne can arrive. Once more, therefore, Roland urges his followers to do their best, cursing those who dream of yielding. Not daring approach the small handful of doughty Frenchmen, the pagans attack them from a distance with lance, arrow, and spear, tauntingly crying Charlemagne will have no cause to pride himself upon having appointed them to guard his rear! Mortally wounded by one of these spears, Oliver, blindly cutting down the foes nearest him, bids Roland hasten to his rescue, as it won't be long before they part. Seeing the stream of blood which flows from his friend's wounds and catching a glimpse of his livid face, Roland so keenly realizes Oliver's end is near that he swoons in his saddle. The wounded man, no longer able to see, meanwhile ranges wildly around the battle-field, striking madly right and left. In doing so he runs against Roland, and, failing to recognize him, deals him so powerful a blow that he almost kills him. Gently inquiring why his friend thus attacks one he loves, Roland hears Oliver gasp, "I hear you, friend, but do not see you. Forgive me for having struck you,"--a more than ample apology,--ere he dies. See Roland there on his charger swooned, Olivier smitten with his death wound. His eyes from bleeding are dimmed and dark, Nor mortal, near or far, can mark; And when his comrade beside him pressed, Fiercely he smote on his golden crest; Down to the nasal the helm he shred, But passed no further, nor pierced his head. Roland marvelled at such a blow, And thus bespake him soft and low: "Hast thou done it, my comrade, wittingly? Roland who loves thee so dear, am I, Thou hast no quarrel with me to seek." Olivier answered, "I hear thee speak, But I see thee not. God seeth thee. Have I struck thee, brother? Forgive it me." "I am not hurt, O Olivier; And in sight of God, I forgive thee here." Then each to other his head has laid, And in love like this was their parting made. On seeing that his friend has passed away, the heart-broken Roland again swoons in his saddle, but his intelligent steed stands still until his master recovers his senses. Gazing around him, Roland now ascertains that only two other Frenchmen are still alive, and, seeing one of them severely wounded, he binds up his cuts before plunging back into the fray, where he accounts for twenty-five pagans, while the archbishop and the wounded soldier dispose of eleven more. _Charlemagne Approaches._ The last Frenchmen are fighting madly against a thousand Moors on foot and four thousand on horseback, when the spears flung from a distance lay low the wounded man and deal a mortal wound to the archbishop. But, even while dying, Turpin joins Roland in declaring they must continue to fight, so that when the emperor finds their bodies he can see they have piled hundreds of corpses around them. This resolve is carried out, however, only at the cost of dire suffering, for the archbishop is dying and Roland's burst temples cause him intense pain. Nevertheless, he once more puts his horn to his lips, and draws from it this time so pitiful a blast that, when it reaches the ears of Charlemagne, he woefully exclaims: "All is going ill; my nephew Roland will die to-day, for the sound of his horn is very weak!" Again bidding his sixty thousand trumpets sound, the emperor urges his troops to even greater speed, until the noise of his horns and the tramp of his steeds reaches the pagans' ears and admonishes them to flee. Realizing that, should Roland survive, the war will continue, a few Moors make a final frantic attempt to slay him before fleeing. Seeing them advance for a last onslaught, Roland--who has dismounted for a moment--again bestrides his steed and, accompanied by the staggering archbishop, bravely faces them. They, however, only fling missiles from a distance, until Roland's shield drops useless from his hand and his steed sinks lifeless beneath him! Then, springing to his feet, Roland defies these cowardly foes, who, not daring to linger any longer, turn and flee, crying that Roland has won and Spain is lost unless the emir comes to their rescue! _The Last Blessing of the Archbishop._ While the pagans are spurring towards Saragossa, Roland remains on the battle-field, for, having lost his steed and being mortally wounded, he cannot attempt to pursue them. After tenderly removing the archbishop's armor, binding up his wounds, and placing him comfortably on the ground, Roland brings him the twelve peers, so he can bless them for the last time. Although Archbishop Turpin admonishes him to hasten, Roland is so weak, that he slowly and painfully collects the corpses from mountain and valley, laying them one by one at the feet of the archbishop, who, with right hand raised, bestows his blessing. While laying Oliver at Turpin's feet, Roland faints from grief, so the prelate painfully raises himself, and, seizing the hero's horn, tries to get down to the brook to bring him some water. Such is his weakness, however, that he stumbles and falls dead, face to the ground, before he can fulfil his kindly intention. On recovering consciousness and seeing nothing save corpses around him, Roland exults to think that Charlemagne will find forty dead Saracens for every slain Frenchman! Then, feeling his brain slowly ooze out through his ears, Roland--after reciting a prayer for his dead companions--grasps his sword in one hand and his horn in the other, and begins to climb a neighboring hill. He tries to reach its summit because he has always boasted he would die face toward the enemy, and he longs to look defiance toward Spain until the end. Painfully reaching the top of this eminence, Roland stumbles and falls across a Saracen, who has been feigning death to escape capture. Seeing the dreaded warrior unconscious, this coward seizes his sword, loudly proclaiming he has triumphed; but, at his first touch, Roland--recovering his senses--deals him so mighty a blow with his horn, that the Saracen falls with crushed helmet and skull. Having thus recovered his beloved Durendal, Roland, to prevent its again falling into the enemy's hands, vainly tries to break it by hewing at the rocks around him, but, although he uses all the strength he has left to deal blows that cut through the stone, the good sword remains undinted. Full of admiration, Roland then recalls the feats Durendal has enabled him to perform, and, lying down on the grass, places beneath him sword and horn, so as to defend them dead as well as alive! Then, having confessed his sins and recited a last prayer, Roland holds out his glove toward heaven, in token that he surrenders his soul to God, and begs that an angel be sent to receive it from his hand. Thus, lying beneath a pine, his face toward Spain, his last thoughts for France and for God, Roland dies in the presence of the angels, who bear his soul off to Paradise. Roland feeleth his hour at hand; On a knoll he lies towards the Spanish land. With one hand beats he upon his breast: "In thy sight, O God, be my sins confessed. From my hour of birth, both the great and small, Down to this day, I repent of all." As his glove he raises to God on high, Angels of heaven descend him nigh. PART III. REPRISALS. Roland has barely breathed his last when Charlemagne arrives on the battle-field and, gazing around him, perceives nothing but corpses. Receiving no answer to his repeated call for the twelve peers, Charlemagne groans it was not without cause he felt anxious and mourns that he was not there to take part in the fray. He and his men weep aloud for their fallen companions, and twenty thousand soldiers swoon from grief at the sight of the havoc which has been made! Still, only a few moments can be devoted to sorrow, for Duke Naimes, descrying a cloud of dust in the distance, eagerly suggests that if they ride on they can yet overtake and punish the foe! Detailing a small detachment to guard the dead, Charlemagne orders the pursuit of the Saracens, and, seeing the sun about to set, prays so fervently that daylight may last, that an angel promises he shall have light as long as he needs it. Thanks to this miracle, Charlemagne overtakes the Saracens just as they are about to cross the Ebro, and, after killing many, drives the rest into the river, where they are drowned. It is only when the last of the foe has been disposed of that the sun sets, and, perceiving it is too late to return to Roncevaux that night, Charlemagne gives orders to camp on the plain. While his weary men sleep peacefully, the emperor himself spends the night mourning for Roland and for the brave Frenchmen who died to defend his cause, so it is only toward morning that he enjoys a brief nap, during which visions foreshadow the punishment to be inflicted upon Ganelon and all who uphold him. In the mead the Emperor made his bed, With his mighty spear beside his head, Nor will he doff his arms to-night, But lies in his broidered hauberk white. Laced is his helm, with gold inlaid. Girt on Joyeuse, the peerless blade, Which changes thirty times a day The brightness of its varying ray. Meanwhile the wounded Marsile has returned to Saragossa, where, while binding up his wounds, his wife comments it is strange no one has been able to get the better of such an old man as Charlemagne, and exclaims the last hope of the Saracens now rests in the emir, who has just landed in Spain. At dawn the emperor returns to Roncevaux, and there begins his sad search for the bodies of the peers. Sure Roland will be found facing the foe, he seeks for his corpse in the direction of Spain, and, discovering him at last on the little hill, swoons from grief. Then, recovering his senses, Charlemagne prays God to receive his nephew's soul, and, after pointing out to his men how bravely the peers fought, gives orders for the burial of the dead, reserving only the bodies of Roland, Oliver, and the archbishop, for burial in France. The last respects have barely been paid to the fallen, when a Saracen herald summons Charlemagne to meet the emir. So the French mount to engage in a new battle. Such is the stimulus of Charlemagne's word's and of his example, that all his men do wonders. The aged emperor himself finally engages in a duel with the emir, in the midst of which he is about to succumb, when an angel bids him strike one more blow, promising he shall triumph. Thus stimulated, Charlemagne slays the emir, and the Saracens, seeing their leader slain, flee, closely pursued by the Frenchmen, who enter Saragossa in their wake. There, after killing all the men, they pillage the town. On discovering that Marsile has meantime died of his wound, Charlemagne orders his widow to France, where he proposes to convert her through the power of love. The remainder of the pagans are compelled to receive baptism, and, when Charlemagne again wends his way through the Pyrenees, all Spain bows beneath his sceptre. At Bordeaux, Charlemagne deposits upon the altar of St. Severin, Roland's Olifant, filled with gold pieces, before personally escorting the three august corpses to Blaye, where he sees them interred, ere he hurries on to Aix-la-Chapelle to judge Ganelon. _The Chastisement of Ganelon._ On arriving in his palace, Charlemagne is confronted by Alda or Aude, a sister of Oliver, who frantically questions: "Where is Roland who has sworn to take me to wife?" Weeping bitterly, Charlemagne informs her his nephew is no more, adding that she can marry his son, but Aude rejoins that, since her beloved is gone, she no longer wishes to live. These words uttered, she falls lifeless at the emperor's feet.[11] From Spain the emperor made retreat, To Aix in France, his kingly seat; And thither, to his halls, there came, Alda, the fair-and gentle dame. "Where is my Roland, sire," she cried, "Who vowed to take me for his bride?" O'er Karl the flood of sorrow swept; He tore his beard, and loudly wept. "Dear sister, gentle friend," he said, "Thou seekest one who lieth dead: I plight to thee my son instead,-- Louis, who lord of my realm shall be." "Strange," she said, "seems this to me. God and His angels forbid that I Should live on earth if Roland die." Pale grew her cheek--she sank amain, Down at the feet of Carlemaine. So died she. God receive her soul! The Franks bewail her in grief and dole. The time having come for the trial, Ganelon appears before his judges, laden with chains and tied to a stake as if he were a wild beast. When accused of depriving Charlemagne of twenty thousand Frenchmen, Ganelon retorts he did so merely to avenge his wrongs, and hotly denies having acted as a traitor. Thirty of his kinsmen sustain him in this assertion, one of them even volunteering to meet the emperor's champion in a judicial duel. As the imperial champion wins, Ganelon and his relatives are adjudged guilty, but, whereas the latter thirty are merely hanged, the traitor himself is bound to wild horses until torn asunder. Having thus done justice, Charlemagne informs his courtiers they are to attend the baptism of a Saracen lady of high degree, who is about to be received into the bosom of the church. The men of Bavaria and Allemaine, Norman and Breton return again, And with all the Franks aloud they cry, That Gan a traitor's death shall die. They bade be brought four stallions fleet; Bound to them Ganelon, hands and feet: Wild and swift was each savage steed, And a mare was standing within the mead; Four grooms impelled the coursers on,-- A fearful ending for Ganelon. His every nerve was stretched and torn, And the limbs of his body apart were borne; The bright blood, springing from every vein, Left on the herbage green its stain. He dies a felon and recreant: Never shall traitor his treason vaunt. _End of the Song._ Having thus punished the traitor and converted the heathen, Charlemagne, lying in his chamber one night, receives a visit from the angel Gabriel, who bids him go forth and do further battle against the pagans. Weary of warfare and longing for rest, the aged emperor moans, "God, how painful is my life!" for he knows he must obey. When the emperor's justice was satisfied, His mighty wrath did awhile subside. Queen Bramimonde was a Christian made. The day passed on into night's dark shade; As the king in his vaulted chamber lay, Saint Gabriel came from God to say, "Karl, thou shalt summon thine empire's host, And march in haste to Bira's coast; Unto Impha city relief to bring, And succor Vivian, the Christian king. The heathens in siege have the town essayed, And the shattered Christians invoke thine aid." Fain would Karl such task decline. "God! what a life of toil is mine!" He wept; his hoary beard he wrung. Here ends the Song of Théroulde. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 8: Another version of this story can be found in the author's "Legends of the Middle Ages."] [Footnote 9: See the author's "Story of Old France."] [Footnote 10: All the quotations in this chapter are from John O'Hagen's translation of the "Song of Roland."] [Footnote 11: See the author's "Legends of the Rhine."] AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE Who would list to the good lay Gladness of the captive grey? 'Tis how two young lovers met, Aucassin and Nicolette, Of the pains the lover bore And the sorrow he outwore, For the goodness and the grace, Of his love, so fair of face. Sweet the song, the story sweet, There is no man hearkens it, No man living 'neath the sun, So outwearied, so foredone, Sick and woful, worn and sad, But is healèd, but is glad. 'Tis so sweet. So say they, speak they, tell they the tale.[12] This popular mediaeval ballad is in alternate fragments of verse and prose, and relates how the Count of Valence made desperate war against the Count of Biaucaire, a very old and frail man, who saw that his castle was in imminent danger of being taken and sacked. In his distress, this old lord besought his son Aucassin, who so far had taken no interest in the war, to go forth and fight. The youth, however, refused to do so, saying his heart was wrapped up in love for Nicolette, a fair slave belonging to a captain in town. This man, seeing the delicacy of his slave and realizing she must belong to some good family, had her baptized and treated her as if she were an adopted daughter. On account of Nicolette's lowly condition, Aucassin's father refuses to listen when the young man proposes to marry her, and sternly bids him think of a wife better suited, to his rank. The young lover, however, vehemently insists that Nicolette is fit to be an empress, and vows he will not fight until he has won her for his own. On seeing how intractable this youth is, the father beseeches the owner of the slave to clap her in prison, so that Aucassin will not be able to get at her in any way. Heart-broken to think that his lady-love is undergoing captivity in his behalf, Aucassin spends his time moping. To induce him to fight, his father finally promises that if he will go forth and drive away the foe he will be allowed to see Nicolette and kiss her. The prospect of such a reward so fires the young hero, that he sallies forth, routs the besiegers, and, seizing the Count of Valence, brings him back a prisoner. On entering the castle, he immediately begins to clamor for Nicolette, but his father now declares he would rather see the maiden burned as a witch than to let his son have anything more to do with her. Hearing this, Aucassin indignantly declares such being the case he will free his prisoner, an act of generosity which infuriates his father, who hopes to be enriched by the count's ransom. To punish Aucassin, the Count of Biaucaire now thrusts him into prison, but, although the lovers are sharing the same fate, they languish apart, and, therefore, spend all their time lamenting. One night, when the moon is shining bright, Nicolette, who has heard she is likely to be brought to trial and burned, decides to effect her escape. As the old woman who mounts guard over her is fast asleep, she softly ties together her sheets and towels, and, fastening them to a pillar, lets herself down by the window into the garden, from whence she timidly steals out into the night. The poem now artlessly describes Nicolette's beauty as she trips over the dewy grass, her tremors as she slips through the postern gate, and her lingering at the foot of the tower where her lover is imprisoned. While pausing there, Nicolette overhears his voice lamenting, and, thrusting her head into an aperture in the wall, tells him that she is about to escape and that as soon as she is gone they will set him free. To convince her lover that it is she who is talking, Nicolette cuts off a golden curl, which she drops down into his dungeon, repeating that she must flee. But Aucassin beseeches her not to go, knowing a young maid is exposed to countless dangers out in the world, and vehemently declares he would die were any one to lay a finger upon her. He adds that she alone shall be his wife, and that the mere thought of her belonging to any one else is unendurable. This declaration of love cheers poor Nicolette, who is so entranced by her lover's words that she fails to notice the approach of a patrol. A young sentinel, however, peering down from the walls, touched by Nicolette's beauty and by the plight of these young lovers, warns them of their danger. But not daring to speak openly to Nicolette, he chants a musical warning, which comes just in time to enable her to hide behind a pillar. There she cowers until the guards pass by, then, slipping down into dry moat,--although it is a perilous undertaking,--she painfully climbs up its other side and seeks refuge in a neighboring forest, where, although the poem informs us there are "beasts serpentine," she feels safer than in town. It is while wandering in this wilderness that Nicolette runs across some shepherds, whom she bribes to go and tell Aucassin a wild beast is ranging through the forest, and that he should come and slay it as soon as possible. Having thus devised means to entice her lover out of Biaucaire, Nicolette wanders on until she reaches a lovely spot, where she erects a rustic lodge, decking it with the brightest flowers she can find, in hopes that her lover, when weary of hunting, will rest beneath its flowery roof, and guess that it was erected by her fair hands. Meantime the Count of Biaucaire, hearing Nicolette has vanished, sets his son free, and, seeing him sunk in melancholy, urges him to go out and hunt, thinking the exercise may make him forget the loss of his beloved. Still, it is only when shepherds come and report that a wild beast is ranging through the forest, that the youth mounts his steed and sallies forth, his father little suspecting that instead of tracking game, he is bent on seeking traces of his beloved. Ere long Aucassin encounters an old charcoal-burner, to whom he confides his loss, and who assures him such a sorrow is nothing compared to his own. On discovering that the poor man's tears can be stayed with money, Aucassin bestows upon him the small sum he needs, receiving in return the information that a lovely maiden has been seen in the forest. Continuing his quest, Aucassin comes in due time to the flowery bower, and, finding it empty, sings his love and sorrow in tones that reach Nicolette's ear. Then, dismounting from his horse to rest here for the night, Aucassin manages to sprain his shoulder. Thereupon Nicolette steals into the bower and takes immediate measures to mitigate the pain. The mere fact that Nicolette is beside him helps Aucassin to forget everything else, and it is only after the first raptures are over, that they decide not to linger in the forest, where the Count of Biaucaire will soon find and separate them. To prevent such a calamity, they decide to depart together, and, as there is no extra steed for Nicolette to ride, her lover lifts her up on his horse before him, clasping her tight and kissing her repeatedly as they gallop along. Aucassin the Franc, the fair, Aucassin of yellow hair, Gentle knight, and true lover, From the forest doth he fare, Holds his love before him there, Kissing cheek, and chin, and eyes; But she spake in sober wise, "Aucassin, true love and fair, To what land do we repair?" "Sweet my love, I take no care, Thou art with me everywhere!" So they pass the woods and downs, Pass the villages and towns, Hills and dales and open land, Came at dawn to the sea sand, Lighted down upon the strand, Beside the sea. Thus the lovers travel all night, reach the sea-shore at dawn, and wander along it, arms twined around each other, while their weary steed follows them with drooped head. At sunrise a vessel nears the shore, upon which they embark to get out of reach of the wrath of the Count of Biaucaire. The vessel, however, is soon overtaken by a terrible tempest, which, after tossing it about for seven days, drives it into the harbor of Torelore. This is the mediaeval "topsy-turvy land," for on entering the castle Aucassin learns that the king is lying abed, because a son has been born to him, while the queen is at the head of the army fighting! This state of affairs so incenses Aucassin, that armed with a big stick he enters the king's room, gives him a good beating, and wrings from him a promise that no man in his country will ever lie abed again when a child is born, or send his wife out to do hard work. Having effected this reform in the land of Torelore, Aucassin and Nicolette dwell there peacefully, for three years, at the end of which time the castle is taken by some Saracens. They immediately proceed to sack it, carrying off its inmates to sell them as slaves. Bound fast, Aucassin and Nicolette are thrust into separate ships, but, although these are going to the same port, a sudden tempest drives the vessel in which Aucassin lies to the shore of Biaucaire. There the people capture it, and finding their young master, set him free, and invite him to take possession of his castle, for, his father having died during his absence, he is now master of all he surveys. Meantime Nicolette, landing at Carthage, discovers that this is her native town, and recognizes in her captors--her father and brothers. They are so overjoyed at recovering this long-lost sister that they propose to keep her with them, but Nicolette assures them she will never be happy until she rejoins Aucassin. Meantime she learns to play on the viol, and, when she has attained proficiency on this instrument, sets out in the guise of a wandering minstrel to seek her beloved. Conveyed by her brothers to the land of Biaucaire, Nicolette, soon after landing, hears that Aucassin, who has recently returned, is sorely bewailing the loss of his beloved. Presenting herself before Aucassin,--who does not recognize her owing to the disguise,--Nicolette plays so charmingly that she draws tears from his eyes. Then she begs to know his sorrows, and, on hearing he has lost his lady-love, suggests he woo the king of Carthage's daughter. Loudly averring he will never woo any one save Nicolette, Aucassin turns sadly away, whereupon the strolling minstrel assures him he shall see his beloved before long. Although it seems impossible to Aucassin that this prediction should be verified, Nicolette has little difficulty in fulfilling her promise, for, hastening back to her old home, she obtains some of her own clothes, and, thus restored to her wonted appearance, presents herself before the delighted Aucassin, who, overjoyed to see her once more, clasps her rapturously to his heart. The ballad adds that the two lovers, united for good and all, lived happy ever after, and were an example to all faithful lovers in the beautiful land of Biaucaire. Many years abode they there, Many years in shade or sun, In great gladness and delight. Ne'er had Aucassin regret, Nor his lady Nicolette. Now my story all is done-- Said and sung! FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 12: All the quotations in this chapter are from Andrew Lang's version of "Aucassin and Nicolette."] SPANISH EPICS Literature was born in Spain only when the Christians began to reconquer their country from the Moors. The first literary efforts therefore naturally reflected a warlike spirit, and thus assumed the epic form. Very few of these poems still exist in their original shape save the Poema del Cid, the great epic treasure of Spain, as well as the oldest monument of Spanish literature. Besides this poem, there exist fragments of epics on the Infantes of Lara and on Fernan Gonzales, and hints of others of which no traces now remain. These poems were popularized in Spain by the juglares, who invented Bernardo del Carpio so as to have a hero worthy to offset to the Roland of the jongleurs,--their French neighbors. But the poems about this hero have all perished, and his fame is preserved only in the prose chronicles. In the Cronica rimada of the thirteenth century, we discover an account of the Cid's youth, together with the episode where he slays Ximena's father, which supplied Corneille with the main theme of his tragedy. The Spaniards also boast of a thirteenth century poem of some twenty-five hundred stanzas on the life of Alexander, a fourteenth century romance about Tristan, and the chivalric romance of Amadis de Gaule, which set the fashion for hosts of similar works, whose popularity had already begun to wane when Cervantes scotched all further attempts of this sort by turning the chivalric romance into ridicule in his Don Quixote. The Spaniards also cultivated the epic ballad, or romanceros, previous to the Golden Age of their literature (1550-1700), drawing their subjects from the history or legends of France and Spain, and treating mainly of questions of chivalry and love. Arthur, the Round Table, and the Quest for the Holy Grail, were their stock subjects, previous to the appearance of Amadis de Gaule, a work of original fiction remodelled and extended in the fifteenth century by Garcia Ordonez de Montalvo. During the Golden Age, Spain boasts more than two hundred artificial epics, treating of religious, political, and historical matters. Among these the Auracana of Erzilla, the Argentina of Centenera, and the Austriada of Rufo can be mentioned. Then Velasco revived the Aeneid for his countrymen's benefit, and religious themes such as Azevedo's Creacion del Munde became popular. The latest of the Spanish epics is that of Saavedra, who, in his El Moro Exposito, has cleverly revived the old Spanish legend of the Infantes of Lara. It is, however, the Cid which is always quoted as Spain's representative epic. THE CID This poem, of some three thousand seven hundred lines, is divided into two cantos-and was written about 1200. It is a compilation from extant ballads in regard to the great Spanish hero Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar, born between 1030 and 1040, whose heroic deeds were performed at the time when the Christian kings were making special efforts to eject the Moors, who had invaded Spain three hundred years before. The first feat mentioned relates that Rodrigo's father, having been insulted by Don Gomez, pined at the thought of leaving this affront unavenged, until his son, who had never fought before, volunteered to defend him. Not only did Rodrigo challenge and slay Don Gomez, but cutting off his head bore it to his father as a proof that his enemy was dead, a feat which so pleased the old gentleman that he declared Rodrigo should henceforth be head of the family. After thus signalizing himself, Rodrigo was suddenly called upon to face five Moorish kings who had been making sallies into Castile. Not only did he defeat them, but took them prisoners, thereby winning from them the title by which he is commonly known, of "The Cid" or "The Lord." Shortly after this Donna Ximena, daughter of Don Gomez, appeared before King Ferrando demanding satisfaction for her father's death, and consenting to forego revenge only on condition that Rodrigo would marry her. The young hero having assented, the couple were united in the presence of the king, after which Rodrigo took his beautiful bride to his mother, with whom he left her until he had earned the right to claim her by distinguishing himself in some way. It seems that Ferrando of Castile was then disputing from the king of Aragon the possession of Calahorra, a frontier town. Both monarchs decided to settle their difference by a duel, stipulating that the town should belong to the party whose champion triumphed. Ferrando having selected Rodrigo as his champion, our hero set out to meet his opponent, delaying on the way long enough to rescue a leper from a bog. Then, placing this unfortunate on his horse before him, Rodrigo bore him to an inn, where, in spite of the remonstrances of his followers, he allowed the leper to share his bed and board. That night, while lying beside his loathsome bed-fellow, Rodrigo suddenly felt a cold breath pass through him, and, on investigating, discovered that his companion was gone. He beheld in his stead St. Lazarus, who proclaimed that, since Rodrigo had been so charitable, he would meet with prosperity, and might know whenever he felt a cold shiver run down his spine that it was an omen of success. Thus encouraged, Rodrigo rode on to take part in the duel, but he had been so delayed that the battle call had already sounded, and Alvar Fanez, his cousin, was preparing to fight in his stead. Bidding his cousin step aside, Rodrigo entered the lists, and soon won Calahorra for Ferrando. Pleased with what Rodrigo had done, the king now showered honors upon him, which so aroused the jealousy of the courtiers that they began to conspire with the Moors to ruin him. It happened, however, that they addressed their first proposals to the very kings whom Rodrigo had conquered, and who proved loyal enough to send him word of the plot. On discovering the treachery of the courtiers, the king banished them, but the wife of Don Garcia pleaded so eloquently with the Cid, that he furnished the banished man with letters of introduction to one of the Moorish kings, who, to please his conqueror, bestowed the city of Cabra upon him. Although treated with such generosity, Don Garcia proved ungrateful, and even tried to cheat the Moors. Hearing this, the Cid, siding with his former enemies, came into their country to take away from Don Garcia the city which had been allotted for his use. During one of Ferrando's absences from home, the Moors invaded one of his provinces, whereupon Rodrigo, in retaliation, besieged the city of Coimbra. While he was thus engaged his army suffered so much from lack of provisions that it finally seemed as if he would have to give up his undertaking. But the monks, who had advised the Cid to besiege the city, now came to his rescue, and by feeding his army from their own stores enabled Rodrigo to recover another town from the pagans. Delighted with this new accession of territory, Ferrando knighted Rodrigo, who meantime had added to his title of the Cid that of Campeador, "the champion," and hereafter was often mentioned as "the one born in a fortunate hour." In addition, the king bestowed upon Rodrigo the governorship of the cities of Coimbra and Zamorra, which were to be reoccupied by Christians. Shortly after this, the Pope demanded that Ferrando do homage to the empire, but the king rejoined that Spain was independent and therefore refused to obey. Hearing that large forces were marching against him to compel him to submit, Ferrando placed the Cid at the head of an army, and our hero not only defeated the enemy at Tobosa, but won so brilliant a victory that the Pope never ventured to renew his demands. Feeling death draw near, Ferrando divided his realm between his sons, who became kings of Castile, Leon, and Gallicia, and bestowed upon his daughters the cities of Zamorra and Toro. Although disappointed not to inherit the whole realm, the eldest prince, Don Sancho, dared not oppose his father's will, until one of his brothers proceeded to dispossess one of their sisters. Under the plea that the promise made to their father had already been broken, Don Sancho now set out to conquer the whole realm, but proved so unfortunate in his first battle as to fall into his brother's hands. There he would have remained for the rest of his life, had not the Cid delivered him, taken his captor, and confiscated his realm in Sancho's behalf. Hearing this, the third king, Alfonso, clamored for his share of his brother's spoil, and, as none was allotted him, declared war in his turn. In this campaign Sancho proved victorious only when the Cid fought in his behalf, and the struggle resulted in the imprisonment of Alfonso, who would have been slain had not his sister asked that he be allowed to enter a monastery. From there Alfonso soon effected his escape, and hastened to seek refuge among the Moors at Toledo. Don Sancho, having meantime assumed all three crowns, became anxious to dispossess his sister of Zamorra. But the Cid refused to take part in so unchivalrous a deed, and thereby so angered the king that he vowed he would exile him. When the Cid promptly rejoined that in that case he would hasten to Toledo and offer his services to Alfonso to help him recover all he had lost, Sancho repented and apologized. He did not, however, relinquish his project of despoiling his sister of Zamorra, but merely dispensed the Cid from accompanying him. Because Zamorra was well defended by Vellido Dolfos,--the princess' captain,--King Sancho was not able to take it. He so sorely beset the inhabitants, however, that Vellido Dolfos resolved to get the better of him by strategy. Feigning to be driven out of the city, he secretly joined Don Sancho, and offered to deliver the city into his hands if the king would only accompany him to a side gate. Notwithstanding adverse omens, the credulous Sancho, believing him, rode off, only to meet his death at the postern gate, inside of which his murderer immediately took refuge. On learning that his master has been slain, the Cid hastened to avenge him, and, as Sancho had left no heir, proclaimed Alfonso his successor. We are told that this young prince had already heard of his brother's death through a message from his sister, and, fearing the Moors would not allow him to depart for good, had merely asked permission to visit his kin. The wary Moorish king consented, but only on condition Alfonso would promise never to attack him or his sons, should he become king. When Alfonso arrived at Zamorra, all the Spaniards readily did homage to him save the Cid, who refused to have anything to do with him until he had solemnly sworn he had no share in his brother's death. To satisfy the Cid, therefore, Alfonso and twelve of his men took a threefold oath in the church of Burgos; but it is said Alfonso never forgave the humiliation which the Cid thus inflicted upon him. The new monarch proved to be a wise ruler for the kingdoms of Leon, Castile, Gallicia, and Portugal. He was not without his troubles, however, for shortly after his succession the Cid quarrelled with one of his nobles. Next the Moorish kings became disunited and Alfonso's former host summoned him to his aid. Not only did Alfonso assist this king of Toledo, but invited him into his camp, where he forced him to release him from the promise made on leaving his city. Not daring to refuse while in the power of the Christians, the Moorish king reluctantly consented, and was surprised and delighted to hear Alfonso immediately renew the oath, for, while not willing to be friends with the Moors under compulsion, he had no objection to enter into an alliance with them of his own free will. Not long after this the king of Navarre sent forth his champion to challenge one of Alfonso's, the stake this time being three castles which the Cid won. But the Moors, taking advantage of the Cid's illness which followed this battle, rose up against Alfonso, who was compelled to wage war against them. In this campaign he would have fallen into the enemy's hands had not the Cid risen from his sick-bed to extricate him from peril! By this time the renown of the Cid was so great, that people in speaking of him invariably termed him "the Perfect One," thereby arousing such jealousy among the courtiers, that they persuaded Alfonso his subject was trying to outshine him! In anger the king decreed Rodrigo's immediate banishment, and, instead of allowing him the customary thirty days to prepare for departure, threatened to put him to death were he found within the land nine days later! As soon as the Cid informed his friends he was banished, one and all promised to follow wherever he went, as did his devoted cousin Alvar Fanez. It is at this point that the present poem of the Cid begins, for the ballads covering the foregoing part of the Cid's life exist only in a fragmentary state. We are told that the decree of banishment proved a signal for the courtiers to plunder the hero's house, and that the Cid gazing sadly upon its ruins exclaimed, "My enemies have done this!" Then, seeing a poor woman stand by, he bade her secure her share, adding that for his part he would henceforth live by pillaging the Moors, but that the day would come when he would return home laden with honors. On his way to Burgos the Cid was somewhat cheered by good omens, and was joined by so many knights in quest of adventure that no less than sixty banners fluttered behind him. A royal messenger had, however, preceded him to this city, to forbid the people to show him hospitality and to close his own house against him. The only person who dared inform the Cid of this fact was a little maid, who tremblingly reported that he was to be debarred from all assistance. "O thou that in a happy hour didst gird thee with the sword, It is the order of the king; we dare not, O my lord! Sealed with his royal seal hath come his letter to forbid The Burgos folk to open door, or shelter thee, my Cid. Our goods, our homes, our very eyes, in this are all at stake; And small the gain to thee, though we meet ruin for thy sake. Go, and God prosper thee in all that thou dost undertake."[13] Pausing at the church only long enough to say a prayer, the Cid rode out of the gates of Burgos and camped on a neighboring hill, where his nephew Martin Antolinez brought him bread and wine, declaring he would henceforth share the Cid's fortunes in defiance of the king. It was to this relative that the Cid confided the fact that he was without funds and must raise enough money to defray present expenses. Putting their heads together, these two then decided to fill two huge chests with sand, and offer them to a couple of Jews in Burgos for six hundred marks, stating the chests contained treasures too heavy and valuable to be taken into exile, and assuring them that, if they solemnly pledged themselves not to open the chests for a year, they could then claim them, provided the Cid had not redeemed them in the meanwhile. Trusting to the Cid's word and hoping to enrich themselves by this transaction, the Jews gladly lent the six hundred marks and bore away the heavy chests. Having thus secured the required supplies, the Cid proceeded to San Pedro de Cardena, where he entrusted his wife Ximena and two daughters to the care of the prior, leaving behind him funds enough to defray all their expenses. Then, although parting with his family was as hard as "when a finger-nail is torn from the flesh," the Cid rode away, crossing the frontier just as the nine days ended. He was there greatly cheered by a vision of the angel Gabriel, who assured him all would be well with him. The prayer was said, the mass was sung, they mounted to depart; My Cid a moment stayed to press Ximena to his heart: Ximena kissed his hand, as one distraught with grief was she: He looked upon his daughters: "These to God I leave," said he; "Unto our lady and to God, Father of all below; He knows if we shall meet again:--and now, sirs, let us go." As when the finger-nail from out the flesh is torn away, Even so sharp to him and them the parting pang that day. Then to his saddle sprang my Cid, and forth his vassals led; But ever as he rode, to those behind he turned his head. Entering the land of the Moors with a force of three hundred men, the Cid immediately proceeded to take a castle and to besiege the city of Alcocer. But this town resisted so bravely, that after fifteen weeks the Cid decided to effect by strategy the entrance denied by force. Feigning discouragement, he, therefore, left his camp, whereupon the inhabitants immediately poured out of the city to visit it, leaving the gates wide open behind them. The Cid, who was merely hiding near by, now cleverly cut off their retreat and thus entered Alcocer through wide-open gates. No sooner did the Moors learn that the Cid had conquered this important place, than they hastened to besiege it, cutting off the water supply, to compel the Christians to come out. To prevent his men from perishing of thirst, the Cid made so vigorous a sortie that he not only drove the enemy away, but captured their baggage, thus winning so much booty that he was able to send thirty caparisoned steeds to Alfonso, as well as rich gifts in money to his wife. In return, the bearer of these welcome tokens was informed by King Alfonso that Rodrigo would shortly be pardoned and recalled. Meanwhile the Cid, leaving Alcocer, had taken up his abode on the hill near Medina, which still bears his name. Thence he proceeded to the forest of Tebar, where he again fought so successfully against the Moors that he compelled the city of Saragossa to pay tribute to him. Rumors of these triumphs enticed hundreds of Castilian knights to join him, and with their aid he outwitted all the attempts the Moors made to regain their lost possessions. We are also told that in one of these battles the Cid took prisoner Don Ramon, who refused to eat until free. Seeing this, the Cid took his sword, Colada, and promised to set him and his kinsmen free if they would only eat enough to have strength to depart. Although doubtful whether this promise would be kept, Don Ramon and his follows partook of food and rode away, constantly turning their heads to make sure that they were not pursued. He spurred his steed, but, as he rode, a backward glance he bent, Still fearing to the last my Cid his promise would repent: A thing, the world itself to win, my Cid would not have done: No perfidy was ever found in him, the Perfect One. As some of his subjects were sorely persecuted by the Moors, Alfonso now sent word to the Cid to punish them, a task the hero promised to perform, provided the king would pledge himself never again to banish a man without giving him thirty days' notice, and to make sundry other wise reforms in his laws. Having thus secured inestimable boons for his fellow-countrymen, the Cid proceeded to besiege sundry Moorish castles, all of which he took, winning thereby much booty. Having thus served his monarch, the Cid was recalled in triumph to Castile, where he was told to keep all he had won from the Moors. In return the Cid helped Alfonso to secure Toledo, seeing the king with whom this king had sworn alliance was now dead. It was while the siege of this city was taking place that Bishop Jerome was favored by a vision of St. Isidro, who predicted they would take the city, a promise verified in 1085, when the Cid's was the first Christian banner to float above its walls. Our hero now became governor of this town, but, although he continued to wage war against the Moors, his successes had made the courtiers so jealous that they induced the king to imprison Ximena and her daughters. Perceiving he was no longer in favor at court, the Cid haughtily withdrew, and, when Alfonso came down into Valencia, demanding that the cities which had hitherto paid tribute to his subject should now do so to him, the Cid retaliated by invading Alfonso's realm. None of the courtiers daring to oppose him, Alfonso had cause bitterly to repent of what he had done, and humbly assured his powerful subject he would never molest him again. Ever ready to forgive an ungrateful master, the Cid withdrew, and for a time king and subject lived in peace. Although the Cid had permitted the Moors to remain in the cities he had conquered, they proved rather restive under the Christian yoke, and guided by Abeniaf finally told the Moors in Northern Africa that if they would only cross the sea they would deliver Valencia into their hands. But this conspiracy soon became known to the Moors who favored the Cid, and they immediately notified him, holding their town which was in dire peril for twelve days. To keep his promise, Abeniaf finally hauled some of the Moors up over the walls by means of ropes, and the presence of these foes in their midst compelled the Moors who favored the Cid to leave the city in disguise, thus allowing Abeniaf and his allies to plunder right and left and even to murder the Moorish king. This done, Abeniaf himself assumed the regal authority, and began to govern the city in such an arbitrary way that he soon managed to offend even his own friends. Meantime the Moors who had fled rejoined the Cid, and, when they reported what had occurred, Rodrigo wrote to Abeniaf, reproaching him for his treachery and demanding the surrender of the property he had left in town. Because Abeniaf replied that his allies had taken possession of it, the Cid termed him a traitor and swore he would secure revenge. Thereupon our hero set out with an army, and, finding himself unable to take the city by assault, began to besiege it, pulling down the houses in the suburbs to secure necessary materials to construct his camp. Then he began a systematic attack on the city, mastering one of its defences after another, and carrying on the siege with such vigor that he thereby won additional glory. All the Moorish captives taken were sent out through his lines into the open country, where they were invited to pursue their agricultural avocations, and assured protection, provided they would pay tribute of one-tenth of the produce of their lands. Meantime the people in the besieged city suffered so sorely from hunger, that they finally sent word they would treat with the Cid if he would allow Abeniaf and his followers to leave the country unharmed. The Cid having consented to this proposal, the invading Moors withdrew to Morocco, whence, however, they soon returned in increased numbers to recapture Valencia and take their revenge upon Abeniaf, who had proved treacherous to them too. To check the advance of this foe, the Cid flooded the country by opening the sluices in the irrigation canals, and the invaders, fancying themselves in danger of drowning, beat a hasty retreat. Because Abeniaf took advantage of these circumstances to turn traitor again, the Cid besieged him in Valencia for nine months, during which the famine became so intense that the inhabitants resorted to all manner of expedients to satisfy their hunger. Throughout this campaign the Cid ate his meals in public, sitting by himself at a high table and assigning the one next him to the warriors who won the most distinction in battle. This table was headed by Alvar Fanez, surrounded by the most famous knights. A notorious coward, pretending to have done great deeds, advanced one day to claim a seat among the heroes. Perceiving his intention, the Cid called him to come and sit with him, whereupon the knight became so elated that when he again found himself on the field of battle he actually did wonders! Seeing his efforts, the Cid generously encouraged him and, after he had shown himself brave indeed, publicly bade him sit with the distinguished knights. The city of Valencia having finally opened its gates, the Cid marched in with a train of provision-wagons, for he longed to relieve the starving. Then, sending for the principal magistrates, he expressed commiseration for their sufferings, adding that he would treat the people fairly, provided they proved loyal in their turn. But, instead of occupying the city itself, he and the Christians returned to the suburbs, enjoining upon the Moorish governor to maintain order among his people, and slay none but Abeniaf, who had proved traitor to all. Soon after, seeing that the Moors and Christians would never be able to live in peace within the same enclosure, the Cid appointed another place of abode for the Moors. Then he and his followers marched into Valencia, which they proceeded to hold, in spite of sundry attempts on the part of the Moors to recover possession of so important a stronghold. When the Moorish king of Seville ventured to attack the Cid, he and his thirty thousand men experienced defeat and many of his force were drowned in the river while trying to escape. Such was the amount of spoil obtained in this and other battles, that the Cid was able to make his soldiers rich beyond their dreams, although by this time he had a very large force, for new recruits constantly joined him during his wars with the Moors. As the Cid had vowed on leaving home never to cut his beard until recalled, he was now a most venerable-looking man, with a beard of such length that it had to be bound out of his way by silken cords whenever he wanted to fight. Among those who now fought in the Cid's ranks was Hieronymo (Jerome), who became bishop of Valencia, and who, in his anxiety to restore the whole land to Christian rule, fought by the Cid's side, and invariably advised him to transform all captured mosques into Christian churches. But lo! all armed from head to heel the Bishop Jerome shows; He ever brings good fortune to my Cid where'er he goes. "Mass have I said, and now I come to join you in the fray; To strike a blow against the Moor in battle if I may, And in the field win honor for my order and my hand. It is for this that I am here, far from my native land. Unto Valencia did I come to cast my lot with you, All for the longing that I had to slay a Moor or two. And so, in warlike guise I come, with blazoned shield, and lance, That I may flesh my blade to-day, if God but give the chance. Then send me to the front to do the bidding of my heart: Grant me this favor that I ask, or else, my Cid, we part!" Now that he had a fixed abiding place, the Cid bade Alvar Fanez and Martin Antolinez carry a rich present to Don Alfonso, and obtain his permission to bring his wife and daughters to Valencia. The same messengers were also laden with a reward for the Abbot of St. Pedro, under whose protection the Cid's family had taken refuge, and with funds to redeem the chests of sand from the Jews at Burgos, begging their pardon for the deception practised upon them and allowing them higher interest than they could ever have claimed. Not only did the messengers gallantly acquit themselves of this embassy, but boasted everywhere of the five pitched battles the Cid had won and of the eight towns now under his sway. On learning that the Cid had conquered Valencia, Alfonso expressed keen delight, although his jealous courtiers did not hesitate to murmur they could have done as well! The monarch also granted permission to Donna Ximena and her daughters to join the Cid, and the three ladies set out with their escorts for Valencia. Nine miles outside this city, the Cid met them, mounted on his steed Bavieca, which he had won from the Moors, and, joyfully embracing wife and daughters, welcomed them to Valencia, where from the top of the Alcazar he bade them view the fertile country which paid tribute to him. But, three months after the ladies' arrival, fifty thousand Moors crossed over from Africa to recover their lost territory. Hearing this, the Cid immediately laid in a stock of provisions, renewed his supplies of ammunition, and inspected the walls and engines of his towns to make sure they could resist. These preparations concluded, he told his wife and daughters they should now see with their own eyes how well he could fight! Soon after the Moors began besieging the city (1102), the Cid arranged that some of his troops should slip out and attack them from behind while he faced them. By this stratagem the Moors were caught between opposing forces, and overestimating their numbers fled in terror, allowing the Cid to triumph once more, although he had only four thousand men to oppose to their fifty thousand! Thanks to this panic of the Moors the Cid collected such huge quantities of booty, that he was able to send a hundred fully equipped horses to King Alfonso, as well as the tent which he had captured from the Moorish monarch. These gifts not only pleased Alfonso, but awed and silenced the courtiers, among whom were the Infantes of Carrion, who deemed it might be well to sue for the Cid's daughters, since the father was able to bestow such rich gifts. Having reached this decision, these scheming youths approached the king, who, counting upon his vassals' implicit obedience to his commands, promised they should marry as they wished. When the bearers of the Cid's present, therefore, returned to Valencia, they bore a letter wherein Alfonso bade the Cid give his daughters in marriage to the Infantes of Carrion. Although this marriage suited neither the old hero nor his wife, both were far too loyal to oppose the king's wishes, and humbly sent word they would obey. Then the Cid graciously went to meet his future sons-in-law. They were escorted to the banks of the Tagus by Alfonso himself, who there expressed surprise at the length of the Cid's beard, and seemed awed by the pomp with which he was surrounded, for at the banquet all the chief men ate out of dishes of gold and no one was asked to use anything less precious than silver. Not only did the Cid assure his future sons-in-law that his daughters should have rich dowries, but, the banquet ended, escorted them back to Valencia, where he entertained them royally. The wedding festivities lasted fifteen days, but even after they were over the Infantes of Carrion tarried in Valencia, thus giving the Cid more than one opportunity to regret having bestowed his daughters' hands upon youths who possessed neither courage nor nobility of character. While the young men were still lingering in Valencia, it happened one afternoon--while the Cid lay sleeping in the hall--that a huge lion, kept in the court-yard for his amusement, escaped from its keepers. While those present immediately rushed forward to protect the sleeper, the Cid's sons-in-law, terrified at the sight of the monster, crept one beneath the hero's couch and the other over a wine-press, thus soiling his garments so he was not fit to be seen. At the lion's roar the Cid awoke. Seeing at a glance what had occurred, he sprang forward, then, laying a powerful hand on the animal's mane, compelled him to follow him out of the hall, and thrust him ignominiously back into his cage. Because the Infantes had so plainly revealed their cowardice, people made fun of them, until they roused their resentment to such an extent that, when the Moors again threatened Valencia, they offered to go forth and defend the Cid. This show of courage simply delighted the old hero, who sallied forth accompanied by both sons-in-law and by the bishop, who was a mighty fighter. Although most of the warriors present did wonders on this occasion, the Infantes of Carrion were careful not to run any risk, although one of them purchased a horse which a soldier had won from the Moors, and shamelessly passed it off as his own trophy. Pleased to think this son-in-law had so distinguished himself, the Cid complimented him after the battle, where he himself had slain so many Moors and won so much booty that he was able to send another princely present to Alfonso. Perceiving they were still objects of mockery among the followers of the Cid, the Infantes now begged permission to take their wives home, although their real intention was to make these helpless girls pay for the insults they had received. Although the Cid little suspected this fact, he regretfully allowed his daughters to depart, and tried to please his sons-in-law by bestowing upon them the choice swords, Tizona and Colada, won in the course of his battles against the Moors. Two days' journey from Valencia the Infantes prepared to carry out the revenge they had planned, but while conferring in regard to its details were overheard by a Moor, who, vowing he would have nothing to do with such cowards, left them unceremoniously. Sending on their main troops with a cousin of the girls, Felez Munoz, who served as their escort, the Infantes led their wives into a neighboring forest, where, after stripping them, they beat them cruelly, kicked them with their spurs, and abandoned them grievously wounded and trembling for their lives. When the Infantes rejoined their suite minus their wives, Felez Munoz, suspecting something was wrong, rode back hastily, and found his cousins in such a pitiful plight that they were too weak to speak. Casting his own cloak about the nearly naked women, he tenderly bore them into a thicket, where they could lie in safety while he watched over them all night, for he did not dare leave them to go in quest of aid. At dawn he hurried off to a neighboring village and secured help. There, in the house of a kind man, the poor ladies were cared for, while their cousin hastened on to apprise the Cid of what had occurred. Meantime the Infantes had met Alvar Fanez conveying to the king another present, and, on being asked where were their wives, carelessly rejoined they had left them behind. Ill pleased with such a report, Alvar Fanez and his troops hurried back in quest of the ladies, but found nothing save traces of blood, which made them suspect foul play. On discovering what had really happened to the Cid's daughters, Alvar Fanez hurried on to deliver the present to the king, and indignantly reported what treatment the Cid's daughters had undergone at the hands of the bridegrooms the king had chosen for them, informing him that since he had made the marriage it behooved him to see justice done. Horrified on hearing what had occurred, Alfonso summoned the Cortes, sending word to the Cid and to the Infantes to appear before it at Toledo three months hence. Meantime the Cid, learning what had befallen his poor girls, hastened to them, took them home, and, hearing that the king himself would judge his case, decided to abide by the decision of the Cortes. At the end of the third month, therefore, the Cid's followers--who had preceded him--erected in the royal hall at Toledo the ivory seat he had won at Valencia, and Alfonso himself openly declared the Cid quite worthy to occupy a throne by his side, seeing no one had ever served him as well as the man whom the courtiers were always trying to belittle. The day for the solemn session having dawned, the Cid entered the hall, followed by a hundred knights, while the Infantes of Carrion appeared there with equal numbers, being afraid of an attack. When summoned to state his wrongs, the Cid quietly rose from his ivory throne, declaring that, having bestowed upon the Infantes two swords of great price, he demanded their return, since, as they refused to have anything more to do with his daughters, he could no longer consider them his sons. All present were amazed at the mildness of the Cid's speech and at his demanding merely the return of his swords, and the Infantes, glad to be let off so easily, promptly resigned both weapons into the Cid's hand. With his precious swords lying across his lap, the Cid now declared that having also given the Infantes large sums of money he wished those returned also, and, although the young men objected, the court sentenced them to pay the sum the Cid claimed. Both of these demands having been granted, the Cid next required satisfaction for the treatment the Infantes had inflicted upon his daughters, eloquently describing to the Cortes the cruelty and treachery used. "So please your Grace! once more upon your clemency I call; A grievance yet remains untold, the greatest grief of all. And let the court give ear, and weigh the wrong that hath been done. I hold myself dishonored by the lords of Carrion. Redress my combat they must yield; none other will I take. How now, Infantes! what excuse, what answer do ye make? Why have ye laid my heartstrings bare? In jest or earnest say, Have I offended you? and I will make amends to-day. "My daughters in your hands I placed the day that forth ye went, And rich in wealth and honors from Valencia were ye sent. Why did ye carry with you brides ye loved not, treacherous curs? Why tear their flesh in Corpes wood with saddle-girths and spurs, And leave them to the beasts of prey? Villains throughout were ye! What answer ye can make to this 'tis for the court to see." When the Cid added that Alfonso was responsible for these unfortunate marriages, the monarch admitted the fact, and asked what the Infantes of Carrion could say in their own defence. Insolently they declared the Cid's daughters not worthy to mate with them, stating they had, on the whole, treated them better than they deserved by honoring them for a time with their attentions. Had not the Cid forbidden his followers to speak until he granted permission, these words would have been avenged almost as soon as uttered. But, forgetting his previous orders, the aged Cid now demanded of Pero Mudo (Dumby) why he did not speak, whereupon this hero boldly struck one of the Infantes' party and challenged them all to fight. Thus compelled to settle the difficulty by a judicial duel, the king bade the Infantes and their uncle be ready to meet the Cid's champions in the lists on the morrow. The poem describes the encounter thus: The marshals leave them face to face and from the lists are gone; Here stand the champions of my Cid, there those of Carrion; Each with his gaze intent and fixed upon his chosen foe, Their bucklers braced before their breasts, their lances pointing low, Their heads bent down, as each man leans above his saddle-bow. Then with one impulse every spur is in the charger's side, And earth itself is felt to shake beneath their furious stride; Till, midway meeting, three with three, in struggle fierce they lock, While all account them dead who hear the echo of the shock. The cowardly Infantes, having been defeated, publicly confessed themselves in the wrong, and were ever after abhorred, while the Cid returned to Valencia with the spoils wrung from his adversaries, and proudly presented to his wife and daughters the three champions who had upheld their cause. He who a noble lady wrongs and casts aside--may he Meet like requital for his deeds, or worse, if worse there be. But let us leave them where they lie--their meed is all men's scorn. Turn we to speak of him that in a happy hour was born. Valencia the Great was glad, rejoiced at heart to see The honoured champions of her lord return in victory. Shortly after this the Cid's pride was further salved by proposals of marriage from the princes of Aragon and Navarre, and thus his descendants in due time sat upon the thrones of these realms. And he that in a good hour was born, behold how he hath sped! His daughters now to higher rank and greater honor wed: Sought by Navarre and Aragon for queens his daughters twain; And monarchs of his blood to-day upon the thrones of Spain. Five years now elapsed during which the Cid lived happy, honored by all and visited by embassies even from distant Persia. But the Cid was now old and felt his end near, for St. Peter visited him one night and warned him that, although he would die in thirty days, he would triumph over the Moors even after life had departed. This assurance was most comforting, for hosts of Moors had suddenly crossed the seas and were about to besiege Valencia. Trusting in St. Peter's warning, the Cid made all his preparations for death, and, knowing his followers would never be able to hold the city after he was gone, bade them keep his demise secret, embalm his body, bind it firmly on his steed Bavieca, and boldly cut their way out of the city with him in their van. Just as had been predicted, the Cid died on the thirtieth day after his vision, and, his corpse having been embalmed as he directed, his followers prepared to leave Valencia. To the amazement of the Moors, the gates of the city they were besieging were suddenly flung open wide, and out sallied the Christians with the Cid in their midst. The mere sight of this heroic leader caused such a panic, that the little troop of six hundred Christian knights safely conveyed their dead chief and his family through the enemy's serried ranks to Castile. Other detachments led by the bishop and Gil Diaz then drove these Moors back to Africa after securing immense spoil. Seeing Valencia abandoned, the Moors whom the Cid had established without the city returned to take possession of their former houses, on one of which they discovered an inscription stating that the Cid Campeador was dead and would no longer dispute possession of the city. Meantime the funeral procession had gone on to the Monastery of St. Pedro de Cardena, where the Cid was buried, as he requested, and where his marvellously preserved body sat in his ivory throne ten years, before it was placed in its present tomb. For two years and a half the steed Bavieca was reverently tended by the Cid's followers, none of whom, however, ever presumed to bestride him. As for Ximena, having mounted guard over her husband's remains four years, she finally died, leaving grandchildren to rule over Navarre and Aragon. And so his honor in the land grows greater day by day. Upon the feast of Pentecost from life he passed away. For him and all of us the Grace of Christ let us implore. And here ye have the story of my Cid Campeador. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 13: All the quotations in this chapter are taken from translation, of "The Cid" by Ormsby.] PORTUGUESE EPICS Portuguese literature, owing to its late birth, shows little originality. Besides, its earliest poems are of a purely lyrical and not of an epical type. Then, too, its reigning family being of Burgundian extraction, it borrowed its main ideas and literary material from France. In that way Charlemagne, the Arthurian romances, and the story of the Holy Grail became popular in Portugal, where it is even claimed that Amadis de Gaule originated, although it received its finished form in Spain. The national epic of Portugal is the work of Luis de Camoëns, who, inspired by patriotic fervor, sang in Os Lusiades of the discovery of the eagerly sought maritime road to India. Of course, Vasco da Gama is the hero of this epic, which is described _in extenso_ further on. In imitation of Camoëns, sundry other Portuguese poets attempted epics on historical themes, but none of their works possess sufficient merits to keep their memory green. During the sixteenth century, many versions of the prose epics or romances of chivalry were rife, Amadis de Gaule and its sequel, Palmerina d'Inglaterra, being the most popular of all. Later on Meneses composed, according to strict classic rules, a tedious epic entitled Henriqueida, in praise of the monarch Henry, and de Macedo left O Oriente, an epical composition which: enjoyed a passing popularity. THE LUSIAD _Introduction._ The author of the Portuguese epic, Luis de Camoëns, was born at Lisbon in 1524. Although his father, commander of a warship, was lost at sea during his infancy, his mother contrived to give him a good education, and even sent him to the University at Coimbra, where he began to write poetry. After graduating Camoëns served at court, and there incurred royal displeasure by falling in love with a lady his majesty chose to honor with his attentions. During a period of banishment at Santarem, Camoëns began the Lusiad, Os Lusiades, an epic poem celebrating Vasco da Gama's journey to India in 1497[14] and rehearsing with patriotic enthusiasm the glories of Portuguese history. Owing to its theme, this epic, which a great authority claims should be termed "the Portugade," is also known as the Epic of Commerce or the Epic of Patriotism. After his banishment Camoëns obtained permission to join the forces directed against the Moors, and shortly after lost an eye in an engagement in the Strait of Gibraltar. Although he distinguished himself as a warrior, Camoëns did not even then neglect the muse, for he reports he wielded the pen with one hand and the sword with the other. After this campaign Camoëns returned to court, but, incensed by the treatment he received at the hands of jealous courtiers, he soon vowed his ungrateful country should not even possess his bones, and sailed for India, in 1553, in a fleet of four vessels, only one of which was to arrive at its destination, Goa. While in India Camoëns sided with one of the native kings, whose wrath he excited by imprudently revealing his political tendencies. He was, therefore, exiled to Macao, where for five years he served as "administrator of the effects of deceased persons," and managed to amass a considerable fortune while continuing his epic. It was on his way back to Goa that Camoëns suffered shipwreck, and lost all he possessed, except his poem, with which he swam ashore. Sixteen years after his departure from Lisbon, Camoëns returned to his native city, bringing nothing save his completed epic, which, owing to the pestilence then raging in Europe, could be published only in 1572. Even then the Lusiad attracted little attention, and won for him only a small royal pension, which, however, the next king rescinded. Thus, poor Camoëns, being sixty-two years old, died in an almshouse, having been partly supported since his return by a Javanese servant, who begged for his master in the streets of Lisbon. Camoëns' poem Os Lusiades, or the Lusitanians (i.e., Portuguese), comprises ten books, containing 1102 stanzas in heroic iambics, and is replete with mythological allusions. Its outline is as follows: _Book I._ After invoking the muses and making a ceremonious address to King Sebastian, the poet describes how Jupiter, having assembled the gods on Mount Olympus, directs their glances upon Vasco da Gama's ships plying the waves of an unknown sea, and announces to them that the Portuguese, who have already made such notable maritime discoveries, are about to achieve the conquest of India. Bacchus, who has long been master of this land, thereupon wrathfully vows Portugal shall not rob him of his domain, while Venus and Mars implore Jupiter to favor the Lusitanians, whom they consider descendants of the Romans. The king of the gods is so ready to grant this prayer, that he immediately despatches Mercury to guide the voyagers safely to Madagascar. Here the Portuguese, mistaken for Moors on account of their swarthy complexions, are at first made welcome. But when the islanders discover the strangers are Christians, they determine to annihilate them if possible. So, instigated by one of their priests,--Bacchus in disguise,--the islanders attack the Portuguese when they next land to get water. Seeing his men in danger, Da Gama discharges his artillery, and the terrified natives fall upon their knees and not only beg for mercy, but offer to provide him with a pilot capable of guiding him safely to India. This offer is accepted by Da Gama, who does not suspect this pilot has instructions to take him to Quiloa, where all Christians are slain. To delude the unsuspecting Portuguese navigator into that port, the pilot avers the Quiloans are Christians; but all his evil plans miscarry, thanks to the interference of Mars and Venus, who by contrary winds hinder the vessels from entering this port. _Book II._ The traitor pilot now steers toward Mombaça, where meanwhile Bacchus has been plotting to secure the death of the Portuguese. But here Venus and her nymphs block the entrance of the harbor with huge rocks, and the pilot, realizing the Christians are receiving supernatural aid, jumps overboard and is drowned! Venus, having thus twice rescued her protégés from imminent death, now visits Olympus, and by the exercise of all her conquettish wiles obtains from Jupiter a promise to favor the Portuguese. In accordance with this pledge, Mercury himself is despatched to guide the fleet safely to Melinda, whose harbor the Portuguese finally enter, decked with flags and accompanied by triumphant music. Now Gama's bands the quiv'ring trumpet blow, Thick o'er the wave the crowding barges row, The Moorish flags the curling waters sweep, The Lusian mortars thunder o'er the deep; Again the fiery roar heaven's concave tears, The Moors astonished stop their wounded ears; Again loud thunders rattle o'er the bay, And clouds of smoke wide-rolling blot the day; The captain's barge the gen'rous king ascends, His arms the chief enfold, the captain bends (A rev'rence to the scepter'd grandeur due): In silent awe the monarch's wond'ring view Is fix'd on Vasco's noble mien; the while His thoughts with wonder weigh the hero's toil. Esteem and friendship with his wonder rise, And free to Gama all his kingdom lies.[15] _Book III._ As Vasco da Gama has solemnly vowed not to leave his ship until he can set foot upon Indian soil, he refuses to land at Melinda although cordially invited to do so by the native king. Seeing the foreign commander will not come ashore, the king visits the Portuguese vessel, where he is sumptuously entertained and hears from Da Gama's own lips an enthusiastic outline of the history of Portugal. After touching upon events which occurred there in mythological ages, Vasco relates how Portugal, under Viriagus, resisted the Roman conquerors, and what a long conflict his country later sustained against the Moors. He also explains by what means Portugal became an independent kingdom, and enthusiastically describes the patriotism of his countryman Egas Moniz, who, when his king was captured at the battle of Guimaraens, advised this prince to purchase his liberty by pledging himself to do homage to Castile. But, his master once free, Egas Moniz bade him retract this promise, saying that, since he and his family were pledged for its execution, they would rather lose their lives than see Portugal subjected to Castile. "And now, O king," the kneeling Egas cries, "Behold my perjured honor's sacrifice: If such mean victims can atone thine ire, Here let my wife, my babes, myself expire. If gen'rous bosoms such revenge can take, Here let them perish for the father's sake: The guilty tongue, the guilty hands are these, Nor let a common death thy wrath appease; For us let all the rage of torture burn, But to my prince, thy son, in friendship turn." Touched by the patriotism and devotion of Moniz, the foe not only spared his life, but showered favors upon him and even allowed him to go home. The king, thus saved from vassalage by the devotion of Moniz, is considered the first independent ruler of Portugal. Shortly after this occurrence, he defeated five Moorish rulers in the battle of Ourique, where the Portuguese claim he was favored with the appearance of a cross in the sky. Because of this miracle, the Portuguese monarch incorporated a cross on his shield, surrounding it with five coins, said to represent the five kings he defeated. Later on, being made a prisoner at Badajoz, he abdicated in favor of his son. After proudly enumerating the heroic deeds of various Alphonsos and Sanchos of Portugal, Da Gama related the touching tale of Fair Inez de Castro (retold by Mrs. Hemans), to whom Don Pedro, although she was below him in station, was united by a secret marriage. For several years their happiness was unbroken and several children had been born to them before the king, Don Pedro's father, discovered this alliance. Taking advantage of a temporary absence of his son, Alphonso the Brave sent for Inez and her children and sentenced them all to death, although his daughter-in-law fell at his feet and implored him to have mercy upon her little ones, even if he would not spare her. The king, however, would not relent, and signalled to the courtiers to stab Inez and her children. In tears she utter'd--as the frozen snow Touch'd by the spring's mild ray, begins to flow, So just began to melt his stubborn soul, As mild-ray'd Pity o'er the tyrant stole; But destiny forbade: with eager zeal (Again pretended for the public weal), Her fierce accusers urg'd her speedy doom; Again dark rage diffus'd its horrid gloom O'er stern Alonzo's brow: swift at the sign, Their swords, unsheath'd, around her brandish'd shine. O foul disgrace, of knighthood lasting stain, By men of arms a helpless lady slain! On returning home and discovering what his father had done, Don Pedro was ready to rebel, but was restrained from doing so by the intervention of the queen. But, on ascending the throne when his father died, Don Pedro had the body of his murdered wife lifted out of the grave, decked in regal apparel, seated on the throne beside him, and he compelled all the courtiers to do homage to her and kiss her dead hand, vowing as much honor should be shown her as if she had lived to be queen. This ceremony ended, the lady's corpse was laid in a tomb, over which her mourning husband erected a beautiful monument. Then, hearing his wife's slayers had taken refuge with Peter the Cruel, Don Pedro waged war fierce against this monarch until he surrendered the culprits, who, after being tortured, were put to death. Vasco da Gama also related how another king, Fernando, stole fair Eleanora from her husband, and vainly tried to force the Portuguese to accept their illegitimate daughter Beatrice as his successor. _Book IV._ Rather than accept as queen a lady who had married a Spanish prince,--who would probably unite their country with Spain,--the Portuguese fought the battle of Eljubarota in favor of Don John, and succeeded in dictating terms of peace to the Spanish at Seville. Some time after this the king of Portugal and his brother were captured by the Moors, and told they could recover their freedom only by surrendering Ceuta. Pretending acquiescence, the king returned to Portugal, where, as he had settled with his brother, who remained as hostage with the Moors, he refused to surrender the city. After describing the victories of Alfonso V., Vasco da Gama related how John II., thirteenth king of Portugal, first began to seek a maritime road to India, and how his successor, Emmanuel, was invited in a vision, by the gods of the Indus and Ganges, to come and conquer their country. Here as the monarch fix'd his wond'ring eyes, Two hoary fathers from the streams arise; Their aspect rustic, yet, a reverend grace Appear'd majestic on their wrinkled face: Their tawny beards uncomb'd, and sweepy long, Adown their knees in shaggy ringlets hung; From every lock the crystal drops distil, And bathe their limbs, as in a trickling rill; Gay wreaths of flowers, of fruitage and of boughs, (Nameless in Europe), crown'd their furrow'd brows. _Book V._ Such was the enthusiasm caused by this vision that many mariners dedicated their lives to the discovery of this road to India. Among these Gama modestly claims his rank, declaring that, when he called for volunteers to accompany him, more men than he could take were ready to follow him. [History reports, however, that, such was the terror inspired by a voyage in unknown seas, Vasco da Gama had to empty the prisons to secure a crew!] Then the narrator added he had--as was customary--taken ten prisoners with him, whose death sentence was to be commuted provided they faithfully carried out any difficult task he appointed. After describing his parting with his father, Vasco da Gama relates how they sailed past Mauritania and Madeira, crossed the line, and losing sight of the polar star took the southern cross as their guide. "O'er the wild waves, as southward thus we stray, Our port unknown, unknown the wat'ry way, Each night we see, impress'd with solemn awe, Our guiding stars and native skies withdraw, In the wide void we lose their cheering beams, Lower and lower still the pole-star gleams. * * * * * "Another pole-star rises o'er the wave: Full to the south a shining cross appears, Our heaving breasts the blissful omen cheers: Seven radiant stars compose the hallow'd sign That rose still higher o'er the wavy brine." A journey of five months, diversified by tempests, electrical phenomena, and occasional landings, brought them to Cape of Tempests, which since Diaz had rounded it was called the Cape of Good Hope. While battling with the tempestuous seas of this region, Vasco da Gama beheld, in the midst of sudden darkness, Adamastor, the Spirit of the Cape, who foretold all manner of dangers from which it would be difficult for them to escape. "We saw a hideous phantom glare; High and enormous o'er the flood he tower'd, And 'thwart our way with sullen aspect lower'd: An earthy paleness o'er his cheeks was spread, Erect uprose his hairs of wither'd red; Writhing to speak, his sable lips disclose, Sharp and disjoin'd, his gnashing teeth's blue rows; His haggard beard flow'd quiv'ring on the wind, Revenge and horror in his mien combin'd; His clouded front, by with'ring lightnings scar'd, The inward anguish of his soul declar'd. His red eyes, glowing from their dusky caves, Shot livid fires: far echoing o'er the waves His voice resounded, as the cavern'd shore With hollow groan repeats the tempest's roar." The King of Melinda here interrupts Vasco da Gama's tale to explain he has often heard of that Adamastor, a Titan transformed into a rock but still possessing supernatural powers. Resuming his narrative, Da Gama next describes their landing to clean their foul ships, their sufferings from scurvy, their treacherous welcome at Mozambic, their narrow escape at Quiloa and Mombaça, and ends his account with his joy at arriving at last at Melinda. _Book VI._ In return for the hospitality enjoyed on board of the Portuguese ships, the king of Melinda supplies Da Gama with an able pilot, who, steering straight for India, brings the Portuguese safely to their goal, in spite of the fact that Bacchus induces Neptune to stir up sundry tempests to check them. But, the prayers of the Christian crew and the aid of Venus counteract Bacchus' spells, so Da Gama's fleet enters Calicut, in 1497, and the Lusitanians thus achieve the glory of discovering a maritime road to India! _Book VII._ We now hear how a Moor, Monçaide, detained a prisoner in Calicut, serves as interpreter for Da Gama, explaining to him how this port is governed by the Zamorin, or monarch, and by his prime minister. The interpreter, at Da Gama's request, then procures an audience from the Zamorin for his new master. _Book VIII._ The poet describes how on the way to the palace Da Gama passes a heathen temple, where he and his companions are shocked to behold countless idols, but where they can but admire the wonderful carvings adorning the walls on three sides. In reply to their query why the fourth wall is bare, they learn it has been predicted India shall be conquered by strangers, whose doings are to be depicted on the fourth side of their temple. After hearing Da Gama boast about his country, the Zamorin dismisses him, promising to consider a trade treaty with Portugal. But, during the next night, Bacchus, disguised as Mahomet, appears to the Moors in Calicut, and bids them inform the Zamorin that Da Gama is a pirate, whose rich goods he can secure if he will only follow their advice. This suggestion, duly carried out, results in Da Gama's detention as a prisoner when he lands with his goods on the next day. But, although the prime minister fancies the Portuguese fleet will soon be in his power, Da Gama has prudently given orders that, should any hostile demonstration occur before his return, his men are to man the guns and threaten to bombard the town. When the Indian vessels therefore approach the Portuguese fleet, they are riddled with shot. _Book IX._ Because the Portuguese next threaten to attack the town, the Zamorin promptly sends Da Gama back with a cargo of spices and gems and promises of fair treatment hereafter. The Portuguese thereupon sail home, taking with them the faithful Monçaide, who is converted on the way and baptized as soon as they land at Lisbon. Book X. On the homeward journey Venus, wishing to reward the brave Lusitanians for all their pains and indemnify them for their past hardships, leads them to her "Isle of Joy." Here she and her nymphs entertain them in the most acceptable mythological style, and a siren foretells in song all that will befall their native country between Vasco da Gama's journey and Camoëns' time. Venus herself guides the navigator to the top of a hill, whence she vouchsafes him a panoramic view of all the kingdoms of the earth and of the spheres which compose the universe. In this canto we also have a synopsis of the life of St. Thomas, the Apostle of India, and see the Portuguese sail happily off with the beauteous brides they have won in Venus' Isle of Joy. The return home is safely effected, and our bold sailors are welcomed in Lisbon with delirious joy, for their journey has crowned Portugal with glory. The poem concludes, as it began, with an apostrophe from the poet to the king. The Lusiad is so smoothly written, so harmonious, and so full of similes that ever since Camoëns' day it has served as a model for Portuguese poetry and is even yet an accepted and highly prized classic in Portuguese Literature. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 14: See the author's "Story of the Thirteen Colonies."] [Footnote 15: All the quotations in this chapter are from Mickle's translation of the "Lusiad."] ITALIAN EPICS The fact that Latin remained so long the chief literary language of Europe prevented an early development of literature in the Italian language. Not only were all the popular European epics and romances current in Italy in Latin, but many of them were also known in Provençal in the northern part of the peninsula. It was, therefore, chiefly imitations of the Provençal bards' work which first appeared in Italian, in the thirteenth century, one of the best poets of that time being the Sordello with whom Dante converses in Purgatory. Stories relating to the Charlemagne cycle found particular favor in Northern Italy, and especially at Venice. In consequence there were many Italian versions of these old epics, as well as of the allegorical Roman de la Rose. It was at the court of Frederick II, in Sicily, that the first real school of Italian poetry developed, and from there the custom of composing exclusively in the vernacular spread over the remainder of the country. These early poets chose love as their main topic, and closely imitated the Provençal style. Then the "dolce stil nuovo," or sweet new style, was introduced by Guinicelli, who is rightly considered the first true Italian poet of any note. The earliest Italian epic, the "Buovo d'Antona," and an adaptation of Reynard the Fox, were current in the first half of the thirteenth century at Venice and elsewhere. In the second half appeared prose romances, such as tales about Arthur and his knights, the journey of Marco Polo, and new renderings of the old story of Troy. Professional story-tellers now began to wander from place to place in Northern and Central Italy, entertaining auditors of all classes and ages with stories derived from every attainable source. But the first great epic poet in Italy was Dante (1265-1321), whose Divina Commedia, begun in 1300, is treated separately in this volume. Although Petrarch was prouder of his Latin than of his Italian verses, he too greatly perfected Italian poetry, thus enabling his personal friend Boccaccio to handle the language with lasting success in the tales which compose his Decameron. These are the Italian equivalents of the Canterbury Tales, and in several cases both writers have used the same themes. By the fifteenth century, and almost simultaneously with the introduction of printing, came the Renaissance, when a number of old epics were reworked. Roland--or, as he is known in Italy, Orlando--is the stock-hero of this new school of poets, several of whom undertook to relate his love adventures. Hence we have "Orlando Innamorato," by Boiardo and Berni, as well as "Morgante Maggiore" by Pulci, where Roland also figures. In style and tone these works are charming, but the length of the poems and the involved adventures of their numerous characters prove very wearisome to modern readers. Next to Dante, as a poet, the Italians rank Ariosto, whose "Orlando Furioso," or Roland Insane, is a continuation of Boiardo's "Orlando Innamorato." Drawing much of his material from the French romances of the Middle Ages, Ariosto breathes new life into the old subject and graces his tale with a most charming style. His subject was parodied by Folengo in his "Orlandino" when Roland began to pall upon the Italian public. The next epic of note in Italian literature is Torquato Tasso's "Gerusalemme Liberata," composed in the second half of the sixteenth century, and still immensely popular owing to its exquisite style. Besides this poem, of which Godfrey of Bouillon is the hero and which is _par excellence_ the epic of the crusades, Tasso composed epics on "Rinaldo," on "Gerusalemme Conquistata," and "Sette Giornate del Mundo Creato." Some of Ariosto's contemporaries also attempted the epic style, including Trissino, who in his "Italia Liberata" relates the victories of Belisarius over the Goths in blank verse. His fame, however, rests on "Sofonisba," the first Italian tragedy, in fact "the first regular tragedy in all modern literature." Although no epics of great note were written thereafter, Alamanni composed "Girone il Cortese" and the "Avarchide," which are intolerably long and wearisome. "The poet who set the fashion of fantastic ingenuity" was Marinus, whose epic "Adone," in twenty cantos, dilates on the tale of Venus and Adonis. He also wrote "Gerusalemme Distrutta" and "La Strage degl' Innocenti," and his poetry is said to have much of the charm of Spenser's. The last Italian poet to produce a long epic poem was Fortiguerra, whose "Ricciardetto" has many merits, although we are told the poet wagered to complete it in as many days as it has cantos, and won his bet. The greatest of the Italian prose epics is Manzoni's novel "I Promessi Sposi," which appeared in 1830. Since then Italian poets have not written in the epic vein, save to give their contemporaries excellent metrical translations of Milton's Paradise Lost, of the Iliad, the Odyssey, the Argonautica, the Lusiad, etc. DIVINE COMEDY THE INFERNO _Introduction._ In the Middle Ages it was popularly believed that Lucifer, falling from heaven, punched a deep hole in the earth, stopping only when he reached its centre. This funnel-shaped hole, directly under Jerusalem, is divided by Dante into nine independent circular ledges, communicating only by means of occasional rocky stairways or bridges. In each of these nine circles are punished sinners of a certain kind. _Canto I._ In 1300, when thirty-five years of age, Dante claims to have strayed from the straight path in the "journey of life," only to encounter experiences bitter as death, which he relates in allegorical form to serve as warning to other sinners. Rousing from a stupor not unlike sleep, the poet finds himself in a strange forest at the foot of a sun-kissed mountain. On trying to climb it, he is turned aside by a spotted panther, an emblem of luxury or pleasure (Florence), a fierce lion, personifying ambition or anger (France), and a ravening wolf, the emblem of avarice (Rome). Fleeing in terror from these monsters, Dante beseeches aid from the only fellow-creature he sees, only to learn he is Virgil, the poet and master from whom he learned "that style which for its beauty into fame exalts me." Then Virgil reveals he has been sent to save Dante from the ravening wolf (which also personifies the papal or Guelf party), only to guide him through the horrors of the Inferno, and the sufferings of Purgatory, up to Paradise, where a "worthier" spirit will attend him. _Canto II._ The length of the journey proposed daunts Dante, until Virgil reminds him that cowardice has often made men relinquish honorable enterprises, and encourages him by stating that Beatrice, moved by love, forsook her place in heaven to bid him serve as Dante's guide. He adds that when he wondered how she could leave, even for a moment, the heavenly abode, she explained that the Virgin Mary sent Lucia, to bid her rescue the man who had loved her ever since she was a child. Like a flower revived after a chilly night by the warmth of the sun, Dante, invigorated by these words, intimates his readiness to follow Virgil. _Canto III._ The two travellers, passing through a wood, reach a gate, above which Dante perceives this inscription: "Through me you pass into the city of woe: Through me you pass into eternal pain: Through me among the people lost for aye. Justice the founder of my fabric moved: To rear me was the task of power divine, Supremest wisdom, and primeval love. Before me things create were none, save things Eternal, and eternal I endure. All hope abandon, ye who enter here."[16] Unable to grasp its meaning, Dante begs Virgil to interpret, and learns they are about to descend into Hades. Having visited this place before, Virgil boldly leads Dante through this portal into an ante-hell region, where sighs, lamentations, and groans pulse through the starless air. Shuddering with horror, Dante inquires what it all means, only to be told that the souls "who lived without praise or blame," as well as the angels who remained neutral during the war in heaven, are confined in this place, since Paradise, Purgatory, and Inferno equally refuse to harbor them and death never visits them. While he is speaking, a long train of these unfortunate spirits, stung by gadflies, sweeps past them, and in their ranks Dante recognizes the shade of Pope Celestine V, who, "through cowardice made the grand renunciation,"--i.e., abdicated his office at the end of five months, simply because he lacked courage to face the task intrusted to him. Passing through these spirits with downcast eyes, Dante reaches Acheron,--the river of death,--where he sees, steering toward them, the ferry-man Charon, whose eyes are like fiery wheels and who marvels at beholding a living man among the shades. When Charon grimly orders Dante back to earth, Virgil silences him with the brief statement: "so 'tis will'd where will and power are one." So, without further objection, Charon allows them to enter his skiff and hurries the rest of his freight aboard, beating the laggards with the flat of his oar. Because Dante wonders at such ill-treatment, Virgil explains that good souls are never forced to cross this stream, and that the present passengers have richly deserved their punishment. Just then an earthquake shakes the whole region, and Dante swoons in terror. _Canto IV._ When he recovers his senses, Dante finds himself no longer in Charon's bark, but on the brink of a huge circular pit, whence arise, like emanations, moans and wails, but wherein, owing to the dense gloom, he can descry nothing. Warning him they are about to descend into the "blind world," and that his sorrowful expression--which Dante ascribes to fear--is caused by pity, Virgil conducts his disciple into the first circle of hell. Instead of lamentations, only sighs are heard, while Virgil explains that this semi-dark limbo is reserved for unbaptized children, and for those who, having lived before Christ, must "live desiring without hope." Full of compassion for these sufferers, Dante inquires whether no one from above ever visited them, and is told that One, bearing trophies of victory, once arrived there to ransom the patriarchs Adam, Abel, Noah, and others, but that until then none had ever been saved. Talking busily, the two wend their way through a forest of sighing spirits, until they approach a fire, around which dignified shades have gathered. Informing Dante these are men of honored reputations, Virgil points out among them four mighty figures coming to meet them, and whispers they are Homer, Horace, Ovid, and Lucan. After conversing for a while with Virgil, these bards graciously welcome Dante as sixth in their poetic galaxy. Talking of things which cannot be mentioned save in such exalted company, Dante walks on with them until he nears a castle girdled with sevenfold ramparts and moat. Through seven consecutive portals the six poets pass on to a meadow, where Dante beholds all the creations of their brains, and meets Hector, Aeneas, Camilla, and Lucretia, as well as the philosophers, historians, and mathematicians who from time to time have appeared upon our globe. Although Dante would fain have lingered here, his guide leads him on, and, as their four companions vanish, they two enter a place "where no light shines." _Canto V._ Stepping down from this circle to a lower one, Dante and Virgil reach the second circle of the Inferno, where all who lived unchaste lives are duly punished. Smaller in circumference than the preceding circle,--for Dante's hell is shaped like a graduated funnel,--this place is guarded by the judge Minos, who examines all newly arrived souls, and consigns them to their appointed circles by an equal number of convolutions in his tail. For when before him comes the ill-fated soul, It all confesses; and that judge severe Of sins, considering what place in hell Suits the transgression, with his tail so oft Himself encircles, as degrees beneath He dooms it to descend. On beholding Dante, Minos speaks threateningly, but, when Virgil again explains they have been sent hither by a higher power, Minos too allows them to pass. Increasing sounds of woe now strike Dante's ear, until presently they attain the intensity of a deafening roar. Next he perceives that the whirlwind, sweeping violently round this abyss, holds in its grasp innumerable spirits which are allowed no rest. Like birds in a tempest they swirl past Dante, to whom Virgil hastily points out Semiramis, Dido, Cleopatra, Helen, Achilles, Paris, and Tristan, together with many others. Obtaining permission to address two shades floating toward him, Dante learns that the man is the Paolo who fell in love with his sister-in-law, Francesca da Rimini. Asked how she happened to fall, the female spirit, moaning there is no greater woe than to recall happy times in the midst of misery, adds that while she and Paolo read together the tale of Launcelot they suddenly realized they loved in the same way, and thus fell into the very sin described in this work, for "book and writer both were love's purveyors." Scarcely has she confessed this when the wind, seizing Francesca and Paolo, again sweeps them on, and Dante, hearing their pitiful moans, swoons from compassion. _Canto VI._ Recovering his senses, Dante finds Virgil has meantime transferred him to the third circle, a region where chill rains ever fall, accompanied by hail, sleet, and snow. Here all guilty of gluttony are rent and torn by Cerberus, main ruler of this circle. Flinging a huge fistful of dirt into the dog's gaping jaws to prevent his snapping at them, Virgil leads Dante quickly past this three-headed monster, to a place where they tread on the shades which pave the muddy ground. One of these, sitting up, suddenly inquires of Dante whether he does not recognize him, adding that he is the notorious Florentine glutton Ciacco. Fancying this shade may possess some insight into the future, Dante inquires what is to become of his native city, and learns that one political party will drive out the other, only to fall in its turn three years later. The glutton adds that only two just men are left in Florence, and, when Dante asks what has become of his friends, tells him he will doubtless meet them in the various circles of Hades, should he continue his downward course. Then the spirit begs that, on returning to the "pleasant world," Dante will recall him to his friends' memory, and, closing his eyes, sinks back among the other victims, all of whom are more or less blind. Vouchsafing the information that this sinner will not rise again "ere the last angel trumpet blow," Virgil leads Dante over the foul mixture of shades and mud, explaining that, although the accursed can never hope to attain perfection, they are not entirely debarred from improvement. _Canto VII._ Talking thus, the two travellers descend to the fourth circle, ruled by Plutus, god of wealth, who allows them to proceed, only after Virgil has informed him their journey is ordained, and is to be pursued to the very spot where Michael confined Satan. The mere mention of his master, the ex-archangel, causes Plutus to grovel; and Dante and Virgil, proceeding on their journey, discover that the fourth circle is occupied by all whom avarice mastered, as well as by prodigals, who are here condemned to roll heavy rocks, because their lives on earth were spent scuffling for money or because they failed to make good use of their gold. Dante descries among the victims tonsured polls, proving that monks themselves are not exempt from these sins. Meanwhile Virgil expounds how the Creator decreed nations should wield the mastery in turn, adding that these people are victims of Fortune, whose proverbial fickleness he ably describes. After passing a well, whose boiling waters overflow and form a stream, they follow the latter's downward course to the marsh called Styx, where hundreds of naked creatures wallow in the mire, madly clutching and striking each other. Virgil explains that these are those "whom anger overcame," and adds that the sullen are buried beneath the slimy waters, where their presence is betrayed by bubbles caused by their breath which continually rise to the surface. Edging around this loathsome pool, the two poets finally arrive at the door of a tall tower. _Canto VIII._ From the lofty turret flash flaming signals, evidently designed to summon some bark or ferry, since a vessel soon appears. Once more Virgil has to silence a snarling boatman (Phlegyas) ere he can enter his skiff, where he invites Dante to follow him. Then they row across the mire, whence heads keep emerging from time to time. One of the sufferers confined here suddenly asks Dante, "Who art thou that earnest ere thine hour?" only to be hastily assured the poet does not intend to stay. Just as Dante expresses the wish to know whom he is addressing, he recognizes this sinner (Argenti) and turns from him in loathing, an act which wins Virgil's approval. When Dante further mutters he wishes this monster were stifled in the mud, Virgil suddenly points to a squad of avenging spirits who, sweeping downward, are about to fulfil this cruel wish, when the culprit rends himself to pieces with his own teeth and plunges back into the Styx. Sailing along, Virgil tries to prepare Dante for their arrival at the city of Dis, whose minarets, colored by a fiery glow from within, now shine in the distance. Steered into the moat surrounding this city, the travellers slowly circle its iron walls, from which hosts of lost souls lean clamoring, "Who is this that without death first felt goes through the region of the dead?" When Virgil signals he will explain, the demons disappear as if to admit them; but, when the travellers reach the gates, they find them still tightly closed. Virgil then explains that these very demons tried to oppose even Christ's entrance to Hades, and adds that their power was broken on the first Easter Day. _Canto IX._ Quailing with terror, Dante hears Virgil admit that few have undertaken to tread these paths, although they are familiar to him, seeing that, guided by a witch (the Sibyl of Cumaea), he came here with Aeneas. While Virgil is talking, the three Furies appear on top of the tower, and, noting the intruders, clamor for Medusa to come and turn them into stone! Bidding Dante avoid the Gorgon's petrifying glance, Virgil further assures the safety of his charge by holding his hands over Dante's eyes. While thus blinded, the author of the poem hears waves splash against the shore, and, when Virgil's hands are removed, perceives an angel walking dry-shod over the Styx. At a touch from his hand, the gates of Dis open wide, and, without paying heed to the poets, who have instinctively assumed the humblest attitude, their divine rescuer recrosses the bog, leaving them free to enter into the iron fortress. There they find countless sinners cased in red-hot coffins sunk in burning marl. On questioning his guide, Dante learns each open sepulchre contains an arch-heretic, or leader of some religious sect, and that each tomb is heated to a degree corresponding to the extent of the harm done by its occupant's teachings. _Canto X._ Gingerly treading between burning tombs and fortress wall, Virgil conducts Dante to an open sepulchre, where lies the Ghibelline leader Farinata. Partly rising out of his glowing tomb, this warrior informs Dante that the Guelfs--twice driven out of Florence--have returned thither. At that moment another victim, peering over the edge of his coffin, anxiously begs for news of his son Guido, thus proving that, while these unfortunates know both past and future, the present remains a mystery to them. Too amazed at first to speak, Dante mentions Guido in the past tense, whereupon the unhappy father, rashly inferring his son is dead, plunges back into his sepulchre with a desperate cry. Not being able to correct his involuntary mistake and thus comfort this sufferer, Dante begs Farinata to inform his neighbor, as soon as possible, that his son is still alive. Then, perplexed by all he has seen and heard, Dante passes thoughtfully on, noting the victims punished in this place, until, seeing his dismay, Virgil comforts him with the assurance that Beatrice will explain all he wishes to know at the end of his journey. _Canto XI._ The poets now approach a depression, whence arises a stench so nauseating that they are compelled to take refuge behind a stone tomb to avoid choking. While they pause there, Dante perceives this sepulchre bears the name of Pope Anastasius, who has been led astray. Tarrying there to become acclimated to the smell, Virgil informs his companion they are about to pass through three gradations of the seventh circle, where are punished the violent, or those who by force worked injury to God, to themselves, or to their fellow-men. _Canto XII._ His charge sufficiently prepared for what awaits him, Virgil leads the way down a steep path to the next rim, where they are confronted by the Minotaur, before whom Dante quails, but whom Virgil defies by mentioning Theseus. Taking advantage of the moment when the furious, bull-like monster charges at him with lowered head, Virgil runs with Dante down a declivity, where the stones, unaccustomed to the weight of mortal feet, slip and roll in ominous fashion. This passage, Virgil declares, was less dangerous when he last descended into Hades, for it has since been riven by the earthquake which shook this region when Christ descended into hell. Pointing to a boiling river of blood (Phlegethon) beneath them, Virgil shows Dante sinners immersed in it at different depths, because while on earth they offered violence to their neighbors. Although anxious to escape from these bloody waters, the wicked are kept within their appointed bounds by troops of centaurs, who, armed with bows and arrows, continually patrol the banks. When these guards threateningly challenge Virgil, he calmly rejoins he wishes to see their leader, Chiron, and, while awaiting the arrival of this worthy, shows Dante the monster who tried to kidnap Hercules' wife. On drawing near them, Chiron is amazed to perceive one of the intruders is alive, as is proved by the fact that he casts a shadow and that stones roll beneath his tread! Noticing his amazement, Virgil explains he has been sent here to guide his mortal companion through the Inferno, and beseeches Chiron to detail a centaur to carry Dante across the river of blood, since he cannot, spirit-like, tread air. Selecting Nessus for this duty, Chiron bids him convey the poet safely across the bloody stream, and, while performing this office, the centaur explains that the victims more or less deeply immersed in blood are tyrants who delighted in bloodshed, such as Alexander, Dionysius, and others. Borne by Nessus and escorted by Virgil, Dante reaches the other shore, and, taking leave of them, the centaur "alone repass'd the ford." _Canto XIII._ The travellers now enter a wild forest, which occupies the second division of the seventh circle, where Virgil declares each barren thorn-tree is inhabited by the soul of a suicide. In the gnarly branches perch the Harpies, whose uncouth lamentations echo through the air, and who greedily devour every leaf that sprouts. Appalled by the sighs and wailings around him, Dante questions Virgil, who directs him to break off a twig. No sooner has he done so than he sees blood trickle from the break and hears a voice reproach him for his cruelty. Thus Dante learns that the inmate of this tree was once private secretary to Frederick II, and that, having fallen into unmerited disgrace, he basely took refuge in suicide. This victim's words have barely died away when the blast of a horn is heard, and two naked forms are seen fleeing madly before a huntsman and a pack of mastiffs. The latter, pouncing upon one victim, tears him to pieces, while Dante shudders at this sight. Meantime Virgil explains that the culprit was a young spendthrift, and that huntsman and hounds represent the creditors whose pursuit he tried to escape by killing himself. _Canto XIV._ Leaving this ghastly forest, Dante is led to the third division of this circle, a region of burning sands, where hosts of naked souls lie on the ground, blistered and scathed by the rain of fire and vainly trying to lessen their pain by thrashing themselves with their hands. One figure, the mightiest among them, alone seems indifferent to the burning rain, and, when Dante inquires who this may be, Virgil returns it is Capaneus (one of the seven kings who besieged Thèbes[17]), who, in his indomitable pride, taunted Jupiter and was slain by his thunder-bolt. Treading warily to avoid the burning sands, Virgil and his disciple cross a ruddy brook which flows straight down from Mount Ida in Crete, where it rises at the foot of a statue whose face is turned toward Rome. Virgil explains that the waters of this stream are formed by the tears of the unhappy, which are plentiful enough to feed the four mighty rivers of Hades! While following the banks of this torrent, Dante questions why they have not yet encountered the other two rivers which fall into the pit; and discovers that, although they have been travelling in a circle, they have not by far completed one whole round of the gigantic funnel, but have stepped down from one ledge to the other after walking only a short distance around each circumference. _Canto XV._ The high banks of the stream of tears protect our travellers from the burning sands and the rain of fire, until they encounter a procession of souls, each one of which stares fixedly at them. One of these recognizes Dante, who in his turn is amazed to find there his old school-master Ser Brunetto, whom he accompanies on his way, after he learns he and his fellow-sufferers are not allowed to stop, under penalty of lying a hundred years without fanning themselves beneath the rain of fire. Walking by his former pupil's side, Brunetto in his turn questions Dante and learns how and why he has come down here, ere he predicts that in spite of persecutions the poet will ultimately attain great fame. _Canto XVI._ Reaching a spot where the stream they are following suddenly thunders down into the eighth circle, Dante beholds three spirits running toward him, whirling round one another "in one restless wheel," while loudly exclaiming his garb denotes he is their fellow countryman! Gazing into their fire-scarred faces, Dante learns these are three powerful Guelfs; and when they crave tidings of their native city, he tells them all that has recently occurred there. Before vanishing these spirits piteously implore him to speak of them to mortals on his return to earth, and leave Dante and Virgil to follow the stream to the verge of the abyss. There Virgil loosens the rope knotted around Dante's waist, and, casting one end of it down into the abyss, intimates that what he is awaiting will soon appear. A moment later a monster rises from the depths, climbing hand over hand up the rope. _Canto XVII._ This monster is Geryon, the personification of fraud, and therefore a mixture of man, beast, and serpent. When he reaches the upper ledge, Virgil bargains with him to carry them down, while Dante converses with neighboring sorrowful souls, who are perched on the top of the cliff and hide their faces in their hands. All these spirits wear purses around their necks, because as usurers while on earth they lived on ill-gotten gains. Not daring to keep his guide waiting, Dante leaves these sinners, and hurries back just as Virgil is taking his seat on the monster's back. Grasping the hand stretched out to him, Dante then timorously mounts beside his guide. "As one, who hath an ague fit so near, His nails already are turn'd blue, and he Quivers all o'er, if he but eye the shade; Such was my cheer at hearing of his words. But shame soon interposed her threat, who makes The servant bold in presence of his lord. I settled me upon those shoulders huge, And would have said, but that the words to aid My purpose came not, 'Look thou clasp me firm.'" Then, bidding Dante hold fast so as not to fall, Virgil gives the signal for departure. Wheeling slowly, Geryon flies downward, moderating his speed so as not to unseat his passengers. Comparing his sensations to those of Phaeton falling from the sun-chariot, or to Icarus' horror when he dropped into the sea, Dante describes how, as they circled down on the beast's back, he caught fleeting glimpses of fiery pools and was almost deafened by the rising chorus of wails. With a falcon-like swoop Geryon finally alights on the next level, and, having deposited his passengers at the foot of a splintered rock, darts away like an arrow from a taut bow-string. _Canto XVIII._ The eighth circle, called Malebolge (Evil Pits), is divided into ten gulfs, between which rocky arches form bridge-like passages. This whole region is of stone and ice, and from the pit in the centre continually rise horrid exhalations. Among the unfortunates incessantly lashed by horned demons in the first gulf, Dante perceives one who was a notorious pander on earth and who is justly suffering the penalty of his crimes. Later on, watching a train of culprits driven by other demons, Dante recognizes among them Jason, who secured the Golden Fleece, thanks to Medea, but proved faithless toward her in the end. Crossing to the second division, Dante beholds sinners buried in dung, in punishment for having led astray their fellow-creatures by flattery. One of them,--whom the poet recognizes,--emerging from his filthy bath, sadly confesses, "Me thus low down my flatteries have sunk, wherewith I ne'er enough could glut my tongue." In this place Dante also notes the harlot Thais, expiating her sins, with other notorious seducers and flatterers. _Canto XIX._ By means of another rocky bridge the travellers reach the third gulf, where are punished all who have been guilty of simony. These are sunk, head first, in a series of burning pits, whence emerge only the red-hot soles of their convulsively agitated feet. Seeing a ruddier flame hover over one pair of soles, Dante timidly inquires to whom they belong, whereupon Virgil, carrying him down to this spot, bids him seek his answer from the culprit himself. Peering down into the stone-pit, Dante then timidly proffers his request, only to be hotly reviled by Pope Nicholas III, who first mistakes his interlocutor for Pope Boniface, and confesses he was brought to this state by nepotism. But, when he predicts a worse pope will ultimately follow him down into this region, Dante sternly rebukes him. _Canto XX._ Virgil is so pleased with Dante's speech to Pope Nicholas that, seizing him in his arms, he carries him swiftly over the bridge which leads to the fourth division. Here Dante beholds a procession of chanting criminals whose heads are turned to face their backs. This sight proves so awful that Dante weeps, until Virgil bids him note the different culprits. Among them is the witch Manto, to whom Mantua, his native city, owes its name, and Dante soon learns that all these culprits are the famous soothsayers, diviners, magicians, and witches of the world, who thus are punished for having presumed to predict the future. _Canto XXI._ From the top of the next bridge they gaze into a dark pit, where public peculators are plunged into boiling pitch, as Dante discovers by the odor, which keenly reminds him of the shipyards at Venice. Virgil there directs Dante's attention toward a demon, who hurls a sinner headlong into the boiling tar, and, without watching to see what becomes of him, departs in quest of some other victim. The poet also perceives that, whenever a sinner's head emerges from the pitchy waves, demons thrust him down again by means of long forks. To prevent his charge falling a prey to these active evil spirits, Virgil directs Dante to hide behind a pillar of the bridge and from thence watch all that is going on. While Dante lurks there, a demon, descrying him, is about to attack him, but Virgil so vehemently proclaims they are here by Heaven's will that the evil spirit drops his fork and becomes powerless to harm them. Perceiving the effect he has produced, Virgil then summons Dante from his hiding-place, and sternly orders the demon to guide them safely through the ranks of his grimacing fellows, all of whom make obscene gestures as they pass. _Canto XXII._ Dante, having taken part in battles, is familiar with military manoeuvres, but he declares he never behold such ably marshalled troops as the demon hosts through which they pass. From time to time he sees a devil emerge from the ranks to plunge sinners back into the lake of pitch, or to spear one with his fork and, after letting him squirm aloft for a while, hurl him back into the asphalt lake. One of these victims, questioned by Virgil, acknowledges he once held office in Navarre, but, rather than suffer at the hands of the demon tormentors, this peculator voluntarily plunges back into the pitch. Seeing this, the baffled demons fight each other, until two actually fall into the lake, whence they are fished in sorry plight by fellow-fiends. _Canto XXIII._ By a passage-way so narrow they are obliged to proceed single file, Dante and Virgil reach the next division, the author of this poem continually gazing behind him for fear lest the demons pursue him. His fears are only too justified, and Virgil, seeing his peril, catches him up in his arms and runs with him to the next gulf, knowing demons never pass beyond their beat. "Never ran water with such hurrying pace Adown the tube to turn a land-mill's wheel, When nearest it approaches to the spokes, As then along that edge my master ran, Carrying me in his bosom, as a child, Not a companion." In the sixth division where they now arrive, they behold a procession of victims, weighed down by gilded leaden cowls, creeping along so slowly that Dante and Virgil pass all along their line although they are not walking fast. Hearing one of these bowed figures address him, Dante learns that, because he and his companions were hypocrites on earth, they are doomed to travel constantly around this circle of the Inferno, fainting beneath heavy loads. A moment later Dante notices that the narrow path ahead of them is blocked by a writhing figure pinned to the ground by three stakes. This is Caiaphas, who insisted it was fitting that one man suffer for the people and who, having thus sentenced Christ to the cross, has to endure the whole procession to tramp over his prostrate form. The cowled figure with whom Dante is conversing informs him, besides, that in other parts of the circle are Ananias and the other members of the Sanhedrim who condemned Christ. Deeming Dante has now seen enough of this region, Virgil inquires where they can find an exit from this gulf, and is shown by a spirit a steep ascent. _Canto XXIV._ So precipitous is this passage that Virgil half carries his charge, and, panting hard, both scramble to a ledge overhanging the seventh gulf of Malebolge, where innumerable serpents prey upon naked robbers, whose hands are bound behind them by writhing snakes. Beneath the constant bites of these reptiles, the robber-victims turn to ashes, only to rise phoenix-like a moment later and undergo renewed torments. Dante converses with one of these spirits, who, after describing his own misdeeds, prophesies in regard to the future of Florence. _Canto XXV._ The blasphemous speeches and gestures of this speaker are silenced by an onslaught of snakes, before whose attack he attempts to flee, only to be overtaken and tortured by a serpent-ridden centaur, whom Virgil designates as Cacus. Further on, the travellers behold three culprits who are alternately men and writhing snakes, always, however, revealing more of the reptile than of the human nature and form. "The other two Look'd on, exclaiming, 'Ah! How dost thou change, Agnello! See! thou art nor double now Nor only one.' The two heads now became One, and two figures blended in one form Appear'd, where both were lost. Of the four lengths Two arms were made: the belly and the chest, The thighs and legs, into such members changed As never eye hath seen." _Canto XXVI._ From another bridge Dante gazes down into the eighth gulf, where, in the midst of the flames, are those who gave evil advice to their fellow-creatures. Here Dante recognizes Diomedes, Ulysses, and sundry other heroes of the Iliad,--with whom his guide speaks,--and learns that Ulysses, after his return to Ithaca, resumed his explorations, ventured beyond the pillars of Hercules, and, while sailing in the track of the sun, was drowned in sight of a high mountain. _Canto XXVII._ In the midst of another bed of flames, Dante next discovers another culprit, to whom he gives the history of the Romagna, and whose life-story he hears before following his leader down to the ninth gulf of Malebolge. _Canto XXVIII._ In this place Dante discovers the sowers of scandal, schism, and heresy, who exhibit more wounds than all the Italian wars occasioned. Watching them, Dante perceives that each victim is ripped open by a demon's sword, but that his wounds heal so rapidly that every time the spirit passes a demon again his torture is renewed. Among these victims Dante recognizes Mahomet, who, wondering that a living man should visit hell, points out Dante to his fellow-shades. Passing by the travellers, sundry victims mention their names, and Dante thus discovers among them the leaders of strife between sundry Italian states, and shudders when Bertrand de Born, a fellow minstrel, appears bearing his own head instead of a lantern, in punishment for persuading the son of Henry II, of England, to rebel. _Canto XXIX._ Gazing in a dazed way at the awful sights of this circle, Dante learns it is twenty-one miles in circumference, ere he passes on to the next bridge, where lamentations such as assail one's ears in a hospital constantly arise. In the depths of the tenth pit, into which he now peers, Dante distinguishes victims of all manners of diseases, and learns these are the alchemists and forgers undergoing the penalty of their sins. Among them Dante perceives a man who was buried alive on earth for offering to teach mortals to fly! So preposterous did such a claim appear to Minos--judge of the dead--that he ruthlessly condemned its originator to undergo the punishment awarded to magicians, alchemists, and other pretenders. _Canto XXX._ Virgil now points out to Dante sundry impostors, perpetrators of fraud, and false-coiners, among whom we note the woman who falsely accused Joseph, and Sinon, who persuaded the Trojans to convey the wooden horse into their city. Not content with the tortures inflicted upon them, these criminals further increase each others' sufferings by cruel taunts, and Dante, fascinated by what he sees, lingers beside this pit, until Virgil cuttingly intimates "to hear such wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds." _Canto XXXI._ Touched by the remorseful shame which Dante now shows, Virgil draws him on until they are almost deafened by a louder blast than was uttered by Roland's horn at Roncevaux. Peering in the direction of the sound, Dante descries what he takes for lofty towers, until Virgil informs him that when they draw nearer still he will discover they are giants standing in the lowest pit but looming far above it in the mist. Ere long Dante stares in wonder at chained giants seventy feet tall, whom Virgil designates as Nimrod, Ephialtes, and Antaeus. As with circling round Of turrets, Montereggion crowns his walls; E'en thus the shore, encompassing the abyss, Was turreted with giants, half their length Uprearing, horrible, whom Jove from heaven Yet threatens, when his muttering thunder rolls. Antaeus being unchained, Virgil persuades him to lift them both down in the hollow of his hands to the next level, "where guilt is at its depth." Although Dante's terror in the giant's grip is almost overwhelming, he is relieved when his feet touch the ground once more, and he watches with awe as the giant straightens up again like the mast of a huge ship. "Yet in the abyss, That Lucifer with Judas low ingulfs, Lightly he placed us; nor, there leaning, stay'd; But rose, as in a barque the stately mast." _Canto XXXII._ Confessing that it is no easy task to describe the bottom of the universe which he has now reached, Dante relates how perpendicular rocks reached up on all sides as far as he could see. He is gazing upward in silent wonder, when Virgil suddenly cautions him to beware lest he tread upon some unfortunate. Gazing down at his feet, Dante then becomes aware that he is standing on a frozen lake, wherein stick fast innumerable sinners, whose heads alone emerge, eased in ice owing to the tears constantly flowing down their cheeks. Seeing two so close together that their very hair seems to mingle, Dante, on inquiring, learns they are two brothers who slew each other in an inheritance quarrel, for this is Caina, the region where the worst murderers are punished, and, like every other part of the Inferno, it is crowded with figures. "A thousand visages Then mark'd, I, which the keen and eager cold Had shaped into a doggish grin; whence creeps A shivering horror o'er me, at the thought Of those frore shallows." It happens that, while following his guide over the ice, Dante's foot strikes a projecting head. Permission being granted him to question its owner, Dante, because he at first refuses to speak, threatens to pull every hair out of his head, and actually gives him a few hard tugs. Then the man admits he is a traitor and that there are many others of his ilk in Antenora, the second division of the lowest circle. _Canto XXXIII._ Beholding another culprit greedily gnawing the head of a companion, Dante learns that while on earth this culprit was Count Ugolino de'Gherardeschi, whom his political opponents, headed by the Archbishop Ruggiero, seized by treachery and locked up in the Famine-tower at Pisa, with two sons and two grandsons. Ugolino feelingly describes his horror when one morning he heard them nail up the door of the prison, and realized he and his were doomed to starve! Not a word did the prisoners exchange regarding their fate, although all were aware of the suffering awaiting them. At the end of twenty-four hours, beholding traces of hunger in the beloved faces of his children, Ugolino gnawed his fists in pain. One of his grandsons, interpreting this as a sign of unbearable hunger, then suggested that he eat one of them, whereupon he realized how needful it was to exercise self-control if he did not wish to increase the sufferings of the rest. Ugolino then describes how they daily grew weaker, until his grandsons died at the end of the fourth day, vainly begging him to help them. Then his sons passed away, and, groping blindly among the dead, he lingered on, until, famine becoming more potent than anything else, he yielded to its demands. Having finished this grewsome tale, Ugolino continued his feast upon the head of his foe! "Thus having spoke, Once more upon the wretched skull his teeth He fasten'd like a mastiff's 'gainst the bone, Firm and unyielding." Dante, passing on, discovers many other victims encased in the ice, and is so chilled by a glacial breeze that his face muscles stiffen. He is about to ask Virgil whence this wind proceeds, when one of the ice-encrusted victims implores him to remove its hard mask from his face. Promising to do so in return for the man's story, Dante learns he is a friar who, in order to rid himself of inconvenient kinsmen, invited them all to dinner, where he suddenly uttered the fatal words which served as a signal for hidden assassins to despatch them. When Dante indignantly exclaims the perpetrator of this heinous deed is on earth, the criminal admits that, although his shadow still lingers above ground, his soul is down here in Ptolomea, undergoing the penalty for his sins. Hearing this, Dante refuses to clear away the ice, and excuses himself to his readers by stating "ill manners were best courtesy to him." _Canto XXXIV._ Virgil now directs Dante's glance ahead, until our poet dimly descries what looks like an immense windmill. Placing Dante behind him to shield him a little from the cruel blast, Virgil leads him past countless culprits, declaring they have reached Judecca, a place where it behooves him to arm his heart with strength. So stiff with cold that he is hovering between life and death, Dante now beholds Dis or Satan,--Emperor of the Infernal Regions,--sunk in ice down to his waist, and discovers that the wind is caused by the constant flutter of his bat-like wings. He also perceives that Satan is as much larger than the giants just seen, as they surpass mankind, and states that, were the father of evil as fair as he is foul, one might understand his daring to defy God. "If he were beautiful As he is hideous now, and yet did dare To scowl upon his Maker, well from him May all our misery flow." Then Dante describes Satan's three heads, one red, one yellow and white, and one green, declaring that the arch-fiend munches in each mouth the sinners Judas, Cassius, and Brutus. After allowing Dante to gaze a while at this appalling sight, Virgil informs his charge that, having seen all, it behooves them to depart. With a brief order to Dante to cling tightly around his neck, Virgil, seizing a moment when Satan's wings are raised, darts beneath them, and clutching the demon's shaggy sides painfully descends toward the centre of the earth. Down, down they go until they reach the evil spirit's thighs, where, the centre of earth's gravity being reached, Virgil suddenly turns around and begins an upward climb with his burden. Although Dante fully expects soon to behold Satan's head once more, he is amazed to discover they are climbing up his leg. Then, through a chimney-like ascent, where the climbing demands all their strength, Dante and Virgil ascend toward the upper air. Explaining they are about to emerge at the antipodes of the spot where they entered Hades, where they will behold the great Western Sea, Virgil adds they will find in its centre the Mount of Purgatory, constructed of the earth displaced by Satan's fall. Thus, Dante and his leader return to the bright world, and, issuing from the dark passage in which they have been travelling, once more behold the stars! "By that hidden way My guide and I did enter, to return To the fair world: and heedless of repose We climb'd, he first, I following his steps, Till on our view the beautiful lights of heaven Dawn'd through a circular opening in the cave: Thence issuing we again beheld the stars." PURGATORY _Canto I._ About to sing of a region where human spirits are purged of their sins and prepared to enter heaven, Dante invokes the aid of the muses. Then, gazing about him, he discovers he is in an atmosphere of sapphire hue, all the more lovely because of the contrast with the infernal gloom whence he has just emerged. It is just before dawn, and he beholds with awe four bright stars,--the Southern Cross,--which symbolize the four cardinal virtues (Prudence, Justice, Fortitude, and Temperance). After contemplating these stars awhile, Dante, turning to the north to get his bearings, perceives Virgil has been joined in this ante-purgatorial region by Cato, who wonderingly inquires how they escaped "the eternal prison-house." Virgil's gesture and example have meantime forced Dante to his knees, so it is in this position that the Latin poet explains how a lady in heaven bade him rescue Dante--before it was too late--by guiding him through hell and showing him how sinners are cleansed in Purgatory. The latter part of Virgil's task can, however, be accomplished only if Cato will allow them to enter the realm which he guards. Moved by so eloquent a plea, Cato directs Virgil to wash all traces of tears and of infernal mirk from Dante's face, girdle him with a reed in token of humility, and then ascend the Mount of Purgatory,--formed of the earthy core ejected from Hades,--which he points out in the middle of a lake with reedy shores. Leading his charge in the early dawn across a meadow, Virgil draws his hands first through the dewy grass and then over Dante's face, and, having thus removed all visible traces of the passage through Hades, takes him down to the shore to girdle him with a pliant reed, the emblem of humility. _Canto II._ Against the whitening east they now behold a ghostly vessel advancing toward them, and when it approaches near enough they descry an angel standing at its prow, his outspread wings serving as sails. While Dante again sinks upon his knees, he hears, faintly at first, the passengers in the boat singing the psalm "When Israel went out of Egypt." Making a sign of the cross upon each passenger's brow, the angel allows his charges to land, and vanishes at sunrise, just as the new-comers, turning to Virgil, humbly inquire the way to the mountain. Virgil rejoins that he too is a recent arrival, although he and his companion travelled a far harder road than theirs. His words making them aware of the fact that Dante is a living man, the spirits crowd around him, eager to touch him. Among them he recognizes the musician Casella, his friend. Unable to embrace a spirit,--although he tries to do so,--Dante, after explaining his own presence here, begs Casella to comfort all present by singing of love. Just as this strain ends, Cato reappears, urging them to hasten to the mountain and there cast aside the scales which conceal God from their eyes. At these words all the souls present scatter like a covey of pigeons, and begin ascending the mountain, whither Virgil and Dante slowly follow them. "As a wild flock of pigeons, to their food Collected, blade or tares, without their pride Accustom'd, and in still and quiet sort, If aught alarm them, suddenly desert Their meal, assail'd by more important care; So I that new-come troop beheld, the song Deserting, hasten to the mountain's side, As one who goes, yet, where he tends, knows not." _Canto III._ While painfully ascending the steep slope, Dante, seeing only his own shadow lengthening out before him, fears his guide has abandoned him, and is relieved to see Virgil close behind him and to hear him explain that disembodied spirits cast no shadow. While they are talking, they reach the foot of the mountain and are daunted by its steep and rocky sides. They are vainly searching for some crevice whereby they may hope to ascend, when they behold a slowly advancing procession of white-robed figures, from whom Virgil humbly inquires the way. "As sheep, that step from forth their fold, by one, Or pairs, or three at once; meanwhile the rest Stand fearfully, bending the eye and nose To ground, and what the foremost does, that do The others, gathering round her if she stops, Simple and quiet, nor the cause discern; So saw I moving to advance the first, Who of the fortunate crew were at the head, Of modest mien, and graceful in their gait. When they before me had beheld the light From my right side fall broken on the ground, So that the shadow reach'd the cave; they stopp'd, And somewhat back retired: the same did all Who follow'd, though unwitting of the cause." These spirits too are startled at the sight of a living being, but, when Virgil assures them Dante is not here without warrant, they obligingly point out "the straight and narrow way" which serves as entrance to Purgatory. This done, one spirit, detaching itself from the rest, inquires whether Dante does not remember Manfred, King of Naples and Sicily, and whether he will not, on his return to earth, inform the princess that her father repented of his sins at the moment of death and now bespeaks her prayers to shorten his time of probation. _Canto IV._ Dazed by what he has just seen and heard, Dante becomes conscious of his surroundings once more, only when the sun stands considerably higher, and when he has arrived at the foot of a rocky pathway, up which he painfully follows Virgil, helping himself with his hands as well as his feet. Arrived at its top, both gaze wonderingly around them, and perceive by the position of the sun that they must be at the antipodes of Florence, where their journey began. Panting with the exertions he has just made, Dante expresses some fear lest his strength may fail him, whereupon Virgil kindly assures him the way, so arduous at first, will become easier and easier the higher they ascend. Just then a voice, addressing them, advises them to rest, and Dante, turning, perceives, among other spirits, a sitting figure, in whom he recognizes a friend noted for his laziness. On questioning this spirit, Dante learns that this friend, Belacqua, instead of exerting himself to climb the mount of Purgatory, is idly waiting in hopes of being wafted upward by the prayers of some "heart which lives in grace." Such slothfulness irritates Virgil, who hurries Dante on, warning him the sun has already reached its meridian and night will all too soon overtake them. _Canto V._ Heedless of the whispered comments behind him because he is opaque and not transparent like the other spirits, Dante follows Virgil, until they overtake a band of spirits chanting the Miserere. These too seem surprised at Dante's density, and, when assured he is alive, eagerly inquire whether he can give them any tidings of friends and families left on earth. Although all present are sinners who died violent deaths, as they repented at the last minute they are not wholly excluded from hope of bliss. Unable to recognize any of these, Dante nevertheless listens to their descriptions of their violent ends, and promises to enlighten their friends and kinsmen in regard to their fate. _Canto VI._ Because Virgil moves on, Dante feels constrained to follow, although the spirits continue to pluck at his mantle, imploring him to hear what they have to say. Touched by the sorrows of men of his own time or famous in history, Dante wistfully asks his guide whether prayers can ever change Heaven's decrees, and learns that true love can work miracles, as he will perceive when he beholds Beatrice. The hope of meeting his beloved face to face causes Dante to urge his guide to greater speed and almost gives wings to his feet. Presently Virgil directs his companion's attention to a spirit standing apart, in whom Dante recognizes the poet Sordello, who mourns because Mantua--his native city as well as Virgil's--drifts in these political upheavals like a pilotless vessel in the midst of a storm. _Canto VII._ Virgil now informs Sordello that he, Virgil, is debarred from all hope of heaven through lack of faith. Thereupon Sordello reverently approaches him, calling him "Glory of Latium," and inquiring whence he comes. Virgil explains how, led by heavenly influence, he left the dim limbo of ante-hell, passed through all the stages of the Inferno, and is now seeking the place "Where Purgatory its true beginning takes." Sordello rejoins that, while he will gladly serve as guide, the day is already so far gone that they had better spend the night in a neighboring dell. He then leads Virgil and Dante to a hollow, where, resting upon fragrant flowers, they prepare to spend the night, with a company of spirits who chant "Salve Regina." Among these the new-comers recognize with surprise sundry renowned monarchs, whose doings are briefly described. _Canto VIII._ Meantime the hour of rest has come, the hour described by the poet as-- Now was the hour that wakens fond desire In men at sea, and melts their thoughtful heart Who in the morn have bid sweet friends farewell, And pilgrim newly on his road with love Thrills, if he hear the vesper bell from far That seems to mourn for the expiring day. Dante and Virgil then witness the evening devotions of these spirits, which conclude with a hymn so soft, so devout, that their senses are lost in ravishment. When it has ended, the spirits all gaze expectantly upward, and soon behold two green-clad angels, with flaming swords, who alight on eminences at either end of the glade. These heavenly warriors are sent by Mary to mount guard during the hours of darkness so as to prevent the serpent from gliding unseen into their miniature Eden. Still led by Sordello, the poets withdraw to a leafy recess, where Dante discovers a friend whom he had cause to believe detained in hell. This spirit explains he is not indeed languishing there simply because of the prayers of his daughter Giovanna, who has not forgotten him although his wife has married again. Dante is just gazing with admiration at three stars (symbols of Faith, Hope, and Charity), when Sordello suddenly points out the serpent, who is no sooner descried by the angels than they swoop down and put him to flight. "I saw not, nor can tell, How those celestial falcons from their seat Moved, but in motion each one well descried. Hearing the air cut by their verdant plumes, The serpent fled; and, to their stations, back The angels up return'd with equal flight." _Canto IX._ Dante falls asleep in this valley, but, just as the first gleams of light appear, he is favored by a vision, wherein--like Ganymede--he is borne by a golden-feathered eagle into a glowing fire where both are consumed. Wakening with a start from this disquieting dream, Dante finds himself in a different spot, with no companion save Virgil, and notes the sun is at least two hours high. Virgil now assures him that, thanks to Santa Lucia (type of God's grace), he has in sleep been conveyed to the very entrance of Purgatory. Gazing at the high cliffs which encircle the mountain, Dante now perceives a deep cleft, through which he and Virgil arrive at a vast portal (the gate of penitence), to which three huge steps of varying color and size afford access. At the top of these steps, on a diamond threshold, sits the Angel of Absolution with his flashing sword. Challenged by this warder, Virgil explains that they have been guided hither by Santa Lucia, at whose name the angel bids them draw near. Up a polished step of white marble (which typifies sincerity), a dark step of cracked stone (symbol of contrition), and one of red porphyry (emblem of self-sacrifice), Dante arrives at the angel's feet and humbly begs him to unbar the door. In reply the angel inscribes upon the poet's brow, by means of his sword, seven _P's_, to represent the seven deadly sins (in Italian _peccata_), of which mortals must be purged ere they can enter Paradise. After bidding Dante have these signs properly effaced, the angel draws from beneath his ash-hued mantle the golden key of authority and the silver key of discernment, stating that when St. Peter entrusted them to his keeping he bade him err "rather in opening than in keeping fast." Then, the gate open, the angel bids them enter, adding the solemn warning "he forth again departs who looks behind." _Canto X._ Mindful of this caution, Dante does not turn, although the gates close with a clash behind him, but follows his guide along a steep pathway. It is only after painful exertions they reach the first terrace of Purgatory, or place where the sin of pride is punished. They now pass along a white marble cornice,--some eighteen feet wide,--whose walls are decorated with sculptures which would not have shamed the best masters of Greek art. Here are represented such subjects as the Annunciation, David dancing before the Ark, and Trajan granting the petition of the unfortunate widow. Proceeding along this path, they soon see a procession of spirits approaching, all bent almost double beneath huge burdens. As they creep along, one or another gasps from time to time, "I can endure no more." _Canto XI._ The oppressed spirits fervently pray for aid and forgiveness, while continuing their weary tramp around this cornice, where they do penance for undue pride. Praying they may soon be delivered, Virgil inquires of them where he can find means to ascend to the next circle, and is told to accompany the procession which will soon pass the place. The speaker, although unable to raise his head, confesses his arrogance while on earth so incensed his fellow-creatures that they finally rose up against him and murdered him. Stooping so as to catch a glimpse of the bent face, Dante realizes he is talking to a miniature painter who claimed to be without equal, and therefore has to do penance. The noise Of worldly fame is but a blast of wind, That blows from diverse points, and shifts its name, Shifting the point it blows from. _Canto XII._ Journeying beside the bowed painter (who names some of his fellow-sufferers), Dante's attention is directed by Virgil to the pavement beneath his feet, where he sees carved Briareus, Nimrod, Niobe, Arachne, Saul, etc.,--in short, all those who dared measure themselves with the gods or who cherished overweening opinions of their attainments. So absorbed is Dante in contemplation of these subjects that he starts when told an angel is coming to meet them, who, if entreated with sufficient humility, will doubtless help them reach the next level. The radiant-faced angel, robed in dazzling white, instead of waiting to be implored to help the travellers, graciously points out steps where the rocks are sundered by a cleft, and, when Dante obediently climbs past him, a soft touch from his wings brushes away the P. which stands for pride, and thus frees our poet of all trace of this heinous sin. But it is only on reaching the top of the stairway that Dante becomes aware of this fact. _Canto XIII._ The second ledge of purgatory, which they have now reached, is faced with plain gray stone, and Virgil leads his companion a full mile along it ere they become aware of a flight of invisible spirits, some of whom chant "They have no wine!" while the others respond "Love ye those who have wrong'd you." These are those who, having sinned through envy, can be freed only by the exercise of charity. Then, bidding Dante gaze fixedly, Virgil points out this shadowy host, clothed in sackcloth, sitting back against the rocks, and Dante takes particular note of two figures supporting each other. He next discovers that one and all of these victims have their eyelids sewn so tightly together with wire that passage is left only for streams of penitential tears. When allowed to address them, Dante, hoping to comfort them, offers to bear back to earth any message they wish to send. It is then that one of these spirits informs Dante that on earth she was Sapia, a learned Siennese, who, having rejoiced when her country was defeated, is obliged to do penance for heartlessness. Marvelling that any one should wander among them with eyes unclosed, she inquires by what means Dante has come here, bespeaks his prayers, and implores him to warn her countrymen not to cherish vain hopes of greatness or to sin through envy. _Canto XIV._ The two spirits leaning close together, in their turn question who Virgil and Dante may be? When they hear mention of Rome and Florence, they hotly inveigh against the degeneracy of dwellers on the banks of the Tiber and Arno. Shortly after leaving this place with his guide, Dante hears the wail: "Whosoever finds will slay me," a cry followed by a deafening crash. _Canto XV._ Circling round the mountain, always in the same direction, Dante notes the sun is about to set, when another dazzling angel invites them up to the next level,--where anger is punished,--by means of a stairway less steep than any of the preceding. As they climb, the angel softly chants "Blessed the merciful" and "Happy thou that conquer'st," while he brushes aside the second _P ._, and thus cleanses Dante from envy. But, when Dante craves an explanation of what he has heard and seen, Virgil assures him that only when the five remaining "scars" have vanished from his brow, Beatrice herself can satisfy his curiosity. On reaching the third level, they find themselves enveloped in a dense fog, through which Dante dimly beholds the twelve-year-old Christ in the Temple and overhears his mother chiding him. Next he sees a woman weeping, and lastly Stephen stoned to death. _Canto XVI._ Urged by his guide to hasten through this bitter blinding fog--a symbol of anger which is punished here--Dante stumbles along, mindful of Virgil's caution, "Look that from me thou part not." Meanwhile voices on all sides invoke "the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the world." Then, all at once, a voice addresses Dante, who, prompted by Virgil, inquires where the next stairway may be? His interlocutor, after bespeaking Dante's prayers, holds forth against Rome, which, boasting of two suns,--the pope and the emperor,--has seen the one quench the other. But the arrival of an angel, sent to guide our travellers to the next level, soon ends this conversation. _Canto XVII._ Out of the vapors of anger--as dense as any Alpine fog--Dante, who has caught glimpses of famous victims of anger, such as Haman and Lavinia, emerges with Virgil, only to be dazzled by the glorious light of the sun. Then, climbing the ladder the angel points out, Dante feels him brush away the third obnoxious P., while chanting, "Blessed are the peacemakers." They now reach the fourth ledge, where the sin of indifference or sloth is punished, and, as they trudge along it, Virgil explains that all indifference is due to a lack of love, a virtue on which he eloquently discourses. _Canto XVIII._ A multitude of spirits now interrupt Virgil, and, when he questions them, two, who lead the rest, volubly quote examples of fervent affection and zealous haste. They are closely followed by other spirits, the backsliders, who, not having had the strength or patience to endure, preferred inglorious ease to adventurous life and are now consumed with regret. _Canto XIX._ In the midst of a trance which overtakes him, Dante next has a vision of the Siren which beguiled Ulysses and of Philosophy or Truth. Then, morning having dawned, Virgil leads him to the next stairway, up which an angel wafts them, chanting "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted," while he brushes away another sin scar from our poet's forehead. In this fifth circle those guilty of avarice undergo punishment by being chained fast to the earth to which they clung, and which they bedew with penitent tears. One of these, questioned by Dante, reveals he was Pope Adrian V., who, dying a month after his elevation to the papal chair, repented in time of his grasping past. When Dante kneels compassionately beside this august sufferer, he is implored to warn the pope's kinswoman to eschew the besetting sin of their house. _Canto XX._ A little further on, among the grovelling figures which closely pave this fifth cornice, Dante beholds Hugues Capet, founder of the third dynasty of French kings, and stigmatized as "root of that ill plant," because this poem was composed only a few years after Philip IV's criminal attempt against Pope Boniface at Agnani. The poets also recognize there Pygmalion (brother of Dido), Midas, Achan, Heliodorus, and Crassus, [18] ere they are startled by feeling the whole mountain tremble beneath them and by hearing the spirits exultantly cry "Glory to God!" _Canto XXI._ Clinging to Virgil in speechless terror, Dante hears his guide assure the spirit which suddenly appears before them that the Fates have not yet finished spinning the thread of his companion's life. When questioned by the travellers in regard to the noise and earthquake, this spirit informs them that the mountain quivers with joy whenever a sinner is released, and that, after undergoing a punishment of five hundred years, he--Statius--is now free to go in quest of his master Virgil, whom he has always longed to meet. Dante's smile at these words, together with his meaning glance at Virgil, suddenly reveal to the spirit that his dearest wish is granted, and Statius reverently does obeisance to the poet from whose fount he drew his inspiration. _Canto XXII._ The three bards are next led by an angel up another staircase, to the sixth cornice (Dante losing another _P._ on the way), where the sins of gluttony and drunkenness are punished. As they circle around this ledge, Dante questions how Statius became guilty of the sin of covetousness, for which he was doomed to tramp around the fifth circle. In reply Statius rejoins that it was not because of covetousness, but of its counterpart, over-lavishness, that he suffered so long, and principally because he was not brave enough to own himself a Christian. Then he inquires of Virgil what have become of their fellow-countrymen Terence, Caecilius, Plautus, and Varro, only to learn that they too linger in the dark regions of ante-hell, where they hold sweet converse with other pagan poets. Reverently listening to the conversation of his companions, Dante drinks in "mysterious lessons of sweet poesy" and silently follows them until they draw near a tree laden with fruit and growing beside a crystal stream. Issuing from this tree a voice warns them against the sin of gluttony--which is punished in this circle--and quotes such marked examples of abstinence as Daniel feeding on pulse and John the Baptist living on locusts and wild honey. _Canto XXIII._ Dante is still dumbly staring at the mysterious tree when Virgil bids him follow, for they still have far to go. They next meet weeping, hollow-eyed spirits, so emaciated that their bones start through their skin. One of these recognizes Dante, who is aghast that his friend Forese should be in such a state and escorted by two skeleton spirits. Forese replies that he and his companions are consumed by endless hunger and thirst, although they eat and drink without ever being satisfied. When Dante expresses surprise because a man only five years dead should already be so high up the mount of Purgatory, Forese explains that his wife's constant prayers have successively freed him from detention in the other circles. In return Dante states why he is here and names his companions. _Canto XXIV._ Escorting the three travellers on their way, Forese inquires what has become of his sister, Piccarda, ere he points out sundry spirits, with whom Dante converses, and who predict the coming downfall of his political foes. But these spirits suddenly leave Dante to dart toward trees, which tantalizingly withold their fruit from their eager hands, while hidden voices loudly extol temperance. _Canto XXV._ In single file the three poets continue their tramp, commenting on what they have seen, and Statius expounds his theories of life. Then they ascend to the seventh ledge, where glowing fires purge mortals of all sensuality. Even as they toil toward this level, an angel voice extols chastity, and Dante once more feels the light touch which he now associates with the removal of one of the scars made by the angel at the entrance of Purgatory. Arrived above, the poets have to tread a narrow path between the roaring fires and the abyss. So narrow is the way, that Virgil bids Dante beware or he will be lost! "Behoved us, one by one, along the side, That border'd on the void, to pass; and I Fear'd on one hand the fire, on the other fear'd Headlong to fall: when thus the instructor warn'd: 'Strict rein must in this place direct the eyes. A little swerving and the way is lost.'" As all three warily proceed, Dante hears voices in the fiery furnace alternately imploring the mercy of God and quoting examples of chastity, such as Mary and Diana, and couples who proved chaste though married. _Canto XXVI._ As the poets move along the rim, Dante's shadow, cast upon the roaring flames, causes such wonder to the victims undergoing purification that one of them inquires who he may be. Just as Dante is about to answer, his attention is attracted by hosts of shadows, who, after exchanging hasty kisses, dash on, mentioning such famous examples of dissoluteness as Pasiphae, and the men who caused the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. Turning to his interlocutor, Dante then explains how he came hither and expresses a hope he may soon be received in bliss. The grateful spirit then gives his name, admits he sang too freely of carnal love, and adds that Dante would surely recognize many of his fellow-sufferers were he to point them out. Then, bespeaking Dante's prayers, he plunges back into the fiery element which is to make him fit for Paradise. _Canto XXVII._ Just as the sun is about to set, an angel approaches them, chanting "Blessed are the pure in heart," and bids them fearlessly pass through the wall of fire which alone stands between them and Paradise. Seeing Dante hang back timorously, Virgil reminds him he will find Beatrice on the other side, whereupon our poet plunges recklessly into the glowing furnace, where both his companions precede him, and whence all three issue on an upward path. There they make their couch on separate steps, and Dante gazes up at the stars until he falls asleep and dreams of a lovely lady, culling flowers in a meadow, singing she is Lea (the mediaeval type of active life), and stating that her sister Rachel (the emblem of contemplative life) spends the day gazing at herself in a mirror. At dawn the pilgrims awake, and Virgil assures Dante before this day ends his hunger for a sight of Beatrice will be appeased. This prospect so lightens Dante's heart that he almost soars to the top of the stairway. There Virgil, who has led him through temporal and eternal fires, bids him follow his pleasure, until he meets the fair lady who bade him undertake this journey. "Till those bright eyes With gladness come, which, weeping, made me haste To succor thee, thou mayst or seat thee down Or wander where thou wilt. Expect no more Sanction of warning voice or sign from me, Free of thine own arbitrament to choose. Discreet, judicious. To distrust thy sense Were henceforth error. I invest thee then With crown and mitre, sovereign o'er thyself." _Canto XXVIII._ Through the Garden of Eden Dante now strolls with Statius and Virgil, until he beholds, on the other side of a pellucid stream (whose waters have the "power to take away remembrance of offence"), a beautiful lady (the countess Matilda), who smiles upon him. Then she informs Dante she has come to "answer every doubt" he cherishes, and, as they wander along on opposite sides of the stream, she expounds for his benefit the creation of man, the fall and its consequences, and informs him how all the plants that grow on earth originate here. The water at his feet issues from an unquenchable fountain, and divides into two streams, the first of which, Lethe, "chases from the mind the memory of sin," while the waters of the second, Eunoe, have the power to recall "good deeds to one's mind." _Canto XXIX._ Suddenly the lady bids Dante pause, look, and hearken. Then he sees a great light on the opposite shore, hears a wonderful music, and soon beholds a procession of spirits, so bright that they leave behind them a trail of rainbow-colored light. First among them march the four and twenty elders of the Book of Revelations; they are followed by four beasts (the Evangelists), and a gryphon, drawing a chariot (the Christian Church or Papal chair), far grander than any that ever graced imperial triumph at Rome. Personifications of the three evangelical virtues (Charity, Faith, and Hope) and of the four moral virtues (Prudence, etc.), together with St. Luke and St. Paul, the four great Doctors of the Church, and the apostle St. John, serve as body-guard for this chariot, which comes to a stop opposite Dante with a noise like thunder. _Canto XXX._ The wonderful light, our poet now perceives, emanates from a seven-branched candlestick, and illuminates all the heavens like an aurora borealis. Then, amid the chanting, and while angels shower flowers down upon her, he beholds in the chariot a lady veiled in white, in whom, although transfigured, he instinctively recognizes Beatrice (a personification of Heavenly Wisdom). In his surprise Dante impulsively turns toward Virgil, only to discover that he has vanished! Beatrice comforts him, however, by promising to be his guide hereafter, and gently reproaches him for the past until he casts shamefaced glances at his feet. There, in the stream (which serves as nature's mirror), he catches a reflection of his utter loathsomeness, and becomes so penitent, that Beatrice explains she purposely brought him hither by the awful road he has travelled to induce him to lead a changed life hereafter. _Canto XXXI._ Beatrice then accuses him of yielding to the world's deceitful pleasures after she left him, and explains how he should, on the contrary, have striven to be virtuous so as to rejoin her. When she finally forgives him and bids him gaze into her face once more, he sees she surpasses her former self in loveliness as greatly as on earth she outshone all other women. Dante is so overcome by a sense of his utter unworthiness that he falls down unconscious, and on recovering his senses finds himself in the stream, upheld by the hand of a nymph (Matilda), who sweeps him along, "swift as a shuttle bounding o'er the wave," while angels chant "Thou shalt wash me" and "I shall be whiter than snow." Freed from all haunting memories of past sins by Lethe's waters, Dante finally lands on the "blessed shore." There Beatrice's hand-maidens welcome him, and beseech her to complete her work by revealing her inner beauty to this mortal, so he can portray it for mankind. But, although Dante gazes at her in breathless admiration, words fail him to render what he sees. "O splendor! O sacred light eternal! who is he, So pale with musing in Pierian shades, Or with that fount so lavishly imbued, Whose spirit should not fail him in the essay To represent thee such as thou didst seem, When under cope of the still-chiming heaven Thou gavest to open air thy charms reveal'd?" _Canto XXXII._ Dante is still quenching a "ten-years thirst" by staring at his beloved, when her attendants admonish him to desist. But, although he obediently turns aside his eyes, like a man who has gazed too long at the sun, he sees her image stamped on all he looks at. He and Statius now humbly follow the glorious procession, which enters a forest and circles gravely round a barren tree-trunk, to which the chariot is tethered. Immediately the dry branches burst into bud and leaf, and, soothed by angelic music, Dante falls asleep, only to be favored by a vision so startling, that on awakening he eagerly looks around for Beatrice. The nymph who bore him safely through the waters then points her out, resting beneath the mystic tree, and Beatrice, rousing too, bids Dante note the fate of her chariot. The poet then sees an eagle (the Empire), swoop down from heaven, tear the tree asunder, and attack the Chariot (the Church), into which a fox (heresy) has sprung as if in quest of prey. Although the fox is soon routed by Beatrice, the eagle makes its nest in the chariot, beneath which arises a seven-headed monster (the seven capital sins), bearing on its back a giant, who alternately caresses and chastises a whore. _Canto XXXIII._ The seven Virtues having chanted a hymn, Beatrice motions to Statius and Dante to follow her, asking the latter why he is so mute? Rejoining she best knows what he needs, Dante receives from her lips an explanation of what he has just seen, which he is bidden reveal to mankind. Conversing thus, they reach the second stream, of whose waters Beatrice bids her friend drink, and after that renovating draught Dante realizes he has now been made pure and "apt for mounting to the stars." PARADISE _Introduction._ The Paradise of Dante consists of nine crystalline spheres of different sizes, the Moon, Mercury, Venus, the Sun, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, the Fixed Stars, and the Empyrean, enclosed one within the other, and revolved by the Angels, Archangels, Princedoms, Powers, Virtues, Dominations, Thrones, Cherubim, and Seraphim. Beyond these orbs, whose whirling motions cause "the music of the spheres," lies a tenth circle, the real heaven (a Rose), where "peace divine inhabits," and of which the Divine Essence or Trinity forms the very core. _Canto I._ Paradise opens with Dante's statement that in heaven he was "witness of things, which to relate again, surpasseth the power of him who comes from thence." He therefore invokes the help of Apollo to describe that part of the universe upon which is lavished the greatest share of light. Then, while gazing up into Beatrice's eyes, Dante, freed from earth's trammels, suddenly feels himself soar upward, and is transferred with indescribable swiftness into a totally different medium. _Canto II._ Perceiving his bewilderment, Beatrice reassures him in a motherly strain, and, gazing around him, Dante realizes they have entered the translucent circle of the moon (revolved by angels). After warning his fellow-men "the way I pass ne'er yet was run," Dante goes on to relate what Beatrice teaches him in regard to the heavenly spheres and spiritual evolution, and how she promises to reveal to him "the truth thou lovest." _Canto III._ In the pearl-hued atmosphere of the moon, Dante beholds, "as through a glass, darkly," shadowy, nun-like forms, and is told by Beatrice to communicate with them. Addressing the form nearest him, Dante learns she is Piccarda (sister of Forese), who was kidnapped by her husband after she had taken the veil. Although she would fain have kept her religious vows, Piccarda proved a faithful wife, and declares she and her fellow-spirits are content to remain in their appointed sphere until called higher by the Almighty. "She with those other spirits gently smiled; Then answer'd with such gladness, that she seem'd With love's first flame to glow: 'Brother! our will Is, in composure, settled by the power Of charity, who makes us will alone What we possess, and nought beyond desire.'" All her companions also wished to be brides of Christ, but patiently did their duty, and, knowing that "in His will is our tranquillity," they now spend all their time singing "Ave Maria." When these nun-like forms vanish, Dante gazes at Beatrice in hopes of learning more. _Canto IV._ In reply to Dante's inquiring glance, Beatrice explains that those compelled to sin against their desire are ever held blameless in Heaven. Then, stating: "Not seldom, brother, it hath, chanced for men To do what they had gladly left undone;" she adds that "the will that wills not, still survives unquenched," and that by will power only St. Lawrence and Mucius Scevola were enabled to brave fire. Then she makes him see how truth alone can satisfy a mind athirst for knowledge. _Canto V._ Beatrice asserts that the most precious gift bestowed upon mankind was freedom of will, and that "knowledge comes of learning well retain'd." She concludes that when man makes a vow he offers his will in sacrifice to God, and that for that reason no vow should be thoughtlessly made, but all should be rigidly kept. Still, she admits it is better to break a promise than, like Jephthah and Agamemnon, to subscribe to a heinous crime, and states that either Testament can serve as guide for Jews or Christians. Again drawing Dante upward by the very intensity of her gaze, she conveys him to the second circle, the heaven of Mercury (revolved by Archangels). Here, in an atmosphere as pellucid as water, Dante perceives thousands of angels, coming toward him, singing "Lo! one arrived to multiply our loves!" These spirits assure Dante he was born in a happy hour, since he is allowed, ere the "close of fleshly warfare," to view the glories of heaven,--and express a desire to share their lights with him. So Dante questions the spirit nearest him, which immediately glows with loving eagerness to serve him, until it becomes a dazzling point of light. _Canto VI._ This spirit announces he is Justinian, chosen to clear "from vain excess the encumbered laws," five hundred years after the Christian era began, and that it was in order to devote all his time to this task that he consigned the military power to Belisarius. He proceeds to give Dante a _résumé_ of Roman history, from the kidnapping of the Sabines to his own day, laying stress on the triumphs won by great generals. He also specially mentions the hour "When Heaven was minded that o'er all the world his own deep calm should brood," the troublous days of the empire, and the feud of the Guelfs and Ghibellines, the two principal political factions of Dante's time. Next he explains that Mercury is inhabited by "good spirits whose mortal lives were busied to that end that honor and renown might wait on them," and quotes in particular Raymond Bérenger, whose four daughters became queens. _Canto VII._ After this speech Justinian vanishes with his angelic companions, and Dante, duly encouraged, inquires of Beatrice how "just revenge could be with justice punished!" She informs him that, as in Adam all die through the power of sin, all can by faith live again through Christ, thanks to God's goodness. _Canto VIII._ Although unaware of the fact, Dante, whose eyes have been fixed on Beatrice, has during her exposition been wafted up to the third heaven, that of Venus (revolved by Princedoms). In the planet of love--where Beatrice glows with increased beauty--are innumerable souls "imperfect through excess of love," which are grouped in constantly revolving circles. All at once one of these luminous spirits approaches Dante, and, after expressing great readiness to serve him, introduces himself as Charles Martel, King of Hungary, brother of Robert of Naples. Thirsting for information, Dante inquires of him "how bitter can spring when sweet is sown?" In a lengthy disquisition in reply, this spirit mentions how children often differ from their parents, quotes Esau and Jacob as marked examples thereof, and adds that nature, guided by Providence, produces at will a Solon, Xerxes, Melchisedec, or Daedalus. _Canto IX._ The next spirit with whom Beatrice converses is the fair Cunizza, who like the Magdalen "loved much," and therefor obtained pardon for her sins. Before vanishing, she foretells coming political events, and introduces the Provençal bard Folco, whose poems on love were to be republished after five hundred years of oblivion. After relating his life, this poet informs Dante the harlot Rahab was admitted to this heaven in reward for saving Joshua's spies. This spirit concludes his interview by censuring the present papal policy, declaring it far too worldly, avaricious, and time-serving to find favor in heaven. _Canto X._ Drawn upward this time by the attraction of the sun, Dante finds himself in a dazzling sphere (revolved by Powers), where he and Beatrice behold consecutive moving wreaths, each composed of twelve blessed spirits who while on earth were noted as teachers of divinity and philosophy. One of these singing, revolving wreaths encompasses our travellers, until one of its members, St. Thomas Aquinas, ceases his ineffable song long enough to present his companions and explain their titles to immortal glory. _Canto XI._ St. Thomas Aquinas, in his conversation with Dante, relates the life of St. Francis of Assisi, dwelling particularly upon his noble character, and describing how, after becoming wedded to Poverty, he founded the order of the Franciscans, received the stigmata, and died in odor of sanctity, leaving worthy disciples and emulators, such as St. Dominic, to continue and further the good work he had begun. He adds that many of the saint's followers are represented in the innumerable glowing wreaths which people the heaven of the Sun. _Canto XII._ Still encompassed by one rainbow circle after another, Dante is told by St. Buonaventura of Dominic's inestimable services to mankind, and hears about his fervent zeal and deep faith. _Canto XIII._ While Dante and Beatrice gaze with awe and admiration upon the circles of light which revolve through all the signs of the zodiac, St. Thomas Aquinas solves sundry of Dante's doubts, and cautions him never to accede to any proposition without having duly weighed it. "Let not the people be too swift to judge; As one who reckons on the blades in field, Or e'er the crop be ripe. For I have seen The thorn frown rudely all the winter long, And after bear the rose upon its top; And bark, that all her way across the sea Ran straight and speedy, perish at the last E'en in the haven's mouth." _Canto XIV._ Proceeding from circle to circle, Dante and Beatrice reach the innermost ring, where the latter bids Solomon solve Dante's doubts by describing the appearance of the blest after the resurrection of the body. In words almost as eloquent as those wherewith St. Gabriel transmitted his message to Mary, Solomon complies. "Long as the joy of Paradise shall last, Our love shall shine around that raiment, bright As fervent; fervent as, in vision, blest; And that as far, in blessedness, exceeding, As it hath grace, beyond its virtue, great. Our shape, regarmented with glorious weeds Of saintly flesh, must, being thus entire, Show yet more gracious. Therefore shall increase Whate'er, of light, gratuitous imparts The Supreme Good; light, ministering aid, The better to disclose his glory: whence, The vision needs increasing, must increase The fervor, which it kindles; and that too The ray, that comes from it." As he concludes his explanation, a chorus of spiritual voices chant "Amen," and Solomon, directing Dante's glance upward, shows him how the bright spirits of this sphere group themselves in the form of a cross,--glowing with light and pulsing with music,--whereon "Christ beamed," a sight none can hope to see save those who "take up their cross and follow him." _Cantos XV, XVI._ In the midst of the rapture caused by these sights and sounds, Dante is amazed to recognize, in one of the angels which continually shift places in the glowing cross, his ancestor Cacciaguida, who assures him Florence proved happy as long as its inhabitants led simple and virtuous lives, but rapidly degenerated and became corrupt when covetousness, luxury, and pleasure took up their abode within its walls. _Canto XVII._ Encouraged by Beatrice, who stands at a short distance to leave him more freedom, Dante begs his great ancestor to reveal what is about to befall him, so that, forewarned, he may most wisely meet his fate. In reply Cacciaguida tells him he will be exiled from Florence, and compelled to associate with people who will turn against him, only to rue this fact with shame later on. He adds Dante will learn how bitter is the savor of other's bread and how hard to climb another's stairs. "Thou shalt leave each thing Beloved most dearly: this is the first shaft Shot from the bow of exile. Thou shalt prove How salt the savor is of other's bread; How hard the passage, to descend and climb By other's stairs." Then Cacciaguida goes on to state that Dante shall finally find refuge in Lombardy, with Can Grande, and while there will compose the poems depicting his memorable journey down through sin to the lowest pit and upward through repentance to the realm of bliss. "For this, there only have been shown to thee, Throughout these orbs, the mountain, and the deep, Spirit, whom fame hath note of. For the mind Of him, who hears, is loath to acquiesce And fix its faith, unless the instance brought Be palpable, and proof apparent urge." Seeing Dante's dismay at this prediction, Beatrice comforts him by a smile, and, seeing he is again wrapped in contemplation of her, warns him that "these eyes are not thy only Paradise." _Canto XVIII._ Then Beatrice leads her charge into the fifth heaven, that of Mars, revolved by Virtues and inhabited by transfigured martyrs, confessors, and holy warriors, such as Joshua, the Maccabees, Charlemagne, Orlando, Godfrey of Bouillon, and other men of note. These worthies form a part of the mystic cross, and each glows with transcendent light as Beatrice points them out one after another. Then Beatrice wafts her change into the sixth heaven, that of Jupiter (revolved by Dominations). Here the spirits of rulers famous for justice, moving with kaleidoscopic tints and rapidity, alternately form mystic letters spelling "Love righteousness ye that be judges of the earth," or settle silently into the shape of a gigantic eagle. This sight proves so impressive that Dante sinks to his knees, fervently praying justice may indeed reign on earth as in heaven. Canto XIX. To his intense surprise Dante now hears the mystic eagle proclaim in trumpet tones that justice and pity shall be exacted, and that no man shall be saved without them. He adds that eternal judgment is incomprehensible to mortal ken, that mere professions are vain, and that many so-called Christian potentates (some of whom he names) will present a sorry figure on Judgment Day. Canto XX. After a period of silence, the same Eagle (an emblem of the Empire) proceeds to exalt certain rulers, especially those glorified spirits which form the pupil of his eye (David), and his eyelids (Trajan, Hezekiah, Constantine). As he mentions their names they glow like priceless rubies, and he explains that, although some of them lived before Christ was made flesh, all have been redeemed because Faith, Hope, and Charity are their sponsors. "The three nymphs, Whom at the right wheel thou beheld'st advancing, Were sponsors for him, more than thousand years Before baptizing. O how far removed, Predestination! is thy root from such As see not the First Cause entire: and ye, O mortal men! be wary how ye judge: For we, who see our Maker, know not yet The number of the chosen; and esteem Such scantiness of knowledge our delight: For all our good is, in that primal good, Concentrate; and God's will and ours are one." _Canto XXI._ Meantime Beatrice, who has grown more and more beautiful as they rise, explains, when Dante again gazes upon her, that she no longer dares smile, lest he be consumed like Semele when she beheld Jove. The magnetic power of her glance suffices again, however, to transfer him to the seventh heaven, that of Saturn (revolved by Thrones). This sphere is the abiding place of contemplative and abstinent hermits and monks. There our poet beholds a ladder, up whose steps silently ascend those whose lives were spent in retirement and holy contemplation. Amazed by all he sees, and conscious he no longer hears the music of the spheres, Dante wonders until informed by one of the spirits, coming down the steps to meet him, that at this stage the heavenly music is too loud and intense for human ears. Seeing his interlocutor suddenly become a whirling wheel of light, Dante inquires what this may mean, only to be told spirits obscured on earth by fleshly garments shine brightly in heaven. The spirit then gives his name (St. Peter Damian), vividly describes the place where he built his hermitage, and declares many modern prelates have sinned so grievously through lechery or avarice that they are now detained in Inferno or Purgatory. As he speaks, spirit after spirit flits down the stairs, each bound on some errand of charity to the spheres below. _Canto XXII._ Startled by a loud cry, Dante is reassured by St. Damian's statement that no harm can befall him in heaven. Next Beatrice directs his attention to some descending spirits, the most radiant of which is St. Benedict, who explains how blissful spirits often leave the heavenly abode "to execute the counsel of the Highest." He adds that Dante has been selected to warn mortals, none of whom will ever be allowed to venture hither again. Then St. Benedict describes his life on earth and inveighs against the corruption of the monks of Dante's time. His speech ended, St. Benedict vanishes, and Beatrice wafts Dante up the mystic stairs, through the constellation of the Gemini, to the eighth heaven, that of the Fixed Stars (revolved by the Cherubim). Declaring he is so near "the last salvation" that his eyes should be unclouded, Beatrice removes the last veil from his sight, and bids him gaze down at the spheres through which they have passed, and "see how vast a world thou hast already put beneath thy feet." Smiling at the smallness of the earth left behind him, Dante, undazzled by the mild light of the moon or the glow of the sun, gazes at the seven revolving spheres until all the scheme of creation is "made apparent to him." _Canto XXIII._ Beatrice, who is still standing beside him, finally tears him away from his contemplation of what is beneath him, and directs his glance aloft, where he catches his first glimpse of Christ, escorted by his Mother and by the Church triumphant. Too dazzled and awed at first to grasp what he sees, Dante feels heart and mind expand, as he listens enraptured to sweeter music than was ever made by the nine muses. Meantime the spirits escorting Christ crown the Virgin with lilies, and all sing the praises of the Queen of Heaven.[19] _Canto XXIV._ Beatrice and Dante are now joined by the spirit of St. Peter, who examines Dante on faith, receiving the famous reply: "Faith is the substance of the thing we hope for, and evidence of those that are not seen." Not only does St. Peter approve Dante's definition, but he discusses theological questions with him, leading him meanwhile further into this sphere. _Canto XXV._ Presently a spirit approaches them which is designated by Beatrice as St. James. After greeting St. Peter and smiling upon Beatrice, St. James reveals he has been sent hither by Christ to examine Dante upon hope, whereupon our poet, lifting his eyes "to the hills," gains courage enough to answer thus: "Hope is the certain expectation of future glory, which is the effect of grace divine and merit precedent." St. James is so pleased with this answer that he glows even more brightly, as St. John, "who lay upon the breast of him, our Pelican," appeared, shining so brightly that Dante, turning to ask Beatrice who he is, discovers he can no longer see her although she is close beside him. "I turn'd, but ah! how trembled in my thought, When, looking at my side again to see Beatrice, I descried her not; although, Not distant, on the happy coast she stood." _Canto XXVI._ Dante now ascertains he has merely been temporarily blinded by the excess of light which emanates from St. John, who proceeds to examine him in regard to Charity. His answers are greeted by the heavenly chorus with the chant "Holy, holy, holy," in which Beatrice joins, ere she clears the last mote away from Dante's eyes and thus enables him to see more plainly than ever. Our poet now perceives a fourth spirit, in whom he recognizes Adam, father of mankind, who retells the story of Eden, adding that, 4232 years after creation, Christ delivered him from hell, and enabled him to view the changes which had taken place in the fortunes of his descendants during that long space of time. _Canto XXVII._ After listening enraptured to the melody of the heavenly choir chanting "Glory be to the Father, to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost," Dante gazes upon the four worthies near him, who glow and shine like torches, while "silence reigns in heaven." Then St. Peter, changing color, holds forth against covetousness, and expounds the doctrine of apostolic succession. Because the early popes died as martyrs, he considers it a disgrace that their successors should be guilty of misgovernment. He adds that the keys bestowed upon him should never figure on banners used in waging unrighteous wars, and that his effigy on the papal seal should never appear on worldly documents. Then Beatrice affords Dante a glimpse of the earth from the Straits of Gibraltar to the Bosphorus, and, when this vision ends, wafts him up into the ninth heaven, the Primum Mobile, or spot whence all motion starts, although itself remains immovable. Here is the goal, whence motion on his race Starts: motionless the centre, and the rest All moved around. _Canto XXVIII._ From this point Dante watches the universe spin around him, until "she who doth emparadise my soul" draws aside the veil of mortality, and allows him to perceive nine concentric spheres of multitudinous angels constantly revolving around a dazzling point while singing "Hosanna!" These are the heavenly host, the hierarchy of angels, Seraphim, Cherubim, Thrones, Dominations, Virtues, Powers, Princedoms, Archangels, and Angels, in charge of the various circles which compose Dante's Paradise. _Canto XXIX._ Able to read Dante's thoughts, Beatrice explains some of the things he would fain know, and disperses his doubts, cautioning him, if he would be blessed, to rid himself of every atom of pride, since that caused even angels to fall! _Canto XXX._ Once more Dante's eyes are fixed upon Beatrice, whose beauty far transcends his powers of description, and is by her conveyed into the next circle, the Empyrean, or heaven of pure light, into which he is told to plunge as into a river. Eagerly quaffing its ethereal waters to satisfy his ardent thirst for knowledge, Dante beholds the court of Heaven, and descries its myriads of thrones, all occupied by redeemed spirits. These thrones are grouped around a brilliant centre (God) so as to form a dazzling jewelled rose. _Canto XXXI._ Robed in snowy white, the redeemed--who form the petals of the Eternal Rose--are visited from time to time by ruby sparks, which are the angels hovering above them, who plunge like bees into the heart of this flower, their glowing faces, golden wings, and white robes adding charms to the scene. After gazing for some time at this sight in speechless wonder, Dante, turning to question Beatrice, discovers she is no longer beside him! At the same time a being robed in glory near him bids him look up at the third row of thrones from the centre, and there behold her in her appointed seat. Eagerly glancing in the direction indicated, Dante perceives Beatrice, who, when he invokes her, smiles radiantly down upon him, ere she again turns her face to the eternal fountain of light. "So I my suit preferr'd: And she, so distant, as appear'd, look'd down, And smiled; then towards the eternal fountain turn'd." Meanwhile the spirit informs Dante he has been sent by Beatrice to help him end his journey safely, for he is St. Bernard, who so longed to behold the Virgin's countenance that that boon was vouchsafed him. Knowing Dante would fain see her too, he bids him find, among the most brilliant lights in the Mystic Rose, the Virgin Mary, Queen of Heaven. _Canto XXXII._ Because the dazzled Dante cannot immediately locate her, St. Bernard points her out, with Eve, Rachel, Beatrice, Sarah, Judith, Rebecca, and Ruth sitting at her feet, and John the Baptist, St. Augustine, St. Francis, and St. Benedict standing close behind her. He also explains that those who believed in "Christ who was to come" are in one part of the rose, while those who "looked to Christ already come" are in another, but that all here are spirits duly assoiled, and adds that, although occupying different ranks, these spirits are perfectly satisfied with the places awarded to them. Told now to look up at the face most closely resembling Christ's Dante discovers it is that of St. Gabriel, angel of the annunciation, and he descries further on St. Peter, Moses, and St. Anna, as well as Santa Lucia who induced Beatrice to send for him. _Canto XXXIII._ This done, St. Bernard fervently prays the Virgin, who not only "gives succor to him who asketh it, but oftentimes forerunneth of its own accord the asking," to allow Dante one glimpse of Divine Majesty. Seeing this prayer is graciously received, St. Bernard bids Dante look up. Thanks to his recently purified vision, our poet has a glimpse of the Triune Divinity,--compounded of love,--which so transcends all human expression that he declares "what he saw was not for words to speak." He concludes his grand poem, however, by assuring us that, although dazed by what he had seen, his "will roll'd onward, like a wheel In even motion, by the love impell'd, That moves the sun in heaven and all the stars." FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 16: All the quotations in Divine Comedy are taken from Cary's translation.] [Footnote 17: See the author's "Story of the Greeks."] [Footnote 18: See the author's "Story of the Chosen People," and "Story of the Romans."] [Footnote 19: See the author's "Legends of the Virgin and Christ."] THE ORLANDOS Roland, nephew of Charlemagne, hero of the Song of Roland and of an endless succession of metrical romances, was as popular a character in Italian literature as in the French. The Italians felt a proprietary interest in Charlemagne because he had been crowned emperor of the West in Rome in the year 800, and also because he had taken the part of the pope against the Lombards. Even the names of his twelve great peers were household words in Italy, so tales about Roland--who is known there as Orlando--were sure to find ready hearers. The adventures of Roland, therefore, naturally became the theme of Italian epics, some of which are of considerable length and of great importance, owing principally to their exquisite versification and diction. Pulci and Boiardo both undertook to depict Roland as a prey to the tender passion in epics entitled Orlando Innamorato, while Ariosto, the most accomplished and musical poet of the three, spent more than ten years of his life composing Orlando Furioso (1516), wherein he depicts this famous hero driven insane by his passion for an Oriental princess. Assuming that his auditors are familiar with the characters of Boiardo's unfinished epic, Ariosto, picking up the thread of the narrative at the point where his predecessor dropped it, continues the story in the same vein. It therefore becomes imperative to know the main trend of Boiardo's epic. It opens with a lengthy description of a tournament at the court of Charlemagne, whither knights from all parts of the globe hasten to distinguish themselves in the lists. Chief among these foreign guests are Argalio and Angelica, son and daughter of the king of Cathay, with their escort of four huge giants. The prince is, moreover, fortunate possessor of a magic lance, one touch of which suffices to unhorse any opponent, while the princess, by means of an enchanted ring, can detect and frustrate any spell, or become invisible by putting it in her mouth. On arriving at Charlemagne's court, Argalio stipulates that all the knights he defeats shall belong to his sister, whom in return he offers as prize to any knight able to unhorse him. Such is the transcendent beauty of Angelica that Argalio is instantly challenged by Astolfo, who is defeated, and then by Ferrau, who, although defeated in the first onset, proves victor in the second, simply because he accidentally seizes the magic lance and directs it against its owner! Since the laws of the tournament award him the prize, Angelica, seeing she cannot otherwise escape, rides hastily away and conceals herself in the forest of Arden. She is, however, pursued thither by many knights who have been captivated by her beauty, among whom are Rinaldo (Renaud de Montauban) and Orlando, who were proposing to challenge her brother next. In the precincts of the forest where Angelica takes refuge are two magic fountains, one whose waters instantly transform love into hate, while the other induces any partaker to love the next person seen. Prowling around this forest, Rinaldo unsuspectingly quaffs the water which turns love to hate, so he immediately ceases his quest and falls asleep. Meantime Angelica, drinking from the other fountain and coming upon the sleeper, falls madly in love with him and watches for his awakening. But, still under the influence of the magic waters he has imbibed, Rinaldo rides away without heeding her timid wooing, and leaves her to mourn until she too falls asleep. Orlando, coming up by chance, is gazing in admiration upon this sleeping princess, when Ferrau rides up to claim her as his prize. These knights are fighting for her possession when the clash of their weapons awakens Angelica. Terrified she retreats into the thicket, and, thrusting her ring into her mouth, becomes invisible! Meantime the knights continue their duel until a messenger summons Ferrau to hasten to Spain, where war has broken out. Angelica, unable to forget Rinaldo since she has partaken of the waters of love, now induces the magician Malgigi to entice her beloved to an island over which she reigns, where she vainly tries to win his affections and to detain him by her side. Still under the influence of the waters of hate, Rinaldo escapes, only to land in a gloomy country, where he is plunged into a loathsome den. There a monster is about to devour him, when Angelica comes to his rescue. But, even though she saves his life, he ungratefully refuses to return her affection, and abruptly leaves her to encounter other untoward adventures. Meantime Orlando, still searching for Angelica, encounters a sorceress who gives him a magic draught which causes him to forget the past, and detains him a captive in the island of Dragontine. Meanwhile the many knights enamoured with Angelica have gone to besiege her father's capital, but while they are thus employed she escapes from the city--thanks to her magic ring--and goes to deliver Orlando. In return, he pledges himself to drive the besiegers away and save her father's capital, and on the way thither encounters Rinaldo, with whom, not knowing who he is, he fights two days, so equally are they matched in strength and skill. The moment comes, however, when Orlando is on the point of slaying Rinaldo, and refrains only because Angelica opportunely reveals his opponent's name. Still urged by Angelica, Orlando next hastens off to destroy the magic island and free its captives, who hurry back to France while their rescuer journeys to Cathay. There Angelica pretends she has fallen in love with him, and accompanies him when he returns to France under pretext of becoming a Christian. Their way again lies through the forest of Arden, where this time Angelica drinks from the fountain of hatred. All her former love for Rinaldo therefore vanishes, and, as the latter has at the same time partaken of the water of love, their parts are reversed, for it is he who now pursues Angelica whom he previously loathed. His attentions so incense Orlando that he begins a fight, which Charlemagne checks, declaring that Angelica--who is placed in charge of Duke Namus--shall be awarded to the warrior who distinguishes himself most in the coming war. In the course of this campaign these two knights meet with many adventures, and are accompanied by Bradamant--Rinaldo's sister--who manfully fights by their side. Among their opponents the most formidable are Rogero and the pagan Rodomont, whose boastful language has given rise to the term rodomontade. During one of their encounters, Rogero discovers that his antagonist is Bradamant--a woman--and falls desperately in love with her. It is at this point that Boiardo's poem ends; and Ariosto, adopting his characters, immediately begins weaving three principal strands of narrative,--one relating to the wars of Charlemagne, another to Orlando's madness, and the third to the love of Rogero and Bradamant,--Rogero, an ancestor of the Ferrara family (Ariosto's patrons), being the real hero of his poem. Not satisfied at being placed under the care of Duke Namus of Bavaria, Angelica escapes from his guardianship, only to be pursued by the unwelcome attentions of Rinaldo and Ferrau. While these two fight for her possession, the lady, who spends her time fleeing from unwelcome suitors, escapes, only to fall into the hands of Sacripant, King of Circassia, another admirer, who bears her off in triumph. They meet a knight in white armor (Bradamant in quest of Rogero), ere they are overtaken by Rinaldo. A new duel now ensues, this time between Rinaldo and Sacripant, during which Angelica runs away and seeks refuge with a hermit-magician, who then informs the combatants Angelica has been carried off to Paris by Orlando. Hearing this, the rivals cease fighting and join forces to rescue the lady, but, when they arrive in Paris, Charlemagne despatches Rinaldo to England and Scotland, where, among other marvellous adventures, is told the lengthy and fantastic yet beautiful story of Ginevra. It seems that, although loved by the Duke of Albany, this lady prefers the knight Ariolant. She thereby so enrages her noble suitor that he finally bribes her maid to personate her and admit him by night to her chamber by means of a rope ladder. With fiendish cunning he has advised Ariolant to watch Ginevra, so this true lover, witnessing what he considers irrefutable proof of his lady-love's unchastity, departs in despair to commit suicide. His brother, deeming him already dead, denounces Ginevra, who, brought before the judges, is sentenced to die unless some champion will vindicate her honor. Having meantime discovered the truth, Rinaldo clears the lady by winning a brilliant victory, and leaves only after she is safely married to the man she loves, who after all has not taken his life. The poet now picks up another thread and shows us Bradamant seeking Rogero, and discovering, by means of Angelica's magic ring, that he is captive of a magician. After a narrow escape, and a vision of the feats her descendants will perform, Bradamant helps Rogero to escape. Soon after, this reckless man vaults upon a hippogriff which lands him on an island, where an enchantress changes her visitors into beasts, stones, trees, etc. Instead of becoming one of her permanent victims, Rogero, warned by the myrtle to which he ties his steed, prevails upon her to release her captives, and after many adventures is borne by the same hippogriff to the island of Ebuda, where a maiden is daily sacrificed to a cannibal Orc. When Rogero discovers that the present victim is Angelica, he promptly delivers her and conveys her to Brittany. Meantime Orlando, mad with love, is vainly seeking Angelica. He too visits Ebuda--but too late to meet her there--and delivers another maiden. Then he returns to France to find Charlemagne so sorely pressed by foes, that he has implored St. Michael to interfere in his behalf. This archangel, cleverly enlisting the services of Silence and Discord, brings back Rinaldo and other knights, who drive away the disintegrating pagan force after sundry bloody encounters. After one of these, Angelica finds a wounded man, whom she nurses back to health, and marries after a romantic courtship in the course of which they carve their names on many a tree. Still seeking Angelica, Orlando in due time discovers these names, and on learning Angelica is married becomes violently insane. Discarding his armor,--which another knight piously collects and hangs on a tree with an inscription warning no one to venture to touch it,--Orlando roams hither and thither, performing countless feats of valor, and even swimming across the Strait of Gibraltar to seek adventures in Africa since he cannot get enough in Europe. In the course of his wanderings, Orlando (as well as sundry other characters in the poem) is favored by an apparition of Fata Morgana, the water-fairy, who vainly tries to lure him away from his allegiance to his lady-love by offering him untold treasures. Every once in a while the poem harks back to Rogero, who, having again fallen into a magician's hands, prowls through the labyrinthine rooms of his castle, seeking Bradamant, whom he imagines calling to him for help. Meantime the lady whom he is thus seeking is safe at Marseilles, but, hearing at last of her lover's plight, she too visits the magic castle, and would have been decoyed into its dungeons had not Astolfo appeared with a magic horn, whose first blast makes the castle vanish into thin air! Thus freed, the magician's prisoners gaze around them in wonder, and Rogero and Bradamant embrace with rapture, planning to marry as soon as Rogero has been baptized. But, on their way to Vallombroso where this sacrament is to take place, the lovers meet with other adventures and are again separated. Under escort of Astolfo, Bradamant sadly returns home, where her mother decrees she shall remain until Rogero can come and get her. Meantime Rogero has again joined the Saracens, just as Discord has succeeded in kindling a quarrel between Rodomont and Mandricar, who both admire the same lady. They are about to fight for her favor, when the umpire of the lists pertinently suggests the lady be allowed to express her preference! She frankly does so, and Rodomont, rejected, departs in high dudgeon. In this unhappy frame of mind he attacks everybody he meets, and after many victories is defeated in a battle with the Christians. During this last encounter Rogero is too grievously wounded to be able to join Bradamant, who, hearing a fair lady is nursing her lover, is consumed by jealousy. She therefore--notwithstanding her mother's decree--sets out in the garb of a knight to challenge her recreant lover and defeat him by means of her magic lance. After unhorsing on the way all those who venture to tilt with her, Bradamant meets Rogero, who, recognizing her in the midst of their duel, flatly refuses to continue the fight, and implores her to accompany him into a neighboring forest, where he promises to explain all to her satisfaction. They are, however, followed thither by the maiden who has nursed Rogero, who, jealous in her turn, now attacks Bradamant. Rogero, infuriated by Bradamant's imminent peril, is about to slay his nurse remorselessly, when an enchanter's voice proclaims she is his sister, stolen in infancy! All excuse for mutual jealousy being thus removed, the two women agree to join forces and fight in behalf of Charlemagne until Rogero can discharge his obligations to the Saracens, receive baptism, and join the Christian ranks. Meantime Astolfo has ridden off on the hippogriff to the earthly paradise, where he has interviews with sundry saints and apostles, and whence St. John conveys him up to the moon. In that appropriate region the apostle explains that Orlando's insanity is due to the fact he loves an infidel! He further points out where the hero's stray wits are stored, and directs Astolfo how to catch them in a vial and restore them to their rightful owner. Then, before conveying Astolfo back to earth, St. John vouchsafes him a glimpse of the Fates, wearing the web of Destiny, which they cast into the stream of Oblivion, whence only a few shreds are rescued by poets! On returning from this eventful trip to the moon, Astolfo joins the Saracens. When they finally capture the mad Orlando, he produces his vial, and, making his friend inhale its contents, restores him to his senses. His mad passion for Angelica being now a thing of the past, Orlando concentrates all his efforts to conquer the Saracens and triumphs in many a fight. Meantime Rogero, on his way to join Bradamant, has been shipwrecked on an island, where a hermit converts him to the Christian faith. While he is here, Orlando and Rinaldo arrive with their sorely wounded friend, Oliver, whom they entrust to the hermit's care. Not only is Orlando sane once more, but Rinaldo, having drunk the waters of the contrary fountain, no longer loves Angelica, and willingly promises the hand of his sister Bradamant to the new convert. But, when brother and prospective bridegroom reach court, they learn Charlemagne has promised Bradamant to a Greek prince, to whom the lady has signified that ere he wins her he must fight a duel with her. On hearing that the Greek prince is at present besieging Belgrade, Rogero hastens thither, and performs wonders before he falls into the enemy's hands. But the Greek prince has been so impressed by Rogero's prowess that he promises him freedom if he will only personate him in the dreaded duel with Bradamant. Rogero immediately consents to fight in the prince's armor, and defeats Bradamant, whom Charlemagne thereupon awards to the Greek prince. In despair at having forfeited his beloved, Rogero rides off to die of grief, but the Greek prince, riding after him to thank him, not only discovers the cause of Rogero's sorrow, but generously relinquishes all claim to Bradamant and volunteers to witness her marriage to Rogero. The courage shown by the bridegroom while at Belgrade has meantime so impressed the Bulgarians, that an embassy arrives to beg him to mount their throne. But before Rogero can assume the Bulgarian crown he is forced to conquer and slay the boastful Rodomont, who envies his exalted position. Many other characters appear in this poem, complicating the plot until it seems hopelessly involved to most modern readers, but, owing to the many romantic situations, to the picturesque verse, and to the unflagging liveliness of style, this epic is still popular in Italy. It has besides given rise to endless imitations, not only in Italian but in many other languages. It forms part of the great Charlemagne Cycle, of which the last epic is Ricciardetto, by Fortiguerra, a priest who wagered he too could compose a string of adventures like those invented by Ariosto. He won his wager by adopting the characters already made famous by Boiardo and Ariosto, and selected as his hero a younger brother of Rinaldo mentioned by his predecessors. GERUSALEMME LIBERATA, OR JERUSALEM DELIVERED Torquato Tasso, one of the three great Italian poets, was born at Sorrento in 1544, and, after receiving his education in various Italian cities, conceived, while at the University of Padua, the idea of writing an epic poem, using an episode in the First Crusade as his theme. In 1572 Tasso became attached to the court of Ferrara, where the duke and his two sisters delighted in his verses, admired his pastoral Aminta, and urged him to finish his projected epic. During his sojourn at this court Tasso fell in love with Eleonora, sister of the duke, to whom he read the various parts of his epic as he completed them, and for whose sake he lingered at Ferrara, refusing offers of preferment at Paris and at Florence. Although he completed his epic in 1575, he did not immediately publish it, but sent copies to Rome and Padua for criticism. The learned men to whom he submitted his poem criticised it so freely that the poet's sensitive nature was greatly injured thereby. Almost at the same time the duke discovered the poet's passion for his sister. Furious to think Tasso should have raised his eyes to a princess, yet afraid he should carry his talents elsewhere, the duke, pretending to deem him insane, placed him under close surveillance. While Tasso was thus a prisoner, sundry false accusations were brought against him and his poem was published without his consent. Although Tasso contrived several times to escape from Ferrara, he invariably came back there, hoping to be reconciled to the duke. It was only in 1586 that he left this place for good and betook himself to Rome and Naples, where he was forced to live on charity. Just as he was about to be publicly crowned in Rome for his epic, he died there, at the age of fifty-two (1595). The epic "Jerusalem Delivered" contains an account of the Crusade of 1099 and extends over a period of forty days. It is divided into twenty cantos, written in ottava rima, or eight-rhymed stanzas, and, owing to its rhythmic perfection, is still sung by Italian bards to popular audiences. _Canto I._ After stating exactly what task he proposes to perform in his poem, the poet describes how the Eternal Father, sitting on His heavenly throne, gazes down upon the plain of Tortosa, where the Crusaders are assembled. Six years have elapsed since they set out from Europe, during which time they have succeeded in taking Nicaea and Antioch, cities now left in charge of influential Crusaders. But Godfrey of Bouillon is pushing on with the bulk of the army, because he is anxious to wrest Jerusalem from the hands of the infidels and restore it to the worship of the true God. While he is camping on this plain, God sends Gabriel to visit him in sleep and inspire him with a desire to assemble a council, where, by a ringing speech, he will rouse the Christians to immediate action. On awakening from this vision, Godfrey loses no time in convening such an assembly, and there eloquently urges the Christians to fight, declaring their efforts have failed hitherto mainly because they have lacked purpose and unity. Hearing this, Peter the Hermit suggests the Crusaders should select one chief, whose orders they will obey, and thereupon the warriors present unanimously elect Godfrey of Bouillon as leader. Having secured this exalted post, Godfrey reviews his force, thus giving the poet an occasion to enumerate the leaders of the different corps, or armies, and explain from what countries they come. Amongst other resounding names, the poet specially mentions Edward and his fair bride Gildippe, who, unwilling to be parted from her spouse, has donned a man's armor and followed him to the Crusade. Among the bravest fighters there, he also quotes Tancred, who, however, seems listless, and has accomplished no deed of valor since he beheld near a fountain and fell in love with Clorinda, a fair Amazon. To the same warbling of fresh waters drew, Arm'd, but unmhelm'd and unforeseen, a maid; She was a pagan, and came thither too To quench her thirst beneath the pleasant shade; Her beautiful fair aspect, thus display'd, He sees; admires; and, touch'd to transport, glows With passion rushing to its fountain head, The heart; 'tis strange how quick the feeling grows; Scarce born, its power in him no cool calm medium knows. Another hero is Rinaldo (the same as the French Renaud de Montauban), who, although but a boy, escaped from his foster mother, Queen Mathilda, to go and fight for the deliverance of the Holy Sepulchre. His review completed, Godfrey of Bouillon orders his force to march on toward Jerusalem, whence he wishes to oust the Sultan Aladine (Saladin), who at present is sorely taxing the Christians to obtain funds enough to make war against the advancing Crusaders. _Canto II._ Advised by the sorcerer Ismeno, Aladine steals the image of the Virgin from the Christian temple, and sets it up in his mosque, where he resorts to all manner of spells and incantations to destroy her power. During the night, however, the Virgin's image disappears from the mosque and cannot be found, although Aladine offers great rewards for its restoration. Finally, he decrees that, unless the perpetrator of the theft denounces himself, he will slay all the Christians in the town. He is about to execute this cruel threat when Sophronia, a Christian maid, suddenly decides to sacrifice herself to save her co-religionists. She therefore appears before Aladine, declaring she stole the image from the temple, whereupon the sultan in anger orders her bound to the stake and burned alive. Doom'd in tormenting fire to die, they lay Hands on the maid; her arms with rough cords twining, Rudely her mantle chaste they tear away, And the white veil that o'er her droop'd declining: This she endured in silence unrepining, Yet her firm breast some virgin tremors shook; And her warm cheek, Aurora's late outshining, Waned into whiteness, and a color took, Like that of the pale rose or lily of the brook. Scarcely has Sophronia been fastened there, and while she is praying for God's aid to endure martyrdom without flinching, Olindo, a young Christian, deeming it impossible to allow a girl to sacrifice her life, rushes forward, declaring he alone committed the crime, but that the maiden, out of love for him, has assumed his guilt to save his life. Only then does he discover that the maiden tied to the stake is the very one he loves, but who hitherto has received his advances coldly! On hearing the youth accuse himself of having stolen the image, Aladine questions the maiden, who denies it, insisting she alone is to blame. Thereupon the sultan decrees both shall perish in the flames, and orders them tied to the stake back to back. It is in this position, and while in imminent peril of death, that the young man deplores the fact he is to die beside the one he hoped to marry and with whom he expected to spend a long and happy life. The executioners are about to set fire to the pyre where these generous young lovers are to end their days, when a young knight steps forward loudly proclaiming none of the Christians are to blame for the disappearance of the image, since Allah himself removed it from the temple because he considered it desecration to have such an image within its walls. This young knight turns out to be the warrior maid Clorinda, who not only convinces Aladine that the young people are guiltless, but bribes him to release them, in exchange for her services in the coming war. Touched by each other's devotion, the young couple marry as soon as released, and, instead of dying, live together as husband and wife. Restored to life and liberty, how blest, How truly blest was young Olindo's fate! For sweet Sophronia's blushes might attest, That Love at length has touch'd her delicate And generous bosom; from the stake in state They to the altar pass; severely tried, In doom and love already made his mate, She now objects not to become his bride, And grateful live with him who would for her have died. Meanwhile two ambassadors have come from Egypt to visit Godfrey in his camp, and try first by persuasions and then by threats to dissuade him from his projected attack upon Jerusalem. In spite of all Alethes and Argantes can say, Godfrey insists upon carrying out his purpose, and, after dismissing these ambassadors with a haughty speech, marches on with his host. "Know, then, that we have borne all this distress By land and sea,--war, want, reverses--all! To the sole end that we might gain access To sacred Salem's venerable wall; That we might free the Faithful from their thrall, And win from God His blessing and reward: From this no threats our spirit can appal, For this no terms will be esteem'd too hard-- Life, honors, kingdoms lost, or dignity debarr'd." _Canto III._ When they come within sight of Jerusalem, the Crusaders, overjoyed, hail the Holy City with cries of rapture, and, falling on their knees, swear to deliver it from the hands of the infidels. Seeing them advance, the pagans make hasty preparations to oppose them, and Clorinda, at the head of a small force, volunteers to make a sortie and boldly attacks the vanguard of the Crusaders. From the topmost tier of Jerusalem's ramparts, the Sultan Aladine watches their sortie, having beside him Erminia, daughter of the late king of Antioch, whom the Crusaders have sent on to Jerusalem, because they do not care to detain her a prisoner. During her sojourn in her father's town, Erminia has learned to know by sight all the Crusaders, and during her brief captivity she has fallen in love with Tancred, who was detailed to guard her. She can therefore give the Sultan Aladine all the information he wishes, and acts as cicerone while the battle is going on. From this point of vantage the sultan and princess watch Clorinda and Tancred meet, and behold how, after a lively encounter, Tancred strikes off the helmet of his opponent, whose sex is revealed by the streaming of her long golden hair. At sight of the wonderful maiden with whom he has fallen in love, Tancred refuses to continue the fight, although Clorinda urges him to strike. Undaunted by the fact that she is his foe, Tancred not only refuses to strike, but immediately begins to sue the beautiful maiden, who refuses to listen to him, and is soon swept away by Saracen forces, which intervene between her and Tancred. A battle now rages, in the course of which various knights perform great deeds, but, although Godfrey proves victor on this occasion, he loses Dudon, chief of his Adventurous Band and one of the bravest warriors in his army. While giving her explanations to Aladine in regard to the fight waged beneath their eyes, Erminia carefully explains she feels deadly hatred for Tancred, although the truth is she loves him dearly and is greatly relieved to see him escape from the fray uninjured. Many people having died in the course of this action, a truce is agreed upon so that both sides may bury their dead, and so, many funerals are celebrated with all due pomp and ceremony. Next the crusading force decides that siege-engines and towers will be necessary to enable them to scale the high walls of Jerusalem. They therefore send out a force of woodsmen to hew the trees which are to serve for the construction of the required towers. The duke, when thus his piety had paid The fun'ral rites, and shed his duteous tears, Sent all his skill'd mechanics to invade The forest, guarded by a thousand spears; Veil'd by low hills it stood, the growth of years,-- A Syrian shepherd pointed out the vale, And thither brought the camp-artificers To fabricate the engines doom'd to scale The City's sacred towers and turn her people pale. _Canto IV._ The scene now changes to the infernal regions, where Satan deems it time to frustrate the Christians' aims, because it would ill-suit diabolical ends to have them recover possession of Jerusalem. Not only does Satan stimulate his hosts by reminding them of their forfeited bliss, but he encourages them to thwart the Christians by reminding them of the great deeds they have already done. His eloquence is not expended in vain, for the fiends all approve of his suggestions, and, when the council is over, flit forth, intent upon fomenting dissension among the leaders of the Crusade, and hindering their attempts in every other way possible. One demon in particular is to determine a wizard to send his niece Armida to ensnare the Christians. This enchantress, decked out with all the charms beauty and toilet can bestow, soon appears in the Christian camp, where, falling at Godfrey's feet, she proceeds to relate a tale of fictitious wrongs, claiming to be heiress of the city of Damascus, whence she has been ejected, and vowing if she could only secure the aid of a few knights she would soon recover her realm. In return for such aid as she implores from the Christians, she promises to do homage to them for her realm, and even pledges herself to receive baptism. Her artful speeches, the flattery which she lavishes upon Godfrey, and her languishing glances are all calculated to persuade him to grant her request; but the Crusader is so bent upon the capture of Jerusalem that nothing can turn him aside from his purpose. But, although Godfrey himself is proof against all Armida's blandishments, his knights are not, and among those who succumb to the lady's charms is his own brother Eustace, who begs his permission to take ten knights and accompany the damsel to Damascus. Although Armida professes great gratitude for this help, she entices many other Crusaders to desert the camp, by casting languishing glances at them and making each man whom she looks upon believe she loves him only. All arts th' enchantress practised to beguile Some new admirer in her well-spread snare; Nor used with all, nor always the same wile, But shaped to every taste her grace and air: Here cloister'd is her eye's dark pupil, there In full voluptuous languishment is roll'd; Now these her kindness, those her anger bear, Spurr'd on or check'd by bearing frank or cold, As she perceived her slave was scrupulous or bold. _Canto V._ Not content with beguiling many knights, Armida further foments a quarrel between Rinaldo and Gernando, Prince of Norway, in regard to the command of the Adventurous Band, which is now without a leader. In the course of this quarrel, Rinaldo is so sorely taunted by his opponent that, although the Crusaders are pledged not to fight each other, he challenges and slays Gernando. Then, afraid to be called to trial and sentenced to death for breaking the rules of the camp, Rinaldo flees to Egypt. On perceiving how greatly his army is weakened by the desertion of so many brave men, Godfrey is dismayed--all the more so because he hears the Egyptian army is coming to attack him, and because the supplies which he expected have been cut off. _Canto VI._ The Egyptian army boasts of no braver warrior than Argantes, who sallies forth to challenge the Christians, bidding Clorinda follow him at a short distance, and come to his rescue should it be necessary. Although Argantes has summoned Godfrey to come forth and fight him, it is Tancred who is chosen as champion for the Christians, but as he draws near his opponent a glimpse of the fair Clorinda's face makes him forget everything but her. He noted not where the Circassian rear'd His frightful face to the affronted skies, But to the hill-top where his Love appear'd, Turn'd, slack'ning his quick pace, his am'rous eyes, Till he stood steadfast as a rock, all ice Without, all glowing heat within;--the sight To him was as the gates of Paradise; And from his mind the mem'ry of the fight Pass'd like a summer cloud, or dream at morning light. One of the knights in his train, seeing he is not going to fight, spurs forward and meets Argantes, by whom he is defeated. On seeing this knight fall, Tancred, suddenly brought to his senses, starts forward to avenge him, and combats with such fury that Argantes' armor fairly rings with the blows which rain down upon him. Argantes, however, is nearly as brave as Tancred, so the battle rages until nightfall, when the heroes are separated by the heralds, although both vow they will renew the struggle on the morrow. But, when they have ceased fighting and both discover they have serious wounds, their respective armies decree a six-days' truce and pledge themselves to await the result of the duel. The wounded Argantes has returned to Jerusalem, where Erminia uses her magic balsams to heal his wounds, secretly wishing meanwhile that she might lavish her care upon Tancred, whom she still loves. So ardent is her desire to behold him, that she finally appropriates Clorinda's armor and rides off to the Christian camp, sending a messenger ahead to announce a lady is coming to heal Tancred if he will give her a safe-conduct to his tent. Tancred immediately sends word the lady will be welcome, but meanwhile the Christians, catching a glimpse of the waiting Erminia, and mistaking her for Clorinda owing to her armor, endeavor to capture her. _Canto VII._ To escape from her pursuers, Erminia flees into a trackless forest, where, after wandering some time, she meets a shepherd, who gives her an asylum in his hut. There she turns shepherdess, but does not forget Tancred, whose name she carves in many a tree. Meantime the news spreads through the camp that Clorinda has been seen and is even now closely pursued by a troop of Christians. Hearing this Tancred, disregarding his wounds, sets out to find her. While wandering thus in the forest, weakened by loss of blood, he is captured by Armida, the enchantress, who detains him in a dungeon, where he eats his heart out for shame because he will not be able to respond when the trumpets sound for the renewal of his duel with Argantes. The moment having come for this battle and the Crusaders' champion being absent, old Count Raymond volunteers to meet Argantes, and is about to get the better of him, when an archer from the wall suddenly discharges a shaft at him. Such treachery exasperates the Christians, who, exclaiming the truce has been broken, precipitate themselves upon their foes, and in the general battle which ensues many deeds of valor are performed. _Canto VIII._ During this battle a great storm arises, and the Christians, who, notwithstanding their courage, have been worsted, beat a retreat, finding on their return to camp that one of their companions, defeated and mortally wounded, has despatched a messenger to carry his sword to Rinaldo. The Italian force thereupon accuses Godfrey of having done away with Rinaldo, but he not only succeeds in refuting such an accusation, but sentences his chief detractor to death. _Canto IX._ Sultan Solyman of Nicae, who has joined Sultan Aladine of Jerusalem, now comes to attack the Christians by night, assisted by many fiends, but the archangel Michael warns the crusaders of what is coming and enables them to get the better of their foes by bringing back the troops which followed Armida to Damascus. In this encounter a Christian knight slays a page of the sultan, who, seeing this child dead, experiences such grief that, after avenging his death, he wishes to withdraw temporarily from the battle. "Let Godfrey view once more, and smile to view My second exile;--soon shall he again See me in arms return'd, to vex anew His haunted peace and never stable reign: Yield I do not; eternal my disdain Shall be as are my wrongs; though fires consume My dust, immortal shall my hate remain; And aye my naked ghost fresh wrath assume, Through life a foe most fierce, but fiercer from the tomb!" _Canto X._ The sultan, after journeying part way back to Egypt, pauses to rest, and is visited by a wizard, who spirits him over the battle-field and back to Jerusalem in a magic chariot. This pauses at a hidden cave, the entrance to an underground passage, by which they secretly enter the sultan's council chamber. Ismeno shot the lock; and to the right They climb'd a staircase, long untrod, to which A feeble, glimm'ring, and malignant light Stream'd from the ceiling through a window'd niche; At length by corridors of loftier pitch They sallied into day, and access had To an illumined hall, large, round, and rich; Where, sceptred, crown'd, and in dark purple clad, Sad sat the pensive king amid his nobles sad. Solyman, overhearing as he enters some of the nobles propose a disgraceful peace and the surrender of Jerusalem, hotly opposes such a measure, and thus infuses new courage into their breasts. _Canto XI._ Meantime Godfrey of Bouillon, having buried his dead, questions the knights who were lured away by Armida, and they relate that, on arriving near the Dead Sea, they were entertained at a sumptuous banquet, where they were given a magic draught, which transformed them for a time into sportive fishes. Armida, having thus demonstrated her power over them, threatened to use it to keep them prisoners forever unless they would promise to abjure their faith. One alone yielded, but the rest, delivered as prisoners to an emissary from Egypt, were met and freed from their bonds by the brave Rinaldo, who, instead of accompanying them back to camp, rode off toward Antioch. The Christians now prepare for their final assault, and, advised by Peter the Hermit, walk in solemn procession to the Mount of Olives, where, after singing hymns, all devoutly receive Communion. Thus prepared for anything that may betide, they set out on the morrow to scale the city walls, rolling ahead of them their mighty engines of war, by means of which they hope to seize the city. Most of the Crusaders have laid aside their heavy armor and assumed the light gear of foot-soldiers the better to scale the walls, upon which Clorinda is posted, and whence she shoots arrow after arrow at the assailants. Wounded by one of the missiles flung from the wall, Godfrey seeks his tent, where, the physician failing to extract the barb, an angel brings a remedy from heaven which instantly cures the wound. Canto XII. After awhile, seeing she does not do as much execution as she would like, Clorinda proposes to Argantes that they steal out of the city by night, and by chemical means set fire to the engines with which the Christians are threatening to capture the city. Willingly Argantes promises to accompany her in this perilous venture, but her slave, hoping to dissuade her, now reveals to her for the first time, the story of her birth, and informs her she is the daughter of a Christian. He adds her dying mother besought him to have her child baptized, a duty he had failed to perform, although repeatedly warned by visions to repair his neglect. But, although similar visions have frequently haunted the dreams of Clorinda herself, she persists in her undertaking to set fire to the war machines. She has no sooner done so, however, than the Christians, aroused, set out in pursuit of her and of her companions. Bravely covering their retreat so they can re-enter the city safely, Clorinda delays her own until the gates closed. But with great presence of mind, the warrior-maid, who is wearing black armor, mingles in the darkness with the Crusaders. None of these suspects she does not belong to their ranks, save Tancred, who follows her to a remote place beneath the walls, where he challenges her to a deadly fight, little divining who she is. The battle proves fierce, and both combatants strike until Tancred runs his sword through his opponent. Dying, Clorinda reveals her name and faintly begs Tancred to baptize her before life leaves her body. "Friend! thou hast won; I pardon thee, and O Forgive thou me! I fear not for this clay, But my dark soul--pray for it, and bestow The sacred rite that laves all stains away:" Like dying hymns heard far at close of day, Sounding I know not what in the sooth'd ear Of sweetest sadness, the faint words make way To his fierce heart, and, touch'd with grief sincere, Streams from his pitying eye th' involuntary tear. Such a request cannot be disregarded, so, although Tancred is frantic with grief at the thought of having slain his beloved, he hurries to a neighboring stream, draws water in his helmet, and, after baptizing his dying sweetheart, swoons over her body. His companions, finding him there, convey him and Clorinda's body to his tent, where they vainly try to rouse him, but he is so overcome with melancholy that he thinks of nothing but joining Clorinda in her tomb. _Canto XIII._ Meantime the foe, having heard of Clorinda's death, vow to avenge her, while the Crusaders seek materials to reconstruct their towers. Hastening to a forest near by, they discover a wizard has cast such a spell upon it that all who try to enter are frightened away. Finally Tancred enters this place, and, although he is met by earthquakes and other portents, he disregards them all, and starts to cut down a tree. But, when blood gushes from its stem, and when Clorinda's voice informs him he has wounded her again, he flees without having accomplished his purpose. Heat and drought now cause further desertions and discourage the Crusaders, until Godfrey, full of faith in the justice of their cause, prays so fervently that rain is vouchsafed them. _Canto XIV._ In a dream Godfrey is now admonished to proceed, and told, if he can only persuade Rinaldo to return, Jerusalem will soon fall into the hands of the Christians. Because no one knows where Rinaldo has gone, Godfrey despatches two knights in quest of him. After some difficulty they interview a wizard, who, after exhibiting to them his magic palace, tells them Armida, to punish Rinaldo for rescuing his companions from her clutches, has captured him by magic means and borne him off to her wonderful garden in the Fortunate Isles. The hermit then bestows upon them a golden wand which will defeat all enchantments, and bids them hasten to the Fortunate Isles. _Canto XV._ Hastening off to the sea-shore armed with this golden wand, these two knights find a magic vessel, wherein they sail with fabulous speed over the sea, and through the Strait of Gibraltar, out into the western ocean, the nymph at the helm meanwhile informing them that this is the road Columbus is destined to travel. Sailing thus they reach the Fortunate Isles, where, notwithstanding many enchantments and temptations brought to bear to check their advance, they, thanks to the golden wand, force their way into Armida's wonderful garden. _Canto XVI._ These windings pass'd, the garden-gates unfold, And the fair Eden meets their glad survey,-- Still waters, moving crystals, sands of gold, Herbs, thousand flowers, rare shrubs, and mosses gray; Sunshiny hillocks, shady vales; woods gay, And grottoes gloomy, in one view combined, Presented were; and what increased their play Of pleasure at the prospect, was, to find Nowhere the happy Art that had the whole design'd. So natural seem'd each ornament and site, So well was neatness mingled with neglect, As though boon Nature for her own delight Her mocker mock'd, till fancy's self was check'd; The air, if nothing else there, is th' effect Of magic, to the sound of whose soft flute The blooms are born with which the trees are deck'd; By flowers eternal lives th' eternal fruit, This running richly ripe, while those but greenly shoot. Then, peeping cautiously through the trees, they behold Rinaldo reclining amid the flowers, his head resting in the enchantress' lap. Biding their time they watch Armida leave the enamoured knight, then step forward and bid him gaze into the magic mirror they have brought. On beholding in its surface a reflection of himself as he really is, Rinaldo, horrified, is brought to such a sense of his depraved idleness, that he springs to his feet and proposes to leave immediately with his companions. They are about to depart without bidding farewell to the fair enchantress, when she pursues them, and, after vainly pleading with Rinaldo to stay with her, proposes to join him in any quality. When he abruptly rejects her advances and sails away, Armida, disappointed and infuriated because she has been scorned, hastens off to the Egyptian camp. _Canto XVII._ There she joins the Christians' enemies, declaring she dreams of naught save slaying Rinaldo, and takes an important part in the review which the poet describes minutely. To compass her ends the artful Armida, whose charms have so lavishly been displayed that they have fired every breast, promises to belong to the warrior who will bring her Rinaldo's head. Meanwhile this hero has returned to Palestine, and is met by the wizard, who, after reproving him for his dalliance, gives him wonderful armor, and exhibits on the shield the great deeds of ancestors of the Duke of Ferrara. _Canto XVIII._ Newly armed, Rinaldo now returns to the crusaders' camp, apologizes to Godfrey for breaking the rules of the crusade, relates his adventures, and, after humbly confessing his sins, starts forth to brave the spells of the magic forest. Not only does he penetrate within its precincts, but, undeterred by all Armida's enchantments, cuts down a tree, although, in hopes of staying his hand, her voice accuses him of cruelly wounding her! No sooner has this tree fallen than the spell is broken; so other trees are cut down without difficulty, engines built, and all is prepared for a new assault on Jerusalem. Godfrey is particularly eager to make this new attempt immediately, because a carrier-pigeon has been caught bearing a message from the Egyptians to the Sultan of Jerusalem, apprising him that within five days they will come to his aid. During this assault of Jerusalem, a sorcerer on the walls, working against the Christians, is slain by a rock. Soon after, thanks to the efforts of the Crusaders, the banner with the Cross floats over the walls of Jerusalem! Then raised the Christians all their long loud shout Of Victory, joyful, resonant, and high; Their words the towers and temples lengthen out; To the glad sound the mountains make reply: * * * * * Then the whole host pours in, not o'er the walls Alone, but through the gates, which soon unclose, Batter'd or burnt; and in wide ruin falls Each strong defence that might their march oppose. Rages the sword; and Death, the slaught'rer, goes 'Twixt Wo and Horror with gigantic tread, From street to street; the blood in torrents flows, And settles in lagoons, on all sides fed, And swell'd with heaps on heaps of dying and of dead. _Canto XIX._ Tancred, scaling a fortress, meets and slays Argantes, receiving at the same time so grievous a wound that he swoons on the battle-field. Meantime Godfrey has sent a spy to the Egyptian camp to find out whether the army is really coming on to Jerusalem. This spy, meeting Erminia there, induces her not only to reveal all the Egyptians' plans (including a plot to slay Godfrey), but to go back with him. While they journey along together to rejoin the Christian forces, Erminia relates her adventures, saying that while she was playing shepherdess, some freebooters seized her and carried her to the Egyptian camp, where she was placed under Armida's protection. Her story is just finished when they perceive what appears to be a lifeless warrior. By the red cross on his armor the spy recognizes a Christian, and further investigation enables him to identify Tancred. Erminia--who has owned she loves him--now takes possession of him, binds up his wounds with her hair (!), and vows she will nurse him back to health. _Canto XX._ Warned by his spy that the Egyptians mean to send sundry of their number to mix, during the battle, with his body-guard and kill him, Godfrey changes the ensigns of his men, and thus discovers the conspirators, who are promptly put to death. Seeing the Egyptian army advance, Godfrey, in a stirring speech, urges his men to do their best for the Holy Sepulchre, and thereby stimulates them to fight so bravely that many of them lose their lives. Among the slain are Gildippe and her husband, who, having fought together side by side throughout the campaign, die together and are buried in the same tomb. The other party, however, is far more unfortunate, for the Saracens lose the sultans Aladine and Solyman, the former slain by Godfrey and the latter by Rinaldo. Meantime Armida, wavering between love and hate, tries to shoot Rinaldo, then flees, but, a little later, seeing him slay Solyman, she tries to kill herself. It is at this moment that Rinaldo approaches her, and offers to marry her provided she will be converted. Not only does she now promise conversion and marriage, but accompanies Rinaldo back to the camp. The Crusaders having completely defeated their foes and secured possession of Jerusalem, march, with solemn hymns of praise to the Holy Sepulchre, where all kneel, thanking God for permitting them to deliver it from the hands of the heathen. It is with these thanks that the poem ends. Thus conquer'd Godfrey; and as yet there glow'd A flush of glory in the fulgent West, To the freed City, the once loved abode Of Christ, the pious chief and armies press'd: Arm'd as he was, and in his sanguine vest, With all his knights in solemn cavalcade, He reach'd the Temple; there, supremely bless'd, Hung up his arms, his banner'd spoils display'd, And at the sacred Tomb his vow'd devotions paid. EPICS OF THE BRITISH ISLES Although the name Celt was given by the early Greeks to all the people living West of their country, the Romans included under that name only the tribes occupying the countries now known as France, Western Switzerland, Germany west of the Rhine, Belgium, and the British Isles. Blocked together under a generic name, the Celtic nation was, however, composed of many tribes, with separate dialects and customs. It has been surmised that two of these tribes, the British and Irish, early took possession of England and Ireland, where they flourished and subdivided until disturbed by invasions of various kinds. The Celts all practised what is termed the Druidic cult, their priests being poets, bards, or gleemen, who could compose or recite in verse, ritual, laws, and heroic ballads. During the four hundred years of Roman occupation, the Celts in England became somewhat Romanized, but the Irish, and their near relatives the Scots, were less influenced by Latin civilization. It is therefore in Ireland, Scotland, and Wales that the oldest traces of Celtic literature are found, for the bards there retained their authority and acted as judges after Christianity had been introduced, and as late as the sixth century. Although St. Patrick is reported to have forbidden these Irish bards to continue their pagan incantations, they continued to exert some authority, and it is said Irish priests adopted the tonsure which was their distinctive badge. The bards, who could recite and compose poems and stories, accompanying themselves on a rudimentary harp, were considered of much higher rank than those who merely recited incantations. They transmitted poems, incantations, and laws, orally only, and no proof exists that the pagan Irish, for instance, committed any works to writing previous to the introduction of Christianity in their midst. The heroic tales of Ireland from a large and well-marked epic cycle, the central tale of the series being the anonymous "Cattle of Cooly," wherein is related the war waged by the Irish Queen Mab against her husband for the possession of a mystic brown bull. In the course of this war the chief hero, Cuchulaind, makes himself famous by defending the country of Ulster single-handed! The still extant tales of this epic cycle number about thirty, and give in detail the lives of hero and heroine from birth to death, besides introducing many legends from Celtic mythology. The oldest MS. version of these tales, in mingled prose and verse, dates back to the twelfth century, and is hence about as venerable as the Edda. The Fennian or Oisianic poems and tales form another famous Irish cycle, Finn, or Fingal, their hero, having acted as commander for a body of mercenaries in the third century. His poet son, Oisin (the Ossian of later Romance), is said to have composed at least one of the poems in the famous Book of Leinster. Between the twelfth century and the middle of the fifteenth, this Fennian epos took on new life, and it continued to grow until the eighteenth century, when a new tale was added to the cycle. The names of a few of the early Irish poets have been preserved in Irish annals, where we note, for instance, Bishop Fiance, author of a still extant metrical life of St. Patrick, and Dallan Frogaell, one of whose poems is in the "Book of the Dun Cow," compiled before 1106. Up to the thirteenth century most of the poets and harpers used to include Scotland in their circuit, and one of them, Muiredhach, is said to have received the surname of "the Scotchman," because he tarried so long in that country. When, after the fifteenth century, Irish literature began to decline, Irish poems were recast in the native Scotch dialect, thus giving rise to what is known as Gaelic literature, which continued to flourish until the Reformation. Samples of this old Gaelic or Erse poetry were discovered by James Macpherson in the Highlands, taken down from recitation, and used for the English compilation known as the Poems of Ossian. Lacking sufficient talent and learning to remodel these fragments so as to produce a real masterpiece, Macpherson--who erroneously termed his work a translation--not only incurred the sharpest criticism, but was branded as a plagiarist. The Welsh, a poetic race too, boast of four great poets,--Taliessin, Aneurin, Llywarch Hen, and Myrden (Merlin). These composed poems possessing epic qualities, wherein mention is made of some of the characters of the Arthurian Cycle. One of the five Welsh MSS., which seem of sufficient antiquity and importance to deserve attention, is the Book of Taliessin, written probably during the fourteenth century. The Welsh also possess tales in verse, either historical or romantic, which probably antedated the extant prose versions of the same tales. Eleven of these were translated by Lady Charlotte Guest, and entitled Mabinogion (Tales for Children), although only four out of the eleven deserve that name. But some of these tales are connected with the great Arthurian cycle, as Arthur is the hero _par excellence_ of Southern Wales, where many places are identified with him or his court. Although almost as little is known of the historical Arthur as of the historical Roland, both are heroes of important epic cycles. Leader probably of a small band of warriors, Arthur gradually became, in the epics, first general-in-chief, then king, and finally emperor of all Britain. It is conjectured that the Arthurian legends must have passed from South Wales into Cornwall, and thence into Armorica, "where it is probable the Round Table was invented." Enriched by new accretions from time to time, the Arthurian cycle finally included the legend of the Holy Grail, which must have originated in Provence and have been carried into Brittany by jongleurs or travelling minstrels. It has been ascertained that the legend of Arthur was familiar among the Normans before Geoffrey of Monmouth wrote his books, and it certainly had an incalculable formative influence on European literature, much of which can be "traced back directly or indirectly to these legends." It was also a vehicle for that element which we call chivalry, which the church infused into it to fashion and mould the rude soldiers of feudal times into Christian knights, and, as it "expanded the imagination and incited the minds of men to inquiry beyond the conventional notions of things," it materially assisted in creating modern society. After thus tracing the Celtic germs and influence in English literature, it becomes necessary to hark back to the time of the Teutonic invasions, since English thought and speech, manners and customs are all of Teutonic origin. The invaders brought with them an already formed language and literature, both of which were imposed upon the people. The only complete extant northern epic of Danish-English origin is Beowulf, of which a synopsis follows, and which was evidently sung by gleemen in the homes of the great chiefs. Apart from Beowulf, some remains of national epic poetry have come down to us in the fine fragments of Finnsburgh and Waldhere, another version of Walter of Aquitaine. There are also the Legends of Havelock the Dane, of King Horn, of Beves of Hamdoun, and of Guy of Warwick, all four of which were later turned into popular prose romances. Intense patriotic feeling also gave birth to the Battle of Maldon, or Bryhtnoth's Death, an ancient poem, fortunately printed before it was destroyed by fire. This epic relates how the Viking Anlaf came to England with 93 ships, and, after harrying the coast, was defeated and slain in battle. The earliest Christian poet in England, Caedmon, instead of singing of love or fighting, paraphrased the Scriptures, and depicted the creation in such eloquent lines that he is said to have inspired some of the passages in Milton's Paradise Lost. Chief among the religious poems ascribed to Caedmon, are Genesis, Exodus, and Daniel, but, although in general he strictly conforms with the Bible narrative, he prefixed to Genesis an account of the fall of the angels, and thus supplied Milton with the most picturesque feature of his theme. Next come the epic poems of Cynewulf, Crist, Juliana, Elene, and Andreas, also written in alliterative verse. In Elene the poet gives us the legend of finding of the cross[20] by the empress Helena, dividing his poem into fourteen cantos or fitts. It is in Gildas and Nennius' Historia Britonum that we find the first mention of the legendary colonization of Britain and Ireland by refugees from Troy, and of the exploits of Arthur and the prophesies of Merlin. This work, therefore, contains some of the "germs of fables which expanded into Geoffrey of Monmouth's History of Britain, which was written in Latin some time before 1147," although this historian claims to derive his information from an ancient British book of which no trace can be found. There is, besides, a very curious yet important legend cycle, in regard to a letter sent from Heaven to teach the proper observation of Sunday. The text of this letter can be found in old English in Wulfstan's homilies. Besides sacred legends, others exist of a worldly nature, such as the supposed letter from Alexander to Aristotle, the Wonders of the East, and the Story of Apollonius of Tyre. The first two, of course, formed part of the great Alexander cycle, while the latter supplied the theme for Pericles of Tyre. With the Norman Conquest, French became the literary language of England, and modern romance was born. Romance cycles on "the matter of France" or Legends of Charlemagne, and on "the matter of Britain" or Legends of Arthur, became popular, and Geoffrey of Monmouth freely made use of his imagination to fill up the early history of Britain, for his so-called history is in reality a prose romance, whence later writers drew themes for many a tale. Walter Map, born on the border of Wales in 1137, is credited with the no longer extant Latin prose romance of Lancelot du Lac, which included the Quest of the Holy Grail and the Death of Arthur. Besides Wace's Brut, we have that of Layamon, and both poets not only explain how Britain's name is derived from Brut,--a member of Priam's family and refugee from Troy,--but go on to give the history of other early kings of Britain, including Arthur. They often touch the true epic note,--as in the wrestling match between Corineus and the giant,--use similes drawn from every-day life, and supply us with legends of King Lear and of Cymbeline. It was toward the end of the twelfth century that Arthur reached the height of his renown as romantic hero, the "matter of Britain" having become international property, and having been greatly enriched by poets of many climes. By this time Arthur had ceased to be a king of Britain, to become king of a fairy-land and chief exponent of chivalric ideals and aims. To name all the poets who had a share in developing the Arthurian Legend would prove an impossible task, but Nennius, Gildas, Geoffrey of Monmouth, Wace, Layamon, Benoit de St. Maur, Chrestien de Troyes, Marie de France, Hartmann von der Aue, and Wolfram von Eschenbach have, in English, French, and German, helped to develop the "matter of Britain," and have managed to connect it with "the matter of France." During the age of metrical romances (1200 to 1500), all the already extant cycles were remodelled and extended. Besides, not only were Greek and Latin epics translated so as to be within reach of all, but one country freely borrowed from another. Thus, the French romances of Huon de Bordeaux and of the Four Sons of Aymon found many admirers in England, where the former later supplied Shakespeare with some of the characters for a Midsummer Night's Dream. It was to offset the very popular romance of Alexander, that some patriotic poet evolved the romance of Richard Coeur de Lion, explaining how this king earned his well-known nickname by wrenching the heart out of a lion! Some of these romances, such as Flores and Blancheflour, have "the voluptuous qualities of the East," make great use of magic of all kinds, and show the idyllic side of love. The tragedy of love is depicted in the romance of Tristram and Iseult, where a love-potion plays a prominent part. But, although knightly love and valor are the stock topics, we occasionally come across a theme of Christian humility, like Sir Isumbras, or of democracy, as in the Squire of Low Degree and in the Ballads of Robin Hood. With the advent of Chaucer a new poet, a new language, and new themes appear. Many of his Canterbury tales are miniature epics, borrowed in general from other writers, but retold with a charm all his own. The Knight's Tale, or story of the rivalry in love of Palamon and Arcite, the tale of Gamelyn, and that of Troilus and Cressida, all contain admirable epic passages. Spenser, our next epic poet, left us the unfinished Faerie Queene, an allegorical epic which shows the influence of Ariosto and other Italian poets, and contains exquisitely beautiful passages descriptive of nature, etc. His allegorical plot affords every facility for the display of his graceful verse, and is outlined in another chapter. There are two curious but little-known English epics, William Warner's chronicle epic entitled "Albion's England" (1586), and Samuel Daniel's "Civil Wars." The first, beginning with the flood, carries the reader through Greek mythology to the Trojan War, and hence by means of Brut to the beginnings of English history, which is then continued to the execution of Mary Stuart. The second (1595) is an epic, in eight books, on the Wars of the Roses. Drayton also wrote, on the theme of the Civil Wars, an epic entitled "The Barons' Wars," and undertook a descriptive and patriotic epic in "Polyolbion," wherein he makes a tour of England relating innumerable local legends. Abraham Cowley composed an epic entitled "Davideis," or the troubles of David. He begins this work in four books with a description of two councils held in Heaven and hell in regard to the life of this worthy. Dryden was not only a translator of the classic epics, but projected an epic of his own about Arthur. Almost at the same time Pope was planning to write one on Brut, but he too failed to carry out his intentions, and is best known as the translator of the Iliad, although some authorities claim the "Rape of the Lock" is a unique sample of the _épopée galante._ The poet Keats, whose life was so short, left us a complete mythological epic in "Endymion," a fragment of one in "Hyperion," and a reproduction of one of the old romances in "Isabella, or a Pot of Basil." Shelley, Keats' contemporary, wrote poems abounding in epic passages,--"Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude," "The Revolt of Islam," "Adonais," and "Prometheus Unbound"; while Byron's epical poems are "Manfred," "The Corsair," and "Don Juan"; and Scott's, "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," "Marmion," "The Lady of the Lake," and "The Bridal of Triermain." The greatest of Coleridge's poems, "The Ancient Mariner," is sometimes called a visionary epic, while his "Christabel" conforms more closely to the old _roman d'adventure._ As the translator of the epical romances of "Amadis de Gaule" and "Palmerin," Southey won considerable renown; he also wrote the oriental epics "Thalaba" and "The Curse of Kehama," as well as epical poems on "Madoc," "Joan of Arc," and "Roderick, the Last of the Goths." Moore, although preeminently a lyric poet, has left us the eastern epic "Lalla Rookh," and Lockhart some "Spanish Ballads" which paraphrase the Cid. Among Macaulay's writings the "Lays of Ancient Rome" have epic qualities, which are also found in Leigh Hunt's "Story of Rimini." The plot of Tristram has been utilized both by Matthew Arnold and by Swinburne, while William and Lewis Morris have rewritten some of the old classic stories in "The Earthly Paradise," the "Life and Death of Jason," the "Defense of Guinevere," and the "Epic of Hades." It was, however, the Victorian poet-laureate Tennyson who gave the Arthurian Legend its latest and most artistic touches in "Idylls of the King." Some critics also claim as an example of the domestic epic his "Enoch Arden." Among recent writers, sundry novelists have been hailed as authors of prose epics. Thomas Westwood has composed in excellent verse the "Quest of the Sangreall," Mrs. Trask "Under King Constantine," a notable addition to the Arthurian cycle, and Stephen Philips has sung of Ulysses and of King Alfred. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 20: See the author's "Legends of the Virgin and Christ."] BEOWULF[21] _Introduction._ The only Anglo-Saxon epic which has been preserved entire was probably composed in Sweden before the eighth century, and taken thence to England, where this pagan poem was worked over and Christianized by some Northumbrian bard. Although some authorities declare it dates back as far as the fifth century, most affirm it must have been composed in the seventh. The present manuscript, now preserved in the British Museum, dates back to the tenth century. It contains some 3182 lines, and is written in alliterative verse (that is to say, that all the lines are written in pairs and that each perfect pair contains two similar sounds in the first line and one in the second). Although the author of Beowulf is unknown, the poem affords priceless hints in regard to the armor, ships, and mode of life of our early Saxon fore-fathers. Many translations of the poem have been made, some in prose and others in verse, and the epic as it stands, consisting of an introduction and forty-two "Fits," is the main text for the study of the Anglo-Saxon language. _The Epic._ Hrothgar, King of Denmark, traces his origin to Skiold, son of Odin, who as an infant drifted to Denmark's shores. This child lay on a sheaf of ripe wheat, surrounded by priceless weapons, jewels, and a wonderful suit of armor, which proved he must be the scion of some princely race. The childless King and Queen of Denmark therefore gladly adopted him, and in due time he succeeded them and ruled over the whole country. When he died, his subjects, placing his body in the vessel in which he had come, set him adrift. Men are not able Soothly to tell us, they in halls who reside, Heroes under heaven, to what haven he hied.[22] Hrothgar, his descendant, constructed a magnificent hall, called Heorot, wherein to feast his retainers and entertain them with the songs of the northern skalds. It burned in his spirit To urge his folk to found a great building, A mead-hall grander than men of the era Ever had heard of, and in it to share With young and old all of the blessings The Lord had allowed him, save life and retainers. The night of the inauguration of this building, the royal body-guard lay down in the hall to sleep; and, when the servants entered the place on the morrow, they were horrified to find floor and walls spattered with blood, but no other trace of the thirty knights who had rested there the night before. Their cry of horror aroused Hrothgar, who, on investigating, discovered gigantic footsteps leading straight from the hall to the sluggish waters of a mountain tarn, above which a phosphorescent light always hovered. These footsteps were those of Grendel, a descendant of Cain, who dwelt in the marsh, and who had evidently slain and devoured all the king's men. Too old to wield a sword in person, Hrothgar offered a princely reward to whoever would rid his country of this terrible scourge. But, although many warriors gladly undertook the task, the monster proved too strong for all, and none save a minstrel--who hid in one corner of the hall--ever succeeded in escaping from his clutches. This minstrel, after seeing Grendel feed upon his companions, was so impressed by the sight, that he composed a song about it, which he sang wherever he went, and once repeated for the entertainment of King Higelac and his nephew Beowulf. In answer to their eager questions, the bard averred the monster still existed and invariably invaded the hall when a feast was held there. This was enough to arouse in Beowulf a burning desire to visit Denmark and rid the world of this scourge. Knowing his nephew was very brave and having had proof of his endurance (for the young man had once in the course of a swimming match, stayed in the water five whole days and nights, killing many sea monsters who came to attack him), Higelac gladly allowed him to depart with fourteen chosen companions. Thus Beowulf set out "over the Swan-Road" for Denmark, to offer his services to the king. The foamy-necked floater fanned by the breeze, Likest a bird, glided the waters, Till twenty and four hours thereafter The twist-stemmed vessel had travelled such distance That the sailing-men saw the sloping embankments, The sea-cliffs gleaming, precipitous mountains, Nesses enormous: they were nearing the limits At the end of the ocean. On seeing a vessel with armed men approach their shores, the Danish coast guards challenged the new-comers, who rejoined their intentions were purely friendly, and begged to be led to the king. There Beowulf and his attendants--after paying their respects to Hrothgar--offered their services to rid him of the terrible scourge which had preyed so long upon his people. On hearing this, the king immediately ordered a feast prepared, and at its close allowed Beowulf, at his request, to remain alone in the hall with his men. Aware that no weapon could pierce the armed hide of the uncanny monster, Beowulf--who had the strength of thirty men--laid aside his armor and prepared to grapple with Grendel by main strength when he appeared. Then the brave-mooded hero bent to his slumber, The pillow received the cheek of the noble; And many a martial mere-thane attending Sank to his slumber. Just as the chill of morning invades the hall, Beowulf hears stealthy steps approaching and the great door bursts open, admitting a monster, all enveloped in clammy mist, which--pouncing upon one of the men--crunches his bones and greedily drinks his blood. Beowulf, intently watching the fiend, seeing him stretch out a horny hand for another victim, suddenly grasps it with such force and determination that the monster, notwithstanding frantic efforts, cannot free himself. A terrible struggle now takes place, in the course of which Beowulf and Grendel, wrestling madly, overturn tables and couches, shaking the hall to its very foundations. Nevertheless, Beowulf clings so fast to the hand and arm he had grasped, that the monster, trying to free himself by a mighty jerk, tears his arm out of its socket and disappears, uttering a blood-curdling cry, and leaving this trophy in his foe's grasp. Mortally wounded, Grendel hastens back to his marsh, leaving a trail of blood behind him, while Beowulf, exhausted but triumphant, proudly exhibits the huge hand and limb which he has wrenched from the monster, declaring it will henceforth serve to adorn Heorot. When Hrothgar beholds it on the morrow and hears an account of the night's adventures, he warmly congratulates Beowulf, upon whom he bestows rich gifts, and in whose honor he decrees a grand feast shall be held in this hall. While they are drinking there and listening to the music of the skalds (who sing of Sigmund the dragon-slayer and of a fight at Finnsburgh), Wealtheow, Queen of Denmark, appears in their midst, and bestows upon Beowulf a wonderful necklace and a ring of the finest gold, bidding him wear them in memory of his triumph. The feast over, Hrothgar escorts his guest to the palace, where he is to rest that night, leaving his own men to guard Heorot, for all feel confident Grendel has been too sorely wounded ever to appear again. But, while the warriors sleep peacefully, the giant's mother--an equally hideous monster--comes into the hall, secures her son's gory arm which hangs there as a trophy, and bears away Aeschere, one of the king's friends. On learning of this loss on the morrow, Hrothgar is overcome with grief, and Beowulf, hearing his lamentations, suddenly appears to inquire what has occurred. On learning the ghastly news, he volunteers to complete his work and avenge Aeschere by attacking Grendel's mother in her own retreat. But, knowing the perils he is facing, he makes his arrangements in case he should never return, before following the bloody traces left by the monsters. Then he hastens to the pool, where he finds Aeschere's head set aloft as a trophy! Gazing down into the depths, Beowulf now perceives the waters are darkly tinged with the monster's blood, but nevertheless plunges boldly into their depths, where he swims about a whole day seeking Grendel's retreat. Guided at last by a phosphorescent gleam, our hero finally reaches a cave, after slaying on the way a number of monsters sent to check his advance. On nearing the giants' den, a strong eddy suddenly sweeps him within reach of Grendel's mother, who, clutching him fast, flings him on the floor, and is trying to find a joint in his armor, so as to kill him with her knife, when Beowulf, snatching a sword hanging from a rocky projection, deals her so fierce a blow that he severs her head from its trunk. Then he saw amid the war-gems a weapon of victory, An ancient giant-sword, of edges a-doughty, Glory of warriors: of weapons 'twas choicest, Only 'twas larger than any man else was Able to bear in the battle-encounter, The good and splendid work of the giants. He grasped then the sword-hilt, knight of Seyldings, Bold and battle-grim, brandished his ring-sword, Hopeless of living hotly he smote her, That the fiend-woman's neck firmly it grappled, Broke through her bone-joints, the bill fully pierced her Fate-cursèd body, she fell to the ground then: The hand sword was bloody, the hero exulted. The brand was brilliant, brightly it glimmered, Just as from heaven gem-like shineth The torch of the firmament. The blood from this monster, pouring out of the cave, mingles with the waters without, which begin to seethe and bubble in so ominous a way that Hrothgar and his men, exclaiming Beowulf is dead, sadly depart. The hero's attendants, however, mindful of orders received, linger at the side of the mere, although they cherish small hope of ever beholding their master again. Having disposed of Grendel's mother, Beowulf rushes to the rear of the cave, where, finding Grendel dead, he cuts off his head, and with this trophy makes his way up through the tainted waters, which melt his sword, so that he has nothing but the hilt left on reaching the shore. The sword-blade began then, The blood having touched it, contracting and shrivelling With battle-icicles; 'twas a wonderful marvel That it melted entirely, likest to ice when The Father unbindeth the bond of the frost and Unwindeth the wave-bands, He who wieldeth dominion Of times and of tides: a truth-firm Creator. It is just as his followers are about to depart that Beowulf emerges from the waters, and, when they behold his trophy and hear his tale, they escort him back in triumph to Heorot, where the grateful Danes again load him with presents. His task accomplished, Beowulf returns home, where he bestows the necklace he has won upon the Queen of the Geats, and continues faithfully to serve the royal couple, even placing their infant son upon the throne after their death, and defending his rights as long as he lives. Then the people elect Beowulf king, and during a reign of fifty years he rules them wisely and well. Old age has robbed Beowulf of part of his fabulous strength, when his subjects are suddenly dismayed by the ravages of a fire-breathing dragon, which has taken up its abode in some neighboring mountains, where he gloats over a hoard of glittering gold. A fugitive slave having made his way into the monster's den during one of its absences and abstracted a small portion of its treasure, the incensed firedrake, in revenge, flies all over the land, vomiting fire and smoke in every direction, and filling all hearts with such terror that the people implore Beowulf to deliver them from this monster too. Although Beowulf realizes he no longer enjoys youthful vigor, he, nevertheless, sets out bravely with eleven men to attack the monster. On reaching the mountain gorge, he bids his small troop stand still, and, advancing alone, challenges the dragon to come forth. A moment later the mountain shakes as a fire-breathing dragon rushes out to attack Beowulf, who feels his fiery breath even through shield and armor. With deadly fury the dragon attacks the warrior, coiling his scaly folds around and around Beowulf, who vainly slashes at him with his sword, for scales made him invulnerable. Seeing his master about to be crushed to death, Wiglaf--one of Beowulf's followers--now springs forward to aid him, thus causing sufficient diversion to enable Beowulf to creep beneath the dragon, and drive his sword deep into its undefended breast! Although the monster's coils now drop limply away from his body, poor Beowulf has been so sorely burned by its breath that he feels his end is near. Turning to his faithful follower, he thanks, him for his aid, bidding him hasten into the cave and bring forth the treasure he has won for his people, so he can feast his eyes upon it before he dies. "Fare thou with haste now To behold the hoard 'neath the hoar-grayish stone, Well-lovèd Wiglaf, now the worm is a-lying, Sore-wounded sleepeth, disseized of his treasure Go thou in haste that treasures of old I Gold-wealth may gaze on, together see lying The ether-bright jewels, be easier able, Having the heap of hoard-gems, to yield my Life and the land-folk whom long I have governed." Sure that the monster can no longer molest them, the rest of the warriors press forward in their turn, and receive the farewells of their dying chief, who, after rehearsing the great deeds he has done, declares he is about to close honorably an eventful career. When he has breathed his last, his followers push the corpse of the dragon off a cliff into the sea, and erect on the headland a funeral barrow for Beowulf's ashes, placing within it part of the treasure he won, and erecting above it a memorial, or bauta stone, on which they carve the name and deeds of the great hero who saved them from Grendel and from the fiery dragon. So lamented mourning the men of the Geats, Fond-loving vassals the fall of their lord, Said he was kindest of kings under heaven, Gentlest of men, most winning of manner, Friendliest to folk-troops and fondest of honor. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 21: See also the author's "Legends of the Middle Ages."] [Footnote 22: All the quotations in this chapter are taken from Hall's translation of "Beowulf."] THE ARTHURIAN CYCLE The Arthurian cycle consists in a number of epics or romances about King Arthur, the knights of his Round Table, or the ladies of his court. The Anglo-Norman trouvères arranged these tales in graduated circles around their nucleus, the legend of the Holy Grail. Next in importance to this sacred theme, and forming the first circle, were the stories of Galahad and Percival who achieved the Holy Grail, of Launcelot and Elaine who were favored with partial glimpses of it, and of Bors who accompanied Galahad and Percival in their journey to Sarras. The second circle included the stories of Arthur and Guinevere, of Geraint and Enid, of Tristan and Isolde, of Pelleas and Ettarre, of Gareth and Lynette, of Gawain, and of Bedevere. The third and last circle dealt with the epics of Merlin and Vivien, Uther and Igerne, Gorlois, and Vortigern. To give a complete outline of the adventures which befell all these knights and ladies in the course of seventeen epics and romances,--of which many versions exist, and to which each new poet added some episode,--would require far more space than any one volume would afford. A general outline will therefore be given of the two principal themes, the Quest of the Holy Grail and King Arthur and his Round Table, mentioning only the main features of the other epics as they impinge upon these two great centres. Some of the greatest writers of the Arthurian cycle have been Gildas, Nennius, Geoffrey of Monmouth, Wace, Robert de Borron, Marie de France, Layamon, Chrestien de Troyes, Benoit de St. Maur, Gaucher, Manessier, Gerbert, Knot de Provence, Wolfram von Eschenbach, Gottfried von Strassburg, Hartmann von der Aue, Malory, Tennyson, Swinburne, Howard Pyle, Matthew Arnold, and Wagner. Still, almost every writer of note has had something to say on the subject, and thus the Arthuriana has become almost as voluminous as the Shakespeariana. The legend of Arthur, almost unknown before the twelfth century, so rapidly became popular all over Europe, that it was translated into every language and recited with endless variations at countless firesides. Robert de Borron is said to be mainly responsible for the tale of Merlin, the real poet of that name having been a bard at the court, first of Ambrosius Aurelianus and then of King Arthur. The Merlin of the romances is reported to have owed his birth to the commerce of a fiend with an unconscious nun. A priest, convinced of the woman's purity of intention, baptized her child as soon as born, thus defeating the plots of Satan, who had hoped the son of a fiend would be able to outwit the plans of the Son of Man for human redemption. In early infancy, already, this Merlin showed his miraculous powers, for he testified in his mother's behalf when she was accused of incontinency. Meantime Constance, King of England, had left three sons, the eldest of whom, Constantine, had entered a monastery, while the two others were too young to reign. Drawn from his retirement to wear a crown, Constantine proved incapable to maintain order, so his general, Vortigern, with the aid of the Saxon leaders Hengist and Horsa, usurped his throne. Some time after, wishing to construct an impregnable fortress on Salisbury Plain, Vortigern sent for a host of masons, who were dismayed to see the work they had done during the day destroyed every night. On consulting an astrologer, Vortigern was directed to anoint the stones with the blood of a boy of five who had no human father. The only child corresponding to this description was Merlin, who saved himself from untimely death by telling the king that, if he dug down and drained the lake he would find, he would discover broad stones beneath which slept two dragons by day, although they fought so fiercely at night that they caused the tremendous earthquakes which shattered his walls. These directions were followed, the dragons were roused, and fought until the red one was slain and the two-headed white one disappeared. Asked to explain the meaning of these two dragons, Merlin--the uncanny child--declared the white dragon with two heads represented the two younger sons of King Constance, who were destined to drive Vortigern away. Having said this, Merlin disappeared, thus escaping the wrath of Vortigern, who wished to slay him. Soon after, the young princes surprised and burned Vortigern in his palace, and thus recovered possession of their father's throne. Then, one of them dying, the other, assuming both their names, became Uther Pendragon, king of Britain. Such was his bravery that during his reign of seven years he became overlord of all the petty kings who had meantime taken possession of various parts of England. He was aided in this work by his prime-minister, Merlin, whose skill as a clairvoyant, magician, inventor, and artificer of all kinds of things--such as armor which nothing could damage, a magic mirror, round table, ring, and wonderful buildings--was of infinite service to his master and fired the imagination of all the poets. There are various accounts of Arthur's birth; according to one, Uther fell in love with Gorlois' wife Igerne, who was already mother of three daughters. Thanks to Merlin's magic arts, Uther was able to visit Igerne in the guise of her husband, and thus begot a son, who was entrusted to Merlin's care as soon as born. Another legend declares that, after Gorlois' death, Uther Pendragon married Igerne, and that Arthur was their lawful child. Feeling he was about to die, and fearing lest his infant son should be made away with by the lords he had compelled to obedience, Uther Pendragon bade Merlin hide Arthur until he was old enough to reign over Britain. Merlin therefore secretly bore the babe, as soon as born, to Sir Ector, who brought Arthur up in the belief he was the younger brother of his only son, Sir Kay. Arthur had just reached eighteen when the Archbishop of Canterbury besought Merlin to select an overlord who would reduce the other kings to obedience, and thus restore peace, law, and order in Britain. Thereupon Merlin promised him a king would soon appear whose rights none would be able to dispute. Shortly after, on coming out of the cathedral one feast-day, the archbishop saw a huge block of stone, in which was imbedded an anvil, through which was thrust a beautiful sword. This weapon, moreover, bore an inscription, stating that he who pulled it out and thrust it back would be the rightful heir to the throne. Meantime a tournament had been proclaimed, and Sir Kay, having broken his sword while fighting, bade his brother Arthur get him another immediately. Unable to find any weapon in their tent, Arthur ran to the anvil, pulled out the sword, and gave it to Sir Kay. Seeing it in his son's hand, Sir Ector inquired how it had been obtained, and insisted upon Arthur's thrusting it back and taking it out repeatedly, before he would recognize him as his king. As none of the other lords could move the sword, and as Arthur repeatedly proved his claim to it on the great feast-days, he became overlord of all the petty kings. At Sir Ector's request he appointed Sir Kay as steward of his palace, and, thanks to the help of Merlin and of his brave knights, soon subdued the rebels, and became not only master of all England, but, if we are to believe the later romances, a sort of English Alexander, who, after crossing the Alps, became Emperor of the World! During his reign Arthur fought twelve memorable battles, and, not content with this activity, often rode out like other knights-errant in quest of adventure, challenging any one who wanted to fight, rescuing captives, and aiding damsels in distress. In these encounters Arthur wore the peerless armor made by Merlin, and sometimes carried a shield so brilliant that it blinded all who gazed upon it. It was, therefore, generally covered with a close-fitting case, which, like Arthur's helmet, bore as emblem a two-headed dragon. Having lost his divine sword in one encounter, Arthur was advised by Merlin to apply for another to Nimue, or Nymue, the Lady of the Lake. She immediately pointed out an arm, rising from the middle of the lake, brandishing a magnificent sword. Springing into a skiff near by, Arthur was miraculously ferried to the centre of the lake, where, as soon as he touched the sword, the mystic arm disappeared. Merlin now informed Arthur that, fighting with Excalibure, his wonderful sword, he could never be conquered, and that as long as its scabbard hung by his side he could not be wounded. Later on in the story, Arthur, having incurred the anger of one of his step-sisters, Morgana the Fay, she borrowed Excalibure under pretext of admiring it, and had so exact a copy of it made that no one suspected she had kept the magic sword until Arthur was wounded and defeated. He, however, recovered possession of Excalibure--if not of the scabbard--before he fought his last battle. Arthur was not only brave, but very romantic, for, Guinevere having bent over him once when he lay half unconscious from a wound, he fell so deeply in love with her that he entered her father's service as garden boy. There Guinevere discovered his identity, and, guessing why he had come, teased him unmercifully. Shortly after, a neighboring, very ill-favored king declared Guinevere's old father would be deprived of his kingdom unless she would consent to marry him, and defied in single combat any one who ventured to object to this arrangement. Arthur, having secretly provided himself with a white horse and armor, defeated this insolent suitor, and, after a few more thrilling adventures, arranged for his marriage to Guinevere in the fall. By Merlin's advice he also begged his future father-in-law to give him, as wedding present, the Round Table Merlin had made for Uther Pendragon. This was a magic board around which none but virtuous knights could sit. When led to a seat, any worthy candidate beheld his name suddenly appear on its back, in golden letters, which vanished only at his death, or when he became unworthy to occupy a seat at the Round Table. Besides, on one side of Arthur's throne was the Siege Perilous, which none could occupy, under penalty of destruction, save the knight destined to achieve the Holy Grail. We are informed that Arthur sent his best friend and most accomplished knight, Launcelot, to escort Guinevere to Caerleon on Usk, where the wedding and first session of the Round Table were to take place on the self-same day. It seems that, when this Launcelot was a babe, his parents had to flee from a burning home. Overcome by sorrow and wounds, the poor father soon sank dying beside the road, and, while the mother was closing his eyes, the Lady of the Lake suddenly rose from her watery home, seized the babe, and plunged back with him into its depths. The widowed and bereft woman therefore entered a convent, where she was known as the Lady of Sorrows, for little did she suspect her son was being trained by Pellias--husband of the Lady of the Lake--to become the most famous knight of the Round Table. At eighteen the Lady of the Lake decided it was time Launcelot should be knighted. So, on St. John's eve--when mortals can see fairies--King Arthur and Sir Ector were led, by a mysterious damsel and dwarf, to a place where Pellias and the Lady of the Lake begged them to knight their protégé and pupil, who was henceforth to be known as Launcelot of the Lake. Not only did Arthur gladly bestow the accolade upon the young man, but he took him with him to Camelot. It was as supreme honor and mark of confidence that Arthur sent Launcelot to get Guinevere. Some legends claim these two already loved each other dearly, others that they fell in love during the journey, others still that their guilty passion was due to a love potion, and a few that Guinevere, incensed by the behavior of Arthur,--whom some of the epics do not depict as Tennyson's "blameless king,"--proved faithless in revenge later on. All the versions, however, agree that Launcelot cherished an incurable, guilty passion for Guinevere, and that she proved untrue to her marriage vows. Time and again we hear of stolen meetings, and of Launcelot's deep sorrow at deceiving the noble friend whom he continues to love and admire. This is the only blemish in his character, while Guinevere is coquettish, passionate, unfeeling, and exacting, and has little to recommend her aside from grace, beauty, and personal magnetism. At court she plays her part of queen and lady of the revels with consummate skill, and we have many descriptions of festivities of all kinds. During a maying party the queen was once kidnapped by a bold admirer and kept for a time in durance vile. Launcelot, posting after her, ruthlessly cut down all who attempted to check him, and, his horse falling at last beneath him, continued his pursuit in a wood-chopper's cart, although none but criminals were seen in such a vehicle in the Middle Ages. The Knight of the Cart was, however, only intent upon rescuing the queen, who showed herself very ungrateful, for she often thereafter taunted him with this ride and laughed at the gibes the others lavished upon him. Twice Guinevere drove Launcelot mad with these taunts, and frequently she heartlessly sent him off on dangerous errands. Launcelot, however, so surpassed all the knights in courage and daring that he won all the prizes in the tournaments. A brilliant series of these entertainments was given by the king, who, having found twelve large diamonds in the crown of a dead king, offered one of them as prize on each occasion. Launcelot, having secured all but the last, decided to attend the last tournament in disguise, after carefully informing king and queen he would not take part in the game. Pausing at the Castle of Astolat, he borrowed a blank shield, and left his own in the care of Elaine, daughter of his host, who, although he had not shown her any attention, had fallen deeply in love with him. As further disguise, Launcelot also wore the favor Elaine timidly offered, and visited the tournament escorted by her brother. Once more Launcelot bore down all rivals, but he was so sorely wounded in the last encounter that he rode off without taking the prize. Elaine's brother, following him, conveyed him to a hermit's, where some poets claim Elaine nursed him back to health. Although there are two Elaines in Launcelot's life, i.e., the daughter of Pelles (whom he is tricked into marrying and who bears him Galahad) and the "lily maid of Astolat,"--some of the later writers fancied there was only the latter. According to some accounts Launcelot lived happily with the first Elaine in the castle he had conquered,--Joyous Garde,--until Queen Guinevere, consumed by jealousy, summoned them both to court. There she kept them apart, and so persecuted poor Elaine that she crept off to a convent, where she died, after bringing Galahad into the world and after predicting he would achieve the Holy Grail. The other Elaine,--as Tennyson so beautifully relates, a dying of unrequited love, bade her father and brothers send her corpse down the river in charge of a dumb boatman. Everybody knows of the arrival of the funeral barge at court, of the reading of the letter in Elaine's dead hand, and of Launcelot's sorrow over the suffering he had unwittingly caused. Launcelot and Guinevere are not the only examples in the Arthurian Cycle of the love of a queen for her husband's friend, and of his overwhelming passion for the wife of his master. Another famous couple, Tristram and Iseult, [23] also claims our attention. The legend of Tristram was already known in the sixth century, and from that time until now has been periodically rewritten and embellished. Like most mediaeval legends, it begins with the hero's birth, gives in detail the whole story of his life, and ends only when he is safely dead and buried! The bare outline of the main events in Tristram's very adventurous career are the elopement of his mother, a sister of King Mark of Cornwall. Then, while mourning for her beloved, this lady dies in giving birth to her son, whom she names Tristram, or the sad one. Brought up by a faithful servant,--Gouvernail or Kurvenal,--Tristram learns to become a peerless hunter and musician. After describing sundry childish and youthful adventures in different lands, the various legends agree in bringing him to his uncle's court, just as a giant champion arrives from Ireland, claiming tribute in money and men unless some one can defeat him in battle. As neither Mark nor any of his subjects dare venture to face the challenger, Morolt, Tristram volunteers his services. The battle takes place on an island, and, after many blows have been given and received and the end has seemed doubtful, Tristram (who has been wounded by his opponent's poisoned lance) kills him by a blow of his sword, a splinter of which remains embedded in the dead giant's skull. His corpse is then brought back to Ireland to receive sepulchre at the hands of Queen Iseult, who, in preparing the body for the grave finds the fragment of steel, which she treasures, thinking it may some day help her to find her champion's slayer and enable her to avenge his death. Meanwhile Tristram's wound does not heal, and, realizing Queen Iseult alone will be able to cure him, he sails for Ireland, where he presents himself as the minstrel Tramtris, and rewards the care of the queen and her daughter--both bearing the name of Iseult--by his fine music. On his return to Cornwall, Tristram, who has evidently been impressed by Princess Iseult's beauty, sings her praises so enthusiastically that King Mark decides to propose for her hand, and--advised by the jealous courtiers, who deem the expedition perilous in the extreme--selects Tristram as his ambassador. On landing in Ireland, Tristram notices ill-concealed excitement, and discovers that a dragon is causing such damage in the neighborhood that the king has promised his daughter's hand to the warrior who would slay the monster. Nothing daunted, Tristram sets out alone, and beards the dragon in his den to such good purpose that he kills him and carries off his tongue as a trophy. But, wounded in his encounter, Tristram soon sinks by the roadside unconscious. The king's butler, who has been spying upon him and who deems him dead, now cuts off the dragon's head and lays it at the king's feet, claiming the promised reward. Princess Iseult and her mother refuse, however, to believe that this man--a notorious coward--has performed any such feat, and hasten out to the battle-field. There they find not only the headless dragon, but the unconscious Tristram, and the tongue which proves him the real victor. To nurse him back to health is no great task for these ladies, who, like many of the heroines of the mediaeval epics and romances, are skilled leeches and surgeons. One day, while guarding their patient's slumbers, the ladies idly examine his weapons, and make the momentous discovery that the bit of steel found in Morolt's head exactly fits a nick in Tristram's sword. Although both had sworn vengeance, they decide the service Tristram has just rendered them and their country more than counterbalances the rest, and therefore let him go unscathed. Fully restored to health, Tristram proves the butler had no right to Iseult's hand, and, instead of enforcing his own claim, makes King Mark's proposals known. Either because such an alliance flatters their pride or because they dare not refuse, Iseult's parents accept in their daughter's name and prepare everything for her speedy departure. The queen, wishing to save her daughter from the curse of a loveless marriage, next brews a love-potion which she bids Brengwain--her daughter's maid and companion--administer to King Mark and Iseult on their wedding night. During the trip across the Irish Channel, Tristram entertains Princess Iseult with songs and tales, until he becomes so thirsty that he begs for a drink. By mistake the love-potion is brought, and, as Iseult graciously dips her lips in the cup before handing it to her entertainer, it comes to pass both partake of the magic draught, and thus become victims of a passion which naught can cure. Still, as their intentions remain perfectly honorable, they continue the journey to Cornwall, and, in spite of all he suffers, Tristram delivers the reluctant bride into his uncle's hands. Some legends claim that Iseult made her maid Brengwain take her place by the king's side on their wedding night, and that, although the Irish princess dwelt in the palace at Cornwall, she never proved untrue to her lover Tristram. The romances now give us stolen interviews, temporary elopements, and hair-breadth escapes from all manner of dangers. Once, for instance, Iseult is summoned by her husband to appear before the judges and clear herself from all suspicion of infidelity by taking a public oath in their presence. By Iseult's directions, Tristram, disguised as a mendicant, carries her ashore from the boat, begging for a kiss as reward. This enables the queen to swear truthfully that she has never been embraced by any man save King Mark and the mendicant who carried her ashore! Tristram--like Launcelot--deeply feels the baseness of his conduct toward his uncle and often tries to tear himself away, but the spell of the magic potion is too powerful to break. Once remorse and shame actually drive him mad, and he roams around the country performing all manner of crazy deeds. He too, when restored to his senses, visits Arthur's court, is admitted to the Round Table, and joins in the Quest for the Holy Grail, which, of course, he cannot achieve. Then he does marvels in the matter of hunting and fighting, and, having received another dangerous wound, wonders who besides Iseult of Cornwall can cure it? It is then he hears for the first time of Iseult of Brittany (or of the White Hands), whose skill in such matters is proverbial, and, seeking her aid, is soon made whole. But meantime the physician has fallen in love with her patient, and fancies her love is returned because every lay he sings is in praise of Iseult! Her brother, discovering her innocent passion, reveals it to Tristram, who, through gratitude or to drive the remembrance of his guilty passion out of his mind, finally marries her. But even marriage cannot make him forget Iseult of Cornwall. The time comes when, wounded beyond the power of his wife's skill to cure, Tristram sends for Iseult of Cornwall, who, either owing to treachery or to accident, arrives too late, and dies of grief on her lover's corpse. Some legends vary greatly in the manner of Tristram's death, for he is sometimes slain by King Stark, who is justly angry to find him in his wife's company. Most of the versions, however, declare that the lovers were buried side by side, and that creepers growing out of their respective graves twined lovingly around each other. Other beautiful episodes which are taken from old Welsh versions of the Arthurian legends are the stories of Geraint and Enid, of Pelleas and Ettarre, of Gareth and Lynette, which have received their latest and most beautiful setting at the hands of the poet-laureate Tennyson, and the very tragic and pathetic tale of the twin brothers Balin and Balan, who, after baleful happenings galore, failing to recognize each other, fight until one deals the "dolorous stroke" which kills his brother. Were any one patient enough to count the characters, duels, and hair-breadth escapes in Malory's Morte d'Arthur, the sum might well appall a modern reader. Magic, too, plays a prominent part in the Arthurian cycle, where Merlin, by means of a magic ring given by the Lady of the Lake to her sister Vivien, becomes so infatuated with the latter lady, that she is able to coax from him all his secrets, and even to learn the spell whereby a mortal can be kept alive although hidden from all eyes. Having obtained the magic formula by bringing all her coquettish wiles to bear upon besotted old Merlin, Vivien is said to have decoyed the wizard either to an enchanted castle, where she enclosed him in a stone sepulchre, or into the forest of Broceliande, in Brittany, where she left him, spellbound in a flowering thorn-bush. Another legend, however, claims that, having grown old and forgetful, Merlin absent-mindedly attempted to sit down in the Siege Perilous, only to be swallowed up by the yawning chasm which opened beneath his feet. It was at the height of Arthur's prosperity and fame that the knights of the Round Table solemnly pledged themselves to undertake the Quest of the Holy Grail, as is described in the chapter on that subject. Their absence, the adultery of the queen, and the king's consciousness of past sins cast such a gloom over the once brilliant reunions of Camelot and Caerleon, as well as over the whole land, that Arthur's foes became bolder, and troubles thickened in an ominous way. Finally, most of the knights returned from the Quest sadder and wiser men, Launcelot was banished by the king to Joyous Garde, and was therefore not at hand when the last great fight occurred. Mordred, the Judas of the Arthurian cycle--whom some poets represent as the illegitimate and incestuous son of Arthur, while others merely make him a nephew of the king--rebels against Arthur, who engages in his last battle, near the Castle of Tintagel, where he was born. In this encounter all are slain on both sides, and Arthur, having finally killed the traitor Mordred, after receiving from him a grievous wound, finds no one near to help or sustain him save Sir Bedevere. Knowing his wonderful blade Excalibure must return to its donor ere he departs, Arthur thrice orders his henchman to cast it into the mere. Twice Sir Bedevere hides the sword instead of obeying, but the third time, having exactly carried out the royal orders, he reports having seen a hand rise out of the Lake, catch and brandish Excalibure, and vanish beneath the waters with it! Arthur is next carried by Sir Bedevere down to the water's edge, where a mysterious barge receives the almost dying king. In this barge are three black-veiled queens,--the king's step-sisters,--and, when Arthur's head has been tenderly laid in the lap of Morgana the Fay, he announces he is about to sail off to the Isle of Avalon "to be healed of his wound." Although the Isle of Avalon was evidently a poetical mediaeval version of the "bourne whence no man returns," people long watched for Arthur's home-coming, for he was a very real personage to readers of epics and romances in the Middle Ages. Guinevere--her sin having been discovered by her hitherto fabulously blind husband--took refuge in a nunnery at Almesbury, where she received a farewell visit from Arthur and an assurance of his forgiveness, before he rode into his last fight. As for Launcelot, he, too, devoted his last days to penance and prayer in a monastery. There he remained until warned in a vision that Guinevere was dead. Leaving his cell, Launcelot hastened to Almesbury, where, finding Guinevere had ceased to breathe, he bore her corpse to Glastonbury--where according to some versions Arthur had been conveyed by the barge and buried--and there laid her to rest at her husband's feet. Then Launcelot again withdrew to his cell, where he died after six months' abstinence and prayer. It was his heir, Sir Ector, who feelingly pronounced the eulogy of the knight _par excellence_ of the mediaeval legends in the following terms: "'Ah, Sir Lancelot,' he said, 'thou were head of all Christian knights; and now I dare say,' said Sir Ector, 'that, Sir Lancelot, there thou liest, thou were never matched of none earthly knight's hands; and thou were the courtliest knight that ever bare shield; and thou were the truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrode horse; and thou were the truest lover of a sinful man that ever loved woman; and thou were the kindest man that ever struck with sword; and thou were the goodliest person that ever came among press of knights; and thou were the meekest man, and the gentlest, that ever ate in hall among ladies; and thou were the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that ever put spear in rest.'" FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 23: See, the author's "Stories of the Wagner Operas."] ROBIN HOOD Among the most popular of the prose epics is the story of Robin Hood, compiled from some twoscore old English ballads, some of which date back at least to 1400. This material has recently been charmingly reworked by Howard Pyle, who has happily illustrated his own book. The bare outline of the tale is as follows: In the days of Henry II lived in Sherwood Forest the famous outlaw Robin Hood, with his band of sevenscore men. At eighteen years of age Robin left Locksley to attend a shooting-match in a neighboring town. While crossing the forest one of the royal game-keepers tauntingly challenged him to prove his skill as a marksman by killing a deer just darting past them. But, when the unsuspecting youth brought down this quarry, the forester proposed to arrest him for violating the law. Robin, however, deftly escaped, and, when the keeper sent an arrow after him, retaliated by another, which, better aimed, killed one of the king's men! Although unwittingly guilty of murder, Robin, knowing his life was forfeit, took to the forest, where he became an outlaw. In vain the Sheriff of Nottingham tried to secure him: Robin always evaded capture at his hands. Still he did not remain in hiding, but frequently appeared among his fellow-men, none of whom would betray him, although the sheriff promised a reward of two hundred pounds for his capture. Once, while in quest of adventures, Robin met on a narrow bridge a stranger who refused to make way for him. Irritated by what he considered the man's insolence, Robin seized his quarter-staff, only to find that his antagonist more than matched him in the skilful use of this weapon. Then a misstep suddenly toppled Robin over into the stream, where he might have perished had not some of his men leaped out of the thicket to his rescue. Vexed at being beaten at quarter-staff, Robin now proposed a shooting-match, and, his good humor entirely restored by winning a victory in this contest, he promptly enrolled the stranger in his band. His merry companions, on learning the huge new-comer was John Little, ironically termed him Little John, by which name he became very famous. Baffled in his attempts to secure Robin and unable to find any one near there to serve a warrant upon him, the sheriff hired a Lincoln tinker, who, entering an inn, loudly boasted how cleverly he was going to accomplish his task. Among his listeners was the outlaw, who enticed the tinker to drink, and made him so drunk that he had no difficulty in stealing his warrant. The tinker, on awaking, was furious, and, coming face to face with Robin soon after, attacked him fiercely. Seeing his opponent was getting the better of him, Robin blew his horn, whereupon six of his men appeared to aid him. Awed by the sudden appearance of these men,--who were all clad in Lincoln green,--the tinker laid down his cudgel and humbly begged permission to join the band. The baffled sheriff now rode off to London to complain, but, when Henry heard one of his officers could not capture an outlaw, he indignantly bade him leave the court and not appear there again until he had secured Robin. Dismayed at having incurred royal displeasure, the sheriff concluded to accomplish by stratagem what he had failed to compass by force. He therefore proclaimed a shooting-match, and, feeling sure Robin would be among the competitors for the prize, posted a number of men to watch for and arrest him. These sleuths recognized all the contestants present, except a dark man, with a patch over one eye, who did not in the least resemble the fair-haired, handsome Robin. Although one-eyed, the stranger easily bore away the prize, and, when the sheriff offered to take him into his service, curtly rejoined no man should ever be his master. But that evening, in a secret glade in Sherwood Forest, Robin gleefully exhibited to his followers the golden arrow he had won, and, doffing his patch, remarked that the walnut stain, which had transformed a fair man into a dark one, would soon wear off. Still, not satisfied with outwitting the sheriff, Robin, anxious to apprise him of the fact, wrote a message on an arrow, which he boldly shot into the hall where his enemy was seated at a banquet. Enraged by this impudence, the sheriff sent out three hundred men to scour the forest, and Robin and his men were forced to hide. Weary of inaction, Robin finally bade Will Stutely reconnoiter, report what the sheriff was doing, and see whether it would be safe for him and his men to venture out. Garbed as a monk, Will Stutely sought the nearest inn, where he was quietly seated when some of the sheriff's men came in. The outlaw was listening intently to their plans when a cat, rubbing against him, pushed aside his frock, and thus allowed the constable a glimpse of Lincoln green beneath its folds. To arrest the outlaw was but the matter of a moment, and Will Stutely was led off to prison and execution, while a friendly bar-maid hastened off secretly to the forest to warn Robin of his friend's peril. Determined to save Will from the gallows at any risk, Robin immediately set out with four of his best men and let them mingle among the people assembled near the gallows. Although disguised, the outlaws were immediately recognized by Will when he arrived with the sheriff. Pressing forward as if to obtain a better view of the execution, the outlaws contrived to annoy their neighbors so sorely that a fight ensued, and, in the midst of the confusion, Little John, slipping close up to the prisoner, cut his bonds, knocked down the sheriff, and escaped with all the band! Life in the forest sometimes proved too monotonous to suit Robin, who once purchased from a butcher his horse, cart, and meat, and drove off boldly to Nottingham Fair. There he lustily cried his wares, announcing churchmen would have to pay double, aldermen cost price, housewives less, and pretty girls nothing save a kiss! The merry vender's methods of trading soon attracted so many female customers that the other butchers became angry, but, deeming Robin a mere simpleton, invited him to a banquet, where they determined to take advantage of him. The sheriff--who was present--blandly inquired of the butcher whether he had any cattle for sale, and arranged to meet him in the forest and pay 300 crowns in cash for 500 horned heads. But, when the gullible sheriff reached the trysting-spot, he was borne captive to Robin's camp, where the chief, mockingly pointing out the king's deer, bade him take possession of five hundred horned heads! Then he invited the sheriff to witness games exhibiting the outlaws' strength and skill, and, after relieving him of his money, allowed him to depart unharmed. More determined than ever to obtain revenge, the sheriff again proclaimed an archery contest, which Robin shunned. Little John, however, put in an appearance, won all the prizes, and even accepted the sheriff's offer to serve him. But, living on the fat of the land in the sheriff's household, Little John grew fat and lazy, quarrelled with the other servants, and finally departed with his master's cook and his silver! Robin, although delighted to acquire a new follower, hotly reviled his companion for stealing the silver, whereupon Little John declared the sheriff had given it to him and volunteered to produce him to confirm his words. He therefore set out, and waylaid his late employer, who, thinking himself under the protection of one of his own men, innocently followed him to the outlaws' camp. When brought thus suddenly face to face with Robin, the sheriff expected to be robbed or killed, but, after ascertaining the silver was not a free gift, Robin gave it back to him and let him go. Angry because Robin often twitted him with his stoutness, Little John once wandered off by himself in the forest, and meeting Arthur a Bland challenged him to fight, little suspecting Robin was watching them from a neighboring thicket. From this hiding-place the chief of the outlaws witnessed Little John's defeat, and, popping out as soon as the fight was over, invited Arthur a Bland to join his band. The three men next continued their walk, until they met a "rose-leaf, whipped-cream youth," of whose modish attire and effeminate manners they made unmerciful fun. Boastfully informing his two companions he was going to show them how a quarter-staff should be handled, Robin challenged the stranger, who, suddenly dropping his affected manners, snatched a stake from the hedge and proceeded to outfence Robin. In his turn Little John had a chance to laugh at his leader's discomfiture, and Robin, on learning his antagonist was his nephew (who had taken refuge in the forest because he had accidentally killed a man), invited him to join his merry men. Soon after Little John was despatched for food, and the outlaws were enjoying a jolly meal "under the greenwood tree," when a miller came trudging along with a heavy bag of flour. Crowding around him the outlaws demanded his money, and, when he exhibited an empty purse, Robin suggested his money was probably hidden in the meal and sternly ordered him to produce it without delay. Grumbling about his loss, the miller opened his sack, began to fumble in the meal, and, when all the outlaws were bending anxiously over it, flung a double handful of flour right into their eyes, thus blinding them temporarily. Had not other outlaws now rushed out of the thicket, the miller would doubtless have effected his escape, but the new arrivals held him fast until Robin, charmed with his ready wit, invited him to become an outlaw too. Some time after this, Robin, Will Scarlet, and Little John discovered the minstrel Allan a Dale weeping in the forest because his sweetheart, fair Ellen, was compelled by her father to marry a rich old squire. Hearing this tale and sympathizing with the lovers, Robin engaged to unite them, provided he could secure a priest to tie the knot. When told Friar Tuck would surely oblige him, Robin started out in quest of him, and, finding him under a tree, feasting alone and toasting himself, he joined in his merry meal. Then, under the pretext of saving his fine clothes from a wetting, Robin persuaded the friar to carry him pick-a-back across a stream. While doing so, the friar stole Robin's sword, and refused to give it back unless the outlaw carried him back. Following Friar Tuck's example, Robin slyly purloined something from him, and exacted a new ride across the river, during which Friar Tuck tumbled him over into the water. Robin, who had hitherto taken his companion's pleasantries good-naturedly, got angry and began a fight, but soon, feeling he was about to be worsted, he loudly summoned his men. Friar Tuck in return whistled for his dogs, which proved quite formidable enough opponents to induce the outlaws to beg for a truce. Robin now secured Friar Tuck to celebrate Allan's marriage and laid clever plans to rescue Ellen from an unwelcome bridegroom. So all proceeded secretly or openly to the church where the marriage was to take place. Pretending to be versed in magic, Robin swore to the ecclesiastics present that, if they would only give him the jewels they wore, he would guarantee the bride should love the bridegroom. Just as the reluctant Ellen was about to be united to the rich old squire by these churchmen, Robin interfered, and (the angry bridegroom having flounced out of church), bribed the father to allow Friar Tuck to unite Ellen and Allan a Dale. Because the bride undoubtedly loved her spouse, Robin claimed the jewels promised him, and bestowed them upon the happy couple, who adopted Sherwood Forest for their home. Weary of the same company, Robin once despatched his men into the forest with orders to arrest any one they met and bring him to their nightly banquet. Robin himself sallied out too, and soon met a dejected knight, who declared he felt too sad to contribute to the outlaw's amusement. When Robin questioned him in regard to his dejection, Sir Richard of the Lee explained that his son, having accidentally wounded his opponent in a tournament, had been obliged to pay a fine of £600 in gold and make a pilgrimage to Palestine. To raise the money for the fine, the father had mortgaged his estates, and was now about to be despoiled of them by the avaricious prior of Emmet, who demanded an immediate payment of £400 or the estate. Robin, ever ready to help the poor and sorrowful, bade the knight cheer up and promised to discover some way to raise the £400. Meantime Little John and Friar Tuck--who had joined Robin's band--caught the Bishop of Hereford, travelling through the forest with a train of pack horses, one of which was laden with an iron-bound chest. After entertaining these forced guests at dinner, Robin had them witness his archers' skill and listen to Allan a Dale's music, ere he set forth the knight's predicament and appealed to the bishop to lend him the necessary money. When the bishop loudly protested he would do so gladly had he funds, Robin ordered his baggage examined and divided into three equal shares, one for the owner, one for his men, and one for the poor. Such was the value of the third set aside for the poor that Robin could lend Sir Richard £500. Armed with this money--which he promised to repay within a year--Sir Richard presented himself before the prior of Emmet, who had hired the sheriff and a lawyer to help him despoil the knight with some show of law and justice. It was therefore before an august board of three villains that Sir Richard knelt begging for time wherein to pay his debt. Virtuously protesting he would gladly remit a hundred pounds for prompt payment--so great was his need of money--the prior refused to wait, and his claim was duly upheld by lawyer and sheriff. Relinquishing his humble position, Sir Richard then defiantly produced 300 pounds, which he forced the prior to accept in full payment! Soon after, the happy knight was able to repay Robin's loan, and gratefully bestowed fine bows and arrows on all the outlaws. Little John, garbed as a friar, once set out for a neighboring fair, and, meeting three pretty girls with baskets of eggs, gallantly offered to carry their loads. When merrily challenged to carry all three, Little John cleverly slung one basket around his neck by means of his rosary, and marched merrily along carrying the two others and singing at the top of his lungs, while one of the girls beat time with his staff. On approaching town, Little John restored the baskets to their owners, and, assuming a sanctimonious bearing, joined two brothers of Fountains Abbey, whom he implored to give him a little money. Because they turned a deaf ear to his request, Little John went with them, acting so strangely that he annoyed them sorely. Seeing this, he declared he would leave them if they would only give him two pennies, whereupon they rejoined they had no more than that for their own needs. Crying he would perform a miracle, Little John plumped down upon his big knees in the middle of the road and loudly intreated St. Dunstan to put money in their purses. Then jumping up, he seized their bags, vowing that anything above a penny was clearly his, since it was obtained through his prayers! Robin, longing for a little variety, once met a beggar with whom he exchanged garments. Soon after, meeting four other mendicants, Robin joined them, and having gotten into a quarrel with them had the satisfaction of routing all four. A little later he met an usurer, whom he gradually induced to reveal the fact that he had never lost his money because he always carried his fortune in the thick soles of his shoes. Of course Robin immediately compelled the usurer to remove his foot-gear, and sent him home barefoot, while he rejoined his men and amused them with a detailed account of the day's adventures. Queen Eleanor, having heard endless merry tales about Robin Hood, became very anxious to meet him, and finally sent one of her pages to Sherwood Forest to inform Robin the king had wagered his archers would win all the prizes in the royal shooting-match. Because she had wagered the contrary, she promised Robin a safe-conduct for himself and his men if he would only come to court and display his skill. Choosing Will Scarlet, Little John, and Allan a Dale as his companions, Robin attended the tournament and won all the prizes, to the great disgust of the king, the sheriff, and the Bishop of Hereford, which latter recognized the hated outlaw. On discovering the king would not respect the safe-conduct she had given Robin, Eleanor sent him word: "The lion growls; beware of thy head." This hint was sufficient to make Robin leave immediately, bidding his companions re-enter the forest by different roads and reserving the most difficult for himself. Although Robin's men reached the forest safely, he himself was hotly pursued by the sheriff's and bishop's troops. Once, when they were so close on his heels that it seemed impossible for him to escape, Robin exchanged garments with a cobbler, who was promptly arrested in his stead and borne off to prison. Such was Robin's exhaustion by this time that he entered an inn, and, creeping into bed, slept so soundly that only on awaking on the morrow did he discover he had shared his bed with a monk. Slyly substituting the cobbler's garments for those of the sleeping monk, Robin peacefully departed, while the sheriff's men, having discovered their mistake, proceeded to arrest the false cobbler! Meantime the Queen succeeded in softening the king's resentment, so Robin was allowed to rejoin his companions, and his sweetheart, Maid Marian, who could shoot nearly as well as he. Many years now elapsed, during which King Henry died and King Richard came to the throne. Robin, still pursued by the sheriff, once discovered in the forest a man clad in horse-skin, who, having been an outlaw too, had been promised his pardon if he would slay Robin. Hearing him boast about what he would do, Robin challenged him first to a trial of marksmanship, and then to a bout of sword play, during which the strange outlaw was slain. Then, donning the fallen man's strange apparel, Robin went off to Nottingham in quest of more adventures. Meantime, Little John had entered a poor hut, where he found a woman weeping because her sons had been seized as poachers and sentenced to be hanged. Touched by her grief, Little John promised to rescue them if she would only supply him with a disguise. Dressed in a suit which had belonged to the woman's husband, he entered Nottingham just as the sheriff was escorting his captives to the gallows. No hangman being available, the sheriff gladly hired the stranger to perform that office. While ostensibly fastening nooses around the three lads' necks, Little John cleverly whispered directions whereby to escape. This part of his duty done, Little John strung his bow, arguing it would be a humane act to shorten their agony by a well-directed shaft. But, as soon as his bow was properly strung, Little John gave the agreed signal, and the three youths scampered off, he covering their retreat by threatening to kill any one who attempted to pursue them. The angry sheriff, on perceiving Robin, who just then appeared, deeming him the man he sent into the forest, demanded some token that he had done his duty. In reply Robin silently exhibited his own sword, bugle, and bow, and pointed to his blood-stained clothes. The officers having meantime captured Little John, the sheriff allowed Robin--as a reward--to hang his companion. By means of the same stratagem as Little John employed for the rescue of the youths, Robin saved his beloved mate, and, when the sheriff started to pursue them, blew such a blast on his horn that the terrified official galloped away, one of Robin's arrows sticking in his back. Two months after, there was great excitement in Nottingham, because King Richard was to ride through the town. The gay procession of knights, pages, and soldiers was viewed with delight by all the people, among whom Robin's outlaws were thickly dotted. Riding beside the king, the Sheriff of Nottingham paled on recognizing in the crowd Robin himself, a change of color which did not escape Richard's eagle eye. When the conversation turned upon the famous outlaw at the banquet that evening, and sheriff and bishop bitterly declared Robin could not be captured, Richard exclaimed he would gladly give a hundred pounds for a glimpse of so extraordinary a man! Thereupon one of the guests rejoined he could easily obtain it by entering the forest in a monk's garb, a suggestion which so charmed the Lion-hearted monarch that he started out on the morrow with seven cowled men. They had not ridden far into the forest before they were arrested by a man in Lincoln green--Robin himself--who conducted them to the outlaw's lair. As usual, the chance guests were entertained with a feast of venison and athletic games, in the course of which Robin declared he would test the skill of his men, and that all who missed the bull's-eye should be punished by a buffet from Little John's mighty fist. Strange to relate, every man failed and was floored by Little John's blow, the rest roaring merrily over his discomfiture. All his men having tried and failed, Robin was asked to display his own skill for the stranger's benefit, and, when he too shot at random, all loudly clamored he must be punished too. Hoping to escape so severe a blow as Little John dealt, Robin declared it was not fitting a chief should be struck by his men, and offered to take his punishment at his guest's hands. Richard, not sorry to take his revenge, now bared a muscular arm, and hit poor Robin so heartily that the outlaw measured his full length on the ground and lay there some time wondering what had occurred. Just then Sir Richard's son rushed into the outlaw's camp, breathlessly crying the king had left Nottingham and was scouring the forest to arrest them. Throwing back his cowl Richard sternly demanded how one of his nobles dared reveal his plans to his foes, whereupon the young knight, kneeling before his monarch, explained how Robin had saved his father from ruin. Richard, whose anger was a mere pretence, now informed Robin he should no longer be persecuted, and proposed that he, Little John, Will Scarlet, and Allan a Dale should enter his service. The rest of the outlaws were appointed game-keepers in the royal forests, a life which suited them admirably. After spending the night in the camp of the outlaws, Richard rode away with his new followers, and we are told Robin Hood served him to such good purpose that he soon earned the title of Earl of Huntington. Shortly after Richard's death, Robin, seized with a longing for the wild free life of his youth, revisited Sherwood Forest, where the first blast of his hunting-horn gathered a score of his old followers about him. Falling at his feet and kissing his hands, they so fervently besought him never to leave them again that Robin promised to remain in the forest, and did so, although King John sent for him sundry times and finally ordered the sheriff to arrest him. By this time Robin was no longer a young man, so life in the open no longer proved as delightful as of yore. Seized with a fever which he could not shake off, Robin finally dragged himself to the priory of Kirk Lee, where he besought the prioress to bleed him. Either because she was afraid to defy the king or because she owed Robin a personal grudge, this lady opened an artery instead of a vein, and, locking the door of his room, left him there to bleed to death. The unsuspecting Robin patiently awaited her return, and, when he finally realized his plight and tried to summon aid, he was able to blow only the faintest call upon his horn. This proved enough, however, to summon Little John, who was lurking in the forest near by, for he dashed toward the priory, broke open the door, and forced his way into the turret-chamber, where he found poor Robin nearly gone. At his cries, the prioress hastened to check the bleeding of Robin's wound, but too late! Faintly whispering he would never hunt in the forest again, Robin begged Little John string his bow, and raise him up so he could shoot a last arrow out of the narrow window, adding that he wished to be buried where that arrow fell. Placing the bow in Robin's hand, Little John supported his dying master while he sent his last arrow to the foot of a mighty oak, and "something sped from that body as the winged arrow sped from the bow," for it was only a corpse Little John laid down on the bed! At dawn on the morrow six outlaws bore their dead leader to a grave they had dug beneath the oak, above which was a stone which bore this inscription: Here underneath this little stone Lies Robin, Earl of Huntington, None there was as he so good, And people called him Robin Hood. Such outlaws as he and his men Will England never see again. Died December 24th, 1247. THE FAERIE QUEENE Edmund Spenser, who was born in London in 1552 and lived at Dublin as clerk to the court of Chancery, there wrote the Faerie Queene, of which the first part was published in 1589 and dedicated to Elizabeth. In this poem he purposed to depict the twelve moral virtues in twelve successive books, each containing twelve cantos, written in stanzas of eight short lines and one long one. But he completed only six books of his poem in the course of six years. The Faerie Queene is not only an epic but a double allegory, for many of the characters represent both abstract virtues and the noted people of Spenser's time. For instance, the poem opens with a description of the court of Gloriana,--who impersonates Elizabeth and is the champion of Protestantism. As queen of the fairy realm she holds annual festivals, in one of which the young peasant Georgos enters her hall. He kneels before her so humbly yet so courteously that, notwithstanding his rustic garb, she perceives he must be of noble birth. When he, therefore, craves as a boon the next adventure, Gloriana grants his request, on condition that he will serve her afterward for six years. Shortly after, a beautiful lady, garbed in white but enveloped in a black mantle, rides up to court on a snow-white ass, leading a woolly lamb. She is followed by a dwarf, who conducts a war-steed, on which are piled all the arms of a knight. On approaching Gloriana, Una--the personification of Truth--explains that her royal parents are besieged in their capital by a dragon, which has slain all the warriors who have ventured to attack him. On hearing Una beg for aid, Georgos eagerly steps forward to claim the task. Ill pleased to be given a peasant instead of the knight she was seeking, Una coldly bids Georgos--the personification of Holiness--try on the armor she has brought, adding that, unless it fits him exactly, he need not expect to triumph. But no sooner has the youth donned the armor which the dwarf produces than all recognize with wonder it must have been made for him, and Gloriana publicly dubs him "Knight of the Red Cross," because the armor Una brought bears that device. Vaulting on his war-steed, Georgos now rides off with Una and the dwarf, and after crossing a wilderness enters a forest, where before long he descries the mouth of a cave, into which he feels impelled to enter. No sooner has he done so than he encounters a dragon,--the personification of Heresy and Error,--which attacks him with fury. A frightful battle ensues, in the course of which the Red Cross Knight is about to be worsted, when Una's encouragements so stimulate him that he slays the monster. On seeing the exhaustion of her companion, Una realizes he will require rest before undertaking further adventures, and therefore eagerly accepts an invitation tendered by a venerable old hermit who meets them. He leads them to his cell, where, after entertaining them all evening by pious conversation, he dismisses them to seek rest. His guests have no sooner vanished than the hermit, Archimago,--a personification of Hypocrisy,--casts aside his disguise, and summons two demons, one of whom he despatches to Hades to fetch a dream from the cave of Morpheus. This dream is to whisper to the sleeping Red Cross Knight that Una is not as innocent as she seems, while the other demon, transformed into her very semblance, is to delude the knight on awakening into believing his companion beneath contempt. This plot is duly carried out, and the Red Cross Knight shocked by the behavior of the sham Una departs immediately, bidding the dwarf follow him. Riding along in a state of extreme disgust and irritation, the Red Gross Knight soon encounters Sansfoi,--Faithlessness,--accompanied by a lady clad in red, who is Duessa,--a personification of Mary Queen of Scots, and also of falsehood and popery. The two knights immediately run against each other, and, when Georgos has slain his opponent, the lady beseeches him to spare her life, exclaiming her name is Fidessa and that she is only too glad to be saved from the cruel Sansfoi. Deluded by her words and looks, the Red Cross Knight invites her to accompany him, promising to defend her from her foes. They are riding along together amicably, when the knight plucks a blossoming twig to weave a garland for his companion, and is dismayed to see blood trickle from the broken stem. Questioning the tree from whence the branch was taken, Georgos learns that a knight and his wife have been transformed into plants by Duessa, who does not wish them to escape from her thraldom. During this explanation, Georgos fails to notice that the lady in red trembles for fear her victims may recognize her, nor does he mark her relief when she perceives her present disguise is so effective that no one suspects she worked this baleful transformation. Riding on once more, the Red Cross Knight and his companion next draw near to a glittering castle, whose stones seem covered with gold. Fidessa, who is familiar with this place, invites the knight to enter there with her; and Georgos, unaware of the fact that this is the stronghold of Pride, not only consents, but pays respectful homage to the mistress of the castle, Queen Lucifera, whose attendants are Idleness, Gluttony, Lechery, Envy, Avarice, and Wrath. It is while sojourning in this castle that the Red Cross Knight one day sees Sansjoi (Joyless) snatch from his dwarf the shield won from Sansfoi. Angered by this deed of violence, Georgos draws his sword, and he would have decided the question of ownership then and there had not Lucifera decreed he and his opponent should settle their quarrel in the lists on the morrow. During the ensuing night, Duessa secretly informs Sansjoi that the Red Cross Knight is his brother's slayer and promises that, should he defeat his opponent, she will belong to him forever. On the morrow, in the midst of much feudal pomp, the chivalrous duel takes place, and--although Duessa, fancying Sansjoi is about to win, loudly cheers him--the Red Cross Knight finally triumphs. Planting his foot upon his foe, Georgos would have ended Sansjoi's life had not Duessa enveloped her protégé in a cloud dense enough to hide him from his conqueror. After vainly seeking some trace of his vanished opponent, the Red Cross Knight is proclaimed victor, and goes back to the castle to nurse the wounds he has received. Meanwhile Duessa steals into the deserted lists, removes the pall of cloud which envelops Sansjoi, and tenderly confides him to the Queen of Night, who bears him down to Hades, where Aesculapius heals his wounds. His victor, the Red Cross Knight, has not entirely recovered from this duel, when the dwarf rushes into his presence to report that while prowling around the castle he discovered a frightful dungeon, where men and women are imprisoned. When he declares they are sojourning in a wicked place, the Red Cross Knight springs out of bed and, helped by his attendant, hastens away from a spot which now inspires him with unspeakable horror. They have barely issued from the castle walls before Georgos realizes he has been the victim of some baleful spell, for he now perceives that the building rests on a sand foundation and is tottering to its fall, while the pomp which so dazzled him at first is merely outside show and delusion. He is not aware, however, that Fidessa has beguiled him, since he openly regrets she is not present to escape with him, and he again bewails the fact that Una was not as pure as his fancy painted! Meanwhile, returning to the castle to rejoin her victim, Duessa finds the Red Cross Knight gone, spurs after him, and on overtaking him gently reproaches him for abandoning her in such a place! Then she entices him to rest by a fountain, whose bewitched waters deprive the drinker of all strength. She herself offers Georgos a draught from this fountain, and, after he has drunk thereof, the giant Orgolio spurs out of the forest and, attacking him with a mighty club, lays him low and bears him off to his dungeon, to torture him the rest of his life. Meantime Duessa humbly follows the giant, promising him her love, while the dwarf, who has watched the encounter from afar, sorrowfully collects his master's armor and, piling it hastily on his steed, rides off in quest of help. Meanwhile the real Una, on awakening in the hermitage to learn that the Red Cross Knight and the dwarf have gone, rides after them as fast as her little white ass can trot. Of course her attempt to overtake her companions is vain, and after travelling a long distance she dismounts in a forest to rest. Suddenly she is almost paralyzed with fear, for a roaring lion bursts through the thicket to devour her. Still, in fairy-land wild beasts cannot harm kings' daughters, provided they are pure, so the lion--the personification of Courage--not only spares Una, but humbly licks her feet, and accompanies her as watch-dog when she resumes her journey. They two soon reach the house of Superstition, an old woman, whose daughter, Stupidity, loves a robber of churches. When this lover attempts to visit her secretly by night, he is slain by the lion; whereupon the two women angrily banish Una. She is therefore again wandering aimlessly in the forest when Archimago meets her in the guise of the Red Cross Knight, for he wishes her to believe he is her missing champion. On perceiving the lion, however, the magician approaches Una cautiously, but the fair maiden, suspecting no fraud, joyfully runs to meet him, declaring she has missed him terribly. They two have not proceeded far before they encounter Sansloi,--Lawlessness,--brother of the two knights with whom Georgos recently fought. Anxious to avenge their death, this new-comer boldly charges at the wearer of the Red Cross. Although terrified at the mere thought of an encounter, Archimago is forced to lower his lance in self-defence, but, as he is no expert, he is overthrown at the first blow. Springing down from his steed, Sansloi sets his foot upon his fallen foe and tries to remove his helmet so as to deal him a deadly blow. But no sooner does he behold the crafty lineaments of Archimago in place of those of the Red Cross Knight, than he contemptuously abandons his opponent to recover his senses at leisure, and starts off in pursuit of Una, whose beauty has charmed his lustful eye. In a vain endeavor to protect his mistress, the lion next loses his life, and Sansloi, plucking the shrieking Una from her ass, flings her across his palfrey and rides off into the forest, followed by the little steed, which is too faithful to forsake its mistress. On arriving in the depths of the forest, Sansloi dismounts, but Una's cries attract a company of fauns and satyrs, whose uncanny faces inspire Sansloi with such terror that he flees, leaving his captive in their power. Notwithstanding their strange appearance, these wild men are essentially chivalrous, for they speedily assure Una no harm shall befall her in their company. In return she instructs them in regard to virtue and truth, until Sir Satyrane appears, who generously volunteers to go with her in search of the Red Cross Knight. Those two have not ridden far together before they encounter a pilgrim, who reports the Red Cross Knight has just been slain in a combat by a knight who is now quenching his thirst at a neighboring fountain. Following this pilgrim's directions, Sir Satyrane soon overtakes the reported slayer of Georgos, and while they two struggle together, the terrified Una flees into the forest, closely pursued by the pilgrim, Archimago in a new disguise. Meantime the fight continues until Sansloi, severely wounded, beats a retreat, leaving Sir Satyrane too injured to follow Una. She, however, has meantime overtaken her dwarf, and learned from him that the Red Cross Knight is a prisoner of Orgolio. Thereupon she vows' not to rest until she has rescued her companion. She and her dwarf are hastening in the direction in which the giant vanished with his victim, when they meet Prince Arthur,--a personification of Leicester and of Chivalry,--who, although he has never yet seen the Fairy Queen, is so deeply in love with her that he does battle in her name whenever he can. This prince is incased in a magic armor, made by Merlin, and bears a shield fashioned from a single diamond, whose brightness is so dazzling that it has to be kept covered, so as not to blind all beholders. After courteously greeting Una, the prince, hearing her tale of woe, volunteers to accompany her and free the Red Cross Knight. When they reach the castle of Orgolio,--Spiritual Pride,--Arthur and his squire boldly summon the owner to come out and fight. No answer is at first vouchsafed them, but after a blast from Arthur's magic bugle the gates burst open, and out of the stronghold rushes a seven-headed dragon, bearing on its back the witch Duessa. This monster is closely followed by the giant Orgolio, who engages in fight with Prince Arthur, while the squire, Timias, directs his efforts against the seven-headed beast. Although the prince and his attendant finally overcome these terrible foes, their triumph is due to the fact that in the midst of the fray Prince Arthur's shield is accidentally uncovered and its brightness quells both giant and beast. But no sooner are the fallen pierced with the victors' swords than they shrink to nothing, for they are mere wind-bags, or delusions of Archimago's devising. On seeing the triumph won by her champions, Una congratulates them, and bids the squire pursue Duessa, who is now trying to escape. Thus enjoined, Timias seizes the witch, and, in obedience to Una's orders, strips her of her fine clothes and sends her forth in her original loathsome shape. Meantime Una and the prince boldly penetrate into the castle, and, passing hurriedly through rooms overflowing with treasures, reach a squalid dungeon, where they discover the Red Cross Knight almost starved to death. Full of compassion they bear him to comfortable quarters, where they proceed to nurse him back to health; and, when he is once more able to ride, he and Una resume their journey. As they proceed, however, Una becoming aware that her champion is not yet strong enough to do battle, conducts him to a house, where the wise old matron Religion, Doctor Patience, and three hand-maidens, Faith, Hope, and Charity, nurse him to such good purpose that Georgos is soon stronger than ever. During his convalescence in this hospitable abode, the Red Cross Knight once wanders to the top of the hill of Contemplation, whence he is vouchsafed a vision of the New Jerusalem, and where he encounters an old man who prophesies that after fulfilling his present quest he will be known as "Saint George of Merry England." Modestly deeming himself unworthy of such distinction, the Red Cross Knight objects that a ploughman's son should not receive such honor, until the aged man informs him he is in reality the son of the British king, stolen from his cradle by a wicked fairy, who, finding him too heavy to carry, dropped him in a field where a farmer discovered and adopted him. Notwithstanding this rustic breeding it was Georgos' noble blood that urged him to seek adventures, and sent him to Gloriana's court, whence he sallied forth on his present quest. After another brief sojourn in the house of Religion, the Red Cross Knight and Una again set forth, and passing through another wilderness reach a land ravaged and befouled by the dragon which holds Una's parents in durance vile. The lady is just pointing out her distant home to the Red Cross Knight, when she hears the dragon coming, and, bidding her champion fight him bravely, takes refuge in a cave near by. Spurring forward to encounter his opponent, the Red Cross Knight comes face to face with a hideous monster, sheathed in brazen scales and lashing a tail that sweeps over acres at a time. This monster is further provided with redoubtable iron teeth and brazen claws, and breathes forth sulphur and other deadly fumes. Notwithstanding his opponent's advantages, Georgos boldly attacks him, only to find no weapon can pierce the metal scales. At the end of the first day's fight, the dragon withdraws, confident he will get the better of his foe on the morrow. At the close of the second day, the monster's tail whisks Georgos into a pool, whose waters fortunately prove so healing that this bath washes away every trace of weakness and restores him to health and strength. On the third day's encounter, the Red Cross Knight manages to run his sword into the dragon's mouth, and thus inflicts a deadly wound. Seeing her foe writhing at last in the agonies of death, Una joyfully emerges from her hiding-place, while the watchman on the castle tower loudly proclaims that they are free at last! The poet vividly describes the relief of Una's parents on being able to emerge from their castle once more, and their joy on embracing the daughter who has effected their rescue. The castle inmates not only load Una with praise, but escort her and her champion back to their abode, where their marriage takes place amid general rejoicings. But, although the Red Cross Knight would fain linger by Una, he remembers his promise to serve Gloriana for six years, and sets out immediately to redress other wrongs. BOOK II. THE LEGEND OF SIR GUYON, OR OF TEMPERANCE The next adventure in the Faerie Queene is that of Sir Guyon,--personifying Temperance,--who is escorted everywhere by a black-garbed palmer,--Prudence or Abstinence,--at whose dictation he performs all manner of heroic deeds. Journeying together they soon meet a squire, who reports a lady has just been captured by a wicked knight, who is bearing her away. On hearing of this damsel's peril, Sir Guyon bids her squire lead them in the direction where she vanished, declaring he will save her if possible. He soon encounters a maiden with dishevelled locks and torn garments, who delays him by informing him that she has been illtreated by a knight bearing the device of a red cross. Although loath to believe Georgos can be guilty of an unchivalric deed, Sir Guyon and the palmer promise to call him to account as soon as they overtake him. They no sooner do so, however, than he assures them Archimago in his guise has been ranging through the forest, and that they must have met Duessa. Turning to punish the lying squire who led them astray, Sir Guyon now perceives he has vanished, and humbly begs pardon of the Red Cross Knight. Shortly after, Sir Guyon is startled by loud shrieks, and, hastening in the direction whence they proceed, discovers a wounded lady and a dead knight. Close beside the lady is a young babe, whose innocent hands are dabbling in his parent's blood. On questioning the woman, Sir Guyon learns that her husband has been bewitched by Acrasia,--or Pleasure,--who bore him off to the Bower of Bliss, a place where she detains her captives, feeding them on sweets until their manly courage is gone. On learning her husband had fallen into the power of this enchantress, the lady had sought the Bower of Bliss and by dint of wifely devotion had rescued her spouse. But, even as they left, the witch bestowed upon them a magic cup, in which little suspecting its evil powers, the wife offered water to her husband. No sooner had he drunk than blood gushed from his mouth and he died, whereupon, frantic at having unwittingly slain the man she loved, the lady had dealt herself a mortal wound with his sword. Scarcely had the sufferer finished this account when she sank back lifeless, so Sir Guyon and the palmer, after burying the parents, vainly tried to remove the blood stains from the infant's hands. Then, unable to care properly for him themselves, they entrusted it to some ladies in a castle near by, bidding them call the babe Ruddy Main, or the Red Handed, and send him to court when he had grown up. Having thus provided for the orphan, Sir Guyon, whose horse and spear meanwhile have been purloined by Braggadocchio, decides to recover possession of them, and to seek the Bower of Bliss to slay the witch Acrasia, who has caused such grievous harm. On this quest Sir Guyon and the palmer encounter the madman Furor, and then reach a stream which is too deep to ford. While they are seeking some conveyance to bear them across, they perceive a skiff rowed by a fair lady, Phaedria,--or Mirth. At their call she pushes her boat close to them, but no sooner has Sir Guyon sprung aboard than she pushes off, leaving the palmer behind in spite of all entreaties. Although impelled neither by oars nor sails, Phaedria's boat drifts rapidly over the Idle Sea, and Sir Guyon, on questioning its owner, learns they are bound for her magic realm. They have scarcely touched the sedgy shores of a charming island, when a ruffian, Cymochles,--or Deceit,--bursts out of the thicket to claim the lady. Undaunted by the size of his challenger, Sir Guyon attacks him, and the duel might have proved fatal had not Phaedria cast herself between the champions, begging them not to quarrel in the land of love and delight. Thereupon Sir Guyon hotly informs her he has no desire to slay Deceit or to claim her, and, seeing she cannot make any impression upon him, Phaedria angrily bids him re-enter the boat, which soon bears him to the place which he wished to reach. Although still mourning the loss of his companion, the palmer, Sir Guyon decides to continue his quest for the Bower of Bliss. While passing through a dense thicket, his attention is attracted by a clank of metal, and peering through the branches he descries an old, dirt-encrusted man, surrounded by mounds of precious stones and coins, which keep dropping through his fingers. This creature is Mammon,--God of Wealth,--who is so busy counting his treasures that at first he pays no heed to Sir Guyon. When questioned, however, he boasts he is more powerful than any potentate in the world, and tries to entice Sir Guyon to enter into his service by promising him much gold. For a moment Sir Guyon wavers, but finally decides not to accept the offer until he has ascertained whether Mammon's riches have been honestly gained. To show whence he draws them, the money-god now conveys Sir Guyon to the bowels of the earth, and there lets him view his minions mining gold, silver, and precious stones, and thus constantly increasing his hoard. But, although sorely tempted, Sir Guyon perceives that Mammon's workmen are oppressed by Care and driven by Force and Fraud, who keep them constantly at work and never allow Sleep to approach them. This discovery makes him decide to have nothing to do with Mammon's treasures, although he is led into a hall where hosts of people are paying homage to the money king's daughter, who, he is told, will be his bride if he will only accept her father's offers. Coldly rejoining that his troth is already plighted, Sir Guyon refuses, only to emerge from this hall into a garden, through whose branches he catches fleeting glimpses of the underworld. In one of its rivers he even beholds Tantalus, undergoing torments from hunger and thirst, in punishment for sins committed while on earth. After being subjected for three days to all the temptations of the underworld, Sir Guyon is led back to the light of day, where Mammon--who bitterly terms him a fool--abandons him. The story now returns to the palmer, who, after watching Sir Guyon out of sight, wanders along the stream in quest of a vessel to follow his master. Several days later he manages to cross, only to hear a silvery voice calling for aid. Bursting through the thicket, he discovers Sir Guyon, lying on the ground, watched over by a spirit of such transcendent beauty that the palmer realizes it must be an angel even before he notes its diaphanous wings. This ministering spirit assures the palmer that Sir Guyon will soon recover, adding that although unseen he will continue to watch over him, and will help him to escape from all the dangers along his path. Then the heavenly spirit vanishes, and, while the palmer is bending over the fainting Sir Guyon, he sees two knights draw near, preceded by a page and followed by an old man. These knights are Deceit and his brother, who have been brought hither by the old man Archimago, to slay Sir Guyon whom they hate. Drawing near, these ruffians thrust the palmer aside, but, while they are stripping the unconscious man of his armor, another knight suddenly draws near and attacks them. One giant, being without a sword, seizes that of Sir Guyon, although Archimago warns him that as it once belonged to his antagonist, it will never harm him. Prince Arthur, for it is he, now overcomes the ruffians, to whom he generously offers life, provided they will obey him hereafter. But, when they refuse these terms, he ruthlessly slays them, and their spirits flee shrieking "to the land of eternal night." At this moment Sir Guyon recovers his senses, and is overjoyed to find the palmer beside him and to learn that Prince Arthur, who rescued him from the ruffians, is not far away. After a brief rest, Prince Arthur and Sir Guyon depart together, the former explaining how anxious he is to do anything in his power for Queen Gloriana, whom he devotedly loves although he has never yet seen her. Conversing together, the two ride on to a castle, where no heed is paid to their request for a night's lodging. They are marvelling at such a discourtesy, when a head is thrust over the battlement and a hoarse voice bids them flee, explaining that the castle has been besieged for seven years past by barbarians lurking in the forest, against whom no knight has ever been able to prevail. It is while the watchman is thus accounting for his inhospitality, that a rout of hungry barbarians bursts out of the forest and attacks Sir Guyon and Prince Arthur, both of whom fight to such good purpose that they utterly annihilate their assailants. Happy to be delivered from these foes, the inhabitants of the castle then open wide their gates. Our knights spend several days there resting from their labors, and perusing sundry books where they learn the history of all the British kings. Meantime the palmer, who has followed them thither, forges chains and a steel net, with which to capture and hold the witch Acrasia when the right time comes. When he has finished manufacturing these objects, he persuades Sir Guyon to start out once more. Reaching the water again, they board a vessel, which bears them safely past the Magnetic Rock, over the Sea of Gluttony, etc., to an island, whose beauty human imagination cannot conceive. On landing, the travellers are surprised to encounter strange monsters, and to be enveloped in dense mists, through which they hear the flapping of bat-like wings and catch glimpses of harpy-like creatures. Knowing monsters and mists are mere delusions, Sir Guyon pays little heed to them, and the palmer soon disperses them by a touch from his magic staff. Still bearing the steel net and iron chains, this faithful henchman follows Sir Guyon into the enchanted bower of Acrasia, where he explains to his master that the animals he sees owe their present forms to the enchantress' power, for she always transforms her visitors into beasts! Through an ivory gate,--on which is carved the story of "The Golden Fleece,"--the adventurers enter a hall, where a porter offers them wine. But Sir Guyon, knowing a drop of it would have a baleful effect upon the drinker, boldly dashes it out of his hand. Then, threading his way through the Bower of Bliss, he reaches its innermost grove, although Phaedria tries to detain him by offering him sundry pleasures. Pressing onward, Sir Guyon finally catches a glimpse of Acrasia herself, reposing upon a bed of flowers, and holding on her lap the head of an innocent youth, who is helpless owing to her spell. Silently signalling to the palmer, Sir Guyon spreads out the steel net, which they fling so deftly over witch and victim that neither can escape. Then Sir Guyon binds Acrasia fast, threatening to kill her unless she removes the spell which she has laid upon her captives. All the beasts on the island are therefore soon restored to their natural forms, and all profess gratitude, save one, whom the palmer grimly bids continue to be a pig, since such is his choice! Having thus happily achieved this quest, Sir Guyon and the palmer leave the island with Acrasia, who is sent under strong guard to the court of the Fairy Queen, where Gloriana is to dispose of her according to her good pleasure. BOOK III. THE STORY OF BRITOMART,--CHASTITY Britomart, only child of King Ryenee, had from earliest childhood so longed to be a boy that, instead of devoting her time to womanly occupations, she practised manly sports until she became as expert a warrior as any squire in her father's realm. One day, while wandering in the palace, she discovered in the treasure-room a magic mirror, fashioned by Merlin for her father, wherein one could behold the secrets of the future. Gazing into its crystal depths while wondering whom she should ultimately marry, Britomart suddenly saw a handsome knight, who bore a motto proclaiming that he was Sir Artegall, the Champion of Justice and proud possessor of Achilles' armor. Scarcely had Britomart perceived this much than the vision faded. But the princess left the room, feeling that henceforth she would know no rest until she had met her destined mate. When she confided this vision to her nurse Glauce, the worthy woman suggested that they go and consult Merlin, wearing the garb of men. Early the next day, therefore, the two visited the magician, who, piercing their disguise, declared he knew who they were, and bade them ride forth as knight and squire to meet the person they sought. Thus encouraged, Britomart, wearing an Amazon's armor and bearing a magic spear, set out on her quest, and met Prince Arthur and Sir Guyon, just after Acrasia had been dispatched to Gloriana's court and while they were in quest of new adventures. Seeing a warrior approach, Sir Guyon immediately lowered his lance, but to his surprise was unhorsed by Britomart's invincible spear. She was about to dismount to despatch her fallen foe with her sword, when the palmer loudly bade his master crave mercy, seeing it was useless to contend against magic weapons. Hearing this, Sir Guyon surrendered, and he and Prince Arthur humbly offered to escort Britomart, whom they naturally took for a powerful knight. They had not gone very far when they beheld at a distance a damsel dashing madly through the bushes, casting fearful glances behind her, for she was closely pursued by a grizzly forester. All their chivalric instincts aroused, Prince Arthur and his companions spurred hotly after the distressed damsel, while Britomart and her nurse calmly rode on, until they came to a castle, at whose gates one knight was desperately fighting against six. Seeing this, Britomart boldly rode to the rescue of the oppressed knight, and fought beside him to such good purpose that they defeated their assailants. Then, entering the castle, Britomart and her nurse proceeded to care for their companion, the Red Cross Knight, who had received serious wounds. Although he had noticed in the midst of the conflict that a golden curl had escaped from Britomart's helmet and fallen over her breast, and had thus discovered her sex, he courteously ignored it until they were about to ride away together, when he respectfully offered to serve as the lady's protector and escort. Thereupon Britomart explained who she was, adding that she was in quest of Sir Artegall, of whom she spoke rather slightingly, because she did not wish her companion to know how deeply she had fallen in love with a stranger. Judging from her tone that she did not approve of Sir Artegall, the Red Cross Knight hotly protested he was the noblest and most courteous knight that had ever lived, which, of course, pleased Britomart. Meantime, Prince Arthur and Sir Guyon, with their respective attendants, pursued the distressed damsel, riding through thick and thin until they came to cross-roads. Not knowing which path the fugitive had chosen, our heroes decided to part and ride along separate ways. Thus, it was Prince Arthur who first caught a glimpse of the fugitive, who still kept glancing backward as if afraid; but, although he spurred on as fast as possible, he was not able to overtake her, and had to pause at nightfall to rest. On resuming his quest on the morrow, he soon encountered a dwarf, who reported he was the servant of Lady Florimell, who had fled from court five days ago on hearing a rumor that her lover, Marinell, was slain. The poor damsel, while in quest of her lover, had been seen and pursued by an ill-favored forester, and the dwarf feared some harm might have befallen her. To comfort this faithful henchman, Prince Arthur promised to go with him and rescue the unhappy damsel. Meantime, undaunted by darkness, Florimell had ridden on until her weary steed paused before a hut deep in the woods. There she dismounted and humbly begged the old witch who lived there to give her some food. Moved by the distress of the stranger, the sorceress bade her dry her garments at her fire, and while the lady was sitting there the witch's son, a lazy worthless fellow, suddenly entered. To see Florimell was to love her, so the uncouth rustic immediately began to court her with fruits and flowers which he sought in the forest. Fearing lest he should molest her finally, Florimell escaped from the hut on her palfrey, which she found in the witch's stable. On awakening on the morrow to find their fair visitor gone, the witch and her son were in such despair that they let loose a wild beast, which they owned, bidding him track the missing girl. Before long, therefore, poor Florimell heard this monster crashing through the forest. Terrified at the thought of falling into its power, she urged her steed toward the sea-shore, in hopes of finding a boat and getting away. On reaching the water, she sprang off her steed, and, seeing a little skiff near by, stepped into it and pushed off, without securing the permission of the fisherman, who was sleeping at the bottom of the boat while his nets were drying on the sand. Barely were they out of reach when the beast rushed down to the shore, pounced upon Florimell's horse and devoured it. The monster was still occupied thus when Sir Satyrane came riding along. He rashly concluded the beast had devoured the rider too, a fear confirmed by the sight of Florimell's girdle on the sand. Attacking the monster, Sir Satyrane overcame and bound him fast with the girdle, but he hadn't gone far, leading this reluctant captive, when he spied a giantess bearing off an armed squire. In his haste to overtake her and rescue a fellow-man, Sir Satyrane spurred forward so hastily that the girdle slipped off the neck of the beast, which, finding itself free, plunged back into the forest. To attack the giantess, free her captive, and restore him to his senses proved short work for Sir Satyrane, who learned that the youth he had delivered was known as the Squire of Dames, because he constantly rode through the forest freeing damsels in distress. Together with this companion, Sir Satyrane journeyed on until they encountered Sir Paridell, who told them he was in quest of Florimell, who was wandering alone in the forest. Thereupon Sir Satyrane informed Sir Paridell that the maiden must be dead, exhibiting as proof her girdle and relating under what circumstances it had been found. Then all present took a solemn oath not to rest until they had avenged the lady's death. Riding together these three knights, overtaken by a storm, sought shelter in a neighboring castle, only to be refused admittance. To escape from the downpour, they therefore took refuge with their steeds in a neighboring shed, and were scarcely ensconced there when another stranger rode up seeking shelter too. As there was no room left, the first-comers forbade the stranger to enter, whereupon he challenged them to come forth and fight. Hearing this, Sir Paridell sallied out and began a duel, which was closely watched by his two companions. They, however, decided that the combatants were so exactly matched that it was useless to continue the fight, and suggested that they four join forces to make their way into the castle. Before the determined attack of these knights and of their followers, Malbecco, owner of the castle, opened his gates, and the strangers proceeded to remove their armor and make themselves at home. While doing so all present were startled to see that one of their number was a woman, for the last-comer, Britomart, had no sooner removed her helmet than her curls fell down over her shoulders! The next day all left the castle save Sir Paridell, who had been so sorely wounded by Britomart that he was forced to remain there for a while. Before long Britomart and her squire parted from Sir Satyrane and the Squire of Dames, and rode along until they beheld a shield hanging from a branch in the forest. Surprised by such a sight, they investigated, only to find its owner, Sir Scudamore, weeping beside a stream, because his bride, Amoret, had been stolen from him on his wedding day by the magician Busirane, who was trying to force her to marry him. Having heard this tale of woe, Britomart informed Sir Scudamore that instead of shedding vain tears they ought to devise means to rescue the captive lady. Encouraged by these words, Sir Scudamore donned his discarded armor and volunteered to guide Britomart to the magician's castle, explaining on the way that it was surrounded by a wall of fire through which none had been able to pass. Undaunted by this information, Britomart pressed onward, and on reaching the castle declared her intention to charge through the flames. Although Sir Scudamore bravely tried to accompany her, he was driven back by the fierce heat, but Britomart passed through scatheless, and, entering the castle, found herself in a large room, whence led a door with the inscription "Be bold." After studying these words for a few moments, Britomart opened this door and passed through it into a second chamber, whose walls were lined with silver and gold, where she saw another door above which the same words were written twice. Opening this door also, Britomart entered into a third apartment, sparkling with precious stones, in the centre of which she saw an altar surmounted by a statue of Love. Further investigation revealed also the fact that it boasted another door above which was the inscription "Be bold, but not too bold." Pondering on the meaning of this warning, Britomart decided not to open it, but to take up her vigil fully armed beside the altar. As the clock struck midnight, the mysterious door flew open, and through its portals came a strange procession of beasts and queer mortals, leading the doleful Amoret, who had a dagger thrust into her heart and stumbled along in mortal pain. Although Britomart would fain have gone to Amoret's rescue, she was rooted to the soil by a spell too powerful to break, and, therefore, remained inactive while the procession circled around the altar, and again vanished behind the door, which closed with an ominous clang. Then only the spell lost its power, and Britomart, springing toward the door, vainly tried to open it. Not being able to do so, she decided to continue mounting guard on this spot in hopes of catching another glimpse of the suffering lady. But only twenty-four hours later the door reopened and the same procession appeared; it was about to vanish a second time when Britomart, by a violent effort, broke the spell and dashed into the next apartment before the door closed. There, finding the magician Brusirane on the point of binding Amoret fast to a post, she struck him so powerful a blow that he was obliged to recognize he was in her power. Britomart was about to slay him when Amoret reminded her he alone could heal her wound and free the other inmates of the castle from magic thraldom. At the point of her sword, therefore, Britomart compelled the magician to undo his spells, and, when he had pronounced the necessary words, Amoret stood before her as whole and as well as on her wedding-morn when snatched away from her bridegroom. Seeing this, Britomart bade Amoret follow her out of the castle, assuring her that her husband was waiting without and would be overjoyed to see her once more. But, although the rescued lady now gladly followed her deliverer, she was sorely dismayed on reaching the forest to find that Sir Scudamore and Britomart's nurse and squire had gone away, evidently deeming them both lost. To comfort poor Amoret, Britomart suggested that they ride after their companions, a proposal which Amoret gladly accepted. BOOK IV. LEGEND OF COMBEL AND TRIAMOND, OR OF FRIENDSHIP As Britomart conjectured, Sir Scudamore, deeming it impossible she should survive the heat of the flames which had so sorely scorched him, persuaded the nurse to ride on with him, in hopes of encountering knights who would help him rescue his bride. They two soon met a couple of warriors, who, on hearing their tale, laughingly assured them they need make no further efforts to rescue Amoret, as she had meantime been saved by a handsome young knight, with whom she was gayly riding through the forest. Incensed by this statement, Sir Scudamore offered to fight both informers, who, laughing at him for being jilted, rode contemptuously away. These two mockers hadn't gone very far, however, before they encountered a beautiful damsel, whom they mistook for the long-lost Florimell, but who was merely an image of her conjured up by the witch to comfort her son when he blubbered over the loss of his fair lady. As many knights were in quest of Florimell, some of them soon encountered the scoffers, who declared they were leading the lady back to court. But a little while later the Squire of Dames found them contending for the possession of the false Florimell, and suggested that they settle their difference at the court of Sir Satyrane, where a tournament had been proclaimed and where Florimell's girdle was to be bestowed by the victor upon the fairest lady present. Hearing this, both knights, anxious to win the girdle, set out for the tournament, where many others had assembled to take part in the knightly games. Here any number of feats of valor were performed before, on the third day, Sir Artegall entered the lists. To his surprise, however, he was unhorsed by a stranger knight, Britomart, who, little suspecting her opponent was the lover she sought, bore off in triumph the girdle her prowess had won. Then, summoning all the maidens present, she picked out the false Florimell as the greatest beauty and handed her the girdle. But, to the surprise of all present, the lady could not keep the girdle clasped about her waist, and, incensed at the mocking remarks of the bystanders, finally challenged the other ladies present to try it on. Thus it was ascertained that none could wear it save Amoret, evidently the only perfectly faithful lady present. Having thus disposed of her prize, Britomart rode off with her companion, little suspecting she was turning her back on the very man she was seeking. Meantime Sir Scudamore, encountering Sir Artegall and hearing he had been defeated by the knight who had carried off Amoret, invited him to accompany him and seek revenge. They two soon met Britomart, now riding alone through the forest, for, while she was asleep one day, Amoret had strayed away and gotten lost. Spurring forward to attack the stranger, Sir Scudamore was unhorsed at the first touch of her spear, and, when Sir Artegall rushed forward to rescue him, he too was disarmed. But, in the midst of the fight, Britomart's helmet fell off, so both knights perceived they had been defeated by a woman. Humbly kneeling before her, they begged her pardon, Sir Scudamore realizing with joy that, as his wife had been travelling with a woman, his mad jealousy was without cause! To justify her mistress, the nurse-squire now explained to both men how Britomart had seen Sir Artegall in the magic mirror, and was in quest of him because fate destined him to be her spouse. Happy at securing such a mate, Sir Artegall expressed deep joy, while Sir Scudamore clamored to know what had become of his wife, and grieved to learn she was lost. To comfort him, however, Britomart promised to help him recover his beloved, before she would consent to marry. Then all four proceeded to a neighboring castle, where Sir Artegall was solemnly betrothed to Britomart, and where they agreed their marriage would take place as soon as Amoret was found. Meantime Timias, squire of Prince Arthur, seeking to trace the flying damsel, overtook the grim forester, with whom he had a terrible encounter. Sorely wounded in this fight, the poor squire lay in the forest until found by the nymph Belphebe, a twin sister of Amoret, who, in pity for his sufferings, bathed his wounds, laid healing herbs upon them, and did all she could to save his life. To her satisfaction, the wounded squire soon recovered consciousness, so she conveyed him to her bower, where she and her nymphs attended him until his wounds were entirely healed. During this illness Timias fell deeply in love with Belphebe; but, deeming himself of too lowly condition to declare his passion for a lady of high degree, he sorely pined. Thereupon Belphebe renewed her efforts to cure him, until he was strong enough to accompany her into the forest. They were hunting there one day when Timias beheld a damsel fleeing from a misshapen monster, whom he attacked, but against whom he could not prevail, because the monster opposed the lady as a shield to every blow which Timias tried to deal him. It was only by a feint, therefore, that Timias made the monster drop the lady, and he would surely have been slain by his opponent, had not his companion rescued him by a timely arrow. A moment later Belphebe was horrified to see Timias madly kissing the lady the monster had dropped. Without waiting to ascertain why he was doing so, the angry nymph fled, but, had she lingered, she would have discovered that Timias was kissing her own counterpart, for he had rescued her twin sister Amoret, who, after wandering away from the sleeping Britomart, had been seized by the monster from whose cave she had just managed to escape. Bewildered to see Belphebe--whom he thought he was embracing--rush away, Timias now dropped Amoret to follow his charmer, but, owing to his lack of familiarity with the forest pathways, he soon lost his way. In his grief he built himself a hut and dwelt in the forest, vowing not to go back in quest of Amoret, lest he thereby arouse the jealousy of his beloved. But to beguile his sorrow he carved Belphebe's name on every tree, and was kissing these marks when Prince Arthur, seeing him thus occupied, fancied he had gone mad! Meantime Timias had also found a dove which had lost its mate, and, realizing that they were both suffering from similar complaints, bound around the bird's neck a ruby heart Belphebe had given him. The dove, flying back to its mistress, enticed her, by fluttering a few paces ahead of her, to the place where Timias was kissing her name carved upon a tree. Convinced of his fidelity by such a proof of devotion, Belphebe reinstated Timias in her favor, and once more ranged the forest with him, hunting all kinds of game, until poor Timias was wounded by the Blatant Beast,--Slander,--a monster from whose jaws he was fortunately rescued by Prince Arthur. After a partial recovery, Timias rode off with his master, to whom he confided how he had abandoned Amoret in the forest, and from whom he inquired whether any further news had been heard about her. To Timias' satisfaction Arthur assured him she had safely rejoined her husband, who, finding her wounded in the forest, had carried her off to a castle and tenderly nursed her back to health. It was only after witnessing the joyful celebration of the long-postponed wedding festivities of this reunited couple, that Sir Arthur had started off on his recent quest for his squire. Meantime the real Florimell, cast into the sea by the angry fisherman whose vessel she had entered without permission, was conveyed by sea-nymphs to Proteus' hall, where, after witnessing the nuptials of the Thames and Medway, she learned that her lover, Marinell, was recovering from his wound, thanks to the ministrations of his goddess mother. He had, however, been pining for her, and recovered perfect health and happiness only when they were joined in wedlock. BOOK V. THE LEGEND OF SIR ARTEGALL,--JUSTICE Sir Artegall, the noble champion of justice, or lord deputy of Ireland, sets forth at Gloriana's behest to defend Irena, or Ireland. He is attended by Talus, an iron man, whose flail is supposed to thresh out falsehood. They two have not proceeded very far before they come across a knight bending over a headless lady. On inquiring of him, they learn that a passing ruffian not only carried off the knight's mate, but left in her stead a dame, whom he beheaded, because she pursued him. Provided with a description of the armor and accoutrements of the ruffian, the iron page sets out in pursuit of him, and stuns him. Then, having bound him fast, he leads him and his captive back to his master and to the mourning knight. There the ruffian, Sir Sanglier, coldly asserts he has nothing to do with the headless lady, but that the living one belongs to him. Finding it impossible to decide which tells the truth, Sir Artegall decrees that the second lady shall be beheaded also, but, while Sanglier readily agrees to this Solomon-like judgment, the true lover vehemently pleads for the lady's life, declaring he would rather know her safe than be proved right. Fully satisfied now that Sir Sanglier is at fault, Sir Artegall metes out justice and continues his quest. Before very long he encounters a dwarf who announces that Florimell's wedding will take place three days hence, and suggests that, before appearing there, Sir Artegall defeat a Saracen who mounts guard over a neighboring bridge, despoiling all those who pass, for the benefit of his daughter. Such an undertaking suits Sir Artegall, who not only slays both the giant and his daughter, but razes their castle to the ground. Shortly after, on approaching the sea-shore, Sir Artegall perceives a charlatan provided with scales in which he pretends to weigh all things anew. Thereupon Sir Artegall, by weighing such intangible things as truth and falsehood, right and wrong, demonstrates that the charlatan's scales are false, and, after convicting him of trickery, drowns him in the sea. The poet now ably describes the wedding of Florimell and Marinell and the tournament celebrated in their honor, which Sir Artegall attends, wearing Braggadocchio's armor as disguise. He helps Marinell win the prize which is to be bestowed upon Florimell, but, when the moment comes to award it, Braggadocchio boldly produces a false Florimell, so exactly like the true one that they cannot be told apart. Sir Artegall, however, ruthlessly exposes the trick, whereupon the false Florimell vanishes, leaving nothing behind her save the wrongfully appropriated girdle, which reverts at last to its legitimate owner. Seeing this, Braggadocchio is about to sneak away, when Sir Guyon suddenly steps forward demanding the return of his stolen steed. Although Braggadocchio boldly asserts the steed he rides is his own, Sir Artegall inquires of each what secret tokens the animal bears, and thus enables Sir Guyon to prove ownership. Sir Artegall, not long after leaving the marriage hall, journeys to the sea-shore, where he discovers twin brothers quarrelling for the possession of two girls, one of whom is perched upon a huge coffer. Not only does Artegall check this fight, but, on inquiring into its cause, learns how the twin brothers were awarded neighboring islands, and how the storms and the sea have carried off half the land of the one only to add it to the possessions of the other. Thus, one twin has become richer than the other, and the heiress, who had promised to marry the poorer brother, has transferred her affections and possessions to the richer twin. On her way to join him, however, she suffers shipwreck and arrives at his island penniless. But the chest containing her treasures is in due time washed back to the smaller island, where, meantime, the discarded fiancée of the richer brother has taken refuge. As the wealthy twin declared, when the land was mentioned, that "what the sea brought he had a right to keep," Sir Artegall decides he shall now abide by his own words, and that, since the sea conveyed the treasure-chest to his brother, he has no further claim upon it. Having thus settled this dispute, Artegall rides on until he meets a troop of Amazons about to hang an unfortunate man. At his bidding, Talus delivers this victim,--Sir Turpine,--a knight who came hither intending to fight the Amazons. Because the queen of these warrior-women has slain many men, Artegall challenges her to issue from her stronghold and fight with him. We now have a brilliant description of Radigonde's appearance and of the duel, in which, blinding him by her beauty, she manages to get the better of Artegall. Having done this, she triumphantly bears him off to her castle, after ordering the execution of Sir Turpine and Talus, who contrive to escape. But Sir Artegall, being a prisoner, is reduced to slavery, forced to assume a woman's garb and to spin beside his fellow-captives, for the Amazon queen wishes to starve and humiliate her captives into submission to her will. Having contrived to escape, Talus informs Britomart that her lover is a prisoner, whereupon she sets out to rescue him, meeting with sundry extraordinary adventures by the way, in which she triumphs, thanks to her magic spear. While spending a peaceful night in the Temple of Isis, Britomart is finally favored with a vision, inspired by which she challenges Radigonde, who in the midst of the encounter turns to flee. But Britomart pursues her into her stronghold, whence she manages to rescue Artegall and, after setting him free, bids him continue his adventurous quest. Sir Artegall and his faithful squire soon after see a maiden flee before two knights, but, before they can overtake her, they notice how a new-comer slays one pursuer while the other turns back. Urged by the maiden, Artegall kills the second persecutor, and only then discovers that the knight who first came to her rescue is Arthur. They two, by questioning the maid, learn she is a servant of Mercilla (another personification of Elizabeth), and that her mistress is sorely beset by the Soldan, to whom she has recently gone to carry a message. On her return, the poor maid was pursued by two Saracen knights, who were determined to secure her as a prize. Hearing this, Artegall proposes to assume the armor of one of the dead knights, and thus disguised to convey the maiden back to the Soldan's court. Arthur is to follow under pretence of ransoming the captive, knowing that his offer will be refused so insolently that he will have an excuse to challenge the Soldan. All this comes true, and thanks to his magic shield Arthur triumphs. The Soldan's wife, learning that her husband has succumbed, now proposes to take her revenge by slaying the captive maid, but Artegall defends her and drives the Soldan's wife into the forest, where she is transformed into a tiger! Arthur and Sir Artegall now gallantly offer to escort the maid home, although she warns them that Guyle lies in wait by the roadside, armed with hooks and a net to catch all travellers who pass his cave. But, thanks to the bravery, strength, and agility of Arthur, Artegall, and Talus, Guyle's might is broken, and the maid triumphantly leads the three victorious champions to Mercilla's castle. After passing through its magnificent halls, they are ushered by Awe and Order into the presence of the queen, whose transcendent beauty and surroundings are described at length. While the queen is seated on her throne, with the English lion at her feet, Duessa (Mary Queen of Scots) is brought before her and is proved guilty of countless crimes; but, although she evidently deserves death, Mercilla, too merciful to condemn her, sets her free. It is while sojourning at Mercilla's elegant court that Artegall and Arthur see two youths appear to inform the queen that their mother Belge, or Belgium, a widow with seventeen sons, has been deprived of twelve of her offspring by a three-headed monster, Gereones (the personification of Philip the Second of Spain, the ruler of three realms). This monster invariably delivers his captives into the hands of the Inquisition, by which they are sorely persecuted. Hearing this report, Arthur steps forward, offering to defend the widow and her children. Mercilla granting his request without demur, Arthur hurries away, only to find that Beige has been driven out of her last stronghold by a faithless steward (Alba). But, thanks to Arthur's efforts, this steward is summoned forth, defeated in battle, and the lady reinstated in her domain. Gereones now dauntlessly attacks Arthur, whom the giant Beige secretly instructs to overthrow ah idol in the neighboring church, as that will enable him to triumph without difficulty. While Arthur is thus rescuing Beige, Artegall and Talus have again departed to free Irena from her oppressor Grantorto. On their way to Ireland, they meet a knight, who informs them Irena is doomed to perish unless a champion defeats Grantorto in duel. Thereupon Artegall swears to champion Irena's cause, but, on the way to keep his promise, pauses to rescue a distressed knight (Henry IV. of France), to whom he restores his lady Flourdelis, whom Grantorto is also trying to secure. Artegall, the champion, reaching the sea-shore, at last finds a ship ready to sail for Ireland, where he lands, although Grantorto has stationed troops along the shore to prevent his doing so. These soldiers are soon scattered by Talus' flail, and Artegall, landing, forces Grantorto to bite the dust. Having thus freed Irena, he replaces her on her throne and restores order in her dominions, before Gloriana summons him back to court. On the way thither Sir Artegall is beset by the hags Envy and Detraction, who are so angry with him for freeing Irena that they not only attack him themselves, but turn loose upon him the Blatant Beast (Slander). Although Talus begs to annihilate this infamous trio with his dreaded flail, Artegall decrees they shall live, and, heedless of their threats hurries on to report success to his beloved mistress. BOOK VI. LEGEND OF SIR CALIDORE, OR OF COURTESY Sir Calidore, who, in the poem, impersonates Courtesy (or Sir Philip Sidney), now meets Artegall, declaring the queen has despatched him to track and slay the Blatant Beast,--an offspring of Cerberus and Chimera,--whose bite inflicts a deadly wound. When Artegall reports having recently met that thousand-tongued monster, Calidore spurs off, and soon sees a squire bound to a tree. Pausing to free this captive, he learns that this unfortunate has been illtreated by a neighboring villain, who exacts the hair of every woman and beard of every man passing his castle, because his lady-love wishes a cloak woven of female hair and adorned with a fringe of beards. It was because the captive had vainly tried to rescue a poor lady from this tribute that he had been bound to this tree. On hearing this report, Sir Calidore decides to end such doings forever, and riding up to the castle pounds on its gates until a servant opens them wide. Forcing his way into the castle, Sir Calidore slays all who oppose him, and thus reaches the villain, with whom he fights until he compels him to surrender and promise never to exact such tribute again. Having settled this affair entirely to his satisfaction, Sir Calidore rides on until he meets a youth on foot, bravely fighting a knight on horseback, while a lady anxiously watches the outcome of the fray. Just as Calidore rides up, the youth strikes down his opponent, a deed of violence justified by the maiden, who explains how the man on horseback was ill treating her when the youth came to her rescue. Charmed by the courage displayed by an unarmed man, Sir Calidore proposes to take the youth as his squire, and learns he is Tristram of Lyonnesse, son of a king, and in quest of adventures. Accompanied by this squire, who now wears the armor of the slain knight, Sir Calidore journeys on, until he sees a knight sorely wounded by the very man his new squire slew. They two convey this wounded man to a neighboring castle, thereby earning the gratitude of his companion, a lady mourning over his unconscious form. The castle-owner, father of the distinguished wounded man, is so grateful to his rescuers that he receives them with kindness. But he cannot account for the presence of the lady who explains his son loved her and often met her in the forest. After nursing her lover until he is out of danger, Priscilla expresses a desire to return home, but is at a loss how to account to her parents for her prolonged absence. Sir Calidore, who volunteers to escort her, then suggests that he bear to her father the head of the knight whom Tristram slew, stating this villain was carrying her off when he rescued her. This tale so completely blinds Priscilla's father that he joyfully welcomes his daughter home, expressing great gratitude to her deliverers ere they pass on. Calidore and his squire have not journeyed far before they perceive a knight and his lady sporting in the shade. So joyful and innocent do they seem that the travellers gladly join them, and, while the men converse together, Lady Serena strays out into a neighboring field to gather flowers. While she is thus occupied the Blatant Beast pounces upon her, and is about to bear her away when her cries startle her companions. They immediately dart to her rescue. Calidore, arriving first, forces the animal to drop poor Serena, then, knowing her husband will attend to her, continues to pursue the fleeing monster. On reaching his beloved Serena, Sir Calespine finds her so sorely wounded that she requires immediate care. Tenderly placing her on his horse, he supports her fainting form through the forest. During one of their brief halts, he suddenly sees a bear carrying an infant, so rushes after the animal to rescue the child. Only after a prolonged pursuit does he achieve his purpose, and, not knowing how else to dispose of the babe, carries it to a neighboring castle, where the lady gladly adopts it, because she and her husband have vainly awaited an heir. Sir Calespine now discovers he is unable to retrace his steps to his wounded companion, who soon after is found by a gentle savage. This man is trying to take her to some place of safety when overtaken by Arthur and Timias, who, seeing Serena in his company, fancy she is his captive. She, however, hastens to assure them the wild man is more than kind and relates what has occurred. As Serena and Timias have both been poisoned by the bites of the Blatant Beast, Arthur takes them to a hermit, who undertakes to cure them, but finds it a hopeless task. The learned hermit's healing arts having all proved vain, he finally resorts to prayer to cure his guests, who, when healed, decide to set out together in quest of Sir Calespine and Arthur. The latter has meantime departed with the wild man, hoping to overtake Sir Turpine, who escaped from Radigonde. They track the villain to his castle and, forcing an entrance, fight with him, sparing his life only because the lady of the castle pleads in his behalf. Sir Turpine now succeeds in persuading two knights to pursue and attack Sir Arthur, but this hero proves too strong to be overcome, and, after disarming both assailants, demands why they have attacked him. When they reveal Turpine's treachery, Arthur regrets having spared his opponent, and decides that having overcome him once by force he will now resort to strategy. He, therefore, lies down, pretending to be asleep, while one of the knights rides back to report his death to Turpine. This plan is duly carried out, and Sir Turpine, coming to gloat upon his fallen foe, is seized by Arthur, who hangs him to a neighboring tree. Meantime Serena and Timias jog along until they meet a lady and a fool (Disdain and Scorn), who are compelled by Cupid to wander through the world, rescuing as many people as they have made victims. When the fool attempts to seize Timias, Serena, terrified, flees shrieking into the forest. Before long Sir Artegall manages to overtake his squire, driven by Scorn and Disdain, and immediately frees him. Then, hearing what penalty Cupid has imposed upon the couple, he decides they are sufficiently punished for the wrong they have done and lets them go. Meanwhile Serena has wandered, until, utterly exhausted, she lies down to rest. While sleeping she is surrounded by savages, who propose to sacrifice her to their god. They are on the point of slaying Serena when Sir Calespine comes to her rescue, unaware at the moment that the lady he is rescuing from their cruel hands is his beloved wife. Still pursuing the elusive Blatant Beast, Sir Calidore comes to a place where shepherds are holding a feast in honor of Pastorella, the adopted daughter of the farmer Melibee, and beloved of young Coridon, a neighboring shepherd. Coridon fears Sir Calidore will prove a rival for the affections of Pastorella, but Calidore disarms his jealousy by his perfect courtesy, which in time wins Pastorella's love. One day the lonely Sir Calidore, seeking Pastorella, catches a glimpse of the Graces dancing in the forest to the piping of Colin Clout (a personification of Spenser). Shortly after, Calidore has the good fortune to rescue Pastorella from a tiger, just after Coridon has deserted her through fear. To reward the bravery of Calidore, who has saved her from death, Pastorella lavishes her smiles upon him, until a brigand raid brings ruin and sorrow into the shepherd village, for the marauders not only carry off the flocks, but drag Pastorella, Coridon, and Melibee off to their underground retreat. In that hopeless and dark abode the captain of the brigands is beginning to cast lustful glances upon Pastorella, when merchants arrive to purchase their captives as slaves. The captain refuses to part with Pastorella although he is anxious to sell Coridon and Melibee, but the merchants insist upon having the maid, and seeing they cannot obtain her by fair means resolve to employ force. The result is a battle, in the midst of which Coridon escapes, Melibee and the brigand captain are slain, and Pastorella faints and is deemed dead. Sir Calidore, who has been absent for a while, comes back to find the shepherd village destroyed and Coridon wandering disconsolate among its ruins. From him he learns all that has happened, and, going in quest of Pastorella's remains, discovers she is alive. Then he manages by stratagem not only to rescue her, but to slay merchants and robbers and recover the stolen flocks and also much booty. All the wealth thus obtained is bestowed upon Coridon to indemnify him for the loss of Pastorella, who accompanies her true love Calidore during the rest of his journeys. Being still in quest of the ever fleeing Blatant Beast, Calidore conducts Pastorella to the castle of Belgard, whose master and mistress are passing sad because they lost their only child in infancy. Wondering how such a loss could have befallen them, Calidore learns that knight and lady, being secretly married, entrusted their child to a handmaiden, ordering her to provide for its safety in some way, as it was impossible they should acknowledge its existence then. The maid, having ascertained that the babe bore on her breast a certain birth-mark, basely abandoned her in the forest, where she was found and adopted by Melibee. It is during Pastorella's sojourn in this castle that the lady discovers on her breast the birth-mark, which proves she is her long-lost daughter. While Pastorella is thus happy in the company of her parents, Calidore overtakes the Blatant Beast, and leads it safely muzzled through admiring throngs to Gloriana's feet. But, strange to relate, this able queen does not keep the monster securely chained, for it soon breaks bonds, and the poet closes with the statement that it is again ranging through the country, this time tearing poems to pieces! PARADISE LOST Book I. After intimating he intends "no middle flight," but proposes to "justify the ways of God to man," Milton states the fall was due to the serpent, who, in revenge for being cast out of heaven with his hosts, induced the mother of mankind to sin. He adds how, hurled from the ethereal sky to the bottomless pit, Satan lands in a burning lake of asphalt. There, oppressed by the sense of lost happiness and lasting pain, he casts his eyes about him, and, flames making the darkness visible, beholds those enveloped in his doom suffering the same dire pangs. Full of immortal hate, unconquerable will, and a determination never to submit or yield, Satan, confident his companions will not fail him, and enriched by past experiences, determines to continue disputing the mastery of heaven from the Almighty. Beside Satan, on the burning marl, lies Beelzebub, his bold compeer, who dreads lest the Almighty comes after them and further punish them. But Satan, rejoining that "to be weak is miserable, doing or suffering," urges that they try and pervert God's aims. Then, gazing upward, he perceives God has recalled his avenging hosts, that the rain of sulphur has ceased, and that lightning no longer furrows the sky. He, therefore, deems this a fitting opportunity to rise from the burning lake, reconnoitre their new place of abode, and take measures to redeem their losses. "Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild, The seat of desolation, void of light, Save what the glimmering of these livid flames Casts pale and dreadful? Thither let us tend From off the tossing of these fiery waves, There rest, if any rest can harbor there, And, reassembling our afflicted powers, Consult how we may henceforth most offend Our enemy; our own loss how repair; How overcome this dire calamity; What reinforcement we may gain from hope; If not, what resolution from despair." Striding through parting flames to a neighboring hill, Satan gazes around him, contrasting the mournful gloom of this abode with the refulgent light to which he has been accustomed, and, notwithstanding the bitter contrast, concluding, "it is better to reign in hell than serve in heaven," ere he bids Beelzebub call the fallen angels. His moon-like shield behind him, Beelzebub summons the legions lying on the asphalt lake, "thick as autumn leaves that strew the brooks of Vallombroso." Like guilty sentinels caught sleeping, they hastily arise, and, numerous as the locusts which ravaged Egypt, flutter around the cope of hell before alighting at their master's feet. Among them Milton descries various idols, later to be worshipped in Palestine, Egypt, and Greece. Then, contrasting the downcast appearance of this host with its brilliancy in heaven, he goes on to describe how they saluted Satan's banner with "a shout that tore hell's conclave and beyond frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night." Next, their standards fluttering in the breeze, they perform their wonted evolutions, and Satan, seeing so mighty a host still at his disposal, feels his heart distend with pride. Although he realizes these spirits have forfeited heaven to follow him, he experiences merely a passing remorse ere he declares the strife they waged was not inglorious, and that although once defeated they may yet repossess their native seat. He suggests that, as they now know the exact force of their opponent and are satisfied they cannot overcome him by force, they damage the new world which the Almighty has recently created, for submission is unthinkable weakness. To make their new quarters habitable, the fallen angels, under Mammon's direction, mine gold from the neighboring hills and mould, it into bricks, wherewith they erect Pandemonium, "the high capitol of Satan and his peers." This hall, constructed with speed and ease, is brightly illuminated by means of naphtha, and, after Satan and his staff have entered, the other fallen angels crowd beneath its roof in the shape of pygmies, and "the great consult" begins. _Book II._ On a throne of dazzling splendor sits Satan, surrounded by his peers. Addressing his followers, he declares that, having forfeited the highest position, he has lost more than they, and that, since he suffers the greatest pain, none will envy him his preeminence. When he bids them suggest what they shall do, Moloch votes in favor of war, stirring up his companions with a belligerent speech. Belial, who is versed in making "the worse appear the better reason," urges guile instead of warfare, for they have tested the power of the Almighty and know he can easily outwit their plans. In his turn, Mammon favors neither force nor guile, but suggests that, since riches abound in this region, they content themselves with piling up treasures. All having been heard, the fallen angels decide, since it is impossible again to face Michael's dreaded sword, they will adopt Beelzebub's suggestion and try and find out whether they cannot settle more comfortably in the recently created world. This decided, Satan inquires who will undertake to reconnoitre, and, as no one volunteers, declares that the mission of greatest difficulty and danger rightly belongs to him, bidding the fallen angels meanwhile keep watch lest further ill befall them. This decision is so enthusiastically applauded that ever since an overwhelming tumult has been termed "Pandemonium," like Satan's hall. The "consult" ended, the angels resume their wonted size and scatter through hell, some exploring its recesses, where they discover huge rivers, regions of fire and ice, and hideous monsters, while others beguile their time by arguing of "foreknowledge, will, fate," and discussing questions of philosophy, or join in antiphonal songs. Meanwhile Satan has set out on his dreadful journey, wending his way straight to the gates of Hades, before which stand two formidable shapes, one woman down to the waist and thence scaly dragon, while the other, a grim, skeleton-like shape, wears a royal crown and brandishes a spear. Seeing Satan approach, this monster threatens him, whereupon a dire fight would have ensued, had not the female stepped between them, declaring she is Sin, Satan's daughter, and that in an incestuous union they two produced Death, whom even they cannot subdue. She adds that she dares not unlock the gates, but, when Satan urges that if she will only let him pass, she and Death will be supplied with congenial occupations in the new world, she produces a key, and, "rolling toward the gates on scaly folds," flings wide the massive doors which no infernal power can ever close again. Through these gaping portals one now descries Chaos, where hot and cold, moist and dry contend for mastery, and where Satan will have to make his way through the elements in confusion to reach the place whither he is bound. The poet now graphically describes how, by means of his wings or on foot, Satan scrambles up high battlements and plunges down deep abysses, thus gradually working his way to the place where Chaos and Night sit enthroned, contemplating the world "which hangs from heaven by a golden chain." Addressing these deities, Satan commiserates them for having lost Tartarus, now the abode of the fallen angels, as well as the region of light occupied by the new world. When he proposes to restore to them that part of their realm by frustrating God's plans, they gladly speed him toward earth, whither "full fraught with mischievous revenge accursed in an accursed hour he hies." _Book III._ After a pathetic invocation to light, the offspring of heaven, whose rays will never shine through his darkness, Milton expresses a hope that like other blind poets and seers he may describe all the more clearly what is ever before his intellectual sight. Then he relates how the Eternal Father, gazing downward, contemplates hell, the newly-created world, and the wide cleft between, where he descries Satan "hovering in the dun air sublime." Summoning his hosts, the Almighty addresses his Only Begotten Son,--whose arrival in heaven has caused Satan's rebellion,--and, pointing out the Adversary, declares he is bent on revenge which will redound on his own head. Then God adds that, although the angels fell by their own suggestion, and are hence excluded from all hope of redemption, man will fall deceived by Satan, so that, although he will thus incur death, he will not forever be unforgiven if some one will pay the penalty of his sin. Because none of the angels feel holy enough to make so great a sacrifice, there is "silence in heaven," until the Son of God, "in whom all fulness dwells of love divine," seeing man will be lost unless he interferes, declares his willingness to surrender to death all of himself that can die. He entreats, however, that the Father will not leave him in the loathsome grave, but will permit his soul to rise victorious, leading to heaven those ransomed from sin, death, and hell through his devotion. The angels, hearing this proposal, are seized with admiration, and the Father, bending a loving glance upon the Son, accepts his sacrifice, proclaiming he shall in due time appear on earth in the flesh to take the place of our first father, and that, just "as in Adam all were lost, so in him all shall be saved." Then, further to recompense his Son for his devotion, God promises he shall reign his equal for ever and judge mankind, ere he bids the heavenly host worship their new master. Removing their crowns of amaranth and gold, the angels kneel before Christ in adoration, and, tuning their harps, sing the praises of Father and Son, proclaiming the latter "Saviour of man." While the angels are thus occupied, Satan, speeding through Chaos, passes through a place peopled by the idolatries, superstitions, and vanities of the world, all of which are to be punished here later on. Then, past the stairway leading up to heaven, he hurries to a passage leading down to earth, toward which he whirls through space like a tumbler pigeon, landing at last upon the sun. There, in the guise of a stripling cherub, Satan tells the archangel Uriel that, having been absent at the time of creation, he longs to behold the earth so as to glorify God. Thereupon Uriel proudly rejoins he witnessed the performance, and describes how at God's voice darkness fled and solids converged into spheres, which began to roll around their appointed orbits. Then he points out to Satan the newly-created earth, whither the Evil Spirit eagerly speeds. Thus said, he turned; and Satan, bowing low, As to superior spirits is wont in heaven, Where honor due and reverence none neglects, Took leave, and toward the coast of earth beneath, Down from the ecliptic, sped with hoped success, Throws his steep flight in many an airy wheel, Nor stayed, till on Niphates' top he lights. _Book IV._ Wishing his voice were loud enough to warn our first parents of coming woe and thus forestall the misfortunes ready to pounce upon them, the poet describes how Satan, "with hell raging in his heart," gazes from the hill, upon which he has alighted, into Paradise. The fact that he is outcast both from heaven and earth fills Satan with alternate sorrow and fierce wrath, under impulse of which emotions his face becomes fearfully distorted. This change and his fierce gestures are seen by Uriel, who curiously follows his flight, and who now for the first time suspects he may have escaped from hell. After describing the wonders of Eden--which far surpass all fairy tales,--Milton relates how Satan, springing lightly over the dividing wall, lands within its precincts, and in the guise of a cormorant perches upon a tree, whence he beholds two God-like shapes "in naked majesty clad." One of these is Adam, formed for contemplation and valor, the other Eve, formed for softness and grace. They two sit beneath a tree, the beasts of the earth playing peacefully around them, and Satan, watching them, wonders whether they are destined to occupy his former place in heaven, and vows he will ruin their present happiness and deliver them up to woe! After arguing he must do so to secure a better abode for himself and his followers, the fiend transforms himself first into one beast and then into another, and, having approached the pair unnoticed, listens to their conversation. In this way he learns Eve's wonder on first opening her eyes and gazing around her on the flowers and trees, her amazement at her own reflection in the water, and her following a voice which promised to lead her to her counterpart, who would make her mother of the human race. But, the figure she thus found proving less attractive than the one she had just seen in the waters, she was about to retreat, when Adam claimed her as the other half of his being. Since then, they two have dwelt in bliss in this garden, where everything is at their disposal save the fruit of one tree. Thus Satan discovers the prohibition laid upon our first parents. He immediately Dedie's to bring about their ruin by inciting them to scorn divine commands, assuring them that the knowledge of good and evil will make them equal to God, and having discovered this method of compassing his purpose, steals away to devise means to reach his ends. Meantime, near the eastern gate of Paradise, Gabriel, chief of the angelic host, watches the joyful evolutions of the guards who at nightfall are to patrol the boundaries of Paradise. While thus engaged, Uriel comes glancing down through the evening air on a sunbeam, to warn him that one of the banished crew has escaped, and was seen at noon near these gates. In return Gabriel assures Uriel no creature of any kind passed through them, and that if an evil spirit overleapt the earthly bounds he will be discovered before morning, no matter what shape he has assumed. While Uriel returns to his post in the sun, gray twilight steals over the earth, and Michael, having appointed bands of angels to circle Paradise in opposite directions, despatches two of his lieutenants to search for the hidden foe. Our first parents, after uniting in prayer, are about to retire, when Eve, who derives all her information from Adam, asks why the stars shine at night, when they are asleep and cannot enjoy them? In reply Adam states that the stars gem the sky to prevent darkness from resuming its sway, and assures his wife that while they sleep angels mount guard, for he has often heard their voices at midnight. Then the pair enter the bower selected for their abode by the sovereign planter, where the loveliest flowers bloom in profusion, and where no bird, beast, insect, or worm dares venture. In the course of their search, the angels Ithuriel and Zephon reach this place in time to behold a toad crouching by the ear of Eve, trying by devilish arts to reach the organs of her fancy. Touched by Ithuriel's spear,--which has the power of compelling all substances to assume their real form,--this vile creature instantly assumes a demon shape. On recognizing a fiend, Ithuriel demands how he escaped and why he is here. Whereupon Satan haughtily rejoins that the time was when none would have dared treat him so unceremoniously, nor have needed to ask his name, seeing all would instantly have known him. It is only then that Zephon recognizes their former superior, Lucifer, and contemptuously informs him his glory is so dimmed by sin, it is no wonder they could not place him. Both angels now escort their captive to Gabriel, who, recognizing the prisoner from afar, also comments on his faded splendor. Then, addressing Satan, Gabriel demands why he broke his prescribed bonds? Satan defiantly retorts that prisoners invariably try to escape, that no one courts torture, and that, if God meant to keep the fiends forever in durance vile, he should have barred the gates more securely. But, even by escaping from Tartarus, Satan cannot evade his punishment, and Gabriel warns him he has probably increased his penalty sevenfold by his disobedience. Then he tauntingly inquires whether pain is less intolerable to the archfiend's subordinates than to himself, and whether he has already deserted his followers. Wrathfully Satan boasts that, fiercest in battle, he alone had courage enough to undertake this journey to ascertain whether it were possible to secure a pleasanter place of abode. Because in the course of his reply he contradicts himself, the angel terms him a liar and hypocrite, and bids him depart, vowing, should he ever be found lurking near Paradise again, he will be dragged back to the infernal pit and chained fast so he cannot escape! This threat arouses Satan's scorn and makes him so insolent, that the angels, turning fiery red, close around him, threatening him with their spears! Glancing upward and perceiving by the position of the heavenly scales that the issue of a combat would not be in his favor, Satan wrathfully flees with the vanishing shades of night. _Book V._ Morning having dawned, Adam awakens refreshed, only to notice the flushed cheeks and discomposed tresses of his companion, from whom, when he awakens her, he learns of a dream wherein a voice urged her to go forth and walk in the garden. Eve goes on to describe how, gliding beneath the trees, she came to the one bearing the forbidden fruit, and descried among its branches a winged shape, which bade her taste of the apples and not despise the boon of knowledge. Although chilled with horror at the mere suggestion, Eve admits that she yielded, because the voice assured her one taste would enable her to flutter through the air like the angels and perchance visit God! Her desire to enjoy such a privilege became so intense that when the fruit was pressed to her lips she tasted it, and had no sooner done so than she soared upward, only to sink down and awaken at Adam's touch! Comforting his distressed consort, Adam leads her into the garden to prune over-luxuriant branches and to train vines from tree to tree. While they are thus occupied, the Almighty summons Raphael, and, after informing him Satan has escaped from hell and has found his way to Paradise to disturb the felicity of man, bids the archangel hasten down to earth, and, conversing "as friend with friend" with Adam, warn him that he had the power to retain or forfeit his happy state, and caution him against the wiles of the fiend, lest, after wilfully transgressing, man should claim he had not been forewarned. Past choirs of angels, through the golden gate, and down the mighty stairs, Raphael flits, reaching earth in the shape of a six-winged cherub, whose iridescent plumes seem to have been dipped in heaven's own dyes. On beholding this visitor, Adam bids Eve collect her choicest fruit, and, while she hastens away on "hospitable thoughts intent," advances to meet Raphael, knowing he brings some divine message. After hailing Eve with the salutation later used for Mary, the angel proceeds to Adam's lodge and shares his meal, admitting that the angels in heaven partake of spiritual food only, although they are endowed with senses like man. On discovering he may question Raphael,--save in regard to matters which are to be withheld for a while longer,--Adam queries about things which have troubled him. Inferring from the angel's words that their bliss is not secure, he learns that as long as he proves obedient his happiness will continue, but that, having been created as free as the angels, he can choose his lot. When Adam asks in regard to heavenly things, Raphael wonders how he can relate, in terms intelligible to finite mind, things which, even angels fail to conceive in their entirety and which it may not be lawful to reveal. Still, knowing he can vouchsafe a brief outline of all that has hitherto occurred, Raphael describes how the Almighty, after creating the Son, bade the angels bow down and worship him. He states that, during the night following this event, Lucifer, angry because he was no longer second in heaven, withdrew to that quarter of the sky entrusted to his keeping, and there suggested to Beelzebub rebellion against God, who required them to pay servile tribute to his Son! Arguing that they will be gradually reduced to slavery, Satan induces one-third of the heavenly hosts to rebel, for only one of his followers, Abdiel, refuses to believe his specious words. In his indignation, Abdiel bursts forth into flame, denounces Lucifer, and departs to report to the Almighty what he has heard. He alone proves faithful among the faithless, so, as he passes out from among them, the rebel angels, resenting his attitude, overwhelm him with their scorn. From amidst them forth he passed, Long way through hostile scorn, which he sustained Superior, nor of violence feared aught; And with retorted scorn his back he turned On those proud towers to swift destruction doomed. The Almighty, however, does not require Abdiel's warning, for the all-seeing eye has already descried what, has occurred, and has pointed out to the Son how Lucifer, devoured by pride, is about to rise up against them. _Book VI._ In spite of the speed with which he travels, Abdiel requires all night to cross the distance which separates the apostate angels from the heavenly throne. The news he bears being already known in heaven, the angels welcome him and conduct him to the throne, whence, from a golden cloud, issues a voice proclaiming "well done." Next God bids Michael lead forth a host equal in number to the godless crew arraying itself in battle order to dispute from the Almighty the sovereignty of heaven. The divine orders are to oppose Lucifer and hurl him into the gulf of Tartarus, whose fiery mouth will open wide to receive him. A moment later trumpets sound in heaven, and the angelic legions sally forth to battle for God and for his Messiah, hymning the Eternal Father. The evil angels, whose glory has not yet been dimmed, meet this host in squadrons, at the head of which rides Lucifer (or Satan as he is generally called after he becomes an apostate), in his sun-bright chariot. On beholding him, Abdiel marvels because he still retains a God-like semblance, and warns him he will soon pay the penalty of his folly. In return Satan terms Abdiel a common deserter, and overwhelms him with scorn, to which this angel pays little heed, realizing that by serving a divine master he is freer than independent Satan. After exchanging Homeric taunts, these two begin fighting, and Abdiel's first dart causes the archenemy to recoil and almost sink to the ground. But, when the divine host clamor that Satan is overcome, he promptly recovers his footing, and, retreating into the ranks of his army, directs their resistance to the foe. The battle now rages with such fury that the heavens resound. Many deeds of eternal fame are wrought, for Satan proves almost equal to Michael, who with his two-handed sword strikes down whole squadrons at one blow. But wounds inflicted on angels, even when fallen, are no sooner made than healed, so those who sink down disabled are soon back in the thick of the night as strong as ever. The moment comes, however, when Michael's sword inflicts so deep a wound in Satan's side that, for the first time, he experiences pain. Seeing him fall, his adherents bear him away from the field of battle, where he is immediately healed, "for spirits, that live throughout vital in every part,... cannot but by annihilation die." Thus temporarily deprived of his greatest opponent, Michael attacks Moloch, while Uriel, Raphael and Abdiel vanquish other potent angels who have dared to rebel against God. After describing the battle-field, strewn with shattered armor and broken chariots, the poet pictures the dismay in the ranks of the rebel angels, and describes how Satan drew away his troops so they might rest and be ready to renew the fray on the morrow. In the silence of that night, he also consults with his adherents how to fight to better advantage on the morrow, insisting that they now know they can never be permanently wounded. The demons feel confident that, granted better arms, they could secure the advantage, so, when one of their number suggests the manufacture of cannon, all gladly welcome the idea. Under Satan's direction some of the evil angels draw from the ground metal, which, molten and poured into moulds, furnishes the engines of destruction they are seeking. Meanwhile others collect ingredients for ammunition, and, when morning dawns, they have a number of weapons ready for use, which they cunningly conceal in the centre of their fourfold phalanx as they advance. In the midst of the second encounter, Satan's squadrons suddenly draw aside to let these cannons belch forth the destruction with which they are charged, an unexpected broadside which fells the good angels by thousands; but, although hosts of them are thus laid low, others spring forward to take their place. On seeing the havoc wrought by their guns, Satan and his host openly rejoice; but the good angels, perceiving arms are useless against this artillery, throw them away, and, picking up the hills, hurl them at their opponents, whom they bury beneath the weight of mountains. In fact, had not the Almighty checked this outburst of righteous anger, the fiends would doubtless have been buried so deep they never would have been able to reappear! On the third day the Almighty proclaims that, as both forces are equal in strength, the fighting will never end unless he interferes. He therefore summons his only begotten Son to wield the thunder-bolts, his exclusive weapon. Ever ready to do his Father's will, the Son accepts, mounts a chariot borne by four cherubs, and sets forth, attended by twenty thousand saints, who wish to witness his triumph. On seeing him approach, the good angels exult, while the wicked are seized with terror, although they disdain to flee. Bidding the angelic host watch him triumph single-handed over the foe, the Son of God changes his benignant expression into one of wrath, and hurls his thunder-bolts to such purpose that the rebels long for the mountains to cover them as on the previous day. With these divine weapons Christ ruthlessly drives Satan and his hosts out of the confines of heaven, over the edge of the abyss, and hurls them all down into the bottomless pit, sending after them peal after peal of thunder, together with dazzling flashes of lightning, but mercifully withholding his deadly bolts, as he purposes not to annihilate, but merely to drive the rebels out of heaven. Thus, with a din and clatter which the poet graphically describes, Satan and his host fall through space and land nine days later in the fiery lake! After pursuing the foe far enough to make sure they will not return, the Messiah re-enters heaven in triumph, greeted by saints and angels with hymns of praise. This account of the war in heaven concluded, Raphael informs Adam that Satan, leader of these fallen angels, envying his happy state, is now plotting to seduce him from his allegiance to God, and thus compel him to share his eternal misery. "But listen not to his temptations; warn Thy weaker; let it profit thee to have heard By terrible example the reward Of disobedience; firm they might have stood, Yet fell; remember, and fear to transgress." _Book VII._ At Adam's request Raphael next explains how the earth was created, saying that, as Satan had seduced one-third of heaven's inhabitants, God decided to create a new race, whence angels could be recruited to repeople his realm. In terms simple enough to make himself understood, Raphael depicts how the Son of God passing through heaven's gates and viewing the immeasurable abyss, decided to evolve from it a thing of beauty. He adds that the Creator made use of the divine compasses "prepared in God's eternal store," to circumscribe the universe, thus setting its bounds at equal distance from its centre. Then his spirit, brooding over the abyss, permeated Chaos with vital warmth, until its various components sought their appointed places, and earth "self-balanced on her centre hung." Next the light evolved from the deep began to travel from east to west, and "God saw that it was good." On the second day God created the firmament, on the third separated water from dry land, and on the fourth covered the earth with plants and trees, each bearing seed to propagate its kind. Then came the creation of the sun, moon, and stars to rule day and night and divide light from darkness, and on the fifth day the creation of the birds and fishes, whom God bade multiply until they filled the earth. Only on the sixth and last day did God call into life cattle and creeping things, which crawled out of the earth full grown and perfect limbed. Then, as there still lacked a creature endowed with reason to rule the rest, God created man in his own image, fashioning him from clay by breathing life into his nostrils. After thus creating Adam and his consort Eve, God blessed both, bidding them be fruitful, multiply and fill the earth, and hold dominion over every living thing upon it. Having placed creatures so richly endowed in Paradise, God left them free to enjoy all it contained, save the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, in regard to which he warned them "in the day thou eatest thereof, thou diest." Then, his work finished, the Creator returned to heaven, where he and the angels spent the seventh day resting from their work. _Book VIII._ Not daring to intrude upon the conversation of Adam and Raphael, Eve waits at a distance, knowing her husband will tell her all she need learn. Meanwhile, further to satisfy his curiosity, Adam inquires how the sun and stars move so quietly in their orbit? Raphael rejoins that, although the heavens are the book of God, wherein man can read his wondrous works, it is difficult to make any one understand the distances separating the various orbs. To give Adam a slight idea of them, Raphael declares that he--whose motions are not slow--set out from heaven at early morn and arrived at Eden only at midday. Then he describes the three rotations to which our earth is subject, names the six planets, and assures Adam God holds them all in his hand and prescribes their paths and speed. In his turn, Adam entertains Raphael with a description of his amazement when he awoke on a flowery hillside, to see the sky, the woods, and the streams; his gradual acquaintance with his own person and powers, the naming of the animals, and his awe when the divine master led him into Paradise and warned him not to touch the central tree. After describing his loneliness on discovering that all living creatures went about in pairs, Adam adds that, after he had complained to the Creator, a deep sleep fell upon him, during which a rib was removed from his side from which to fashion Eve. Joined by the Creator himself to this "bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh," Adam declares since then they have enjoyed nuptial bliss, and artlessly inquires whether angels marry and are given in marriage too. Whereupon Raphael rejoins that in heaven love so refines the thoughts and enlarges the heart that none save spiritual communion is necessary to secure perfect bliss. Then, seeing the sun about to set, the angel takes leave of Adam and wends his way back to heaven, while the father of mankind rejoins his waiting wife. Book IX. The poet warns us there will be no more question of talk between man and angels, as his song must now change to a tragic note, because vile distrust has entered Paradise. Then he describes how Satan, driven away from Eden by Gabriel, circles around the earth seven days and nights without rest, and at the end of that time re-enters Paradise, by means of an underground river and in the guise of a mist. Then, perched as a bird upon the tree of knowledge of good and evil, Satan decides to approach our first parents in the guise of a loathsome serpent and seek his revenge, although fully aware the consequences will recoil upon himself. Next, finding a serpent asleep, Satan enters it, and meanders along the paths of Paradise, hoping to find Adam and Eve apart, for he deems it will be easier to work his ends on one at a time. Morning having come, Adam and Eve awake, and after their usual song of praise set out to attend the garden. But Eve insists that as long as they are together they allow themselves to be distracted from their labors, and proposes that they work independently until the noon hour brings them together to share their simple repast. Although reluctant at first to be parted from his beloved, Adam, hearing her exclaim he does not trust her, yields to her pleading. Thus, the serpent, ranging through the garden, perceives Eve alone among the roses, and rejoices to think he can make his first attempt upon what he rightly deems the weaker vessel. Although not without compunction, he wends his way toward her and startles her by addressing her in a human voice. When she inquires how it happens a beast can communicate with her, the serpent rejoins that, although at first speechless like other beasts, he no sooner tasted a certain fruit than he was gifted with greater knowledge than he had yet enjoyed and endowed with the power of speech. Deeming the fruit of such a tree might have equally beneficial effects upon her and make her more nearly equal to her consort, Eve longs to partake of it too, and readily follows her guide to the centre of the garden. But, when the serpent points out the forbidden tree, Eve prepares to withdraw, until the tempter assures her God's prohibition was not intended to be obeyed. He argues that, although he has tasted the fruit he continues to live and has obtained new faculties, and by this specious reasoning induces Eve to pluck and eat the fruit. As it touches her lips nature gives "signs of woe," and the guilty serpent links back into the thicket, leaving Eve to gorge upon the fruit whose taste affords her keener delight than she ever experienced before. In laudatory terms she now promises to care for the tree, and then wonders whether Adam will perceive any difference in her, and whether it will be wise to impart to him the happiness she has tasted. Although at first doubtful, Eve, fearing lest death may ensue and Adam replace her by another partner, determines to induce her husband to share this food too, for she loves Adam too dearly to live without him. "Confirmed then I resolve, Adam shall share with me in bliss or woe: So dear I love him, that with him all deaths I could endure, without him live no life." This decision reached, Eve hastens to Adam, and volubly explains that the tree is not what God depicted, for the serpent, having tasted of its fruit, has been endowed with eloquence so persuasive that he has induced her to taste it too. Horror-stricken, Adam wails his wife is lost; then he wonders how he will be able to exist without her, and is amazed to think she should have yielded to the very first onslaught of their foe. But, after this first outburst of grief, he vows he will share her doom and die with her. Having made a decision so flattering to Eve, he accepts the fruit which she tenders, and nature again shudders, for Adam, although not deceived, yields to temptation because of his love for Eve. No sooner have both fed upon the tree than its effects become patent, for it kindles within them the never-before-experienced sense of lust. The couple therefore emerge on the morrow from their bower, their innocence lost, and overwhelmed, for the first time in their lives, by a crushing sense of shame. Good and evil being equally well known to him, Adam reproaches his wife, wailing that never more shall they behold the face of God and suggests that they weave leaf-garments to hide their nakedness. So the first couple steal into the thicket to fashion fig-leaf girdles, which they bind about them, reviling each other for having forfeited their former happy estate. _Book X._ Meantime, Eve's fall has been duly reported in heaven by the angelic guards, whom the Almighty reassures, saying he knew the Evil Spirit would succeed and man would fall. Then the same voice decrees that, as man has transgressed, his sentence shall be pronounced, and that the one best fitted for such a task is the Son, man's mediator Ready to do his Father's will in heaven as upon earth, the Son departs, promising to temper justice with mercy, so that God's goodness will be made manifest, and adding that the doom of the absent Satan shall also be pronounced. Escorted to the gates of heaven by the angelic host, the Redeemer descends alone to earth, where he arrives in the garden in the cool of the evening. At his summons Adam and Eve emerge from their hiding-place, and, when Adam shamefacedly claims they hid because they were naked, his maker demonstrates how his very words convict him of guilt, and inquires whether they have eaten of the forbidden fruit. Unable to deny his transgression, Adam states he is in a quandary, for he must either accuse himself wrongfully or lay the guilt upon the wife whom it is his duty to protect. When he adds that the woman gave him the fruit whereof he did eat, the judge sternly demands whether Adam was bound to obey his consort, reminding him that woman was made subject to man and declaring that by yielding to Eve's persuasions he incurred equal guilt. Then, turning to the woman, the judge demands what she had done, and Eve, abashed, confesses the serpent beguiled her until she ate. Having thus heard both culprits, the judge pronounces sentence upon the serpent in veiled terms, for, as yet, man is not to understand what is divinely planned. Then, having disposed of the archenemy, he predicts Eve will bring forth her children in suffering and will be subject to her husband's will, ere he informs Adam that henceforth he will have to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow, for the earth will no longer bear fruit for him without labor. Having thus pronounced his judgment, the judge postpones the penalty of death indefinitely, and taking pity upon our first parents, clothes them in the skins of beasts, to enable them to bear the harsher air to which they are soon to be exposed. Meantime Sin and Death peer forth through hell's open gateway, hoping to each some glimpse of returning Satan. Weary of waiting, Sin finally suggests to Death the folly of remaining idle, since Satan cannot fail to succeed, and proposes that they follow him over the abyss, building as they go a road to facilitate intercourse hereafter between hell and earth. This proposal charms Death, whose keen nostrils already descry the smell of mortal change, and who longs to reach earth and prey upon all living creatures. These two terrible shapes, therefore, venture out through the waste, and by making "the hard soft and the soft hard," they fashion of stone and asphalt a broad highway from the gates of hell to the confines of the newly created world. They have barely finished this causeway when Satan--still in the likeness of an angel--comes flying toward them, for after seducing Eve he has lurked in the garden until from a safe hiding-place he heard the threefold sentence pronounced by the judge. He too does not grasp his doom, but, realizing that humanity is in his power, is hastening back to Hades to make the joyful fact known. On encountering Sin and Death, Satan congratulates them upon their engineering skill and sends them on to work their will in the world, while he speeds along the path they have made to tell the fallen angels all that has occurred. In obedience to his orders a number of these are mounting guard, but Satan, in the guise of a ministering spirit, passes through their midst unheeded, and only after entering Pandemonium allows his native majesty to shine forth. On becoming aware he is once more present, the demons welcome him with a mighty shout. Then by an impressive gesture Satan imposes silence and describes his journey, his success, and the ease with which they can pass to and fro now that Sin and Death have paved their way. To satisfy their curiosity he further depicts by what means he tempted woman, and, although he admits he was cursed as well as the fallen, does not appear dismayed. Raising their voices to applaud him, his adherents are now surprised to hear themselves hiss, and to discover they have all been transformed into snakes. Then Satan himself, in the form of a dragon, guides them to a grove near by, where they climb the trees and greedily feed on apples of Sodom, which offend their taste, a performance to be renewed yearly on the anniversary of the temptation. Meanwhile, Sin and Death having entered Paradise,--where they are not yet allowed to touch human beings,--lay low herbs, fruit, flowers, and beasts, all of which are now their legitimate prey. Pointing out their ravages, the Almighty explains that, had man not disobeyed, these despoilers would never have preyed upon the newly created world, where they are now to have full sway until the Son hurls them back into Hades. On hearing these words, the angels praise the ways of the Almighty, which are ever just, and laud his Son as the destined restorer of mankind. While they are thus employed, the Almighty directs some of his attendants to move the sun, so as to subject the earth to alternate cold and heat, thus making winter follow summer. The planets, too, are to shed malignant influences upon the earth, whose axle is slightly turned, while violent winds cause devastation, and enmity is kindled between creatures which have hitherto lived in peace. Adam, on perceiving these changes, becomes conscious they are the effect of his transgression, and is plunged in such grief that God's order to increase and multiply seems horrible. In his grief he murmurs aloud, but, after a while, realizing he was left free to choose between good and evil, he acknowledges his punishment is just. The fact that God does not immediately visit upon him the penalty he has incurred does not, however, comfort him, because he longs for death to end his sorrows. On seeing her husband's grief, Eve now volunteers to go in quest of their judge, imploring him to visit upon her alone the penalty of sin. Her readiness to sacrifice herself touches Adam, who replies that, since they are one, they must share what awaits them. When Eve intimates that, since they are doomed, it will be well never to bear any children, Adam reminds her it is only through repentance they can appease their judge, and bids her not scorn life or its pleasures. _Book XI._ Having reached this state of humility and repentance, our first parents are viewed compassionately by the Redeemer, who, gathering up their prayers, presents them to the Father as the first-fruits which have sprung from his mercy. "See, Father, what first-fruits on earth are sprung From thy implanted grace in man; these sighs And prayers, which in this golden censer, mixed With incense, I thy priest before thee bring, Fruits of more pleasing savor, from thy seed Sown with contrition in his heart, than those Which his own hand, manuring all the trees Of Paradise, could have produced, ere fallen From innocence." In reply to the touching pleas of this advocate, the heavenly Father promises the culprits shall be forgiven, provided their repentance is sincere, but insists that meantime they be ejected from Paradise. Michael and the cherubs chosen for this office are instructed to mount guard day and night, lest the fiend return to Paradise, or the human pair re-enter and partake of the tree of life and thus escape the penalty of death. But, before driving out our first parents, Michael is to reveal to Adam all that awaits his race in the future, emphasizing the promise that salvation shall come through his seed. These orders received, the archangel wends his way down to earth, where, dawn having appeared, Adam and Eve once more issue from their bower. Night has brought some comfort, and Adam exclaims that, since the penalty of death is to be postponed, they must show their penitence by laboring hard, working henceforth side by side as contentedly as their fallen state will allow. On the way to the scene of their wonted labors they notice an eagle pursuing another bird and see wild beasts hunting one another. Besides these ominous signs Adam, descrying a bright light travelling rapidly toward them, informs Eve some message is on its way. He is not mistaken, for Michael soon emerges from this cloud of light so, while Eve hurries off to prepare for his entertainment Adam steps forward to receive him. Clad in celestial panoply, the angel announces he has been sent to inform Adam that although the penalty of death is indefinitely postponed, he is no longer to inhabit Paradise, but is to go forth into the world and till the ground from whence he sprang. Horror-stricken at these tidings, Adam remains mute, and Eve, hearing the decree from a distance, wails aloud at the thought of leaving home. To comfort her, the angel bids her dry her tears and follow her husband, making her home wherever he abides. Then Adam wonders whether by incessant prayer and penitence the Almighty could be induced to alter his decree and let them remain in Paradise, saying he hoped to point out to his descendants the places where he met and conversed with his Maker. But Michael rejoining he will find God everywhere invites Adam to follow him to the top of a neighboring hill, explaining he has enveloped Eve in slumbers, which will hold her entranced while he reveals to Adam the earth's kingdoms and their glory. "Know I am sent To show thee what shall come in future days To thee and to thy offspring; good with bad Expect to hear, supernal grace contending With sinfulness of men; thereby to learn True patience, and to temper joy with fear, And pious sorrow, equally inured By moderation either state to bear, Prosperous or adverse: so shalt thou lead Safest thy life, and best prepared endure Thy mortal passage when it comes. Ascend This hill; let Eve (for I have drenched her eyes) Here sleep below, while thou to foresight wakest. As once thou slept'st, while she to life was formed." From a hill in Paradise,--after purging Adam's eyes with three drops of water from the well of life,--Michael vouchsafes him a glimpse of all that is to take place upon our earth. Thus, Cain and Abel first pass before their father's eyes, but death is so unintelligible to Adam that the angel has to explain what it means. Overwhelmed at the thought that so awful a thing has come into the world through his transgression, Adam is further horrified when the angel reveals all the suffering which will visit mankind, explaining that, since much of it will be due to evil living, it behooves Adam to observe temperance in food and drink. But he warns him that, in spite of all precautions, old age will come upon him as a precursor of death. In a panorama Adam sees all that is to occur until the Deluge, and, watching Noah construct the ark, wails because his progeny is to be destroyed by the flood. The angel, however, demonstrates that the righteous will be saved and that from them will descend a race more willing to obey God's commands. The dove and the rainbow, therefore, instil comfort into Adam's heart, as does God's promise that day and night, seedtime and harvest shall hold their course until new heavens and earth appear wherein the just shall dwell. _Book XII._ Having depicted a world destroyed and foreshadowed a world restored, the angel shows Adam how man will migrate to a plain, where by means of bricks and bitumen an attempt will be made to erect a tower to reach heaven. When Adam expresses displeasure that one of his race should defy God, Michael assures him he rightly abhors disobedience, and comforts him by revealing how one righteous man, in whose "seed all nations shall be blest," is to be brought out of that country into the Promised Land. Not only does the angel name Abraham, but depicts his life, the captivity in Egypt, the exodus, and the forty years in the desert. He also vouchsafes to Adam a glimpse of Moses on Mount Sinai receiving the tables of the law, and appointing the worship which the Chosen People are to offer to their Creator. When Adam wonders at the number of laws, Michael rejoins that sin has many faces, and that until blood more precious than that of the prescribed sacrifices has been shed, no suitable atonement can be made. After describing how under the Judges and then under the Kings the people of Israel will continue their career the angel designates David as the ancestor of the Messiah, whose coming will be heralded by a star which will serve as guide to eastern sages. He adds that this Messiah will descend from the Most High by a virgin mother, that his reign will extend over all the earth, and that, by bruising the serpent's head, he will conquer Sin and Death. This promise fills Adam's heart with joy, because it partly explains the mysterious prophecy, but, when he inquires how the serpent can wound such a victor's heel, Michael rejoins that, in order to overcome Satan, the Messiah will incur the penalty of death, revealing how, after living hated and blasphemed, he will prove by his death and resurrection that Sin and Death have no lasting power over those who believe in his name. Full of joy at the promise that the Messiah will lead all ransomed souls to a happier Paradise than the one he has forfeited, Adam declares since such good is to proceed from the evil he has done he doubts whether he should repent. Between the death of Christ and his second coming, the angel adds that the Comforter will dwell upon earth with those who love their Redeemer, helping them resist the onslaughts of Satan, and that in spite of temptation many righteous will ultimately reach heaven, to take the place of the outcast angels. "Till the day Appear of respiration to the just, And vengeance to the wicked, at return Of him so lately promised to thy aid, The woman's Seed, obscurely then foretold, Now amplier known thy Saviour and thy Lord, Last in the clouds from heaven to be revealed In glory of the Father, to dissolve Satan with his perverted world, then raise From the conflagrant mass, purged and refined, New heavens, new earth, ages of endless date Founded in righteousness and peace and love, To bring forth fruits, joy, and eternal bliss." These instructions finished, the angel bids Adam not seek to know any more, enjoining upon him to add deeds to knowledge, to cultivate patience, temperance, and love, promising, if he obeys, that Paradise will reign in his heart. Then pointing out that the guards placed around Eden are waving their flashing swords and that it is time to awaken Eve, he bids Adam gradually impart to her all that he has learned through angelic revelations. When they rejoin Eve, she explains how God sent her a dream which has soothed her heart and filled it with hope, making her realize that, although she has sinned and is unworthy, through her seed all shall be blessed. Then the angel takes Adam and Eve by the hand and leads them out by the eastern gate into the world. Gazing backward, our first parents catch their last glimpse of Paradise and behold at the gate the angel with a flaming sword. Thus, hand in hand, dropping natural tears, they pass out into the world to select their place of rest, having Providence only for their guide. PARADISE REGAINED Having sung of Paradise Lost, Milton proposes as theme for a new epic "Paradise Regained." In it he purports to sing of "deeds heroic although in secret done" and to describe how Christ was led into the wilderness to be tempted by Satan. _Book I._ While baptizing in the Jordan, John suddenly beheld Christ approaching, and, although he at first demurred, yielded at last to his request to baptize him too. While the Baptist was doing this, a heavenly voice proclaimed Christ Son of God. This was heard not only by John and his disciples, but also by the adversary, who, ever since the fall, had been roaming around the world, and who for years past has been closely watching the promised Redeemer in hopes of defeating his ends. Suddenly realizing that the conflict between them is about to begin, Satan hastens back to Hades to take counsel with his crew. When all are assembled, he reminds them how long they have ruled the earth, adding that the time has come when their power may be wrested from them and the curse spoken in Eden fulfilled. He fears Jesus is the promised Messiah, owing to his miraculous birth, to the testimony of the precursor, and to the heavenly voice when he was baptized. Besides he has recognized in Christ's lineaments the imprint of the Father's glory, and avers that, unless they can counteract and defeat the Son's ends, they will forfeit all they have gained. Realizing, however, that this task is far greater than the one he undertook centuries before,--when he winged his way through chaos to discover the new world and tempt our first parents,--he volunteers to undertake it in person, and all the evil spirits applaud him. This settled, Satan departs to carry out the second temptation. Meantime another assembly has been held in heaven, where, addressing the archangel Gabriel, the Almighty informs him he will soon see the fulfilment of the message he bore some thirty years previously to Mary. He adds that his Son, whom he has publicly recognized, is about to be tempted by Satan, who, although he failed in the case of Job, is undertaking this new task confident of success. The Almighty also predicts that Satan will again be defeated, but declares Christ is as free to yield or resist as Adam when first created, and that before sending him out to encounter Sin and Death he means to strengthen him by a sojourn in the desert. On hearing that Satan's evil plans will be frustrated, the angels burst into a hymn of triumph with which heaven resounds. So spake the eternal Father, and all Heaven Admiring stood a space; then into hymns Burst forth, and in celestial measures moved, Circling the throne and singing, while the hand Sung with the voice; and this the argument: "Victory and triumph to the Son of God Now entering his great duel, not of arms, But to vanquish by wisdom hellish wiles. The Father knows the Son; therefore secure Ventures his filial virtue, though untried, Against whate'er may tempt, whate'er seduce, Allure, or terrify, or undermine. Be frustrate, all ye stratagems of Hell, And devilish machinations come to nought." During this time the Son of God, after lingering three days by the Jordan, is driven by the Holy Spirit into the wilderness, where he spends his time meditating upon the great office he had undertaken as Saviour of mankind. In a grand soliloquy we hear how since early youth he has been urged onward by divine and philosophical influences, and how, realizing he was born to further truth, he has diligently studied the law of God. Thanks to these studies, our Lord at twelve could measure his learning with that of the rabbis in the temple. Ever since that time he has longed to rescue his people from the Roman yoke, to end brutality, to further all that is good, and to win all hearts to God. He recalls the stories his mother told him in regard to the annunciation, to his virgin birth, and to the Star of Bethlehem, and comments upon the fact that the precursor immediately recognized him and that a voice from heaven hailed him as the Son of God! Although Christ realizes he has been sent into the wilderness by divine power, and that his future way lies "through many a hard assay" and may lead even to death, he does not repine. Instead he spends the forty days in the wilderness fasting, preparing himself for the great work which he is called upon to accomplish, and paying no heed to the wild beasts which prowl around him without doing him any harm. It is only when weakness has reached its highest point and when Christ begins to hunger, that Satan approaches him in the guise of an old peasant, pathetically describing the difficulty of maintaining life in the wilderness. Then he adds that, having seen Jesus baptized in the Jordan he begs him to turn the stones around him into food, thereby relieving himself and his wretched fellow-sufferer from the pangs of hunger. "But, if thou be the Son of God, command That out of these hard stones be made thee bread; So shalt thou save thyself and us relieve With food, whereof we wretched seldom taste." Jesus, however, merely reproaches the tempter, rejoining, "Man shall not live by bread alone, but from the words which proceed out of the mouth of God," and explaining that he knows who Satan is and for what purpose he has been sent hither. Unable to conceal his identity any longer, the evil spirit admits he has come straight from hell, but adds that God gave him power to test Job and to punish Ahab. He argues that the Almighty, who fed the Israelites with manna and supplied Elijah with miraculous food, does not intend to starve his only Son. Then, expressing admiration for Jesus' intellect, Satan explains he is not the foe of man, since through him he has gained everything, and whom he prides himself upon having often helped by oracles and omen. In spite of these arguments, Jesus refuses to listen to him, declares his oracles have lost all power, and adds that he is sent to execute his Father's will. "God hath now sent his living oracle Into the world to teach his final will, And sends his Spirit of truth henceforth to dwell In pious hearts, an inward oracle To all truth requisite for men to know." Thus baffled, Satan vanishes into "thin air diffused," and night steals over the desert, where fowls seek their nests while the wild beasts begin to roam in search of food. _Book II._ John the Baptist and his disciples, made anxious by Jesus' long absence, now begin to seek him as the prophets sought Elijah, fearing lest he too may have been caught up into heaven. Hearing Simon and Andrew wonder where he has gone and what he is doing, Mary relates the extraordinary circumstances which accompanied her Son's birth, mentioning the flight into Egypt, the return to Nazareth, and sundry other occurrences during the youth of our Lord. She declares that, ever since Gabriel's message fell upon her ear, she has been trying to prepare herself for the fulfilment of a promise then made her, and has often wondered what Simeon meant when he cried that a sword would pierce her very soul! Still, she recalls how at twelve years of age, she grieved over the loss of her Son, until she found him in the temple, when he excused himself by stating he must be about his Father's business. Ever since then Mary has patiently awaited what is to come to pass, realizing the child she bore is destined to great things. Thus Mary pondering oft, and oft to mind Recalling what remarkably had passed Since first her salutation heard, with thoughts Meekly composed awaited fulfilling. Satan, having hastened back to the infernal regions, reports the ill success of his first venture, and the effect his first temptation had upon our Lord. Feeling at a loss, he invites the demons to assist him with their counsel, warning them this task will prove far more difficult than that of leading Adam astray. Belial, the most dissolute spirit in hell, then proposes that Satan tempt Jesus with women, averring that the female sex possesses so many wiles that even Solomon, wisest of kings, succumbed. But Satan scornfully rejects this proposal, declaring that He whom they propose thus to tempt is far wiser than Solomon and has a much more exalted mind. Although certain Christ will prove impervious to the bait of sense, Satan surmises that, owing to a prolonged fast, he may be susceptible to the temptation of hunger, so, taking a select band of spirits, he returns to the desert to renew his attempts in a different form. Transferring us again to the solitude, the poet describes how our Saviour passed the night dreaming of Elijah fed by the ravens and of Daniel staying his hunger with pulse Awakened at last by the song of the larks, our Lord rises from his couch on the hard ground, and, strolling into fertile valley, encounters Satan, who, superbly dressed, expresses surprise he should receive no aid in the wilderness when Hagar, the Israelites, and Elijah were all fed by divine intervention. Then Satan exhibits the wonderful banquet he has prepared, inviting Christ to partake of it; but the Son of God haughtily informs him he can obtain food whenever he wishes, and hence need not accept what he knows is offered with evil intent. Seeing our Lord cannot be assailed on the ground of appetite, Satan causes the banquet to vanish, but remains to tempt Christ with an offer of riches, artfully setting forth the power that can be acquired by their means. He adds, since Christ's mind is set on high designs, he will require greater wealth than stands at the disposal of the Son of Joseph the carpenter. But, although Satan offers to bestow vast treasures upon him, Christ rejects this proffer too, describing what noble deeds have been achieved by poor men such as Gideon, Jephtha, and David, as well as by certain Romans. He adds that riches often mislead their possessor, and so eloquently describes the drawbacks of wealth that Satan realizes it is useless to pursue this attempt. _Book III._ Again complimenting Christ on his acumen, Satan rehearses the great deeds performed by Philip of Macedon and by Julius Caesar, who began their glorious careers earlier in life than he. Then, hoping to kindle in Jesus' heart a passion for worldly glory, Satan artfully relates that Caesar wept because he had lived so long without distinguishing himself; but our Lord quietly demonstrates the futility of earthly fame, compared to real glory, which is won only through religious patience and virtuous striving, such as was practiced by Job and Socrates. When Christ repeats he is not seeking his own glory but that of the Father who sent him, Satan reminds him God is surrounded with splendor and that it behooves his Son to strive to be like him. But Jesus rejoins that, while glory is the essential attribute of the Creator, no one else has a right to aspire to anything of the sort. Undeterred by these checks, Satan changes his theme, and reminds Christ that, as a member of the royal family, he is not only entitled to the throne, but expected to free Judea from Roman oppression. He states that the holy temple has been defiled, that injustice has been committed, and urges that even the Maccabees resorted to arms to free their country. Although Christ insists no such mission has been appointed for him, he adds that, although his reign will never end, it will be only those who can suffer best who will be able to enjoy it. "Who best Can suffer, best can do; best reign, who first Well hath obeyed; just trial ere I merit My exaltation without change or end." Then, turning upon his interlocutor, Christ inquires why he is so anxious to promote the one whose rise will entail his fall? To which Satan replies that, having no hope, it little behooves him to obstruct the plans of Christ, from whose benevolence alone he expects some mitigation of his punishment, for he fancies that by speaking thus he can best induce Christ to hear him. Then, feigning to believe that Christ has refused his offers simply because he has never seen aught save Jerusalem, Satan conveys him in the twinkling of an eye to the summit of a mountain, whence, pointing eastward, he shows him all the great kingdoms of Asia. Thus, he reveals the glories of Assyria, Babylonia, and Persia,--of whose histories he gives a brief résumé,--before pointing out a large Parthian army setting out to war against the Scythians, for he hopes by this martial display to convince Christ that, in order to obtain a kingdom, he will have to resort to military force. Then he adds he can easily enlist the services of this army, with which Christ can drive the Romans out of Judea, and triumphantly reign over the land of his ancestors, whence his glory will extend far and wide, until it far surpasses all that Rome and Caesar achieved. Jesus, however, demonstrates the vanity of all military efforts, declaring his time has not yet come, but assuring him he will not be found wanting when the moment comes for him to ascend the throne, for he hopes to prove an able ruler. Then he reminds Satan how he tempted David to take a census against God's wish, and led Israel astray, until the Ten Tribes were taken off into captivity in punishment for their idolatry. He also comments upon Satan's extraordinary anxiety to restore the very people whose foe he has always been, as he has proved time and again by leading them into idolatry, adding that God may yet restore them to their liberty and to their native land. These arguments silence even Satan, for such is ever the result when "with truth falsehood contends." _Book IV._ With all the persistency of his kind, Satan refuses to acknowledge himself beaten, and, leading Christ to the western side of the mountain, reveals to him all the splendor of Rome, exhibiting its Capitol, Tarpeian Rock, triumphal arches, and the great roads along which hosts are journeying to the Eternal City. After thus dazzling him, Satan suggests that Christ oust Tiberius (who has no son) from the imperial throne, and make himself master not only of David's realm, but of the whole Roman Empire, establishing law and order where vice now reigns. Although Satan eagerly proffers his aid to accomplish all this, our Lord rejoins such a position has no attraction for him, adding that, as long as the Romans were frugal, mild, and temperate, they were happy, but that, when they became avaricious and brutal, they forfeited their happiness. He adds that he has not been sent to free the Romans, but that, when his season comes to sit on David's throne, his rule will spread over the whole world and will dwell there without end. "Know, therefore, when my season comes to sit On David's throne, it shall be like a tree Spreading and overshadowing all the earth, Or as a stone that shall to pieces dash All monarchies besides throughout the world, And of my kingdom there shall be no end: Means there shall be to this, but what the means Is not for thee to know nor me to tell." Pretending that Christ's reluctance is due to the fact that he shrinks from the exertions necessary to obtain this boon Satan offers to bestow it freely upon him, provided he will fall down and worship him. Hearing this proposal, Christ rebukes the tempter, saying, "Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God and only him shalt serve," and reviling him for his ingratitude. To pacify his interlocutor, Satan then proposes to make him famous through wisdom, and exhibits Athens,--that celebrated centre of ancient learning--offering to make him master of all its schools of philosophy, oratory, and poetry, and thus afford him ample intellectual gratification. But Jesus rejects this offer also, after proving the vanity and insufficiency of heathen philosophy and learning, and after demonstrating that many books are a weariness to the flesh, and that none compare with those which are the proudest boast of God's Chosen People. "However, many books, Wise men have said, are wearisome: who reads Incessantly, and to his reading brings not A spirit and judgment equal or superior (And what he brings, what needs he elsewhere seek?), Uncertain and unsettled still remains, Beep versed in books and shallow in himself, Crude or intoxicate, collecting toys And trifles for choice matters, worth a sponge; As children gathering pebbles on the shore." Irritated by the failure of all his attempts, Satan next taunts his opponent by describing the sufferings and humiliations he will have to undergo, until, seeing this too has no effect, he suddenly bears him back to the wilderness, where he leaves him for the night, during which he sends a terrific storm to appall him. Even in sleep Jesus is haunted by dreams and spectres sent by the tempter, but at dawn all these visions disappear, the storm dies down, and a lovely morning greets him when he awakes. Once more Satan appears to warn our Lord that the dreams of the night and the horrors of the tempest were foreshadowings of what he will have to undergo. In spite of this, Christ assures him he is toiling in vain; whereupon swollen with rage, Satan confesses that ever since he heard Gabriel's announcement to the shepherds in regard to Christ's birth, he has watched him, hoping to get some hold upon him during his infancy, youth, or early manhood. He now inquires whether Christ is really his destined foe and reluctantly admits he has failed in all his endeavors to tempt him. But one last test still remains to be tried, for Satan suddenly conveys Christ to the topmost pinnacle of the Temple of Jerusalem, bidding him demonstrate his divinity by fearlessly casting himself down, since God has "given his angels charge concerning him." Not only, does our Lord reprove the tempter, but so calmly manifests his divine power by standing erect on this dangerous point, that Satan--like all other defeated monsters, such as the Sphinx--falls howling down into the infernal regions. At the same time angels convey our Lord to a lovely valley, where they minister unto him with celestial food and celebrate his victory with a triumphal hymn, for the Son of God has successfully resisted the tempter, before whom Adam succumbed, and has thereby saved man from the penalty of his sin. Henceforth Satan will never again dare set foot in Paradise, where Adam and his chosen descendants are to dwell secure, while the Son of Man completes the work he has been sent to do. Thus they the Son of God, our Saviour meek, Sung victor, and from heavenly feast refreshed Brought on his way with joy; he unobserved Home to his mother's private house returned. GERMAN EPICS German literature begins after the great migrations (_circa_ 600), and its earliest samples are traditional songs of an epic character, like the Hildebrandslied. Owing to diversities of race and speech, there are in southern and northern Germany various epic cycles which cluster around such heroes as Ermanrich the Goth, Dietrich von Bern, Theodoric the East Goth, Attila the Hun, Gunther the Burgundian, Otfried the Langobardian, and Sigfried--perchance a Frisian, or, as some authorities claim, the famous Arminius who triumphed over the Romans. The Hildebrandslied relates how Hildebrand, after spending thirty years in Hungary, returns to North Italy, leaving behind him a wife and infant son Hadubrand. A false rumor of Hildebrand's death reaches Hungary when Hadubrand has achieved great renown as a warrior, so, when in quest for adventure the young man meets his father, he deems him an impostor and fights with him until the poem breaks off, leaving us uncertain whether father or son was victorious. But later poets, such as Kaspar von der Rhön, give the story a happy ending, thus avoiding the tragic note struck in Sorab and Rustem (p. 410). There existed so many of these ancient epic songs that Charlemagne undertook to collect them, but Louis I, his all too pious son, destroyed this collection on his accession to the throne, because, forsooth, these epics glorified the pagan gods his ancestors had worshipped! Still not all the Teutonic epics are of pagan origin, for in the second period we find such works as Visions of Judgment (Muspilli), Lives of Saints, and biblical narratives like Heliant (the Saviour), Judith, the Exodus, der Krist by Otfried, and monkish-political works like the Ludwigslied, or history of the invasion of the Normans. There is also the epic of Walter von Aquitanien, which, although written in Latin, shows many traces of German origin. In Walther von Aquitanien we have an epic of the Burgundian-Hunnish cycle written by Ekkehard of St. Gall before 973. It relates the escape of Walther von Aquitanien and his betrothed Hildegund from the court of Attila, where the young man was detained as a hostage. After describing their preparations for flight, their method of travel and camping, the poet relates how they were overtaken in the Vosges Mountains by a force led by Gunther and Hagen, who wish to secure the treasures they are carrying. Warned in time by Hildegund,--who keeps watch while he sleeps,--Walther dons his armor, and single-handed disposes of many foes. When Gunther Hagen, and Walther alone survive, although sorely disabled, peace is concluded, and the lovers resume their journey and reach Aquitania safely, where they reign happily thirty years. In the third period "the crusades revived the epic memories of Charlemagne and Roland and of the triumphs of Alexander," thus giving birth to a Rolandslied and an Alexanderlied, as well as to endless chivalrie epics, or romances in verse and prose. The Rolandslied--an art epic--gives the marriage and banishment of Charlemagne's sister Bertha, the birth of Roland, the manner in which he exacted tribute from his playmates to procure clothes, his first appearance in his uncle's palace, his bold seizure of meat and drink from the royal table to satisfy his mother's needs, Charlemagne's forgiveness of his sister for the sake of her spirited boy, the episode regarding the giant warrior in the Ardennes, the fight with Oliver, the ambush at Roncevaux, and end with Roland's death and the punishment of the traitor Ganelon. But later legends claim that Roland, recovering from the wounds received at Roncevaux, returned to Germany and to his fiancée Aude, who, deeming him dead, had meantime taken the veil. We next have Roland's sorrow, the construction of his hermitage at Rolandseek, [24] whence he continually overlooks the island of Nonnenwörth and the convent where his beloved is wearing her life away in prayers for his soul. This cycle concludes with Roland's death and burial on this very spot, his face still turned toward the grave where his sweetheart rests. In the Langobardian cycle[25] also is the tale of "Rother," supposed to be Charlemagne's grandfather, one of the court epics of the Lombard cycle. In King Rother we have the abduction by Rother of the emperor's daughter, her recovery by her father, and Rother's pursuit and final reconquest of his wife. The next epic in the cycle, "Otnit," related the marriage of this king to a heathen princess, her father's gift of dragon's eggs, and the hatching of these monsters, which ultimately cause the death of Otnit and infest Teutonic lands with their progeny. Then come the legends of Hug-Dietrich and Wolf-Dietrich, which continue the Lombard cycle and pursue the adventures of Otnit to his death. The legend of Herzog Ernst is still popular, and relates how a duke of Bavaria once made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem and lived through endless thrilling adventures on the way. The greatest of all the German epics is undoubtedly the Nibelungenlied,--of which we give a synopsis,--which is often termed the Iliad of Germany, while "Gudrun" is considered its Odyssey. This folk epic relates how Hagan, son of a king, was carried off at seven years of age by a griffin. But, before the monster or its young could devour him, the sturdy child effected his escape into the wilderness, where he grew up with chance-found companions. Rescued finally by a passing ship, these young people are threatened with slavery, but spared so sad a fate thanks to Hagan's courage. Hagan now returns home, becomes king, and has a child, whose daughter Gudrun is carried away from father and lover by a prince of Zealand. On his way home, the kidnapper is overtaken by his pursuers and wages a terrible battle on the Wülpensand, wherein he proves victorious. But the kidnapper cannot induce Gudrun to accept his attentions, although he tries hard to win her love. His mother, exasperated by this resistance finally undertakes to force Gudrun to submit by dint of hardships, and even sends her out barefoot in the snow to do the family washing. While thus engaged, Gudrun and her faithful companion are discovered by the princess' brother and lover, who arrange the dramatic rescue of the damsels, whom they marry.[26] Next in order come the philosophic epics of Wolfram von Eschenbach, including the immortal Parzifal--which has been used by Tennyson and Wagner in their poems and opera--and the poetic tales of Gottfried of Strassburg, whose Tristan und Isolde, though unfinished, is a fine piece of work. Hartmann von der Aue is author of Erek und Enide,--the subject of Tennyson's poem,--of Der arme Heinrich,--which served as foundation for Longfellow's Golden Legend,--and of Iwein or the Knight with the Lion. Among the Minnesingers of greatest note are Walther von der Vogelweide, Wolfram von Eschenbach, and later, when their head-quarters were at Nüremberg, Hans Sachs. Their favorite themes were court epics, dealing especially with the legends of Arthur, of the Holy Grail, and of Charles the Great. Many of these epics are embodied in the Heldenbuch, or Book of Heroes, compiled in the fifteenth century by Kaspar von der Rhön, while the Abenteuerbuch contains many of these legends as well as Der Rosengarten and König Laurin. In the second part of the thirteenth century artificiality and vulgarity began to preponderate, provoking as counterweights didactic works such as Der Krieg auf der Wartburg. The fourteenth century saw the rise of the free cities, literary guilds, and five universities. It also marks the cultivation of political satire in such works as Reinecke Fuchs, and of narrative prose chronicles like the Lüneburger, Alsatian, and Thuringian Chronicles, which are sometimes termed prose epics. The Volksbücher also date from this time, and have preserved for us many tales which would otherwise have been lost, such as the legends of the Wandering Jew and Dr. Faustus. The age of Reformation proved too serious for poets to indulge in any epics save new versions of Reinecke Fuchs and Der Froschmeuseler, and after the Thirty Years' War the first poem of this class really worthy of mention is Klopstock's Messias, or epic in twenty books on the life and mission of Christ and the fulfilment of the task for which he was foreordained. Contemporary with Klopstock are many noted writers, who distinguished themselves in what is known as the classic period of German literature. This begins with Goethe's return from Italy, when he, with Schiller's aid, formed a classical school of literature in Germany. While Schiller has given us the immortal epic drama "William Tell," Goethe produced the idyllic epic "Hermann und Dorothea," the dramatical epic "Faust," and an inimitable version of the animal epic "Reinecke Fuchs." Wieland also was a prolific writer in many fields; inspired by the Arabian Nights, Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream, and Huon de Bordeaux, [27] he composed an allegorical epic entitled "Oberon," wherein "picture after picture is unfolded to his readers," and which has since served as a theme for musicians and painters. Since Goethe's day Wagner has made the greatest and most picturesque use of the old German epic material, for the themes of nearly all his operas are drawn from this source.[28] FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 24: See the author's "Legends of the Rhine."] [Footnote 25: See the author's "Legends of the Middle Ages."] [Footnote 26: Detailed accounts of "Gudrun" and several other of these subordinate epics can be found in the author's "Legends of the Middle Ages."] [Footnote 27: See the author's "Legends of the Middle Ages."] [Footnote 28: See the author's "Stories of the Wagner Operas."] THE NIBELUNGENLIED[29] The Nibelungenlied, or Song of the Nibelungs, was written about the beginning of the thirteenth century although it relates events dating back to the sixth or seventh. Some authorities claim it consists of twenty songs of various dates and origin, others that it is the work of a single author. The latter ascribe the poem to Conrad von Kürenberg, Wolfram von Eschenbach, Heinrich von Ofterdingen, or Walther von der Vogelweide. The poem is divided into thirty-nine "adventures," and contains two thousand four hundred and fifty-nine stanzas of four lines each. The action covers a period of about thirty years and is based on materials taken from the Frankish, Burgundian, Austro-Gothic, and Hunnish saga cycles. Dietrich von Bern, one of the characters, is supposed to be Theodoric of Italy, while Etzel has been identified with Attila the Hun, and the Gunther with a king of the Burgundians who was destroyed with all his followers by the Huns in 436. _1st Adventure._ Three Burgundian princes dwell at Worms on the Rhine, where, at the time when the poem opens their sister Kriemhild is favored by a vision wherein two eagles pursue a falcon and tear it to pieces when it seeks refuge on her breast. A dream was dreamt by Kriemhild the virtuous and the gay, How a wild young falcon she train'd for many a day, Till two fierce eagles tore it; to her there could not be In all the world such sorrow as this perforce to see.[30] Knowing her mother expert at interpreting dreams, Kriemhild inquires what this means, only to learn that her future spouse will be attacked by grim foes. This note of tragedy, heard already in the very beginning of the poem, is repeated at intervals until it seems like the reiterated tolling of a funeral bell. _2d Adventure._ The poem now transfers us to Xanten on the Rhine, where King Siegmund and his wife hold a tournament for the coming of age of their only son Siegfried, who distinguishes himself greatly and in whose behalf his mother lavishes rich gifts upon all present. The gorgeous feast it lasted till the seventh day was o'er; Siegelind the wealthy did as they did of yore; She won for valiant Siegfried the hearts of young and old When for his sake among them she shower'd the ruddy gold. _3d Adventure._ Hearing of the beauty of Kriemhild, Siegfried decides to go and woo her, taking with him only a troop of eleven men. His arrival at Worms causes a sensation, and Hagen of Tronje--a cousin of King Gunther--informs his master that this visitor once distinguished himself by slaying a dragon and that he is owner of the vast Nibelungen hoard. This treasure once belonged to two brothers, who implored Siegfried to divide it between them, a task he undertook in exchange for the sword--Balmung--which lay on top of the heap of gold. But no sooner had he made the division than the brothers mortally wounded each other and died on their heaps of gold, leaving their treasure to Siegfried, who thus became the richest man in the world. On hearing the new-comer announce he has come to challenge Gunther to a duel, the Burgundians are dismayed, but they soon succeed in disarming their guest, and finally persuade him to remain with them a year, entertaining him with games and tournaments in which Siegfried distinguished himself greatly, to the satisfaction of Kriemhild who witnesses his prowess through a latticed window. _4th Adventure._ Toward the end of Siegfried's visit, it is reported that the kings of Saxony and Denmark are advancing with four thousand men. The dismay of the Burgundians is such that Siegfried proposes to go forth and overpower the enemy with a force of merely one thousand men. Only too glad to accept this offer, Gunther allows Siegfried to depart, and is overjoyed when the young hero comes back with two prisoner monarchs in his train. The messenger who announces Siegfried's triumph is, moreover, richly rewarded by Kriemhild, who flushes with pleasure on hearing the praise bestowed upon her hero. _5th Adventure._ After describing the tournament held at Worms in honor of this victory, the poet tells us how Siegfried and Kriemhild met there face to face, and how they fell in love with each other at first sight. Now went she forth, the loveliest, as forth the morning goes From misty clouds out-beaming; then all his weary woes Left him, in heart who bore her, and so, long time, had done. He saw there stately standing the fair, the peerless one. The result was of course an immediate proposal, which Gunther was glad to accept in his sister's name. _6th Adventure._ He bargained, however, that before Siegfried claimed his bride he should go with him to Isenland, and help him win the hand of Brunhild, the finest woman in the world. Gunther needs Siegfried's help in his wooing, because Brunhild has vowed to marry only the man who can throw a spear and stone farther than she and surpass her in jumping. Siegfried, who apparently possesses some knowledge of this lady, vainly tries to dissuade Gunther, and, when he decides to accompany him in his quest, suggests that Hagen and another knight form their train. Kriemhild provides the travellers with suitable garments, made by her own hands, and the four embark on a small vessel, in which they sail down the Rhine and out to sea, reaching Isenland only twelve days after their start. As they near this land, Siegfried strictly charges his companions to tell every one he is Gunther's vassal, and immediately begins to act as if such were indeed his real station. _7th Adventure._ Gazing out of her window, Brunhild perceives the approaching ship, and, recognizing within it Siegfried,--who visited her realm once before,--her heart beats with joy at the thought that he has come to woo her. She is, however, amazed to see him hold Gunther's stirrup when they land, and to learn it is the king of Burgundy who sues for her hand. In her disappointment Brunhild grimly warns the new-comer that, unless he prove successful, he and his men must die. "He must cast the stone beyond me, and after it must leap, Then with me shoot the javelin; too quick a pace you keep; Stop and awhile consider, and reckon well the cost," The warrioress made answer, "ere life and fame be lost." Undeterred by this threat, Gunther volunteers to undergo the test, but he quails when he sees the heavy spear which Brunhild brandishes and when he perceives that twelve men stagger beneath the weight she proposes to throw. He is, however, somewhat reassured when Siegfried whispers he need but go through the motions, while his friend, concealed by the Tarncappe,--the cloak of invisibility which endows the wearer with the strength of twelve men,--will perform the required feats in his behalf. Said he, "Off with the buckler and give it me to bear, Now, what I shall advise thee, mark with thy closest care. Be it thine to make the gestures, and mine the work to do." Glad man was then king Gunther, when he his helpmate knew. In the first test Brunhild casts a spear with such force that both Gunther and his invisible companion stagger and nearly fall, but, just as she is about to cry victory, Siegfried sends back the spear butt-end foremost and brings her to her knees. Veiling her dismay at this first defeat, Brunhild hurls the stone to a great distance and lands beside it with a flying leap. In Gunther's place the invisible Siegfried hurls the same stone much farther than Brunhild, and seizing Gunther by his belt jumps with him to the spot where it alighted. Having thus been outdone in all three feats of strength, Brunhild no longer refuses her hand to Gunther, who appears triumphant, although his prospective bride looks strangely solemn and angry. _8th Adventure._ Because Brunhild summons to her castle a large number of warriors, under pretext of celebrating her nuptials, Siegfried sails off unseen to the land of the Nibelungs, where he batters at his castle gate demanding admittance. As the wary dwarf guardian of the Nibelung hoard refuses to admit him, Siegfried fights him and after conquering him compels him to recognize his authority. Then he bids a thousand Nibelung warriors accompany him back to Isenland, and Brunhild, seeing this force approaching and learning from Gunther it is part of his suite, no longer dares to resist. _9th Adventure._ The fair bride, escorted by all these men, now sails across the sea and up the Rhine. As they near Burgundy, Gunther decides to send word of their arrival, and persuades Siegfried to act as his messenger by assuring him he will earn Kriemhild's gratitude. Said he, "Nay, gentle Siegfried, do but this journey take, Not for my sake only, but for my sister's sake. You'll oblige fair Kriemhild in this as well as me." When so implor'd was Siegfried, ready at once was he. _10th Adventure._ Not only does Siegfried receive the fair lady's hearty thanks, but he acts as her escort when she hastens down to the bank to welcome her brother and his bride. The poem then describes the kissing, speeches, and grand tournament held to welcome Brunhild, as well as the banquet where Siegfried publicly reminds Gunther he promised him Kriemhild's hand as soon as Brunhild was won. Exclaiming this promise shall immediately be redeemed, Gunther sends for his sister, although his new wife openly wonders he should bestow her hand upon a mere vassal. Silencing his bride's objections, Gunther confers Kriemhild's hand upon Siegfried, and thus two bridal couples sit side by side at the evening meal. The hour having come for retiring, Gunther, attempting to embrace his bride, is dismayed to find himself seized, bound fast, and hung up on a peg, where he dangles all night in spite of piteous entreaties to be set free. It is only a moment before the servants enter on the morrow that Brunhild consents to release her spouse, so when the bridegrooms appear in public, everybody notices that while Siegfried is radiant, Gunther's brow is clouded by a heavy frown. In course of the day, the King of Burgundy confides to his new brother-in-law the cause of his displeasure, whereupon Siegfried promises to don his cloud cloak that evening and compel Gunther's bride to treat her husband henceforth with due respect. True to this promise, Siegfried, unseen, follows Gunther and Brunhild into their apartment that night, and, the lights having been extinguished, wrestles with the bride until she acknowledges herself beaten. Although fancying she is yielding to Gunther, it is Siegfried who snatches her girdle and ring before leaving Gunther to reap the benefit of his victory, for Brunhild, having submitted to a man, loses her former fabulous strength. Meanwhile Siegfried returns to Kriemhild, imprudently relates how he has been occupied, and bestows upon her the girdle and ring. _11th Adventure._ The wedding festivities finished, Siegfried returns to Xanten with his bride, who is escorted thither by her faithful henchman Ekkewart, who has vowed to follow her wherever she goes. Siegfried's parents not only receive the bride cordially, but relinquish their throne to the young couple, who live together most happily and are overjoyed at the advent of a son. _12th Adventure._ Twelve whole years elapse ere Brunhild asks Gunther how it happens his vassal Siegfried has never yet come to Worms to do homage? Although Gunther now assures his wife Siegfried is a king in his own right, she nevertheless insists her brother-in-law and his wife should be invited to Worms, a suggestion which Gunther is only too glad to carry out. _13th Adventure._ Overjoyed at the prospect of revisiting the scene of their courtship, Siegfried and Kriemhild return to Worms, leaving their infant son at home, but taking with them Siegfried's father who has recently lost his wife. To honor her sister-in-law, Brunhild welcomes Kriemhild with the same state that heralded her own entrance at Worms. Banquets and tournaments also take place, whereat the two queens try to outshine each other. One day, while sitting together extolling their husband's virtues, a quarrel arises, during which Brunhild curtly informs Kriemhild her husband can scarcely be as great as she pretends, seeing he is merely Gunther's vassal! _14th Adventure._ Of course Kriemhild hotly denies this, and, when Brunhild insists, declares she will prove her husband's superiority by claiming precedence at the church door. Instigated by wrath, both ladies deck themselves magnificently and arrive simultaneously to attend mass, escorted by imposing trains. Seeing Kriemhild make a motion as if to enter first, Brunhild bids her pause, and the two ladies begin an exchange of uncomplimentary remarks. In the heat of the quarrel, Kriemhild insinuates that Brunhild granted Siegfried bridal favors, and in proof thereof exhibits Brunhild's girdle and ring! Brunhild immediately sends for Gunther, who, helpless between two angry women, summons Siegfried. Bluntly declaring wives should be kept in order, Siegfried undertakes to discipline Kriemhild, provided Gunther will reduce Brunhild to subjection, and publicly swears he never approached the Burgundian queen in any unseemly way. In spite of this public apology, Brunhild refuses to be comforted, and, as her husband utterly refuses to take active measures to avenge her, she finally prevails upon her kinsman Hagen to take up her quarrel. Under the mistaken impression that she has been grievously wronged by Siegfried, Hagen urges Gunther to attack his brother-in-law, until the weak king yields to the pressure thus brought to bear by his angry wife and kinsman. None urged the matter further, except that Hagen still Kept ever prompting Gunther the guiltless blood to spill; Saying, that, if Siegfried perish'd, his death to him would bring The sway o'er many a kingdom. Sore mourn'd the wavering king. _15th Adventure._ A cunning plan is now devised by Hagen whereby Siegfried is informed that the monarchs he once conquered have again risen up in rebellion. Of course Siegfried volunteers to subdue them once more, and Kriemhild, hearing he is about to start for war, expresses great anxiety for his safety. Under pretext of sympathy, Hagen inquires why Kriemhild feels any dread, seeing her husband is invulnerable, and learns the secret that Siegfried can be injured in a spot between his shoulders, because a lime-leaf, sticking fast there, prevented the dragon's blood from touching that spot.[31] "So now I'll tell the secret, dear friend, alone to thee (For thou, I doubt not, cousin, will keep thy faith with me), Where sword may pierce my darling, and death sit on the thrust, See, in thy truth and honor how full, how firm my trust!" Under pretext of protecting this vulnerable point, Hagen persuades Kriemhild to embroider a cross on her husband's garment over the fatal spot. Then, sure now of triumphing over this dreaded foe, he feigns the kings have sent word they will submit, and proposes that instead of fighting they all go hunting in the Odenwald. _16th Adventure._ Troubled by strange presentiments, Kriemhild tries to prevent Siegfried from going to the chase, but, laughing at her fears, he departs joyfully, although he is never to see her again. After describing the game slain in the course of this day's hunt, the poet declares Siegfried captured a live bear and playfully let it loose in amp, to the horror of his fellow hunters. Then, feeling thirsty, Siegfried loudly began to call for drink, and, discovering that owing to a mistake the wine has been conveyed to another part of the forest, proposes that he, Gunther, and Hagen should race to a neighboring spring, undertaking to perform the feat in full armor while his companions run in light undress. Although handicapped, Siegfried arrives first, but courteously steps aside to allow Gunther to take a drink, pretending he wishes to remove his armor before quenching his thirst. But, when he, in his turn, stoops over the fountain, Hagen, after slyly removing his weapons out of his reach, steals up behind him and runs a spear into the very spot where the embroidered cross shines on his doublet. Mortally wounded, Siegfried turns, and, grasping his shield, hurls it at the traitor with such force that he dashes it to pieces. E'en to the death though wounded, he hurl'd it with such power That the whirling buckler scatter'd wide a shower Of the most precious jewels, then straight in shivers broke. Full gladly had the warrior ta'en vengeance with that stroke. Sinking to the ground after this effort, Siegfried expends his last breath in beseeching Gunther to watch over his wife. Gazing down at the corpse, Gunther, afraid to acknowledge so dastardly a deed, suggests they spread the report that Siegfried was slain by brigands while hunting alone in the forest. Hagen, however, proud of his feat does not intend to subscribe to this project, and plots further villainy while following the body back to Worms. _17th Adventure._ The funeral train arriving there at midnight, Hagen directs the bearers to lay Siegfried's body at Kriemhild's door, so that she may stumble over it when she comes out at dawn on her way to mass. On perceiving that the dead body over which she has fallen is that of her beloved spouse, Kriemhild faints, while her women raise a mournful cry. Roused from his slumbers by the terrible news, old Siegmund joins the mourners, and he and the Nibelung knights carry the body to the minster, where Kriemhild insists all those who took part in the hunt shall file past it, for she hopes thereby to detect her husband's murderer. (Mediaeval tradition averred that a dead man's wounds bled whenever his murderer drew near.) Because Siegfried's wounds drop blood at Hagen's touch, Kriemhild publicly denounces him as her husband's slayer. It is a mighty marvel, which oft e'en now we spy, That, when the blood-stain'd murderer comes to the murder'd nigh, The wounds break out a bleeding, then too the same befell, And thus could each beholder the guilt of Hagen tell. But, instead of showing remorse, Hagen boldly proclaims he merely did his duty when he slew the man who cast a slur upon the honor of his queen. _18th Adventure._ Having laid his beloved son to rest, old Siegmund returns home, after vainly urging Kriemhild to leave the place where Siegfried is buried and return to her son, for, although Kriemhild's mother and brothers try to show her every mark of sympathy, Brunhild reveals no pity. Meanwhile sat misproud Brunhild in haughtiness uncheck'd; Of Kriemhild's tears and sorrows her it nothing reck'd. She pitied not the mourner; she stoop'd not to the low. Soon Kriemhild took full vengeance, and woe repaid with woe. _19th Adventure._ Three years elapse before Hagen suggests to Gunther that his sister send for the Nibelung hoard which was given her on her marriage. Intending to employ it to buy masses and avengers for Siegfried, Kriemhild gladly consents, and we are told twelve wagons travelled four nights and days to convey the store of gold from the Nibelung castle to the sea, whence it was carried to Kriemhild at Worms. With such a treasure at her disposal, the widowed queen proceeds to win so many adherents that Hagen, deeming this gold may prove dangerous, advises her brothers to take possession of it. No sooner have they done so than, fearing lest they may restore it to Kriemhild, Hagen buries it in the Rhine, telling none but his masters in what place it is hidden. _20th Adventure._ Having lost his first wife, Etzel, king of Hungary, now deems it advisable to marry again and secure an heir to his realm. As no other woman seems so fitted for so exalted a station as Kriemhild, Etzel sends his chief nobleman, Rudiger, to Worms with his proposal. After tarrying a few days on the way with his wife and daughter, this ambassador hurries to Worms, where he is welcomed by Hagen, who had formerly spent several years as a hostage at Etzel's court. Rudiger having made his errand known, Gunther beseeches three days' time to ascertain his sister's wishes. Flattered by the prospect of such an alliance, Gunther hopes Kriemhild will accept Etzel's proposal, but Hagen rejoins that should she secure such powerful allies, she might in time punish them for Siegfried's death. At first the widowed Kriemhild refuses to listen to Etzel's offers, but, when Rudiger swears to her past or future ills, she suddenly announces her consent. Then swore to her Sir Rudiger and all his knightly train To serve her ever truly, and all her rights maintain, Nor e'er of her due honors scant her in Etzel's land. Thereto gave the good margrave th' assurance of his hand. Then thought the faithful mourner, "with such a host of friends Now the poor lonely widow may work her secret ends, Nor care for what reflections the world on her may cast. What if my lost beloved I may revenge at last?" Then, still escorted by the faithful Ekkewart and carrying off with her the small portion of the Nibelungen treasure which she still retains, Kriemhild starts out for Hungary. _21st Adventure._ The three Burgundian princes escort their sister to the Danube and, taking leave of her there, allow her to proceed with Rudiger to Passau, where her uncle, Bishop Pilgrin, gives her a warm welcome. Thence the travellers proceed to Rudiger's castle, where his wife and daughter entertain their future queen, who bestows upon them costly treasures. Resuming her journey, Kriemhild is now met on all sides by the ovations of her future subjects. _22d Adventure._ When Etzel and his chief noblemen finally meet her, Kriemhild courteously kisses her future spouse, as well as the men whom he points out as worthy of such distinction. Among these is Dietrich of Bern, one of the heroes of the poem, and it is under his escort that the king and queen of Hungary proceed to Vienna, where their marriage festivities last seventeen days. _23d Adventure._ Seven years elapse, and, although Kriemhild has a son by Etzel, she still grieves for Siegfried and continually broods over her wrongs. One day she suddenly suggests that King Etzel invite her kinsmen to Hungary, and, when he consents, gives special instructions to the bards who bear the message to make sure that Hagen accompanies her brothers. _24th Adventure._ After fourteen days' journey the minstrels reach Worms and deliver their message. All are in favor of accepting this invitation save Hagen, who remarks that such friendliness seems suspicious. When his master retorts a guilty conscience harbors fear, Hagen stoutly avers he is ready to serve as guide, suggesting, however, that they journey fully armed, with an escort of a thousand men, so as to cope with treachery should such occur. "Turn, while there's time for safety, turn, warriors most and least; For this, and for this only, you're bidden to the feast, That you perforce may perish in Etzel's bloody land. Whoever rideth thither, Death has he close at hand." _25th Adventure._ Dismissed with the old queen's blessing, the Burgundians leave Brunhild and her son in charge of a steward, and set out. As they are now sole possessors of the great Nibelung hoard, the poet terms them Nibelungs in the remainder of his work. Under the guidance of Hagen, who alone knows the way, the party reaches the banks of the Danube, where, finding no vessels to ferry them across, Hagen bids them wait until he provide means of transportation. Walking down the river, he surprises three swan-maidens bathing, and by capturing their garments induces them to predict the future. Although one promises him all manner of pleasant things to recover her plumes, her companions, having secured theirs, warn Hagen that none but the priest will return safely to Burgundy, and inform him that he can secure a boat by assuring the ferry-man on the opposite bank that his name is Amalung. Thanks to this hint, Hagen induces the ferry-man to cross the river and springs into his boat, before the man, discovering the trick, attacks him with his oar. Forced to defend himself, Hagen slays the ferry-man, takes possession of his boat, and then proceeds to convey relays of the Burgundian army across the river. During his last trip, perceiving the chaplain on board and wishing to give the lie to the swan-maidens' prophecy, Hagen flings the priest into the water; but the long ecclesiastical garments buoy up their wearer and enable him to regain the bank which he has just left, whence he makes his way back to Burgundy. On perceiving the priest's escape, Hagen realizes none of the rest will return, so grimly destroys the boat as soon as he is through with it. Then he directs his friends to ride onward, leaving him to guard their rear, for he knows the boatman's friends will pursue and attack them. _26th Adventure._ Although Hagen's apprehensions are soon justified, the Burgundians fight so bravely that their assailants are defeated. A little farther on they find a man sleeping by the roadside, and discover it is Ekkewart, lying in wait to warn them that Kriemhild cherishes evil intentions. But, undeterred by this warning also, the Burgundians continue their journey, and visit Bishop Pilgrin and Rudiger on their way. _27th Adventure._ While at Rudiger's,--where the ladies welcome all save Hagen with a kiss, and where the host lavishes gifts upon his guests,--Hagen suggests that a marriage be arranged between Giseler, the youngest Burgundian prince, and Rudiger's daughter. In compliance with this suggestion, a formal betrothal takes place. Then had the bride and bridegroom within a ring to stand, For such was then the custom; a merry stripling band Encircled the fair couple, and gaz'd on them their fill, And thought the while as idly as think young people still. This ceremony over, Rudiger prepares to guide the Burgundians to Etzel's court, where Kriemhild is rejoicing to think they will soon appear. _28th Adventure._ So patent are Kriemhild's evil intentions, that Dietrich of Bern and his faithful henchman Hildebrand also caution the Burgundians to be on their guard. This second warning impresses the visitors, who at Hagen's suggestion announce they will retain their weapons for three days. When they arrive at the palace, Kriemhild cordially embraces her youngest brother, but refuses the same welcome to the two others, and grimly asks Hagen whether he has brought her gold. When he bluntly rejoins her treasures will remain in the Rhine until Doomsday, she abruptly turns her back upon him, and invites the rest to enter the palace, leaving their arms at the door. Thereupon Hagen announces his masters have vowed to spend the next three days in arms, a measure which Dietrich openly approves, informing Kriemhild to her very face that he is sure she means no good. _29th Adventure._ Although the three royal brothers accompany Kriemhild into the palace, Hagen lingers at the door, and, inviting the minstrel Volker to sit on the bench beside him, confides to him his fears, entreating him to stand by him, and promising to do the same in his behalf should the need occur. "Tell me now, friend Volker, will you stand me by, If these men of Kriemhild's would my mettle try? Show me, if you love me, faithful friend and true! And when you need my service I'll do as much for you." On seeing her foe so close at hand, Kriemhild summons four hundred warriors, and bids them attack Hagen, for at present _he_ is the only one against whom she has sinister designs. To prove to the men that Hagen is guilty, she offers to meet and question her foe in their presence. On seeing her coming, Volker suggests they rise in token of respect, but Hagen grimly rejoins Kriemhild would merely take such politeness as a proof of weakness. Instead of rising, he therefore ostentatiously lays Siegfried's sword across his lap. After taunting Hagen with slaying her husband,--a charge he does not deny,--Kriemhild orders her men to slay him, but a single glance of his fiery eyes sends them back cringing, and the queen cannot prevail upon them to renew the attack. Seeing this, Volker and Hagen boldly join their friends in the banquet-hall, where Etzel--who is depicted as an inoffensive, unsuspicious old man--cordially bids them welcome. _30th Adventure._ On their way to their sleeping quarters that night, the Burgundians are jostled by some Huns, who, instigated by Kriemhild, are evidently seeking to provoke a quarrel. In spite of their efforts, however, the Burgundians reach their dormitory in safety, where Hagen and Volker watch all night at the door to guard against surprise. It is well for them they do so, because at midnight Kriemhild dispatches a force to attack them, but again the Huns shrink away appalled on meeting Hagen's menacing glance. _31st Adventure._ At dawn the Burgundians, still fully armed, march off to church, and after service proceed with the king and queen to view a tournament held in their honor. In these games Rudiger and Dietrich both refuse to take part, lest an accident should occur. Their previsions are justified, for, when Volker inadvertently slays a Hun, Kriemhild loudly clamors for vengeance, although her husband implores that peace be maintained. Fomented by Kriemhild's secret efforts, such bad feelings have arisen among the Huns against their guests, that Etzel's own brother finally undertakes to compass their death. Meantime the old king, having invited the Burgundians to a banquet, is surprised to see the princes arrive fully armed, but tries to show his friendship by promising they shall bring up his son. _32d Adventure._ While the Burgundians are banqueting with the king of Hungary, their men are resting in the hall where they slept, under the charge of Dankwart, Hagen's brother. There they are suddenly attacked by some Huns, and, although they manage to slay most of their first assailants, the deaths they deal kindle lasting animosity in the breast of the rest of the Huns. New forces therefore press into the hall, until all the Burgundians are slain, save Dankwart, who, cutting his way through the enemy's serried ranks, rushes into the hall where his brother is feasting, and reports what has occurred. "Be stirring, brother Hagen, you're sitting all too long. To you and God in heaven our deadly strait I plain; Yeomen and knights together lie in their quarters slain." _33d Adventure._ No sooner has this cry reached his ear, than Hagen, whipping out his sword, cuts off the head of Etzel's child, which bounces into its mother's lap. Then, calling to his brother to prevent any escape, Hagen shears off the hand of the minstrel who invited them to Hungary, before he begins slashing right and left. Paralyzed by the sight of their headless son, Etzel and Kriemhild sit immovable on their thrones, while Hagen despatches Volker to help Dankwart guard the door, and bids his masters make use of their weapons while they may. Although the Burgundians now slay ruthlessly, mindful of the kindness shown by Dietrich and Rudiger they refrain from attacking them or their men. When these noblemen therefore beg permission to pass out safely with their friends, their request is unquestionably granted. Grasping the king and queen by the hand, Dietrich then leads them out of the hall, closely followed by Rudiger and their respective men, while the Burgundians continue the massacre until not a living foe is left in the hall. _34th Adventure._ Weary of slaughter, the Burgundians now sit down for a moment to rest, but, finding the presence of so many corpses distasteful, they fling seven hundred victims down the steps, those who are merely wounded being killed by the fall. The Huns, who come to pick up their dead, now set up so loud and persistent a cry for revenge, that their monarch is compelled to prepare a force to oust the Burgundians from his banquet-hall. Seeing the aged monarch himself advance at the head of the troops, Hagen, who guards the door, loudly jeers at him, whereupon Kriemhild offers an immense reward to any one who will bring her his head. _35th Adventure._ The first to try to earn this guerdon is a Dane, who not only succeeds in entering the hall but in effecting a retreat. When, emboldened by this first success, he advances a second time with a new force, he is killed as well as his men. _36th Adventure._ After a second brief rest, the Burgundians prepare to meet a new assault directed by Kriemhild, whose wrath now involves all her kinsmen, although at first she meditated the death of Hagen alone. The murder of his child has incensed even Etzel, and the Huns plan a general massacre to avenge their slain. Although the Burgundians offer to meet Etzel's forces in fair fight provided they can return home unmolested if victorious, Kriemhild urges her husband to refuse unless Hagen is delivered up to their tender mercies. Deeming it dishonorable to forsake a companion, the Burgundians reject these terms, whereupon Kriemhild, whose fury has reached a frantic point, orders the hall set on fire. Although the queen fancies the Burgundians will be roasted alive, the hall being built of stone offers them a place of refuge, and, as they quench in blood all the sparks that enter, they succeed in maintaining their position. 'Twas well for the Burgundians that vaulted was the roof; This was, in all their danger, the more to their behoof. Only about the windows from fire they suffer'd sore. Still, as their spirit impell'd them, themselves they bravely bore. The intensity of the heat causes such thirst, however, that Hagen bids his companions quench that too in the blood of the slain. Thus, six hundred Burgundians are found alive when a new Hungarian force bursts into the hall. _37th Adventure._ Having failed in this third attempt, Kriemhild reminds Rudiger of his solemn oath, and bids him redeem his promise by slaying the Burgundians. Although this nobleman pleads with the queen, offering instead to relinquish all he owns and leave her land a beggar, she insists upon his obedience to her commands. Fully armed, Rudiger, therefore, finally marches toward the hall and, arriving at the foot of the staircase, explains his position to the Burgundians. Knowing his generosity, Hagen, whose shield has been cut to pieces, begs for the one Rudiger carries, and, after receiving it, declares he will give a good account of himself before he yields. The signal for battle is then given and Rudiger and his men enter the hall, where, after many have fallen on both sides, Gernot, one of Kriemhild's brothers, and Rudiger slay each other. _38th Adventure._ A new batch of corpses having been flung down stairs, such a lament arises among the Huns that Dietrich of Bern inquires what it may mean. On learning that Rudiger has been slain, Dietrich bids Hildebrand go and claim his corpse, but, instead of acting merely as ambassador, this warrior first bandies words with Volker and then slays him. Seeing this, Hagen drives him down the stairs, and discovers that all the Burgundians have now been slain, and that he and Gunther alone remain alive in the hall. Meantime Hildebrand having reported to Dietrich all that has occurred, this chief, hearing most of his men have perished, sallies forth to avenge them. _39th Adventure._ On approaching the hall, Dietrich summons Hagen and Gunther to surrender, promising to use his influence to secure their safe return home; but the two Burgundians, feeling sure Kriemhild will show no mercy, refuse to yield. A duel, therefore, takes place between Dietrich and the exhausted Hagen, in the course of which, by means of a sudden feint, Dietrich seizes and binds his foe. Then, leading him to Kriemhild, he implores her to be merciful to this prisoner, while he returns to secure Gunther also. "Fair and noble Kriemhild," thus Sir Dietrich spake, "Spare this captive warrior who full amends will make For all his past transgressions; him here in bonds you see; Revenge not on the fetter'd th' offences of the free." While Dietrich is securing Gunther in the same way, the queen, left alone with Hagen, again demands her treasures. Hagen rejoins that, having promised never to reveal their hiding-place as long as his lords live, he cannot reveal the secret to her. Hearing this statement, Kriemhild, whose cruelty now knows no bounds, orders Gunther--her last brother--slain, and herself carries his head to Hagen, as proof there is no more reason for guarding the secret. Proudly informing her, since it now depends upon him alone, it will remain secret forever, Hagen so exasperates Kriemhild that, drawing from its scabbard the sword which once belonged to Siegfried, she hews off her prisoner's head with one revengeful stroke! Although neither her husband nor Hildebrand have been quick enough to forestall this crime, the latter is so exasperated by Kriemhild's cruelty that he now slays her in his turn. Hildebrand the aged, fierce on Kriemhild sprung; To the death he smote her as his sword he swung. Sudden and remorseless he his wrath did wreak. What could then avail her her fearful thrilling shriek! It is, therefore, in the presence of her corpse that Dietrich and Etzel utter the loud lament with which the Nibelungenlied closes. There is, however, another poem called the Nibelungenklage, or the Lament of the Nibelungs, wherein Etzel, Dietrich, Hildebrand, Bishop Pilgrin, and the rest utter successive laments over the slain. Then the spoil of the Burgundians is sent back to Worms, where these lamentations are continued, each mourner reciting the deeds of the man whose fate he bewails. This poem is, however, greatly inferior to the real Nibelungenlied, and was evidently not composed by the same bard. "'Tis more than I can tell you what afterward befell, Save that there was weeping for friends belov'd so well Knights and squires, dames and damsels, were seen lamenting all. So here I end my story. This is the Nibelungers' Fall." FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 29: See the author's "Legends of the Middle Ages."] [Footnote 30: All the quotations in this chapter are from Lettsom's translation of "The Nibelungenlied."] [Footnote 31: See the author's "Legends of the Rhine."] STORY OF THE HOLY GRAIL The Anglo-Norman trouvères rightly considered the Story of the Holy Grail the central point of interest of the Arthurian cycle, or the grand climax in the legend. So many versions of the tale have been written by poets of different nationalities and different ages--all of whom have added characteristic touches to the story--that, instead of following the text of any one particular version, a general outline of the two principal Holy Grail legends will be given here. Although all the poets do not mention the origin of the Holy Grail, or sacred vessel, a few trace its history back to the very beginning. They claim that when Lucifer stood next to the Creator, or Father, in the heavenly hierarchy, the other angels presented him with a wonderful crown, whose central jewel was a flawless emerald of unusual size. The advent of the Son, relegating Lucifer to the third instead of the second place, occasioned his apostasy, which, as Milton explains, was followed by war in heaven and by the expulsion of the rebel angels. During his fall from the heights of heaven to the depths of hell, the emerald, dropping out of Satan's crown, fell upon earth. There it was fashioned into the cup or dish which Our Lord used during the Last Supper, and in which Joseph of Arimathea caught a few drops of blood which flowed from His side. After the Crucifixion the Jews walled Joseph alive in a prison, where he was sustained in good health and spirits by the Holy Grail, which he had taken with him. In this prison Joseph lingered until Vespasian, hearing the story of Christ's passion, sent messengers to Palestine for relics, hoping they might cure his son Titus of leprosy. Restored to health by the sight of St. Veronica's handkerchief,--which had wiped away the bloody sweat from Our Lord's brow and bore the imprint of his feature,--Titus proceeded to Jerusalem, where he summoned the Jews to produce the body of Christ. Not being able to comply, they accused Joseph of having stolen it. Thereupon Titus, continuing his investigations, found Joseph alive and well in the prison where he was supposed to have perished. Free once more, yet dreading further persecution, Joseph embarked, with his sister and brother-in-law Brons, in a vessel bound for Marseilles, the Holy Grail supplying all their needs during the journey. On landing in France, Joseph was divinely instructed to construct a table, around which he and his companions could be seated, and where the Holy Grail supplied each guest with the food he preferred. But one seat at this table, in memory of Judas, was to remain empty until a sinless man came to occupy it. A sinner, once attempting to seat himself in it, was swallowed up by the earth, and Joseph was informed that the enchanter Merlin would in time make a similar table, where a descendant of Brons would have the honor of occupying this "Siege Perilous." From Marseilles, by gradual stages, and meeting with every kind of adventure on the way, Joseph, or his descendants, conveyed the Holy Grail to Glastonbury in England, where it remained visible until people became too sinful for it to dwell any more in their midst. It was then borne off to Sarras, an island city,--presumably located in the Mediterranean,--where, according to one legend King Evelake mounted guard over the treasure. According to another legend, a pilgrim knight laid a golden cross on the Holy Sepulchre, ardently praying for a son, whom at his birth he named Titurel and dedicated to the service of the Lord. After this Titurel had spent years in warfare against the Saracens and in doing good to the poor, an angel announced to him that he had been chosen to guard the Holy Grail, which was about to descend once more to earth, and take up its abode on Montsalvatch. This vision sufficed to send Titurel off on a quest for the Holy Mountain,--which some authorities identify with the place of the same name on the east coast of Spain,--whither he was safely led by a guiding cloud. After ascending the steep mountain, Titurel was favored with a glimpse of the Holy Grail, and he and a number of knights--also brought thither by miraculous means--erected a marvellous temple, whose foundations were laid by the angels, who labored at the edifice while the volunteer builders were at rest. In a marvellously short time a temple of transcendent beauty was thus finished, and, as soon as it was consecrated, the Holy Grail stole down from heaven on a beam of celestial light, to abide in its midst. Titurel, king and guardian of the Holy Grail, always presided at the table around which his knights gathered, and where one and all were miraculously fed. Besides, there appeared from time to time on the edge of the sacred vase, in letters of fire, instructions bidding a knight go out into the world to defend some innocent person or right some wrong. The Knights of the Holy Grail, or Templars, as they were indifferently styled, then immediately sallied forth to fulfil this behest, which according to their vows had to be accomplished without revealing their name or origin. Once the command was that Titurel should marry, whereupon he wooed a Spanish maiden, by whom he had a son and daughter. This son, marrying in the same way, had in time two sons and three daughters, one of whom became the mother of Parzival. Old and weary of reigning, Titurel finally resigned the care of the Holy Grail, first to his son,--who was slain in war,--and then to his grandson Amfortas. But the latter proved restless also, went out into the world, and, instead of serving the Holy Grail, lived a life of pleasure and adventure. Wounded by a thrust from a poisoned lance,--some authors claim it was the one which wounded the Saviour's side,--Amfortas sadly returned to Montsalvatch, where the mere thought of the veiled Holy Grail increased his pain by intensifying his remorse. There, one day, he read on the rim of the cup, that his wound was destined to be healed by a guileless fool, who would accidentally climb the mountain and, moved by sympathy, would inquire the cause of his suffering and thereby make it cease. We have already mentioned the fact that Parzival was a great-grandson of Titurel; his mother, fearing he would die young, like his father, were he to become a knight, brought him up in seclusion, telling him nothing about knights, fighting, or the world. Straying in the forest one day this youth encountered a couple of knights, whom he mistook for angels, owing to their bright array, and offered to worship. The knights, however, refused his homage, and good-naturedly advised him to hasten to Arthur's court and learn to become a knight too. Parzival now left his mother,--who died of grief,--went to court (meeting sundry adventures on the way), and there asked to be knighted. He was told, however, he must first procure a horse and armor, whereupon he followed and slew an insolent knight who defied King Arthur. But Parzival did not know how to remove the armor from his dead foe, until a passing knight obligingly showed him how it was done. Parzival now spent a time of apprenticeship at court where he learned among other things, that a knight should never be unduly inquisitive, then went to the rescue of a persecuted and virtuous queen, whom he wooed and married. He soon left her, however, to visit his mother, of whose death he was not aware. On his way home Parzival came to a lake, where a richly dressed fisherman informed him he might find a night's lodging in the castle on the hill, where he offered to conduct him. Thus Parzival penetrated into the castle on Montsalvatch and was duly led into the banqueting hall. Awed by the splendor of his surroundings, the young candidate for knighthood silently noted that his host seemed to be suffering from a secret wound, and perceived that all the other guests were oppressed by overwhelming sadness. Then suddenly the doors opened wide, and a strange procession entered the hall, slowly circled around the table, and again passed out! In this procession marched a servant bearing a bloody lance, at the sight of which all present groaned, then came maidens carrying the stand for the Holy Grail, which was reverently brought in by Titurel's grand-daughter. The vase was, however, closely veiled, and it was only after repeated entreaties from the knights present that the host unveiled it, uttering the while heart-rending groans. All present were now served with the food they most desired, which they ate in silence, and then the knights marched out of the hall, gazing reproachfully at Parzival, who silently wondered what all this might mean. His hunger sated, Parzival was conducted to luxurious sleeping apartments, but, when he was ready to leave on the morrow, all the castle seemed deserted, and it was only when he had crossed the drawbridge and it had been raised behind him, that a harsh voice was heard vehemently cursing him. Shortly after, on learning that a sympathetic inquiry would have dispelled the gloom in the palace, he had just left, Parzival attempted to return, but the mysterious castle was no longer to be found. Such was our hero's remorse for his sin of omission that he continued the quest for years, doing meanwhile all manner of noble and heroic deeds. In reward, he was knighted by Arthur himself, and bidden by Merlin occupy "the Siege Perilous" where his name suddenly appeared in letters of gold. Our version of the story explains that, just as he was about to sit down in the Siege Perilous, the witch Kundrie arrived, and hotly denounced him as an unfeeling wretch, a sufficient reminder to make Parzival immediately renew his quest. Adequate penance having been done at last, and the young knight having stood every test without losing his purity, Parzival was finally allowed to atone for his unconscious fault. Once more he arrived at the castle, once more entered the banquet hall, and once more beheld the mystic procession. Strengthened by silent prayer, Parzival then asked the momentous question; whereupon Amfortas' wound was instantly healed, the aged Titurel released from the pain of living, Kundrie baptized, and Parzival unanimously hailed as future guardian of the Grail, an office he humbly yet proudly assumed. Another legend claims that his son Lohengrin, ordered by the Holy Grail to go and defend Elsa of Brabant, received from his father a magic horn, by means of which he was to announce his safe arrival at his destination, and to summon help whenever he wished to return. Instead of riding a charger, Lohengrin was conveyed in a swan-drawn skiff to Brabant, where he found Elsa praying for a champion to defend her against Frederick of Telramund's accusation of having slain her little brother, who had mysteriously disappeared. Lohengrin, having proved the falsity of the charge by defeating the accuser in a judicial duel, married Elsa, warning her she must never seek to discover his name or origin, under penalty of seeing him depart as suddenly as he had arrived. The machinations of Frederick of Telramund, and of his artful wife, finally drove Elsa to propound the fatal question, and, as soon as Lohengrin has sorrowfully answered it, the swan appeared and bore him away! But, as Lohengrin departed, Elsa's brother reappeared to serve as her protector.[32] This--mostly German--version of the Grail legend--has been used by Wolfram von Eschenbach for a long and famous epic, and by Wagner for his operas Parzival and Lohengrin. In the French and particularly in the English versions of the Quest for the Holy Grail, or Sangreal, Percival is with the other knights of Arthur's Round Table when they take this vow. He seeks for it, perceives it through a veil, but never entirely achieves the quest, since that privilege is reserved for the peerless Galahad. The versions of the Holy Grail Story of which Galahad is hero run about as follows: Galahad is the son of Launcelot and Elaine, the latter's nurse having, by means of enchantment, made her to appear as Guinevere--whom Launcelot loved. Deserted by the accidental father of her coming child, this Elaine--daughter of King Pelles--took refuge in a nunnery, where she gave birth to Galahad, whom when dying she entrusted to the nuns. Brought up by those holy women and strengthened in early infancy by frequent glimpses of the Holy Grail,--whose light was blinding to all but the perfectly pure,--Galahad reached manhood as pure as when he was born. One day Sir Launcelot and Sir Bors were summoned from Camelot to a small church near by, to act as sponsors for a young candidate for knighthood, who was presented to them by some nuns. Launcelot and Bors, having thus heard Galahad take his vows, were not surprised to see him brought into their midst on a gala day, by Merlin or by the spirit of Joseph, and to hear him warmly welcomed by Arthur. Some versions claim that Galahad, led to the Siege Perilous, found his name miraculously inscribed on it in letters of gold, and was told he alone should occupy that place at the Round Table. According to some accounts, it was while all the knights were thus seated around Arthur's board on this occasion, that the Holy Grail suddenly appeared in their midst, its radiance so veiled by its coverings that one and all vowed--when it had disappeared--never to rest until they had beheld it unveiled. Arthur, knowing this boon would be granted only to the absolutely pure and that they were all but one sinful men in various degrees, keenly regretted they should have made a vow which would entail a hopeless quest, and would at the same time leave him bereft of the very knights who had hitherto helped him to right the wrong and keep the pagans at bay. The knights hastened to church to receive a blessing before they departed, and then went off, singly or in small groups, to seek the Holy Grail. When Galahad arrived at Arthur's court, he was fully armed, save that an empty scabbard hung by his side and that he bore no shield. Soon after his arrival, a servant breathlessly announced he had just seen a large block of stone floating down the river, into which a beautiful sword was thrust to the hilt. On hearing this, Arthur and his knights hurried down to the landing place, but, although the stone paused there, neither the king nor any of the nobles at his court were able to draw out the sword. It became evident it was intended for Galahad only, when he easily drew it out of the stone. It was then, according to this version, that the other knights pledged themselves to go in quest of the Holy Grail. Riding off alone, Galahad came to an abbey, where hung a white shield bearing a red cross, which he learned had once belonged to the king of Sarras, who was converted by Joseph's son. The red cross was drawn with blood, and was to remain undimmed for its future bearer, Galahad. The young champion, thus completely equipped, rode off and next arrived at the enchanted Castle of the Holy Grail. There he saw Titurel, the sleeping king, and Amfortas, the acting king, before whom the Grail passed unseen because he had sinned. Silently Galahad watched the mystic procession of bleeding spear, miraculous dish or cup, and Seven-branched Candlesticks. Like Parzival he hesitated to ask any questions, and failed to achieve the Holy Grail, because, although possessing all other virtues, he could not entirely forget himself for the sake of others and thus lacked true sympathy or altruism. Thrust out of the Castle--like Parzival--he wandered through a blighted country, where he met the Loathley Damsel, who in punishment for her sins was turned loose into the world to work evil to men. She hotly reviled Galahad for not having asked the momentous question, and the youth, learning thus in what way he had been wanting, solemnly vowed to return to the castle and atone for his omission. But meantime the enchanted Castle had vanished, and Galahad, the Champion of Purity,--whose red color he always wears,--travelled through the world, righting the wrong. He arrived thus at the gate of a castle defended by seven knights,--the Seven Deadly Sins,--with whom he struggled to such good purpose that he defeated them, and was free to enter into the Castle of the Maidens, or place where the Active Virtues have long been kept in durance vile. But, the door still being locked, Galahad was glad to receive the key proffered by an old monk, who, in the legend, personified Righteousness. Galahad, the emblem of a pure soul, now penetrated into the castle, where the maidens blessed him for setting them free, and where he modestly received their thanks. Among these maidens was Lady Blanchefleur, Galahad's match in purity, to whom he bade farewell as soon as their nuptials were solemnized, for he realized The Quest could be achieved only by a virgin knight. Once more Galahad rides through the world, and this time he again finds and enters into the castle of the Grail, where he once more beholds the Sacred Mysteries. His heart full of sympathy for the suffering Amfortas, he now overlooks the rules of formal politeness in his desire to help, and propounds the decisive question. Immediately a refulgent light shines forth from the veiled Grail in all its life-giving radiance, and King Amfortas, healed of his sin, and hence able to see the vessel, dies of joy, just as an angel bears the priceless treasure away from the Enchanted Castle, where it is no longer to sojourn. Longing for the time when he too can see the Grail unveiled, Galahad remounts his milk-white steed and rides through the world, where everybody thanks him for freeing the world of the pall of darkness and sin which has rested upon the land ever since Amfortas, titulary guardian of the Holy Grail, sinned so grievously. Riding thus, Galahad comes at last to the sea, where King Solomon's ship awaits him. This vessel has been miraculously preserved for this purpose, and sent here to convey him safely to Sarras, "the spiritual place." It is the present home of the Holy Grail, which had already sojourned there after the death of Joseph of Arimathea. The ship in which Galahad embarks is steered by an angel, one of the Guardians of the Holy Grail, and the cup it holds, although closely veiled from profane glances, casts beams of refulgent light upon Galahad and his companions Sir Percival and Sir Bors. They two, however, not being perfectly pure, cannot clearly distinguish the Grail, whose sight fills the soul of Galahad with ineffable rapture. Before long the ship arrives at Sarras, the fabulous city, where Galahad can hang up his sword and shield and take his well-earned rest, for the Quest is at last achieved! The travellers are welcomed by an old man, and, when the king of Sarras dies, the people unanimously elect Galahad their next ruler. After governing them wisely for a year, Galahad--who prayed in King Solomon's ship that he might pass out of the world whenever he should ask it--begged for the death of the body so he might find the eternal life of the soul. When he died, the Holy Grail, which had been piously guarded in Sarras, returned to heaven, for Galahad's work was finished on earth, as is indicated by the frescos of the Boston library, where angels guard a Golden Tree of achievement whose branches reach right up into heaven. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 32: See the author's "Stories of the Wagner Operas" and "Legends of the Rhine."] EPICS OF THE NETHERLANDS In searching among Dutch masterpieces of literature we find that their greatest epic is "Joannes Boetgezant," or John the Messenger of Repentance. This epic in six books, on the life of John the Baptist, was written in 1662 by Vondel, and bears many traits of resemblance to Milton's Paradise Lost. It has been conjectured that the most famous of all the animal epics or beast fables originated in Flanders or Luxembourg, which for a time was included in the Low Countries. This epic, which has been translated into every European language and has even found its way into the Far East, has been frequently remodelled. The oldest extant MS. in Latin dates back to the eleventh or twelfth century. Among modern versions the most clever, finished, and popular is Goethe's "Reinecke Fuchs."[33] In this poem he describes how the animals assemble at Whitsuntide to complain to their king, Noble, the Lion, about the dark deeds of Reynard the Fox. The main grievance is that of Isegrim, the Wolf, who claims Reynard blinded three of his offspring and insulted his wife. Speaking French, the Lapdog Wackerlos next pathetically describes how he was robbed of a sausage, which the Tomcat vehemently declares was his. Having heard the depositions of the Wolf, the Dog, the Cat, the Panther, and the Hare, Noble is about to sentence the delinquent, when Grimbart, the Badger,--uncle of Reynard--rises to defend the accused. Artfully he turns the tables and winds up his plausible peroration with the statement that Reynard, repenting of all past sins, has turned hermit, and is now spending his time in fasting, alms-giving, and prayer! Just as Noble is about to dismiss the case as non-proven, Henning the Cock appears, followed by his sons, who bear on a litter the mangled remains of a hen, strangled by Reynard, who slipped into the chicken-yard in the guise of a monk. The king immediately dispatches Brown the Bear to Malepartus to summon Reynard to appear at court. On arriving at his destination, the Bear, although still resenting the king's recommendations to be wary, allows himself to be led to a half-split tree-trunk, within which Reynard assures him he will find stores of honey to refresh himself. Just as soon as the Bear's nose and forepaws are greedily inserted into the crack, Reynard slyly removes the wedges and decamps, leaving the Bear a prisoner and howling with pain. His roars soon attract the peasant and his son, who beat the captive until he wrenches himself loose, at the cost of some patches of skin and of a few claws. The Bear, returning to court in this plight, is taxed with stupidity and greed, and Hintze the Cat is sent to summon Reynard to court. The Cat, hungry also, is led to a small opening in a barn which Reynard declares is swarming with mice, but where the poor Tomcat is caught in a trap, whence he escapes only after having received a beating and lost one eye. His woful report decides the king to send Grimbart the Badger to summon his nephew to court. Reynard receives this emissary most courteously, and, on hearing the king will raze his fortress if he does not obey, sets out for court. On the way Reynard begs Grimbart to act as his confessor, and, having unburdened his conscience, does penance and receives absolution. But scarcely has this ceremony been completed when Reynard, spying some fat hens, begins to chase them, and is only with difficulty recalled to a sense of what is fitting. On arriving at court, Reynard hypocritically regrets so many people have slandered him to the king, and tries to refute every charge. He is, however, sentenced to the gallows, but even on the road thither devises a plan to escape. Pretending regret for his past, he humbly begs the king's permission to address the spectators, and in a lengthy speech describes how he was led astray in his youth by Isegrim the Wolf. He also declares his only regret is to die before he can reveal to the king the hiding-place of a vast treasure which would enable him to outwit the plots of some rebels who are even now conspiring to kill him. The king, hearing this, immediately orders a reprieve, and, questioning the Fox in secret, learns that the conspirators are Brown the Bear, Isegrim the Wolf, and others. To reward the Fox for saving her husband's life, the queen now obtains his pardon, which Noble grants in exchange for information in regard to the treasure. Having given these indications, the Fox sets out on a pilgrimage to Rome, escorted by the Ram and the Hare, which latter is slain as soon as they arrive at Malepartus, where Reynard wishes to bid his family farewell. After feasting upon the flesh of this victim, Reynard puts his bones into a wallet and ties it on the Ram's back, bidding him hasten back to court with this present and receive his reward! Although circumstantial evidence is enough to convict the poor Ram of murder, a few days later new complaints are made against Reynard by a Rabbit and a Crow. Noble, roused again, prepares to batter down the walls of Malepartus, and Grimbart, perceiving Reynard's peril, hurries off to give him warning. He finds Reynard contemplating some young doves, upon which he intends to dine. On hearing what Grimbart has to say, Reynard declares it would be easy to acquit himself could he only gain the king's ear long enough to explain the real state of affairs. Then he again begs Grimbart to act as his father confessor, and, resuming his confession where he left off, makes a clean breast of all his misdeeds. Shortly after this, Reynard meets the Ape, who tells him that should he ever be in a quandary he must call for the aid of this clever ally or of his wife. At his second appearance at court, the Fox openly regrets there are so many vile people in the world ready to accuse innocent persons, and proceeds to set all his doings in such a plausible light, that the king, instead of sentencing him again to death, allows him to settle his case by fighting a judiciary duel with the Wolf. The preparations for the duel are ludicrous because the Fox, advised by the Ape, is shaven smooth, greased until too slippery to be held, and duly strengthened by advice and potations. Blinded by the sand continually whisked into his eyes by the Fox's tail, unable to hold his all too slippery opponent, the Wolf is beaten and the Fox acquitted by the Judgment of God! Although Noble now offers to make Reynard his privy counsellor, the Fox returns home, where his admiring wife and children welcome him rapturously. In some versions of the tale Reynard further avenges himself by suggesting, when the king is taken ill, that he can be cured if he eats the head of a wolf just seven years old, knowing the only wolf of that age is Isegrim, who throughout the epic is fooled by the clever Fox, the hero of endless adventures which have delighted young and old for centuries. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 33: See the author's "Legends of the Middle Ages."] SCANDINAVIAN EPICS The different Scandinavian dialects formed but one language until about 1000 A.D., when they split up into two great groups, the East Northern including the Danish and Swedish; and the West Northern including the Icelandic, Norwegian, and Faroese. Danish literature boasts of some five hundred chivalric ballads (Kjaempeviser), on partly historical and partly mythical themes, which were composed between the fourteenth and sixteenth centuries. It was the Danish translator of the Bible who introduced his countrymen to Charlemagne and Ogier, whose legends received their finished forms at his hands. In 1555 Reynard the Fox was translated into Danish from the French, in 1663 the Heimskringla from the Icelandic, but it was in 1641 that Arrebo composed the Hexaemeron or first real Danish epic. In the nineteenth century Paludan Müller also wrote epics, which, however, are not very popular outside of his country. The runes of Sweden bear witness to the existence of sundry ancient sagas or epics which perished when Christianity was introduced into the land. In the Middle Ages, a gleeman at the court of Queen Euphemia (1303-12) composed the Euphemiaviser, or romances of chivalry done into Swedish verse. The greatest epic work of Sweden is, however, Tegner's Frithjof's Saga (1846), relating the adventures and courtship of an old Scandinavian hero, a work of which a complete synopsis is given in the author's Legends of the Middle Ages. The élite of the Norwegians emigrated to Iceland for political reasons during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Owing to their geographical isolation and to the long winters, these people were thrown entirely on their own resources for amusement. The hours of darkness were beguiled by tales and songs, so young and old naturally delighted in the recitations of the skalds. This gave birth to an oral literature of great value, and, although many of the works of the skalds have perished, the Icelanders fortunately recovered in 1643,--after centuries of oblivion,--the Elder Edda, an eleventh-century collection of thirty-three poems on mythical and heroic subjects by Saemunt the Wise. There is also a similar work in prose known as the Younger Edda, by Snorro Sturluson, which contains tales of Scandinavian mythology, and this writer also collected many of the old hero tales in his Heimskringla. Many of the old sagas have been preserved in more or less perfect forms. They are generally divided into three groups, the first including sagas on historical themes, such as the Egilssaga, the Eyrbyggjasaga, the Njalssaga, the Laxdaelasaga, and the already mentioned Heimskringla. The second, mythical, or heroic group comprises the Grettis saga and the Volsunga, the finest of all the sagas and one of the main sources of the Nibelungenlied and of Wagner's Trilogy. This epic has been wonderfully rendered in modern English by William Morris. In the third and last group are massed together the romantic epics, translations or imitations of the Latin, French, and German epics and romances, relating to Alexander, Charlemagne, Parsival, etc. The finest saga in this group is the Gunnlaugssaga. Norwegian literature goes back to the skald Bragi (_c._ 800), whose principal poem, Ragnarsdrapa, relates the marvellous adventures of the national hero Ragnar Lodbrog. This poem was incorporated by Snorro Sturluson in what is known as the Snorro Edda. Most of the poems in the Elder Edda are also of Norwegian origin, as well as Hvin's Haustlöng or account of a famous warrior. In the thirteenth century prose sagas were plentiful among the Danes, who took special pleasure in the Thidrekssaga (1250), or life and adventures of Dietrich von Bern; in the Karlamagnussaga, or story of Charlemagne; and in the Barlaamssaga ok Josaphats, or Hebrew tale of Barlaam and Josaphat. Norway also possesses a rich fund of folk tales, which have been collected by Asbjörnsen, and which, having many of the qualities of prose epics, have delighted many generations. THE VOLSUNGA SAGA[34] The Second Part of the Edda contains the famous Volsunga Saga, or Epic of the Volsungs, which has not only given rise to the Nibelungenlied and to Wagner's famous Trilogy of operas, but also to William Morris' Sigurd the Volsung. The plot of this, the most characteristic and famous of the Scandinavian sagas, is as follows: Volsung, a lineal descendant from Odin, built his dwelling around the trunk of a mighty oak, the Branstock, whose branches overshadowed his whole dwelling. When Signy, Volsung's only daughter, was married against her will to Siggier, king of the Goths, a one-eyed stranger (Odin) suddenly appeared among the wedding guests, and thrust a priceless sword (Balmung) deep into the bole of the homestead oak. Before departing, as abruptly as he had come, the stranger proclaimed the weapon should belong to the man who pulled it out, and prophesied that it would assure him the victory in every fight. "Now let the man among you whose heart and hand may shift To pluck it from the oak-wood e'en take it for my gift. Then ne'er, but his own heart falter, its point and edge shall fail Until the night's beginning and the ending of the tale."[35] Although conscious that Odin had been in their midst, Volsung courteously invited the bridegroom to try his luck first, then himself attempted to draw out the divine sword, before he bade his ten sons exert their strength in turn. Only the youngest, Sigmund, was at last able to perform the required feat, and when Siggier eagerly offered to purchase his trophy from him, he firmly refused to part with it. Full of anger at this refusal, the Goth departed on the morrow, but although Signy loyally warned her kinsmen that her husband was plotting revenge, the Volsungs accepted his invitation to visit them soon. When Volsung and his ten sons arrived in Gothland, Signy again bade them beware of coming treachery, but all in vain. The brave Volsungs, drawn into an ambush by their wily foe, were seized and bound fast to a fallen tree in a lonely forest, where every night a wild beast devoured one of these helpless men. Closely watched by her cruel husband, Signy could lend no aid to the prisoners, but when none but Sigmund, the youngest, was left, she directed a slave to smear his face with honey. The wild beast, attracted by the sweet odor, licked the face of the last prisoner, who, thus enabled to catch its tongue between his teeth, struggled with the beast until his bonds broke and he was free! When Siggier sent to investigate as usual the next morning, his messenger reported no prisoners were left bound to the tree and that only a heap of bones was visible. Sure his foes were all dead, Siggier ceased to watch his wife, who, stealing out into the forest to bury the remains of her kin, discovered Sigmund in a thicket, and promised to aid him to obtain his revenge. To redeem this promise she sent to her brother, one after another, two of her sons to be trained as avengers, but, as both of these children proved deficient in courage, she came to the conclusion none but a pure-blooded Volsung would meet their requirements. To secure an offspring of this strain, Signy, disguised as a gypsy, secretly visited her brother's hut, and when their child, Sinfiotli, was older, sent him to Sigmund to foster and train. With a youthful helper whom nothing could daunt, Sigmund, after achieving sundry adventures, lay in wait in Siggier's cellar, but, warned by two of his young children that murderers were hiding behind his casks, Siggier had them seized and cast into separate cells. There he decreed they should starve to death. But, before their prison was closed, Signy cast into it a bundle of straw, wherein she had concealed Balmung, the magic sword. Thanks to this weapon, Sigmund and Sinfiotli not only hewed their way out of their separate prisons, but slew all the Goths who attempted to escape from Siggier's dwelling, which they set aflame. But, although both proposed to save Signy, she merely stepped out of the house long enough to reveal Sinfiotli's origin and bade them farewell, ere she plunged back into the flames! And then King Siggier's roof-tree upheaved for its utmost fall, And its huge walls clashed together, and its mean and lowly things The fire of death confounded with the tokens of the kings. A sign for many people on the land of the Goths it lay, A lamp of the earth none needed, for the bright sun brought the day. Feeling he had done his duty by avenging his father's and brothers' death, Sigmund now returned home, where in his old age he was slain in battle shortly after his marriage to a young wife. Finding him dying on the battle-field, this wife bore off the fragments of his magic sword as sole inheritance for his child, whom she hoped would prove a boy who could avenge him. One version of the story relates that to escape the pursuit of Sigmund's foes this expectant mother plunged into the woods and sought help and refuge in the smithy of Mimer, a magician as well as a blacksmith. Here she gave birth to Sigurd, who, as she died when he was born, was brought up by Mimer, who marvelled to find the boy absolutely fearless. Another version claims that, discovered by a Viking, mourning over her dead spouse, the widow was carried off by him, and consented to become his wife on condition he would prove a good foster-father to Sigmund's child. In this home Sigurd was educated by the wisest of men, Regin, who taught him all a hero need know, and directed him how to select his wonderful steed Grane or Greyfell (a descendant of Odin's Sleipnir), from a neighboring stud. Seeing the youth ready for adventure, Regin now told him how the gods Odin, Hoenir, and Loki, wandering upon earth in the guise of men, once slew an otter, which they carried to a neighboring hut, asking to have its meat served for their dinner. Their host, however, exclaiming they had killed his eldest son who often assumed the form of an otter, seized and bound them fast, vowing they should not be free until they gave as ransom gold enough to cover the huge otter-skin. The gods, knowing none but a magic treasure would suffice for that, bargained for the release of Loki, who departed in quest of the dwarf Andvari, the collector of an immense hoard of gold by magic means. As the wily Andvari could not easily be found, it required all the astuteness of the god of evil to discover him in the guise of a fish at the source of the Rhine, and to catch him by means of the sea-goddess' infallible net. Having the dwarf in his power, Loki wrung from him his huge treasure, his Helm of Dread, or cap of invisibility, and even tore from his very finger a magic ring of gold, thus incurring the dwarf's curse. "For men a curse thou bearest: entangled in my gold, Amid my woe abideth another woe untold. Two brethren and a father, eight kings my grief shall slay; And the hearts of queens shall be broken, and their eyes shall loathe the day. Lo, how the wilderness blossoms! Lo, how the lonely lands Are waving with the harvest that fell from my gathering hands!" Scorning this prediction, Loki hastened to the rescue of his fellow-gods; but, as the otter-skin stretched further and further, it required not only all the treasure, but even the helmet and the serpent ring of gold, to cover it and thus complete the required ransom. The new owner of the treasure now gloated over his gold until his very nature changed, and he was transformed into a hideous dragon. One of his two remaining sons, Fafnir, entering the hut, slew the dragon before he realized it was his father, and then, fascinated by treasure and ring, bore them off to a lonely heath, where in the guise of a dragon he too mounted guard over them. This appropriation of these treasures was keenly resented by his brother Regin, who, unable to cope with the robber himself, now begged Sigurd to help him. Like Mimer in the other version of the tale, Regin was an experienced blacksmith, but, notwithstanding all his skill, Sigurd broke every blade he forged for this task. Finally the young hero hammered out of the fragments of his dead father's blade a weapon which sheared the anvil in two, and could neatly divide a number of fleeces floating down a stream. Properly mounted and armed, Sigurd was guided by Regin to the Glittering Heath, the place where Fafnir guarded his gold. A one-eyed ferry-man (Odin) conveyed the youth across the river, advising him to dig a pit in the track the dragon had worn in his frequent trips to the river to drink. Hidden in this pit--the ferry-man explained--the youth could mortally wound the dragon while he crawled over his head. This advice being too pertinent to be scorned, Sigurd faithfully carried out the plan and slew the dragon, whose fiery blood poured down upon him and made every part of his body invulnerable, save a tiny spot between his shoulders, where a lime-leaf stuck so closely that the dragon blood did not touch the skin. While Sigurd was still contemplating the fallen monster, Regin joined him, and, fearing lest he might claim part of the gold, plotted to slay him. First, he bade Sigurd cut out the heart of the dragon and roast it for him, a task which the youth obediently performed, but in the course of which he stuck a burnt finger in his mouth to allay the smart. This taste of Fafnir's heart blood then and there conferred upon Sigurd the power to understand the language of some birds near by, which exclaimed that Regin was coming behind him to slay him with his own sword! Enraged at such ingratitude and treachery, Sigurd now slew Regin, and after piling up most of the treasure in a cave,--where it continued to be guarded by the dragon's corpse,--Sigurd rode away, taking with him his sword, the magic helmet, and the ring. Still guided by the birds, Sigurd next rode up a mountain, crowned by a baleful light, which he presently discovered emanated from a fire forming a barrier of flame around a fortress. Setting spurs to his divine steed, Sigurd rode right through these flames, which then flickered and died down, and discovered in the centre of the fortress a mound, whereon lay an apparently lifeless warrior. Using his sword to cut the armor fastenings, Sigurd discovered, beneath this armor, the Valkyr or battle-maiden Brynhild, who, on recovering consciousness, hailed her return to life and light with rapture and warmly thanked her deliverer. Then the two, having fallen in love with each other at first sight, explained to each other who they were; and Sigurd, after relating his own origin and adventures, learned that Brynhild, a Valkyr, having defied Odin by saving a man he had doomed to death, had been condemned to mate with any mortal who claimed her hand. Dreading to become the prey of a coward, Brynhild implored Odin to surround her with a barrier of fire which none save a brave man could cross. Although a goddess, she admits she loves her rescuer, and gladly accepts the magic ring he tenders and promises to be his wife. Then he set the ring on her finger and once, if ne'er again, They kissed and clung together, and their hearts were full and fain. The hero, however, doomed to press on in quest of further adventures, soon left Brynhild in the castle where he had found her, still protected by the barrier of flame, and rode off to Burgundy, the land of the Niblungs. Here reigned Guiki, whose fair daughter Gudrun once dreamt that a falcon, after hovering for some time over her house, nestled in her bosom, which she soon beheld dyed red by its life-blood. Disturbed by this ominous dream, Gudrun visited Brynhild and besought her interpretation, only to learn she would marry a king who would in time be slain by his foes. Shortly after this occurrence, Sigurd reached the land of the Niblungs and challenged Gunnar, brother of Gudrun, to fight. But, rather than cross swords with the slayer of a dragon, Gunnar offered the stranger his hand in friendship and sent for his sister to give him the cup of welcome. While sojourning here with the Niblungs, Sigurd distinguished himself by athletic feats and, when war broke out, by conquering their foes. These proofs of strength and daring captivated the heart of Gudrun, who, seeing Sigurd paid no attention to her, finally prevailed upon her mother to give her a love potion, which she offered to him on his return from one of his adventures. "He laughed and took the cup: but therein with the blood of the earth Earth's hidden might was mingled, and deeds of the cold sea's birth, And things that the high gods turn from, and a tangle of strange love, Deep guile, and strong compelling, that whoso drank thereof Should remember not his longing, should cast his love away, Remembering dead desire but as night remembereth day." No sooner has this potion been quaffed than our hero, utterly oblivious of earlier promises to Brynhild, sued for Gudrun's hand, and was promised she should be his bride if he helped Gunnar secure Brynhild. In behalf of his future brother-in-law--whose form he assumed--Sigurd once more rode through the flames, and, although haunted by vague memories of the past, wrested from Brynhild the magic betrothal ring he had given her, and claimed her as bride. Compelled by fate to wed any man who rode through the flames to claim her, Brynhild reluctantly obeyed Sigurd--whom she did not recognize--and was duly married to Gunnar, king of the Niblungs. But, on perceiving Sigurd at his court, she vainly strove to make him remember her and his vows, and was filled with bitter resentment when she perceived his utter devotion to Gudrun, his present bride. Meantime, although Gunnar had secured the wife he coveted, he was anything but a happy man, for Brynhild would not allow him to approach her. Sigurd, to whom he finally confided this unsatisfactory state of affairs, finally volunteered to exert his fabulous strength to reduce to obedience the rebellious bride, whom he turned over to his brother-in-law in a submissive mood, after depriving her of her girdle and ring, which he carried off as trophies and gave to Gudrun. Brynhild's resentment, however, still smouldered, and when Gudrun, her sister-in-law, attempted to claim precedence when they were bathing in the river, she openly quarrelled with her. In the course of this dispute, Gudrun exhibited the magic ring, loudly proclaiming her husband had wooed and won Gunnar's bride! Two distinct parties now defined themselves at court, where Högni, a kinsman of the Niblungs, vehemently espoused Brynhild's cause. By some secret means--for his was a dark and tortuous mind, ever plotting evil--Högni discovered the trick of the magic potion, as well as Brynhild's previous wooing by Sigurd, and proposed to her to avenge by blood the insult she had received. According to one version of the tale, Högni, who discovers in what spot Sigurd is vulnerable, attacks him while he is asleep in bed and runs his lance through the fatal spot. The dying Sigurd therefore has only time to bid his wife watch over their children ere he expires. By order of Gudrun, his corpse is placed on a pyre, where it is to be consumed with his wonderful weapons and horse. Just as the flames are rising, Brynhild, who does not wish to survive the man she loves, either plunges into the flames and is consumed too, or stabs herself and asks that her corpse be burned beside Sigurd's, his naked sword lying between them, and the magic ring on her finger. "I pray thee a prayer, the last word in the world I speak, That ye bear me forth to Sigurd and the hand my hand would seek; The bale for the dead is builded, it is wrought full wide on the plain, It is raised for Earth's best Helper, and thereon is room for twain: Ye have hung the shields about it, and the Southland hangings spread, There lay me adown by Sigurd and my head beside his head: But ere ye leave us sleeping, draw his Wrath from out the sheath, And lay that Light of the Branstock and the blade that frighted Death Betwixt my side and Sigurd's, as it lay that while agone, When once in one bed together we twain were laid alone: How then when the flames flare upward may I be left behind? How then may the road he wendeth be hard for my feet to find? How then in the gates of Valhall may the door of the gleaming ring Clash to on the heel of Sigurd, as I follow on my king?" Another version of the tale relates that Sigurd was slain by Högni while hunting in the forest, as the story runs in the Nibelungenlied. Next we are informed that the king of the Huns demanded satisfaction from Gunnar for his sister Brynhild's death, and was promised Gudrun's hand in marriage. By means of another magic potion, Sigurd's widow was induced to marry the king of the Huns, to whom she bore two sons. But, when the effect of the potion wore off, she loathed this second marriage and dreamed only of avenging Sigurd's death and of getting rid of her second spouse. As in the Nibelungenlied, Atli invited her kin to Hungary, where they arrived after burying the golden hoard in a secret spot in the Rhine, a spot they pledged themselves never to reveal. Once more we have a ride to Hungary, but Gudrun, seeing her husband means treachery, fights by her brother's side. Throughout this battle Gunnar sustains the courage of the Niblungs by playing on his harp, but, when only he and Högni are left, they are overpowered and flung into prison. There Atli vainly tries to make them confess the hiding-place of the hoard, and, hearing Gunnar will not speak as long as Högni lives, finally orders this warrior slain and his heart brought into Gunnar's presence. Convinced at last that the momentous secret now lies with him alone, Gunnar flatly refuses to reveal it. Then was Gunnar silent a little, and the shout in the hall had died, And he spoke as a man awakening, and turned on Atli's pride. "Thou all-rich King of the Eastlands, e'en such a man might I be That I might utter a word, and the heart should be glad in thee, And I should live and be sorry: for I, I only am left To tell of the ransom of Odin, and the wealth from the toiler reft. Lo, once it lay in the water, hid deep adown it lay, Till the gods were grieved and lacking, and men saw it and the day: Let it lie in the water once more, let the gods be rich and in peace! But I at least in the world from the words and the babble shall cease." In his rage Atli orders the bound prisoner cast into a pit full of venomous serpents, where, his harp being flung after him in derision, Gunnar twangs its strings with his toes until he dies. To celebrate this victory, Atli orders a magnificent banquet, where he is so overcome by his many potations that Gudrun either stabs him to death with Sigurd's sword, or sets fire to the palace and perishes with the Huns, according to different versions of the story. A third version claims that, either cast into the sea or set adrift in a vessel in punishment for murdering Atli, Gudrun landed in Denmark, where she married the king and bore him three sons. These youths, in an attempt to avenge the death of their fair step-sister Swanhild, were stoned to death. As for Gudrun, overwhelmed by the calamities which had visited her in the course of her life, she finally committed suicide by casting herself into the flames of a huge funeral pyre. This saga is evidently a sun myth, the blood of the final massacres and the flames of the pyre being emblems of the sunset, and the slaying of Fafnir representing the defeat of cold and darkness which have carried off the golden hoard of summer. Ye have heard of Sigurd aforetime, how the foes of God he slew; How forth from the darksome desert the Gold of the Waters he drew; How he wakened Love on the Mountain, and wakened Brynhild the Bright, And dwelt upon Earth for a season, and shone in all men's sight. Ye have heard of the Cloudy People, and the dimming of the day, And the latter world's confusion, and Sigurd gone away; Now ye know of the Need of the Niblungs and the end of broken troth, All the death of kings and of kindreds and the Sorrow of Odin the Goth. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 34: See the author's "Myths of Northern Lands."] [Footnote 35: All the quotations in this chapter are from Wm. Morris' "Sigurd the Volsung."] RUSSIAN AND FINNISH EPICS There is strong evidence that the Finns, or some closely allied race, once spread over the greater part of central Europe. The two or more million Finns who now occupy Finland, and are subject--much against their will--to the Czar, are the proud possessors of an epic poem--the Kalevala--which until last century existed only in the memory of a few peasants. Scattered parts of this poem were published in 1822 by Zacharias Topelius, and Elias Lönnrot, who patiently travelled about to collect the remainder, was the first to arrange the 22,793 verses into 50 runes or cantos. The Kalevala attracted immediate attention and has already been translated into most modern languages. Like most epics, its source is in the mythology and folk-lore of the people, and its style has been closely imitated by Longfellow in his Hiawatha. The latest English adaptation of this great epic is Baldwin's "Sampo." Although Russian literature is rich in folk poetry and epic songs, none of the latter have been written down until lately, with the exception of the twelfth-century Song of Igor's Band. The outline of this epic is that Igor, prince of Southern Russia, after being defeated and made prisoner, effected his escape with the help of a slave. Among the fine passages in this work we note Nature's grief over the prince's capture and the lament of his faithful consort. It was only in the nineteenth century, after Zhukovski and Batyushkoff had translated into Russian some of the world's great masterpieces, such as Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered and Homer's Odyssey, that Pushkin wrote (1820) the epic Ruslan and Lyudmila, drawing the materials therefore from Russian antiquity and from popular legends. There are in Russia and Siberia any number of epic songs or "bylinas," dating from legendary times to the present day, which have recently been collected by Kireyevski and others, and which already fill some ten volumes. The heroes of these songs are either personifications of the forces of nature or favorite historical personages. They form great cycles, one clustering for instance around Vladimir and the ancient capital of Russia, Kiev, another around the free city of Novgorod, and a third belonging to the later Moscow period. The principal hero of many of the Russian folk tales, and of the epic songs most frequently sung by wandering bards, is Ilya Muromets, who nobly protects widows and orphans and often displays his fabulous strength by reducing mighty oaks to kindling wood with a few blows! THE KALEVALA, OR THE LAND OF HEROES The national epic of the Finns was rescued from oblivion by Topelius and Lönnrot, two physicians, who took it down from the mouth of the people and published it in the first half of the nineteenth century. It consists in 22,793 lines, divided into fifty runes, and is considered by a great German authority--Steinthal--as one of the four great national epics of the world. Not only does it relate "the ever-varying contests between Finns and Laplanders," but that between Light and Darkness, Good and Evil, for in the poem the Finns personify Light and Good, while the Lapps are emblems of Darkness and Evil. The Sampo, which is mentioned in this poem, and which seems to have been some sort of a magic grist-mill, holds the same place in Finn mythology as the Golden Fleece in that of the Greeks. Many of the poems incorporated in this epic date back some three thousand years, and the epic itself is composed in alliterative verse, although it also contains rhythm of line and sound, as the following introductory lines prove. Mastered by desire impulsive, By a mighty inward urging, I am ready now for singing, Ready to begin the chanting Of our nation's ancient folk-song Handed down from by-gone ages, In my mouth the words are melting, From my lips the tones are gliding, From my tongue they wish to hasten; When my willing teeth are parted, When my ready mouth is opened, Songs of ancient wit and wisdom Hasten from me not unwilling.[36] The proem then invites all people to listen to legends of by-gone times and to the teachings of the wizard Wainamoinen, to admire the works of Ilmarinen and the doings of Youkahainen in the pastures of the Northland and in the meads of Kalevala. It adds that these runes were caught from the winds, the waves, and the forest branches, and have been preserved in the Northland ever since. _Rune I._ In the first rune we are informed that Ilmater, daughter of the air, weary of floating alone in space, finally descended to the ocean, where she was rocked in the cradle of the deep seven hundred, years. She made use of this time to create, out of the eggs of a wild duck, the canopy of the heavens, and the spherical earth, with its islands, rocks, and continents. At the end of these seven hundred years, Ilmater gave birth to Wainamoinen, having waited all this time to be delivered of him, and having vainly called all living creatures to her aid. After coming into the world, this wonderful child floated about on the ocean eight years, and then drew himself up on a barren promontory to admire the sun, moon, and starry skies. _Rune II._ After living alone for some time on this promontory or island, Wainamoinen summoned Pellerwoinen, "first-born of the plains and prairies," and bade him scatter broadcast seeds for the trees which were destined to clothe both vales and hillsides. In a twinkling of an eye, every variety of forest growth waved its branches hither and thither, and, although Wainamoinen rejoiced to see the forest, he soon discovered that the oak, the "tree of heaven," was lacking in it. Because the oak still slept within an acorn, Wainamoinen wondered how to conjure it out of its hiding-place, and, after consulting five water-maidens, called the giant Tursus out of the depths of the ocean. After burning the hay the water-maidens raked together, this giant planted in the ashes an acorn, which quickly sprouted, and whence arose a tree of such mighty proportions that its branches hid the rays of the sun and blotted out the starlight. Terrified by what he had done, Wainamoinen wondered how to get rid of the oak, and implored his mother to send some one to help him. Immediately there rose from the sea a pygmy, armed in copper, whom Wainamoinen deemed incapable of coping with so large a tree, until the dwarf suddenly transformed himself into a giant of such proportions that four blows from his copper axe felled the oak, scattering its trunk to the east, its top to the west, its leaves to the south, and its branches to the north. The chips from the fallen oak were collected by a Northland maiden to make enchanted arrows for a magician, and the soil it overshadowed immediately began to bear vegetation of sundry kinds. Gazing at this new growth Wainamoinen discovered every kind of seed sprouting there save barley. Soon after he found seven grains of this cereal on the sea-shore and consulted the birds how best to plant them. They advised him to fell the forests, burn the branches, and plant the barley in the land thus cleared. While obeying these directions in the main, Wainamoinen allowed the birch to stand, declaring there must be some place where the cuckoo and the eagle could build their nests. These two birds, greatly pleased by this attention, watched Wainamoinen as he sowed his seed, and heard him chant a prayer to Ukko, Father of Heaven, to send down rain to help it germinate. This prayer was answered to such, good purpose that eight days later Wainamoinen found a crop of barley ready to harvest, and heard the cuckoo's notes as it perched in the birch trees. "Therefore I have left the birch-tree, Left the birch-tree only growing, Home for thee for joyful singing. Call thou here, O sweet-voiced cuckoo, Sing thou here from throat of velvet, Sing thou here with voice of silver, Sing the cuckoo's golden flute-notes; Call at morning, call at evening, Call within the hour of noontide, For the better growth of forests, For the ripening of the barley, For the richness of the Northland, For the joy of Kalevala." _Rune III._ In the beautiful Land of the Heroes--Kalevala--Wainamoinen sang songs so wonderful that their fame spread northward to the land of the Lapps, and prompted Youkahainen to journey southward and challenge the "ancient minstrel" to a singing contest. In vain Youkahainen's parents strove to dissuade him from this undertaking; the bold youth harnessed his sledge and drove rapidly southward, colliding with Wainamoinen, who was also out in his sledge that day. Although Wainamoinen was modest, his opponent was boastful and boldly proposed they show their skill by singing. Invited to sing first, Wainamoinen chanted a set of commonplace axioms; but when Youkahainen imitated him, the ancient minstrel challenged his guest to sing of creation or philosophy. Although Youkahainen now claimed he and seven other primeval heroes saw how the earth was fashioned, how the sky was arched, and how the silvery moon and golden sun were set in position, Wainamoinen termed him prince of liars and averred he was not present at the creation as he claimed. This contradiction so enraged Youkahainen that he offered to fight, but, instead of accepting this challenge, Wainamoinen sang a magic song of such power that it resolved Youkahainen's sled and harness to their primitive components, and caused him to sink ever deeper into quicksands which finally rose to his very lips. Realizing his desperate plight, Youkahainen implored Wainamoinen to cease his enchantments, offering as a ransom for his life all manner of magic gifts which Wainamoinen scorned. In fact, it was only when the culprit promised him the hand of his sister Aino that the ancient minstrel reversed his spell, and not only released Youkahainen, but restored to him all his possessions. The defeated bard now returns to Lapland, and on arriving there smashes his sledge in token of anger. His parents wonderingly question him, and, on learning he has promised his sister's hand in marriage to the magician Wainamoinen, they are delighted that she should marry so influential a man, although the maiden herself mourns because all pleasures are to be taken from her forever. _Rune IV._ While out in the forest gathering birch shoots for brooms, this maiden soon after is seen by Wainamoinen, who bids her adorn herself for her wedding, whereupon she petulantly casts off the ornaments she wears and returns home weeping without them. When her parents inquire what this means, Aino insists she will not marry the old magician, until her mother bribes her by the offer of some wonderful treasures, bestowed by the Daughter of the Sun and Moon, and which until now have been hidden in the depths of the earth. Although decked in these magnificent adornments, the girl wanders around the fields, wishing she were dead, for marriage has no attractions for her and she is not anxious to become an old man's bride. Stealing down to the sea-shore, she finally lays aside her garments and ornaments and swims to a neighboring rock, where she no sooner perches than it topples over, and she sinks to the bottom of the sea! There Aino perishes, and the water is formed of her blood, the fish from her flesh, the willows from her ribs, and the sea-grass from her hair! Then all nature wonders how the news of her drowning shall be conveyed to her parents, and when the bear, wolf, and fox refuse to transmit so sad a message, the sea-maidens depute the hare, threatening to roast him unless he does their bidding. Learning her daughter has perished thus miserably, the mother of Aino recognizes that parents should not compel daughters to marry against their will. "Listen, all ye mothers, listen, Learn from me a tale of wisdom: Never urge unwilling daughters From the dwellings of their fathers, To the bridegrooms that they love not, Not as I, inhuman mother, Drove away my lovely Aino, Fairest daughter of the Northland." Her sorrow is such that three streams of tears flow from her eyes and, increasing as they flow, form cataracts, between which rise three pinnacles of rock, whereon grow birches, upon which cuckoos forever chant of "love, suitors, and consolation!" _Rune V._ The news of Aino's death travels swiftly southward, and Wainamoinen, hearing that his bride has perished, is plunged in grief. When he seeks consolation from the water-maidens they bid him go out fishing. After angling for many a day, he finally secures a salmon, larger and more beautiful than any fish ever seen before. He is opening his knife to cut the salmon open, when it suddenly springs back into the deep, saying it was Aino who had come to join him but who now escapes in punishment for his cruelty. Not discouraged by this first failure, Wainamoinen fishes on, until the spirit of his mother bids him travel northward and seek a suitable wife among the Lapps. "Take for thee a life companion From the honest homes of Suomi, One of Northland's honest daughters; She will charm thee with her sweetness, Make thee happy through her goodness, Form perfection, manners easy, Every step and movement graceful, Full of wit and good behavior, Honor to thy home and kindred." _Rune VI._ Preparing for a journey northward, Wainamoinen bestrides his magic steed, and galloping over the plains of Kalevala crosses the Blue Sea as if it were land. The bard Youkahainen, foreseeing his coming, lies in wait for him and prepares arrows to shoot him, although his mother warns him not to attempt anything of the kind. It is the third poisoned arrow from Youkahainen's bow which strikes Wainamoinen's horse, which immediately sinks to the bottom of the sea, leaving its rider to struggle in the water some eight years. Meantime Youkahainen exults because his foe is dead, although his mother insists her son has merely brought woe upon the earth. _Rune VII._ Instead of treading the waves, Wainamoinen swims about until an eagle--grateful because he left birch-trees for birds to perch upon--swoops down, invites him to climb upon its back, and swiftly bears him to the dismal northland Sariola. There Wainamoinen is discovered by the Maid of Beauty, who sends her mother, toothless Louhi, to invite him into the house, where she bountifully feeds him. Next Louhi promises to supply Wainamoinen with a steed to return home and to give him her daughter in marriage, provided he will forge for her the Sampo, or magic grist-mill. Although Wainamoinen cannot do this, he promises that his brother, the blacksmith Ilmarinen, shall forge it for her, and thus secures the promise of the hand of the Maid of Beauty. This bargain made, Wainamoinen drives away in a sledge provided by his hostess, who cautions him not to look up as he travels along, lest misfortune befall him. _Rune VIII._ Instead of obeying these injunctions, Wainamoinen gazes upward on his way home, and thus discovers the Maid of Beauty, or Maiden of the Rainbow, weaving "a gold and silver air-gown." When he invites her to come with him, she pertly rejoins the birds have informed her a married woman's life is unenviable, for wives "are like dogs enchained in kennel." When Wainamoinen insists wives are queens, and begs her to listen to his wooing, she retorts when he has split a golden hair with an edgeless knife, has snared a bird's egg with an invisible snare, has peeled a sandstone, and made a whipstock from ice without leaving any shavings, she may consider his proposal. These impossible tasks are quickly accomplished by the wizard, but, while filling the Rainbow Maiden's last order to fashion a ship out of her broken spindle--Wainamoinen accidentally cuts his knee so badly that the blood flows so fast no charm can stop it. In vain different remedies are tried, in vain Wainamoinen seeks help at sundry houses the blood continues to pour out of his wound until it looks as if he would die. _Rune IX._ Wainamoinen finally enters a cottage where two girls dip up some of his blood, and where an old man informs him he can be healed if he will only "sing the origin of iron." Thereupon Wainamoinen chants that Ukko, Creator of Heaven, having cut air and water asunder, created three lovely maidens, whose milk, scattered over the earth, supplied iron of three different hues. He adds that Fire then caught Iron, and carried it off to its furnace, where Ilmarinen discovered a way to harden it into steel by means of venom brought to him by the bird of Hades. This song finished, the old man checks the flow of blood, and sends his daughters to collect various herbs, out of which he manufactures a magic balsam which cures the cut immediately. _Rune X and XI._ Wainamoinen now hastens back to Kalevala and interviews his brother Ilmarinen, who refuses to journey northward or to forge the magic Sampo. To induce the smith to do his will, Wainamoinen persuades him to climb a lofty fir-tree, on whose branches he claims to have hung the moon and the Great Bear. While Ilmarinen is up in this tree, the wizard Wainamoinen causes a violent storm to blow his brother off to the Northland, where, welcomed by Louhi, Ilmarinen sets up his forge, and after four days' arduous work produces the magic sampo. "I will forge for thee the Sampo, Hammer thee the lid in colors, From the tips of white-swan feathers, From the milk of greatest virtue, From a single grain of barley, From the finest wool of lambkins, Since I forged the arch of heaven, Forged the air a concave cover, Ere the earth had a beginning." The sorceress is so pleased with the Sampo--by means of which she daily grinds out treasure untold--that, after hiding it away safely in a mountain, she authorizes Ilmarinen to woo the Maid of Beauty, who assures him also she never will marry. Saddened by this refusal, Ilmarinen longs for home, whither he is wafted in Louhi's magic boat of copper. Meanwhile Wainamoinen has been building a magic boat in which to sail northward. He is aided in this work by Lemminkainen, who, seeing the Maid of Beauty, boldly kidnaps her. But the maiden consents to be his spouse only if he will promise never to fight, a pledge he readily gives in exchange for hers to forego all village dances. These vows duly exchanged, the young couple are united, and all goes well as long as both scrupulously keep their promise. _Rune XII._ The time comes, however, when Lemminkainen goes fishing, and during his absence his wife secretly attends a village dance. When the husband returns, his sister informs him his bride has broken her promise, whereupon Lemminkainen vows it is time he too should break his, and, harnessing his sleigh, starts off for Lapland to fight. On arriving there he enters sundry houses, and finally meets in one of them a minstrel, whose song he roughly criticises. Then, seizing the man's harp, Lemminkainen chants all sorts of spells, until all present are under their influence save a blind shepherd, whom Lemminkainen allows to go, and who hastens down to the River of Death, declaring he will there await the singer's arrival. _Runes XIII and XIV._ Lemminkainen now asks Louhi for her second daughter, whom she refuses to give him, declaring that after deserting her first daughter he can obtain her second only by catching the wild moose ranging in the fields of Hisi (Death), by bridling his fire-breathing steed, and by killing with his first arrow the great swan swimming on the River of Death. The first two tasks, although bristling with difficulties, are safely accomplished by Lemminkainen, but when he reaches the River of Death, the blind shepherd--who is lying there in wait for him ruthlessly slays him, chops his body into pieces, and casts them into the stream. _Rune XV._ After vainly awaiting Lemminkainen's return, his aged mother, seeing blood drip from his hair-brush, concludes evil must have befallen her son. She therefore hastens northward, and threatens to destroy Louhi's magic Sampo unless the sorceress will reveal what has become of Lemminkainen. Louhi then confesses that she sent him down to Hades to hunt the Death swan, so Lemminkainen's mother hastens down to the River of Death, only to learn her son has perished. Hastening back to the blacksmith Ilmarinen, the frantic mother beseeches him to make her a rake with a handle five hundred fathoms long, and armed with this implement begins to dredge the river. Presently she fishes out one by one the garments and various fragments of her son! Thanks to powerful incantations she restores Lemminkainen to life, speech, and motion, whereupon the youth thanks her, and graphically relates how he came to his death. But, although he is home once more, Lemminkainen is always thinking of the beautiful maiden he wooed, and he still longs to kill the swan swimming on the River of Death! _Runes XVI and XVII._ Leaving Lemminkainen, the poem now relates how Wainamoinen built a boat, asking the God of the Forest to supply him with the necessary material for its different parts. When questioned, the trees one after another declare they are unfit for ship-building, until the oak proffers its strong trunk. Wainamoinen now constructs his vessel, but discovers he lacks three "master words" to finish it properly. After vainly seeking these words among birds and animals, he crosses the River of Death in a boat, only to find the magic formula is unknown even to the angel of Death! The words are, however, well known to Wipunen, a giant of whom he goes in quest. Prying open the monster's lips to force him to speak, Wainamoinen stumbles and accidentally falls into the huge maw and is swallowed alive. But, unwilling to remain indefinitely in the dark recesses of the giant's body, Wainamoinen soon sets up a forge in the entrails of the colossus, thus causing him such keen discomfort that the monster proposes to eject his guest, who flatly refuses to be dislodged until he learns the magic words. Having thus cleverly secured what he is seeking, Wainamoinen returns home and completes a boat, which proves self-propelling, and speedily bears him to the Northland to woo the Maiden of the Rainbow. Thus the ancient Wainamoinen Built the boat with magic only, And with magic launched his vessel, Using not the hand to touch it, Using not the foot to move it, Using not the knee to turn it, Using nothing to propel it. Thus the third task was completed, For the hostess of Pohyola, Dowry for the Maid of Beauty Sitting on the arch of heaven, On the bow of many colors. _Rune XVIII._ Wainamoinen's departure in the magic vessel is noted by Ilmarinen's sister, who immediately informs her brother a suitor is starting to woo the girl he covets. Jumping into his sled Ilmarinen drives off, and both suitors approach the maiden's dwelling from different points at the self-same time. Seeing them draw near, the witch Louhi bids her daughter accept the older man--because he brings a boat-load of treasures--and to refuse the empty-handed youth. But the daughter, who prefers a young bridegroom, declares that the smith who fashioned the incomparable Sampo cannot be an undesirable match. When Wainamoinen therefore lands from his ship and invites her to go sailing with him, she refuses his invitation. Heavy-hearted, Wainamoinen is obliged to return home alone, and, on arriving there, issues the wise decree that old men should never woo mere girls or attempt to rival young men. _Rune XIX._ In his turn Ilmarinen now woos the Rainbow Maiden, and is told by Louhi that ere he can claim his bride he must plough the serpent-field of Hades, bring back from that place the Tuoni-bear safely muzzled, and catch a monster pike swimming in the River of Death Helped by the Maiden of the Rainbow, Ilmarinen accomplishes these three difficult feats, by first forging the plough, noose, and fishing eagle required. _Runes XX, XXI, XXII, XXIII, and XXIV._ Now extensive preparations are made for the marriage of Ilmarinen and the Maiden of the Rainbow. Not only is the mighty ox of Harjala slain and roasted, but beer is brewed for the first time in the Northland, and many verses are devoted to describe the processes by which this national drink was brought to its state of perfection! When at last Ilmarinen appears to take away his bride, the Rainbow Maiden seems unwilling to go, and objects that a wife is her husband's slave, and has to spend all her days in pleasing him, his father, and his mother. Although her lament is touching indeed, the bride-advisor directs her to please her new relatives, admonishes Ilmarinen to treat her kindly, and watches the two set off, the Rainbow Maiden shedding bitter tears at leaving her beloved home. _Rune XXV._ The bride and bridegroom are next warmly welcomed by Ilmarinen's family, old Wainamoinen himself singing at their bridal feast, and again instructing the bride to be all love and submission and to expect nothing save bitterness and hardship from marriage. Having concluded his song by praising the father who built the house, the mother who keeps it, and having blessed bridegroom and bride, Wainamoinen departs for the Land of the Dead, to borrow an auger to repair his sled, which has fallen to pieces while he sang. _Rune XXVI._ Meanwhile Lemminkainen, angry because he alone has received no invitation to the wedding banquet, decides, in spite of his mother's advice, to go forth and take his revenge. Although he has to overcome a flaming eagle, pass through a pit of fire, slay a wolf and a bear, and destroy a wall of snakes mounting guard at the entrance of Lapland before he can reach his destination, his spells and incantations safely overcome these and other dire perils. _Runes XXVII and XXVIII._ Reaching Northland at last, Lemminkainen slays the husband of Louhi, from whom he escapes before she can attack him. His mother now warns him his foes will pursue him and advises him to go to the Isle of Refuge, situated in the centre of the Tenth Ocean, and abide there for three years, pledging himself not to fight again for sixty summers. _Rune XXIX._ We now have a description of the Isle of Refuge, where Lemminkainen tarries three whole years with the sea-maidens, who bid him a tender farewell when he sails away again. He has, however, proved neglectful toward one of them, a spinster, who curses him, vowing he will suffer many things in return for his neglect. True to her prediction, he encounters many dangers on the homeward journey, and finds his house reduced to ashes and his parents gone! But, although he mourns for them as dead, he soon discovers them hiding in the forest, to escape the fury of the Lapps. _Rune XXX._ To punish these foes Lemminkainen now sets out for the north, taking with him Tiera, hero of the broadsword, who is to help him. Aware of his coming, Louhi bids her son Frost stop them by holding their vessel fast in the ice, but Lemminkainen trudges over the ice, hurls the Frost-God into the fire, and, somewhat discouraged, returns home. _Runes XXXI, XXXII, and XXXIII._ During this time a slave, Kullerwoinen, the son of Evil, has been sold to Ilmarinen to serve as his shepherd. The Rainbow Maiden therefore sends him forth with her cattle, giving him a loaf of bread as sole sustenance. When the son of Evil attempts to cut this bread, he breaks his knife, for the housewife has baked a flint-stone in it. In his anger the shepherd conjures up wolves and bears, which devour the cattle, and which he drives home in their stead after dark. When the Rainbow Maiden therefore unsuspectingly tries to milk them, she is instantly devoured by these wild beasts. _Runes XXXIV and XXXV._ Having thus effected his revenge, the Spirit of Evil hurries away to his tribe-folk, who bid him perform sundry tasks, in the course of which he crowns his evil deeds by assaulting a sister who was lost in infancy, and whom he therefore fails to recognize. On discovering the identity of her ravisher, the unhappy girl throws herself into the river, where she perishes. _Rune XXXVI._ Forbidden by his mother to commit suicide in punishment for his crime, Kullerwoinen decides to seek death on the field of battle. Although the various members of his family see him depart without regret, his mother assures him nothing can destroy her love for her son. "Canst not fathom love maternal, Canst not smother her affection; Bitterly I'll mourn thy downfall, I would weep if thou shouldst perish, Shouldst thou leave my race forever; I would weep in court or cabin, Sprinkle all these fields with tear-drops, Weep great rivers to the ocean, Weep to melt the snows of Northland, Make the hillocks green with weeping, Weep at morning, weep at evening, Weep three years in bitter sorrow O'er the death of Kullerwoinen!" Kullerwoinen, armed with a magic sword, does great slaughter among his foes, and returns home only to find all his kin have perished. While he mourns their death, his mother's spirit bids him follow his watch-dog--the only living creature left him. During this strange promenade, coming to the spot where he assaulted his sister, Kullerwoinen falls upon his magic sword and dies, an episode which inspires Wainamoinen with these words of wisdom: "If the child is not well nurtured, Is not rocked and led uprightly, Though he grow to years of manhood, Bear a strong and shapely body, He will never know discretion, Never eat the bread of honor, Never drink the cup of wisdom." _Rune XXXVII and XXXVIII._ Meantime Ilmarinen, after grieving three months for the loss of the Rainbow Maiden, proceeds to fashion himself a wife out of gold and silver, but, as she is lifeless and unresponsive, he offers her to Wainamoinen,--who refuses her,--and travels northward once more to woo a sister of his former bride. On arriving at Louhi's house,--undeterred by many evil omens which have crossed his path,--Ilmarinen sues for a bride. Louhi reproaches him for the treatment her first daughter has undergone, but, although the second maiden refuses to follow him, he boldly carries her off by force. She is, however, so unhappy with him that the blacksmith finally changes her into a sea-gull. "I have changed the hateful virgin To a sea-gull on the ocean; Now she calls above the waters, Screeches from the ocean-islands, On the rocks she calls and murmurs, Vainly calling for a suitor." _Runes XXXIX, XL, and XLI._ To comfort himself, Ilmarinen concludes he would like to have the Sampo, and persuades Wainamoinen and Lemminkainen to accompany him northward to get it. This time they sail in a magic ship, which is stranded on the shoulders of a huge pike. Wainamoinen kills this fish, and from its bones and sinews fashions the first harp, an instrument so wonderful that none but he can play it, but, whenever he touches its strings, trees dance about him, wild animals crouch at his feet, and the hearts of men are filled with rapture. All of Northland stopped and listened. Every creature in the forest, All the beasts that haunt the woodlands, On their nimble feet came bounding, Came to listen to his playing, Came to hear his songs of joyance. The music which he makes is so touching that it draws tears even from the player's eyes, tears which drop down into the sea, where they are transformed into pearls, which are brought to him by a duck. Gathered Wainamoinen's tear-drops From the blue sea's pebbly bottom, From the deep, pellucid waters; Brought them to the great magician, Beautifully formed and colored, Glistening in the silver sunshine, Glimmering in the golden moonlight, Many-colored as the rainbow, Fitting ornaments for heroes, Jewels for the maids of beauty. This the origin of sea-pearls And the blue-duck's beauteous plumage. _Runes XLII and XLIII._ Having lulled the Spirits of Evil to sleep with magic music, Wainamoinen and Ilmarinen go in quest of the Sampo, which they find hidden in the bosom of a magic mountain and bear away in triumph. The spell they have laid upon all living creatures is broken only when Louhi discovers her loss and sets out in pursuit of the robbers of her treasure. In various guises she attacks them, finally transforming herself into a huge eagle and pouncing down upon the Sampo, which she tries to bear away in her talons. But Wainamoinen fights this aggressor to such good purpose that it drops the Sampo into the sea, where it is dashed to pieces! Not only has Wainamoinen lost the Sampo,--whose fragments he collects and buries so that they may bring prosperity to his people,--but his magic harp has also fallen overboard during his fight with Louhi. _Runes XLIV and XLV._ Wainamoinen therefore proceeds to construct a second harp from the wood of the birch, while Louhi, who has returned northward but who still owes him a grudge, sends down from the north nine fell diseases,--colic, pleurisy, fever, ulcer, plague, consumption, gout, sterility, and cancer,--all of which Wainamoinen routs by means of the vapor baths which he discovers. _Rune XLVI._ Hearing that Wainamoinen prospers in spite of all she can do, Louhi is so disappointed that she sends a magic bear to devour him and his brother. But, hearing this monster is coming, Wainamoinen directs the blacksmith to make him a wonderful spear, with which he slays the bear, whose skin and flesh prove a boon to his people. _Runes XLVII and XLVIII._ Still angry, Louhi steals from Wainamoinen the sun, moon, and fire, and thus all the homes in Kalevala are cold, dark, and cheerless. Gazing downward, Ukko, king of the heaven, wonders because he sees no light, and sends down a flash of lightning, which, after striking the earth, drops into the sea and is swallowed by a pike. This fiery mouthful, however, proves so uncomfortable, that the fish swims madly around until swallowed by another. Learning that the fire-ball is now in a pike, Wainamoinen fishes until he secures that greedy denizen of the deep. Opening his quarry, he seizes the lightning, which burns his fingers so badly that he drops it, until he decides to convey it to his people in the wood of an elm. _Rune XLIX._ Although fire is thus restored to mankind, the sun and the moon are still missing. Ilmarinen therefore forges a magnificent silver moon and golden sun, in the vain hope of replacing the orbs which Louhi has stolen, and which are hidden in the cave where she once treasured the Sampo. Discovering this fact by magic means, Wainamoinen starts out in quest of sun and moon, and, by changing himself into a pike to cross the river, reaches the land of Louhi, defeats her sons, and finds the orbs he is seeking guarded by a multitude of snakes. Although Wainamoinen slays these keepers, he cannot recover the captive sun or moon until Louhi, who has meantime assumed the form of an eagle and then of a dove, sends them back to Kalevala, where their return is hailed with joy. "Greetings to thee, Sun of fortune; Greetings to thee, Moon of good-luck; Welcome sunshine, welcome moonlight; Golden is the dawn of morning! Free art thou, O Sun of silver, Free again, O Moon beloved, As the sacred cuckoo's singing, As the ring-dove's liquid cooing. Rise, thou silver Sun, each morning, Source of light and life hereafter, Bring us daily joyful greetings, Fill our homes with peace and plenty, That our sowing, fishing, hunting, May be prospered by thy coming. Travel on thy daily journey, Let the Moon be ever with thee; Glide along thy way rejoicing, End thy journeyings in slumber; Rest at evening in the ocean, When thy daily cares have ended, To the good of all thy people, To the pleasure of Wainola, To the joy of Kalevala!" _Rune L._ Meanwhile there had been dwelling in the Northland a happy maiden named Mariatta, who, wandering on the hillsides, once asked the cuckoo how long she would remain unmarried, and heard a magic voice bid her gather a certain berry. No sooner had she done so than the berry popped into her mouth, and soon after she bore a child, which being the offspring of a berry was to be called Flower. Because her mother indignantly cast her off, she wandered about seeking a place where she could give birth to her child. She was finally compelled to take refuge in the manger of the fiery steed of Hisi, where her infant was charitably warmed by the firesteed's breath. But once, while the mother was slumbering, the child vanished, and the mother vainly sought it until the Sun informed her she would find it sleeping among the reeds and rushes in Swamp-land. Mariatta, child of beauty, Virgin-mother of the Northland, Straightway seeks her babe in Swamp-land, Finds him in the reeds and rushes; Takes the young child on her bosom To the dwelling of her father. Mariatta soon discovered him there, growing in grace and beauty, but priests refused to baptize him because he was considered a wizard. When Wainamoinen sentenced the mother to death, the infant, although only two weeks old, hotly reproached him, declaring that, although guilty of many follies, his people have always forgiven him. Hearing this, Wainamoinen, justly rebuked, baptized the child, who in time grew up to be a hero and became the greatest warrior in the land. Wainamoinen, having grown feeble with passing years, finally built for himself a copper vessel, wherein, after singing a farewell song, he sailed "out into the west," and vanished in the midst of the sunset clouds, leaving behind him as an inheritance to his people his wondrous songs. Thus the ancient Wainamoinen, In his copper-banded vessel, Left his tribe in Kalevala, Sailing o'er the rolling billows, Sailing through the azure vapors, Sailing through the dusk of evening, Sailing to the fiery sunset, To the higher-landed regions, To the lower verge of heaven; Quickly gained the far horizon, Gained the purple-colored harbor, There his bark he firmly anchored, Rested in his boat of copper; But he left his harp of magic, Left his songs and wisdom-sayings, To the lasting joy of Suomi. The poem concludes with an epilogue, wherein the bard declares it contains many of the folk-tales of his native country, and that as far as rhythm is concerned-- "Nature was my only teacher, Woods and waters my instructors." FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 36: All the quotations in this chapter are from Crawford's translation of the "Kalevala."] THE EPICS OF CENTRAL EUROPE AND OF THE BALKAN PENINSULA German being talked in a large part of Switzerland and of Austria, these countries claim a great share in the Teutonic epics, many of whose episodes are located within their borders. Both the Swiss and the Austrian nations are formed, however, of various peoples, so while some of the Swiss boast of German blood and traditions, others are more closely related to the French or to the Italians. To study Swiss literature one must therefore seek its sources in German, French, and Italian books. It is, though, considered very remarkable that there exists no great Swiss epic on the deeds of William Tell, a national hero whose literary fame rests almost exclusively upon folk-tales and upon Schiller's great drama.[37] No political division boasts of a greater mixture of races and languages than the Austro-Hungarian empire, whose literature is therefore like a many-faceted jewel. Aside from many Germans, there are within the borders of the empire large numbers of Czechs or Bohemians, who in the thirteenth century delighted in translations of the Alexandreis, of Tristram, and of other epic poems and romances, and whose first printed volume in 1468 was a reproduction of the Trojan Cycle. There are also the Hungarians, whose literary language continued to be Latin until after the Reformation, and whose earliest epics treat of such themes as the "Life of St. Catherine of Alexandria." It was, therefore, only in the seventeenth century that Zrinyi, Gyöngyösi, Liszti, and other poets began to compose Magyar epics which roused their countrymen to rebel against their foes, the Turks. In the nineteenth century patriotism was further fostered among this people by the stirring epics of Czuczor, Petöfi (whose masterpiece is Janes Vilez), and of Vörösmarty, and then, too, were compiled the first collections of genuine Hungarian folk-tales. Among these the adventures of the national Samson (Toldi) have served as basis for Arany's modern national epic in twelve cantos. Part of Poland being incorporated in the Austro-Hungarian empire, it cannot be amiss to mention here the fact that its literature is particularly rich in folk-tales, animal epics, apologues, religious legends, and hero tales, although none of the poetical versions of these works seem to be of sufficient weight or importance to require detailed treatment in this volume. With the exception of ancient Greece,--whose epic literature is so rich and still exerts such an influence as to demand separate treatment,--there do not seem to be any epics of great literary value among the various races now occupying the Balkan Peninsula. Old Rumanian literature, written in the Slavic tongue, boasts a few rhymed chronicles which are sometimes termed epics, while modern Rumanian prides itself upon Joan Delaemi's locally famous Epic of the Gypsies. In Servia one discovers ancient epic songs celebrating the great feats of national heroes and heroines, and relating particularly to the country's prolonged struggle for independence. After translating the main works of Tasso from the Italian for the benefit of his countrymen, one of their poets--Gundulitch--composed a twenty-canto epic entitled Osman, wherein he described the war between the Poles and Turks in 1621. The Servian dramatist Palmotitch later composed the Christiad, or life of Christ, and in the nineteenth century Milutinovitch wrote a Servian epic, while Mazuranie and Bogovitch penned similar poems in Croatian. As for the Bulgarians they do not seem to have any epic of note. Turkish literature having been successively under Persian, Arabic, and French influence, has no characteristic epics, although it possesses wonderful cycles of fairy and folk-tales,--material from which excellent epics could be evolved were it handled by a poet of genius. The Asiatic part of Turkey being occupied mainly by Arabians, who profess the Mohammedan religion, it is natural that the sayings and doings of Mohammed should form no small part of their literature. The most important of these collections in regard to the Prophet were made by Al-Bukhari, Muslem, and Al-Tirmidhi. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 37: See the author's "Legends of Switzerland."] HEBREW AND EARLY CHRISTIAN EPICS JOB The Book of Job ranks as "one of that group of five or six world poems that stand as universal expressions of the human spirit." For that reason it is considered the representative Hebrew epic, and, as it depicts the conflicts of a human soul, it has also been termed the "epic of the inner life." Written after the exile,--probably in the latter part of the fourth century B.C.,--it incorporates various older poems, for the theme is thought to antedate the Exodus. In the prologue we have a description of Job, a model sheik of the land of Uz, whose righteousness wins such complete approval from God that the Almighty proudly quotes his servant before his assembled council as a perfect man. "The Adversary," Satan, now dramatically presents himself, and, when taunted by God with Job's virtues, sarcastically retorts it is easy to be good when favored with continual prosperity. Thus challenged, and feeling sure of his subject, God allows Satan to do his worst and thus test the real worth of Job. In quick succession we now behold a once happy and prosperous man deprived of children, wealth, and health,--misfortunes so swift and dire that his friends in lengthy speeches insist he has offended God, for such trials as his can only be sent in punishment for grievous sins. The exhortations of Job's three argumentative friends, as well as of a later-comer, and of his wife, extend over a period of seven days, and cover three whole cycles; but, in spite of all they say, Job steadfastly refuses to curse God as they advise. Unaware of the Heavenly council or of the fact that he is being tested, Job, in spite of trials and friends, patiently reiterates "The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away," and, when his wife bids him curse God and die, pathetically inquires, "What! shall we receive good at the hand of God, and shall we not receive evil?" There are, besides, whole passages in this book where Job gives way to his overwhelming grief, these laments being evidently either fragments from another, older version of the story, or tokens that even such fortitude as his gave way under pressure of disease and of his friends' injudicious attempts at consolation. These laments exceed in pathos any other Hebrew poem, while Job's descriptions of God's power and wisdom attain to a superbly exalted strain. Having silenced Zopher, Eliphaz, and Bildad, by assuring them he will be vindicated in heaven,--if not sooner,--Job watches them and his last friend depart, and is finally left alone. Then only, and in an epilogue, we are informed that, having thus been tried in the furnace of affliction and proved true gold, Job receives from God, as reward, a double measure of health, wealth, and descendants, so that all men may know he has not sinned and that his unshaken faith found favor in the eyes of God. Some Jewish writers quote Ecclesiastes as their best sample of didactic epic, and others would fain rank as epics the tales of Naomi and Ruth, of Esther and Ahasuerus, and even the idyllic Song of Songs by Solomon. Early Christian writers also see in Revelations, or the Apocalypse, by St. John, the Seer of Patmos, a brilliant example of the mystical or prophetic epic. ARABIAN AND PERSIAN EPICS "The long caravan marches across the monotonous deserts, when the camel's steady swing bends the rider's body almost double, taught the Arab to sing rhymes." But the poems thus sung by camel-drivers are generally short and never reach epic might or length. None of those older poems now exist, and it was only when travellers applied the Syrian alphabet to the Arabic tongue in the sixth century that written records began to be kept of favorite compositions. Poets were then looked upon as wise men, or magicians, and called upon, like Balaam, in times of danger, to utter spells or incantations against the foe. The most ancient pre-Islamic poems were written in golden ink, suspended in the Kaaba at Mecca, and are known in Arabia as the "necklace of pearls." Many of these poems--which replace epics in the East--follow fixed rules, the author being bound to "begin by a reference to the forsaken camping grounds. Next he must lament, and pray his comrades to halt, while he calls up the memory of the dwellers who had departed in search of other encampments and fresh water springs. Then he begins to touch on love matters, bewailing the tortures to which his passion puts him, and thus attracting interest and attention to himself. He recounts his hard and toilsome journeying in the desert, dwells on the lean condition of his steed, which he lauds and describes, and finally, with the object of obtaining those proofs of generosity which were the bard's expected meed and sole support, he winds up with a panegyric of the prince or governor in whose presence the poem is recited." Throughout the East, professional story-tellers still spend their lives travelling about and entertaining audiences in towns and tents with poems and legends, many of the latter treating of desert feuds and battles and forming part of a collection known as the Arab Days. With the founding of Bagdad by the Abbasides, Persian influence begins to make itself felt, not only in politics but in literature also, although Arabic was the sole language of the empire of the Caliphs. The greatest literary work in this literature is the famous "Arabian Nights," an anonymous collection of tales connected by a thread of narrative. Its purport is that an Eastern monarch, "to protect himself against the craft and infidelity of women resolves that the wife he chooses him every day shall be put to death before the next." Two sisters devote their lives to put an end to such massacres. The eldest, who becomes the king's wife, begs that her sister may spend the last night of her life in their room. At dawn the royal bride entertains her sister with a story which is cleverly left unfinished. Such is the sultan's curiosity to hear the end, that the bride of a night is not slain, as usual. But as soon as one tale is ended another is begun, and for one thousand and one nights the clever narrator keeps her audience of two in suspense. Most of the tales told in this collection are obviously of Persian origin, and are contained in the Hasâr Afsâna (The Thousand Tales) which was translated into Arabic in the tenth century. But some authorities claim that these stories originated in India and were brought into Persia before Alexander's conquests. These tales are so popular that they have been translated into every civilized language and are often termed prose epics. Arabic also boasts a romance of chivalry entitled "Romance of 'Antar,'" ascribed to Al Asmai (739-831), which contains the chief events in Arab history before the advent of Mahomet and is hence often termed the Arab Iliad. The "Romance of Beni Hilâl" and that of "Abu Zaid," which form part of a cycle of 38 legends, are popular in Egypt to this day. THE SHAH-NAMEH, OR EPIC OF KINGS This Persian epic was composed by the poet Abul Kasin Mansur, who sang so sweetly that his master termed him Firdusi, or Singer of Paradise, by which name he is best known, although he is also called the "Homer of the East." Mahmoud, Shah of Persia, who lived about 920 B.C., decided to have the chronicles of the land put into rhyme, and engaged Firdusi for this piece of work, promising him a thousand gold pieces for every thousand distichs he finished. Firdusi, who had long wished to build stone embankments for the river whose overflow devastated his native town, begged the king to withhold payment until the work was done. At the end of thirty-three years, when the poem was completed, the grand vizier, after counting its sixty-thousand couplets, concluded not to pay for it in gold, and sent instead sixty thousand small pieces of silver. On receiving so inadequate a reward, Firdusi became so angry that, after distributing the money among the bearers and writing an insulting poem to the king, he fled first to Mazinderan and then to Bagdad, where he lingered until shortly before his death, when he returned to Tous. Tradition claims that the Shah; hearing he had come home,--and having meantime discovered the trickery of his minister,--immediately sent Firdusi sixty thousand pieces of gold, but that the money arrived only as his corpse was being lowered into the tomb! As the poet's daughter indignantly refused to accept this tardy atonement, another relative took the money and built the dike which Firdusi had longed to see. We know that Persian monarchs made sundry attempts to collect the annals of their country, but these collections were scattered at the time of the Arabian conquest, so that only a few documents were brought back to Persia later on. Although the poem of Firdusi claims to be a complete history of Persia, it contains so many marvels that, were it not for its wonderful diction, it would not have survived, although he declares he has written, "What no tide Shall ever wash away, what men Unborn shall read o'er ocean wide."[38] The poem opens with the description of a ruler so prosperous that the Spirit of Evil sent a mighty devil (deev) to conquer him. Thanks to the effort of this demon, the king's son was slain, and, as the monarch died of grief, it was his grandson who succeeded him. During a forty-centuries reign this king gave fire to his people, taught them irrigation and agriculture, and bestowed names on all the beasts. His son and successor taught mortals how to spin and weave, and the demons, in hopes of destroying him, imparted to him the arts of reading and writing. Next came the famous Persian hero Jemshid, who is said to have reigned seven hundred years, and to have divided the Persian nation into four classes,--priests, warriors, artisans, and husbandmen. During his reign, which is the Age of Gold of Persia, the world was divided into separate parts, and the city of Persepolis founded, where two columns of the ruined royal palace still bear the name of the monarch who instituted the national festival of Persia (Neurouz). Having accomplished all these wonderful things, Jemshid became so conceited that he wished to be worshipped, whereupon a neighboring volcano vomited smoke and ashes and innumerable snakes infested the land. Then Prince Zohak of Arabia was sent by the Evil Spirit to drive away Jemshid and to take possession of his throne. Although at first Zohak was very virtuous, the Evil Spirit, having gotten him in his power, began to serve him in guise of a cook. Once, having succeeded in pleasing him, he begged permission as reward to kiss the king between his shoulders. But no sooner had this demon's lips touched the royal back than two black serpents sprang up there, serpents which could not be destroyed, and which could only be kept quiet by being fed with human brains. "If life hath any charm for thee, The brains of men their food must be." Zohak, "the Serpent King," as he is now invariably called, was therefore obliged to prey upon his subjects to satisfy the appetite of these serpents, and, as two men were required daily for that purpose during the next thousand years, the realm was sorely depopulated. The serpents still on human brains were fed, And every day two youthful victims bled; The sword, still ready, thirsting still to strike, Warrior and slave were sacrificed alike. Naturally, all the Persians grew to loathe their monarch, and, when the seventeenth and last child of the blacksmith Kavah was seized to feed the serpents, this man rebelled, and, raising his leathern apron as a standard, rallied the Persians around him. He then informed them that, if they would only fight beneath "the flag of Kavah,"--which is now the Persian ensign,--he would give them as king Feridoun, a son of Jemshid, born during his exile. Hearing this, the rebels went in quest of Feridoun, "the glorious," in regard to whom Zohak has been favored with sundry visions, although he had been brought up in secret, his sole nurse being a faithful cow. When this animal died at last, the grateful Feridoun made a mace of one of its big bones, and armed with that weapon, defeated Zohak, who was chained to a mountain, where he was tortured by visions of his victims for a thousand years. Meantime Feridoun occupied so justly the throne of Persia--where he reigned some five hundred years--that his realm became an earthly Paradise. At the end of this long reign, Feridoun despatched his three sons to Arabia in quest of wives, and on their return proceeded to test their mettle by meeting them in the shape of a dragon. While the eldest son retreated, crying that a wise and prudent man never strives with dragons, the second advanced recklessly, without thinking of protecting himself. The third, however, set to work in a business-like way, not only to rescue his foolhardy brother, but to slay the dragon. On perceiving this, the father resumed his wonted form, and announced he would divide his realm into three parts, of which the best share, Iran or Persia, was bestowed upon Trij, the son who had shown both courage and prudence. Not long after this division, the two elder brothers united to despoil the younger, but, although they succeeded in slaying him, his infant daughter was brought up by the aged Feridoun, and in due time gave birth to a son, Minuchir, destined to avenge his grandfather's death by defeating and slaying his great-uncles. Having done this, Minuchir occupied the throne, while his favorite vassal was made governor of one of the newly conquered realms. This swarthy, dark-haired man proved perfectly happy in these new estates until he heard his wife had given birth to a son with snow-white hair. "No human being of this earth could give to such a monster birth, He must be of the demon race, though human still in form and face. If not a demon, he at least, appears a parti-colored beast." Such an offspring seeming nothing short of a curse, the father had little Zal exposed on Mt. Alborz, where he expected he would perish in a brief space of time. On the top of this mountain the Simurgh, or Bird of God,--a marvellous golden-feathered eagle,--had built a nest of ebony and sandal-wood, lined with spices, around which she had piled all manner of precious stones, whose glitter pleased her. Hearing the cry of a babe, this great bird swooped downward, and, fastening her talons in the child's dress, bore him safely away to her aerie, where she dropped him in the nest beside two eaglets. These little birds proved kind to the young prince, although they were able to leave their nest long before he could walk about and play with the precious stones. It was only when Zal was about eight years old that his father suddenly realized he had committed a deadly sin, and was correspondingly relieved to learn in a dream that his child had not perished, but had been nursed by the Simurgh. Hastening to the mountain, the father besought the Bird of God to give back his son, whereupon the golden-feathered eagle, after taking affectionate leave of little Zal (upon whom she bestowed a feather which was to be cast into the fire in time of need), bore him back to his father. "Having watched thee with fondness by day and by night, And supplied all thy wants with a mother's delight, Oh, forget not thy nurse--still be faithful to me, And my heart will be ever devoted to thee." The father now brought up young Zal, who soon became so remarkable for strength and bravery that he promised to become the greatest warrior the world had ever known. In early manhood this youth journeyed to Kabul, where he beheld the lovely Rudaveh, who belonged to the race of the Serpent King. The arrival of a young but white-haired warrior caused such a sensation at court that the princess, who had already fallen in love with him on hearsay, became anxious to meet him. One day, when the maidens were gathering roses near his pavilion, Zal shot a bird, which falling in their midst gave them an occasion to address him. He, too, had heard so much about the loveliness of Rudaveh, that he questioned her attendants and gave them jewels to take to her. Such gifts quickly paved the way for an interview, for Rudaveh immediately sent for Zal. On appearing beneath her window, this lover began so sweet a serenade that the princess stepped out in her balcony, where, loosening her long black braids,--which hung down to the ground,--she bade Zal use them to climb up to her. He, however, gallantly refused, for fear he should hurt her, and deftly flinging his noose upward caught it fast in a projection, and thus safely reached the balcony, where this Persian Romeo acceptably wooed his Juliet. The royal parents, on discovering these clandestine meetings, questioned the young man, who proved his intelligence by solving six riddles, and, after giving satisfactory tokens of his other qualifications, was allowed to marry the princess, for the oracles predicted that from this union would arise a hero who would honor his native land. Time now passed happily until the moment came when Rudaveh's life was in imminent danger. In his quandary, Zal flung the golden feather into the fire with so trembling a hand that it fell to one side so that only one edge was singed. This proved sufficient, however, to summon the faithful Simurgh, who, after rapturously caressing her nursling, whispered in his ear a magic word, which not only enabled him to save the life of his dying wife, but also assured his becoming the happy father of a stalwart son named Rustem. This boy, stronger and handsomer than any child yet born, required no less than ten nurses, and after being weaned ate as much as five men! Such being the case, he was able, by the time he was eight years of age, to slay a mad white elephant with a single stroke of his fist. Many similar feats were performed during the boyhood of this Persian Hercules, who longed to fight when the realm was finally invaded by the Tartar chief Afrasiab and war began to devastate the land. Loud neighed the steeds, and their resounding hoofs Shook the deep caverns of the earth; the dust Rose up in clouds and hid the azure heavens.-- Bright beamed the swords, and in that carnage wide, Blood flowed like water. When the Persians, in their distress, implored Zal to meet and defeat this dreaded foe, the hero answered he was far too old to perform such a task, but that his son Rustem would fight in his stead. Before sending him forth, however, Zal bade Rustem select a suitable steed, and, from all those paraded before him, the youth picked out a rose-colored colt called Rakush (lightning) whom no one had ever been able to mount, although he was quite old enough to use. After lassoing and taming this wonderful steed,--which obeyed him alone,--Rustem, armed with a mace, set out to meet the foe, sent hither as he knew by the evil spirit. Then, to oppose Afrasiab, Rustem placed Kaikobad, a descendant of the old royal family, on the throne, after driving away the foe. The wise Kaikobad, who reigned peacefully one hundred years, was, however, succeeded by a very foolish son, Kaikous, who, ill satisfied with the extent of his realm, undertook to conquer Mazinderan, which was in the hands of demons, but which he had coveted ever since it had been described by a young bard who sang: "And mark me, that untravelled man Who never saw Mazinderan And all the charms its bowers possess, Has never tasted happiness." On hearing his master propose such a conquest, Zal vainly remonstrated, but the foolish monarch set out, and on arriving in Mazinderan was defeated by the demons, who blinded him and his army and detained them prisoners. No sooner did the news of this calamity reach Zal, than he bade Rustem go rescue the foolish monarch, adding that, although it had taken Kaikous six months to reach his destination, Rustem could get there in seven days, provided he were willing to brave great dangers. Of course the hero selected the shorter route, and on the first day slew a wild ass, which he roasted for supper before lying down to rest. The odor of roast meat, however, attracted a lion, which would have made a meal of the sleeping Rustem, had not his brave steed fought with hoofs and teeth until he succeeded in slaying the beast of prey. Awakened only as the fight ended, Rustem reproved his horse for risking his life in this reckless way and bade him henceforth call for aid. "Oh, Rakush, why so thoughtless grown To fight a lion thus alone? For had it been thy fate to bleed And not thy foe, O gallant steed! How could thy master have conveyed His helm, and battle-axe, and blade, Unaided to Mazinderan? Why didst thou fail to give the alarm, And save thyself from chance of harm, By neighing loudly in my ear? But, though thy bold heart knows no fear, From such unwise exploits refrain Nor try a lion's strength again." During the second day's journey, Rustem was saved from perishing of thirst by following a stray ram to a mountain stream; and on the third night, having forbidden his horse to attack any foe without warning him, Rustem was twice awakened by the loud neighing of Rakush, who had seen an eighty-yard long dragon draw near. Each time he neighed, however, the dragon disappeared, so Rustem, seeing nought, reproved his horse for breaking his rest. The third time, however, he caught a glimpse of the dragon's fiery eyes, so, attacking him, he slew him, thanks to the help of his horse. The fourth day was signalized by other marvellous adventures, and on the fifth, while journeying through the land of magic, Rustem was met by a sorceress, who tried to win him by many wiles. Although he accepted the banquet and cup of wine she tendered, he no sooner bade her quaff it in the name of God, than she was forced to resume her fiendish form, whereupon he slew her. On the sixth day, Rustem, forced to ride through a land where the sun never shone, allowed his intelligent steed to guide him, and thus safely reached on the seventh a land of plenty and light, where he lay down to rest. There, while he was sleeping, the people of Mazinderan captured his wonderful steed. But, following the traces of his struggling horse, Rustem, by dint of great exertions, made them give back Rakush, and forced them to guide him to the cave where the White Demon was detaining his fellow-countrymen prisoners. In front of this cave Rustem found an array of demons, and, after conquering them all, forced his way into the Persian hell, whence he rescued his companions, whose sight he restored by trickling the blood of the White Demon into their sightless eyes. Having thus earned the title of "champion of the world," Rustem escorted the stupid king home, but this monarch, not satisfied with this blunder, committed one folly after another. We are told that he even undertook to fly, his special make of aeroplane being a carpet borne by four starving eagles, fastened to the four corners of its frame, and frantically striving to reach a piece of meat fixed temptingly above and ahead of them. Time and again the foolish monarch Kaikous was rescued by the efforts of Rustem, who, in the course of his wanderings, finally came to the court of a king, whose daughter, loving him by hearsay, had his horse stolen from him. When Rustem angrily demanded the return of his steed, the monarch assured him he should have Rakush on the morrow. But that night the beautiful princess, Tamineh, stole into Rustem's room, and, after waking him, promised he should have his horse provided he would marry her. Charmed by her beauty and grace, Rustem readily consented, and found such attractions in his bride that he lingered by her side for some time. The moment came, however, when the foolish monarch required Rustem's services, and, as Tamineh was not able at that time to bear the long journey, Rustem bade her a fond farewell, leaving an onyx bracelet bearing the image of the Simurgh, with which he bade her deck their expected child. In due time the lovely princess gave birth to a beautiful boy, whom she called Sorab (sunshine), but, fearing lest Rustem should take him away to train him as a warrior, she sent word to him that she had given birth to a daughter. Girls being of minor importance in Persia, Rustem inquired no further about this child, and was kept so busy serving his monarch that he never once visited his wife while his son was growing up. For a long time Tamineh jealously guarded the secret of Sorab's birth, fearing lest her young son would want to go forth and do battle too. But when she could no longer keep him home, she told him the story of her wooing: "Listen, my child, and you shall hear Of the wondrous love of a maiden dear For a mighty warrior, the pride of his day Who loved, and married, and rode away, For this is the romance of Rustem." The lad, who had always cherished a romantic admiration for Rustem, was overjoyed to learn his origin, and departed only after being reminded that he must never fight his father, although about to help the Tartars in a war against Persia. Sorab was doing so because everybody was tired of the foolish king, who was to be overthrown, so that Rustem could be placed on the throne in his stead. To make sure her son should not fail to recognize his father, Tamineh sent with him two faithful servants who had known Rustem well when he came to woo her. Meantime Afrasiab, chief of the Tartars, delighted to have Sorab's aid against Persia, cautioned all his warriors not to tell the youth, should his father appear in the opposite army, for he slyly hoped "the young lion would kill the old one," and felt sure that, were he only rid of father and son, he would be able to rule over Persia himself. In the course of this war young Sorab met with many adventures, fighting once against an Amazon, who by trickery managed to escape from him. However, Sorab kept hoping the time would come when he and his father would meet face to face, and, whenever a fray was about to take place, he always bade his companions scan the ranks of the foe to make sure that Rustem was not there.[39] Meantime the foolish king, having gotten the worst in the war, had sent for Rustem, who, for reconnoitring purposes, entered the Tartar camp as a spy. There he beheld Sorab, and could not help admiring the young warrior, of whose many brave exploits he had already heard. While thus sneaking about the enemy's tent, Rustem was discovered by the two servants whom Tamineh had placed by her son's side, both of whom he killed before they could give the alarm. Thus, when Sorab and Rustem finally came face to face, there was no one at hand to point out the son to the father or inform the son of his close relationship to his antagonist. After the war had raged for some time, Sorab challenged the Persians to a single fight, for he was anxious to distinguish himself, knowing that should he win a great triumph his father would hear of it, and inquire the origin of the youth of whom such tales were told: "Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask. Let the two armies rest to-day; but I Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords To meet me, man to man: If I prevail, Rustum will surely hear it; if I fall-- Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin. Dim is the rumor of a common fight, Where host meets host, and many names are sunk; But of a single combat fame speaks clear."[40] Such was the reputation of Sorab, however, that none of the Persians dared encounter him, and urged Rustem to undertake this task himself. Fearing lest so youthful an opponent should withdraw if he heard the name of his antagonist, or that he should pride himself too greatly on the honor done him, Rustem went into battle in disguise. On seeing a stalwart old warrior approach, Sorab felt strangely moved, and, running to meet him, begged to know his name, for he had a premonition that this was Rustem. The father, too, seized by a peculiar feeling of tenderness for this youth, commented to himself that had he a male descendant he would fain have had him look like Sorab, and therefore tried to make him withdraw his challenge. Notwithstanding Sorab's eager inquiries, Rustem obstinately refused to divulge his name, and, seeing his opponent would not desist, bade him begin the fight without further ado. And then he turned and sternly spake aloud,-- "Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus Of Rustum? I am here whom thou hast called By challenge forth; make good thy vaunt, or yield! Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight? Rash boy, men look on Rustum's face, and flee! For well I know, that did great Rustum stand Before thy face this day, and were revealed, There would be then no talk of fighting more." For three consecutive days the battle raged, father and son proving of equal strength and skill. But, although Sorab once overthrew Rustem, he generously stepped aside and allowed the aged warrior to recover his footing. Several times, also, the young man proposed that they sheathe their swords, for his heart continued to be attracted to his opponent, who, fighting down similar emotions, always taunted his antagonist into renewing the fight. He spoke; and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, And he too drew his sword; at once they rushed Together, as two eagles on one prey Come rushing down together from the clouds, One from the east, one from the west; their skulls Dashed with a clang together, and a din Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters Make often in the forest's heart at morn, Of hewing axes, crashing trees,--such blows Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed. It was only on the fifth day that Rustem, forgetting everything in the excitement of the moment, met his foe with his usual war cry, "Rustem, Rustem." The mere sound of so beloved a name so paralyzed Sorab, that, instead of meeting this onslaught, he sank beneath his father's blow. Then he gasped that, although dying, his adversary could not pride himself upon having fairly won the victory, for nothing short of his father's name could have disarmed him thus! "But that belovèd name unnerved my arm,-- That name, and something, I confess, in thee, Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield Fall; and thy spear transfixed an unarmed foe. And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate. But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear: The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death! My father, whom I seek through all the world, He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!" On hearing these words, Rustem anxiously demanded explanation, only to learn that the man he had mortally wounded was his own son, as was only too surely proved by the bracelet decorated with the Simurgh which Sorab exhibited. It was that griffin which of old reared Zal, Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, A helpless babe, among the rocks; Him that kind creature found, and reared, and loved; Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. Not only did broken-hearted Rustem hang over his dying son in speechless grief, but the steed Rakush wept bitter tears over the youth who had so longed to bestride him. And awe fell on both the hosts, When they saw Rustum's grief; and Ruksh, the horse, With his head bowing to the ground, and mane Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe First to the one, then to the other, moved His head, as if inquiring what their grief Might mean; and from his dark compassionate eyes, The big warm tears rolled down and caked the sand. In hopes of saving his son, Rustem vainly implored the foolish monarch to bestow upon him a drop of some magic ointment he owned. But Sorab expired without this aid in Rustem's arms, and the broken-hearted father burned his remains on a pyre. Then he conveyed to his home Sorab's ashes, and sent the young hero's riderless steed back to his poor mother, who died of grief. We are told that the foolish king proved so fortunate as to have a noble and generous son named Siawush, of whom he became so jealous that the youth had to leave home and was brought up by Rustem. The step-mother, who had so poisoned his father's mind against him, plotted Siawush's death as soon as he returned to court, by accusing him of making love to her. In anger the father decreed that Siawush should submit to the test of fire, so huge furnaces were lighted, through which the young man rode unharmed, the Angel of Pity and the spirit of his dead mother standing on either side of him to guard him from injury. Because the step-mother had wrongfully accused Siawush, she too was condemned to pass through the fire, but her step-son, knowing she could never stand such an ordeal, pleaded successfully in her behalf. Not daring to remain at his father's court, this young prince withdrew among the Tartars, where he married Afrasiab's daughter. But such were his qualities and noble deeds, that his wicked father-in-law became jealous enough of him to slay him. He did not, however, succeed in exterminating the race, for a kind-hearted nobleman, Piran-Wisa, secreted Siawush's little son, and entrusted him to a goat-herd to bring up. When Afrasiab discovered a few years later that this child was still living, he planned to put him to death, until the nobleman assured him the child was an idiot and would, therefore, never work him any harm. Only half convinced, Afrasiab sent for the youth, Kai-Khosrau, who, duly instructed by his protector, returned such crazy answers to his grandfather's questions, that Afrasiab felt satisfied he was an idiot indeed. This young prince, having attained manhood, led a rebellion so successfully that he not only dethroned his grandfather, Afrasiab, but also recovered his hereditary throne of Persia. There he reigned for many years, at the end of which he became so anxious to leave this world, that he prayed the good god (Ormudz) to receive him in his bosom. In a dream this divinity informed the king that, as soon as his affairs were in order and his successor named, his wish would be granted. Kai-Khosrau, therefore, made all his arrangements, and set out on the journey to the next world, bidding his friends not try to accompany him, for the road would be too hard for them to travel. In spite of these injunctions, a few faithful followers went with him, until they reached a place where the cold was so intense that they all froze to death, and thus left him to continue alone the journey from whence he never returned. And not a trace was left behind, And not a dimple on the wave; All sought, but sought in vain, to find The spot which proved Kai-Khosrau's grave. The successor which Kai-Khosrau had chosen proved a just ruler until he became jealous of his own son, Isfendiyar, who was also a great warrior, and who, like Rustem, accomplished seven great works. He, too, overcame demons, wolves, lions, enchanters, dragons, and unchained elements, and on one occasion proceeded to rescue two of his sisters, who were detained captives in the fortress of Arjasp, a demon king. Knowing he could not enter this stronghold by force, Isfendiyar penetrated into it in the guise of a merchant, having hidden in his chests a number of soldiers, who were to help him when the right moment came. Thanks to their aid and to the fact that he began by intoxicating his foe, Isfendiyar triumphed. The time came, however, when Isfendiyar was ordered by his father to bring Rustem to court in chains. This task proved most distasteful to the prince, who, on approaching Rustem, explained that he was not a free agent. Because the old hero obstinately refused to be manacled, the two warriors began fighting, and at the end of the day Rustem and his steed were so severely wounded that Isfendiyar felt sure they would not be able to renew the fight on the morrow. It happened, however, that the aged Zal, on seeing his wounded son, remembered his partly burned feather, and promptly cast it into the fire. Immediately the Simurgh appeared, and with one touch of her golden wings healed the horse, and used her clever beak to draw the lance out of Rustem's side. Having thus healed her nursling's son, the Simurgh vanished, leaving Rustem and his steed in such good condition that they were able to renew the battle on the morrow. This time, Isfendiyar perished beneath Rustem's blows, exclaiming that the hero was not to blame for his death and that he fell victim to his father's hate. In token of forgiveness, he begged Rustem to bring up his son, a wish which was piously carried out by the brave warrior as long as he lived. Because it had been written in the stars that "he who slew Isfendiyar would die miserably," Rustem was somewhat prepared for his tragic fate. It seems his young half-brother finally became so jealous of him that he plotted to kill him by digging seven pits lined with swords and spears. These were hidden in a road along which Rustem had to travel when he came in the king's name to claim tribute. Falling into the first pit, Rustem set his spurs to Rakush's sides; and the brave steed, although wounded, leaped out of this trap, only to tumble into a second and third. From pit to pit Rustem and his dauntless horse landed at the bottom of the seventh, fainting from their many wounds. The treacherous step-brother now drew cautiously near to ascertain whether Rustem were dead, whereupon our hero begged for his bow and arrows, declaring he wished to ward off the wild beasts as long as he remained alive. The unsuspecting brother, therefore, flung the desired weapons down into the pit, but no sooner were they within reach, than Rustem fitted an arrow to the string, casting such a baleful look at his step-brother that this coward hastened to take refuge behind a tree. No obstacle could, however, balk the righteously angry Rustem, who sent his arrow straight through the trunk into his brother's heart, thus punishing the murderer for his dastardly trick. Then, returning thanks for having been allowed to avenge his wrongs, Rustem breathed his last beside his faithful steed. On hearing his son had perished, Zal sent an army to lay Kabul waste, and, having recovered the corpses of Rustem and of his steed, laid them piously to rest in a magnificent tomb in Seistan. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 38: All the quotations in this article taken from the Shah-Nameh are from Champeon's translation.] [Footnote 39: It is this part of the story which Matthew Arnold rendered so ably in his "Sohrab and Rustum," one of his best-known poems.] [Footnote 40: All the quotations in regard to this episode are from Matthew Arnold's "Sohrab and Rustum."] INDIAN EPICS Besides the two great classical epics (Mahàkavyas)--the Mahabharata and the Ramayana--Indian literature claims eighteen Puranas, each of which bears a distinctive title. These Puranas treat mainly of "ancient legendary lore," and contain many tales of gods and sages, as well as descriptions of the Hindu world, with Mount Meru as its centre, and also of the deluge. Many of the incidents of the two great epics inspired later poets to compose what are known as kavyas, or court epics. Six of these by Bahrtruhari are termed Great Court Epics (Mahàkavyas), and another, by the poet Açvaghosha, describing the doings of Buddha at length, was translated, into Chinese between 414 and 421 A.D. The Golden Age for the court epics (which were written from 200 B.C. to 1100 A.D.) was during the sixth century of our era. In the fifth century A.D. the poet Kalidasa composed a nineteen-canto epic, entitled Raghuvamça, wherein he related at length the life of Rama, as well as of Rama's ancestors and of his twenty-four successors. This poem abounds in striking similes, as does also the same poet's Kumarasambhava or Birth and Wooing of the War God Siva. There are, however, sundry cantos in all these poems which are too erotic to meet with favor among modern readers. Kalidasa is also the author of an epic in Prakrit, wherein he sings of the building of the bridge between India and Ceylon and of the death of Ravana. We are told that the Ramayana inspired the greatest poet of Mediaeval India, Tulsi Das, to compose the Ram Charit Manas, an epic wherein he gives a somewhat shorter and very popular version of Rama's adventures. This work still serves as a sort of Bible for a hundred million of the people of northern India. The poet Kaviraja (c. 800 A.D.) composed an epic wherein he combines the Ramayana and Mahabharata into one single poem. This is a Hindu _tour de force_, for we are told that "the composition is so arranged that by the use of ambiguous words and phrases the story of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata is told at one and the same time. The same words, according to the sense in which they are understood, narrate the events of each epic." THE RAMAYANA This Hindu epic, an older poem than the Mahabharata, was composed in Sanscrit some five hundred years before our era, and is contained in seven books, aggregating twenty-four thousand verses. It is often termed "the Odyssey of the East," and relates events which are said to have occurred between two thousand and nine hundred B.C. The poem is generally attributed to Válmikí, a hermit on the bank of the Ganges, who, seeing one bird of a happy pair slain, made use of a strange metre in relating the occurrence to Brahma. This god immediately bade him employ the same in narrating the adventures of Rama, one of the seven incarnations of the god Vishnu. "Praise to Válmikí, bird of charming song, Who mounts on Poesy's sublimest spray, And sweetly sings with accents clear and strong Rama, aye Rama, in his deathless lay."[41] The poem opens with a description of the ancient city of Ayodhya (Oude), beautifully situated on the banks of a river and ruled by a childless rajah. In by-gone ages built and planned By sainted Manu's princely hand, Imperial seat! her walls extend Twelve measured leagues from end to end; Three in width, from side to side With square and palace beautified. Her gates at even distance stand, Her ample roads are wisely planned. Right glorious is her royal street, Where streams allay her dust and heat. On level ground in even row Her houses rise in goodly show. Terrace and palace, arch and gate The queenly city decorate. High are her ramparts, strong and vast, By ways at even distance passed, With circling moat both deep and wide, And store of weapons fortified. This monarch (Dasaratha), a descendant of the moon, was sixty thousand years old when the story begins. Although his reign had already extended over a period of nine thousand years,--during which his people had enjoyed such prosperity that it is known as the Age of Gold,--the king, still childless in spite of having seven hundred and fifty concubines, decided to offer a great horse sacrifice (asvatmedha) in hopes of obtaining a son, to celebrate his funeral rites and thereby enable him to enter heaven. In order to perform the ceremony properly, a horse had to be turned out to wander at will for a year, constantly watched by a band of priests, who prevented any one laying a hand upon him, for, once touched, the animal was unfit to be offered up to the gods. This horse sacrifice having been duly performed, the happy rajah was informed by the gods that four sons would uphold his line, provided he and three of his wives quaffed the magic drink they gave him. Having thus granted the rajah's prayer, the lesser gods implored their chief Indra to rid them of the demons sent by Ravana, the Satan of the Hindus. This evil spirit, by standing on his head in the midst of five fires ten thousand years in succession, had secured from Brahma a promise that no god, demon, or genius should slay him. By this extraordinary feat he had also obtained nine extra heads with a full complement of eyes, ears, and noses, hands and arms. Mindful of his promise, Brahma was at a loss to grant this request until he remembered he had never guaranteed Ravana should not be attacked by man or monkey. He, therefore, decided to beg Vishnu to enter the body of a man and conquer this terrible foe, while the lesser gods helped him in the guise of monkeys. "One only way I find To slay this fiend of evil mind. He prayed me once his life to guard From demon, god, and heavenly bard, And spirits of the earth and air, And I, consenting, heard his prayer. But the proud giant in his scorn Recked not of man of woman born; None else may take his life away And only man the fiend can slay." At Brahma's request, Vishnu not only consented to become man, but elected to enter the body of the rajah's oldest son--one of the four children obtained in answer to prayer. Meantime he charged his fellow gods diligently to beget helpers for him, so they proceeded to produce innumerable monkeys. The poem next informs us that Rama, son of the Rajah's favorite wife, being a god,--an incarnation of Vishnu,--came into the world with jewelled crown and brandishing four arms, but that, at his parents' request, he concealed these divine attributes, assumed a purely human form, and cried lustily like a babe. Two other wives of the rajah, having received lesser portions of the divine beverage, gave birth to three sons (Bharata, Lakshmana, and Satrughna), and the news that four heirs had arrived in the palace caused great rejoicings in the realm. These four princes grew up in the most promising fashion, Rama in particular developing every virtue, and showing even in childhood marked ability as an archer. Such was his proficiency in athletic sports that a hermit besought him, at sixteen, to rid his forest of the demons which were making life miserable for him and his kin. To enable Rama to triumph over these foes, the hermit bestowed upon him divine weapons, assuring him they would never fail him. "And armed with these, beyond a doubt, Shall Rama put those fiends to rout." The hermit also beguiled the weariness of their long journey to the forest by relating to Rama the story of the Ganges, the sacred stream of India. We are told that a virtuous king, being childless, betook himself to the Himalayas, where, after spending a hundred years in austerities, Brahma announced he should have one son by one of his wives and sixty thousand by the other, adding that his consorts might choose whether to bear one offspring or many. Given the first choice, the favorite wife elected to be the mother of the son destined to continue the royal race, while the other brought into the world a gourd, wherein a hermit discovered the germs of sixty thousand brave sons, all of whom, thanks to his care, grew up to perform wonders in behalf of their father and brother. On one occasion, a horse chosen for sacrifice having been stolen, the father despatched these sixty thousand braves in quest of it, and, as they were not able to discover any traces of it on earth, bade them dig down to hell. Not only did they obey, but continued their search until they struck in turn the four elephants on whose backs the Hindus claim our earth peacefully reposes. Here the diggers disturbed the meditations of some god, who, in his anger, burned them up. The poor father, anxious to purify the ashes of his dead sons, learned he would never be able to do so until the Ganges--a river of heaven--was brought down to earth. By dint of penance and prayer, the bereaved parent induced Vishnu to permit this stream--which until then had only flowed in heaven--to descend to earth, warning the king that the river, in coming down, would destroy the world unless some means were found to stem the force of its current. Our clever rajah obviated this difficulty by persuading the god Siva to receive the cataract on the top of his head, where the sacred waters, after threading their way through his thick locks, were divided into the seven streams which feed the sacred springs of India. Thus safely brought to earth, the Ganges penetrated to hell, where it purified the ashes of the sixty thousand martyrs, and ever since then its waters have been supposed to possess miraculous powers. For sin and stain were banished thence, By the sweet river's influence. The hermit also told how the gods procured the Water of Life (Amrita) by churning the ocean, saying they used Mount Meru as a dasher, and a huge serpent as the rope whereby to twirl it around. Led by this hermit, Rama not only slew the ravaging monsters, but went on to take part in a tournament, where King Janak offered his daughter, Sita, in marriage to any archer who would span a bow he had obtained from Siva. On arriving at the place where this test was to be made, Rama saw the huge bow brought forth on a chariot drawn by five thousand men, and, although no one else had even been able to raise it, took it up and bent it until it broke with a crack which terrified all present. By this feat young Rama won the hand of Sita, a beautiful princess, whom her father turned up from the soil while ploughing one day, and who is hence the Hindu personification of Spring. The wedding of Rama and Sita was honored by the presence of both kings, and Rama's three brothers were made as happy as he by receiving the hands of three of Sita's sisters, the father telling each bridegroom: "A faithful wife, most blest is she, And as thy shade will follow thee." When the four bridal couples returned to Oude, Rama's father decided to name his eldest son assistant king, and therefore gave orders to prepare for the ceremony. The mere rumor that Rama was about to be crowned aroused the jealousy of the king's youngest wife (Kaikeyi), who, instigated by an evil-minded, hunch-backed maid, sent for her aged spouse and reminded him how once, when he was ill, he had promised in return for her care to grant any two boons she asked. The infatuated monarch, seeing her grief, rashly renewed this promise, swearing to keep it by Rama's head. As some wild elephant who tries To soothe his consort as she lies Struck by the hunter's venomed dart, So the great king, disturbed in heart, Strove with soft hand and fond caress To soothe his darling queen's distress, And in his love addressed with sighs The lady of the lotus eyes. Hearing him confirm his former oath, the favorite wife bade him banish his heir to the forest for fourteen years and appoint her son as viceroy in his brother's stead. In vain the old king pleaded; the favorite wife insisted so vehemently that when morning dawned the bewildered old rajah sent for Rama to ask his advice. Although this prince fully expected to be crowned that day, he was far too virtuous not to perceive that a promise must be kept at any cost, so without a murmur he prepared to go to the forest of Dandaka and dwell there in hermit garb fourteen years. "The orders of my sire," he cried, "My will shall ne'er oppose: I follow still, whate'er betide, The path which duty shows." His first duty, however, was to return to his palace to inform his wife that they must part; but, on hearing what had occurred, Sita piteously begged to share his fate, although he eloquently described the hardships to which she would be exposed should she venture to accompany him. Her wifely devotion was, however, proof against all he could urge, for she declared with tears there was no happiness for her save at his side. "With thee is heaven, where'er the spot; Each place is hell where thou are not." Hearing this declaration, Rama finally consented to take her with him, and, bidding farewell to father and mother, left the city, accompanied by his wife and favorite brother (Lakshman) and escorted by his mourning subjects. His father, broken-hearted at parting with his favorite son, took to his bed, which he was never to leave again confiding to Rama's mother that he was being sorely punished for a sin of his youth. It seems that, while out hunting one night, hearing a gurgle by a stream, and fancying some wild beast was there drinking, he let fly a shaft, which only too surely reached its goal. Startled by a human cry, the rajah rushed down to the river, only to discover that he had mortally wounded a youth who had come down to draw water for his blind parents. "Then in the dusk I heard the sound of gurgling water; Quickly I took my bow, and, aiming toward the sound, shot off the dart. A cry of mortal agony came from the spot,--a human voice Was heard, and a poor hermit's son fell pierced and bleeding in the stream." Before dying this lad implored his slayer to hasten back to the hermitage with water, as the old people were longing for a drink. On hearing footsteps, the blind parents peevishly reproached their son for tarrying, and, when the unfortunate murderer tried to explain what had occurred, cursed him vehemently, declaring he would some day experience the loss of a son. It was, therefore, in fulfilment of this curse that the old rajah died thirteen days after Rama's departure. Meantime the banished prince, riding in one of his father's chariots, had reached the junction of the Jumna and Ganges, where he spent the first night of his exile beneath a banyan on the banks of the sacred stream. There he built a raft, by means of which he crossed to the other side, and from there sadly watched his faithful subjects wending homeward. Then he plunged into the forest, arranging that Sita should always tread its narrow paths between him and his brother, to make sure no harm befall her. The Indian poet now favors us with a wonderful description of the tropical forest, with its huge trees, brilliant flowers, strange birds and monkeys, all of which gives the reader a vivid impression of the color, beauty, perfume, and luxuriance of the tropics. On rocky heights beside the way And lofty trees with blossoms gay; And streamlets running fair and fast, The royal youths and Sita passed. The exiles, wandering thus in single file, finally arrived at Citra-kuta, where they joined a colony of hermits and built a rustic booth, where they dwelt happily for some time. One day the rumor of a coming host roused their curiosity, and Lakshman, descrying a long procession from the top of a high tree, excitedly warned Rama that his brother was probably coming to annihilate them. Rama, who always ascribes good motives to every one, now declares it is impossible this should be true, and feels sure his brother is coming for some affectionate purpose. Greeting Bharata kindly, therefore, he soon discovers his previsions are correct, for the young prince, after announcing his father's death, implores Rama to return and reign over Oude. Not only does he protest he will never supplant his senior, but reviles his mother for having compelled her husband to drive Rama into exile. Although all present unite in his entreaties, Rama, too virtuous to break a promise, decides to remain in the forest the allotted fourteen years and resume his regal state only at the end of that time. He adds that during his banishment he will live in such a fashion that his exile will prove a blessing to his people. "Many a blessing yet will spring From banished Rama's wanderings." This decided, Rama urges his brother to act meanwhile as vice-regent; whereupon Bharata, taking Rama's golden sandals, proclaims they alone shall occupy the throne beneath the royal umbrella, although he consents to rule in his brother's name. This settled, the gorgeous procession slowly wends its way back to Oude, where for fourteen years every one does homage to Rama's golden sandals! Meantime life in the hermitage continues its peaceful course, the royal ascetics being disturbed only by the demons (Rakshasas) who haunt the forest and try to injure the hermits, simply because they are good. Sita is perfectly happy in this humble home because she enjoys the constant presence of her husband, who, taking her one day to visit an aged female ascetic, implores this woman to bestow a boon upon his faithful spouse. The old woman then and there endowed Sita with eternal youth and beauty, declaring that no matter what hardships she encounters, she will always be as dainty and young as at present. One of the female demons finally becomes so anxious to win Rama's love, that she disguises herself as a beautiful creature in hopes of fascinating him. Angry because all her efforts fail, she next tries to injure Sita, whereupon Rama, by cutting off her nose and ears, forces her to resume her usual shape. In her anger this demon bids her brothers avenge her wrongs, whereupon fourteen fiends attack Rama, who, having slain them all, is almost immediately afterward forced to face thousands of demons. He defeats them single-handed, while his brother watches over Sita, hidden in a neighboring cave. Such a trifle as the massacre of twenty-one thousand of his fiends in three hours' time, naturally enrages Ravana, whose abode is in Ceylon, in a golden palace which has such high walls that no one can peep over them. This king of demons, who is also called the "Courage of the Three Worlds," has the power of increasing his stature until he can reach up to the stars with his score of arms. Owing to his ten heads, his appearance is terrifying, especially as his eyebrows are composed of live black snakes which writhe around continually. No sooner does his sister appear before him, reporting she has been mutilated by Rama, who has besides slain hosts of his subjects, than Ravana swears revenge, adding he will first kidnap Sita, for his sister's description of her matchless charms has fired his imagination. In his golden chariot Ravana, therefore, flies to the forest, where he bids his sister change herself into a wonderful deer, and in that shape lure Rama away, so he can abduct Sita. The three hermits are, therefore, calmly seated before their hut when a deer darts past, exhibiting so unusual a pelt that Sita, fired with the desire to possess it, urges Rama to pursue it. To gratify this whim, Rama starts out to track this game, calling to his brother to mount guard over his wife during his absence. Lured farther and farther away from home, Rama finally brings down his quarry, which, in falling, calls for help in a voice so exactly like his own that his brother, hearing the despairing accent, is torn between the desire to rush to his rescue and the necessity of remaining to protect Sita. But the little wife, sure her husband is in danger, so vehemently urges her brother-in-law to leave her that he finally dashes off. A moment later Sita sees an old hermit draw near to ask alms. While she is entertaining this holy guest, he frightens her by suddenly announcing that he is Ravana, king of the demons. As Sita resists all his advances, Ravana, suddenly resuming his wonted shape, snatches her up in his arms and whisks her off in his flying chariot. Notwithstanding the rapidity of his course, the king of the vultures, seeing them dart through the air and hoping to rescue the frantic Sita, attacks Ravana, only to fall mortally wounded to earth. Because Sita--the personification of vegetation--has now been abducted by the demon,--who typifies winter,--the whole earth shows signs of mourning, and the two brothers hurry back to the hut, their hearts filled with nameless apprehensions. Like streamlet in the winter frost, The glory of her lilies lost. With leafy tears the sad trees wept As a wild wind their branches swept. Mourned bird and deer; and every flower Drooped fainting round the lovely bower. The sylvan deities had fled The spot where all the light was dead. Reaching their hermitage and finding their worst fears justified, both brothers set out in quest of Sita, and soon come across the dying vulture, who reports what he has seen, and bids them, after burning his body, find the monkey king, Sugriva, who will aid them. After piously fulfilling the brave vulture's last wishes, Rama and his brother visit the monkey monarch, who reports that, as the demon flew over his head, Sita flung down a few of her ornaments, begging that they be taken to Rama. An alliance is now concluded between Rama and Sugriva, and, as each party pledges himself to help the other, Rama begins by slaying the brother and chief foe of the monkey king, who in his turn undertakes to trace Sita. To discover where she may be, Hanuman, the monkey general, sets out, and, following Sita's traces, discovers she has been carried to Ceylon. But, on arriving at the southern point of the Indian peninsula and finding some two hundred miles of water between him and this island, Hanuman, son of the god of the winds, transforms himself into a huge ape, and in that shape takes a flying leap from the top of Mount Mandara (the fabled centre of the earth) to the top of Mount Sabula, which overlooks the capital of Ceylon. Then, reconnoitring from this point, the monkey general perceives that Ravana's palace is so closely guarded that he can only steal into it in the guise of a cat. Prowling through the royal premises, he searches for Sita until he finally discovers her in a secluded garden, bitterly mourning for her spouse. In spite of the fact that she has already been some time in the demon's power, Ravana has not yet succeeded in winning her affections, and dares not force her lest he incur the wrath of the gods. It is evident, however, that his patience is worn nearly threadbare, for Hanuman overhears him threaten to chop Sita to pieces unless she will yield to his wishes and become his wife within the next two months. "My cooks shall mince thy limbs with steel And serve thee for my morning meal." When Sita is left alone, Hanuman, in the guise of a tiny monkey, climbs down to her side, exhibits Rama's ring, which he has brought as a token, and receives from her in return a jewel, after he has assured her that she will soon be delivered. About to leave Ceylon to report what he has seen, it occurs to the monkey general to do some damage to the foe. In the guise of an immense baboon, he therefore destroys a grove of mango trees, an act of vandalism which so infuriates Ravana that he orders the miscreant seized and fire tied to his tail! But no sooner has the fire been set than the monkey general, suddenly transforming himself into a tiny ape, slips out of his bonds, and scrambling up on the palace roof sets it on fire as well as all the houses in Lanka, his flaming tail serving as a torch. As earth with fervent heat will glow When comes her final overthrow; From gate to gate, from court to spire, Proud Lanka was one blaze of fire, And every headland, rock, and bay Shone bright a hundred leagues away! Then, satisfied with the damage he has done, Hanuman hastens back to the sea-shore, whence by another prodigious leap he lands in India, to inform Rama and Sugriva (the monkey king) of the success of his expedition. A huge monkey army now sets out under Rama's guidance, but general and warriors are equally dismayed on reaching the sea to find an unsurmountable obstacle between them and their goal. In answer to Rama's fervent prayers, however, the god of the sea, rising from the waves, promises that any materials cast into his waters will be held in place, to form a bridge whereby they can cross to Ceylon. All the monkeys now bring stones and tree trunks which they hurl into the sea, where, thanks to the efforts of the Hindu architect Nala, they are welded together and form a magic bridge. It is by means of this causeway that Rama invades Ceylon, and, when Ravana hears the foe is approaching, he musters an army, of which the poem gives a wonderful description. Then begins the dire combat wherein Rama and his forces finally prove victorious, and wherein our hero, after slaying Ravana's son, fights with the demon himself, whose heads he proceeds to cut off. He is justly dismayed, however, to see they have the power of springing up again as soon as hewn, until remembering at last his magic bow, he makes such good use of it that he annihilates the demon, whose numerous wives wail as he falls. Although many of Rama's adherents have perished in battle, he now proceeds to call them back to life, and graciously receives the praise they bestow upon him for having rid the world of demons. Soft from celestial minstrels came The sound of music and acclaim; Soft, fresh and cool, a rising breeze Brought odors from the heavenly trees; And, ravishing the sight and smell, A wondrous rain of blossoms fell; And voices breathed round Reghu's son, "Champion of gods, well done, well done." It is only then that Rama consents to see Sita, who, thanks to her gift of eternal beauty, is still so lovely that all present are awed. But, instead of embracing her, Rama coldly declares that, although he crossed the seas for her sake and slew her foes, she is no longer worthy to dwell in his sight since she has been an inmate of Ravana's harem. In vain Sita urges that she has been faithful throughout. Rama refuses to credit her purity; so the poor little wife, preferring death to disgrace, begs permission to die on a funeral pyre. Even then her stern husband shows no signs of relenting, but allows her to enter a fierce fire, whence the god of the flames bears her out unharmed, and restores her to her husband, declaring that, as her chastity has withstood this fiery test, he can receive her without compunction. She ceased and, fearless to the last, Within the flames' wild fury passed. By this time the prescribed fourteen years of exile are finished, so husband and wife set out for home, crossing the ocean bridge in Ravana's magic car, and flying all over India, of which the poet gives a wonderful panoramic description. Rama's return to Oude is joyfully welcomed by his brother, who proudly shows him the golden sandals which have occupied the throne all this time. Rama's reign proves an Age of Gold for India, but, although all seem happy, some doubt lingers in regard to the propriety of Sita's return. When a famine finally devastates the land, one of the ministers assures Rama this scourge is due to the fact that he has taken back a guilty wife. Rama, therefore, banishes the faithful Sita, who returns to the forest and to the protection of the hermits, where she gives birth to twin sons, Kusa and Lava, the destined singers of Válmikí's wonderful song. These youths are, however, brought up in the forest in total ignorance of their august descent. Twenty years have passed since Rama repudiated his wife, when he decides to offer a horse sacrifice. But, the steed he selects having been captured by two young men, Rama angrily orders them put to death. As the victims resist all efforts to seize them, the king in person goes forth to capture them. On approaching near enough, he haughtily demands their names and origin, whereupon the youths rejoin their mother is Sita and their tutor Válmikí, but that they do not know their father's name. These words reveal to Rama that he is face to face with his own sons, but, although he rejoices, he still finds it difficult to believe Sita can have been faithful. He, therefore, avers that before reinstating her she will have to undergo a second trial by fire; but Sita, who no longer feels any desire to belong to so heartless a spouse, flatly refuses to accompany him, until Válmikí informs her it is a wife's duty to obey. Still wearing the crown of eternal youth and beauty, Sita now appears before Rama, in whose presence she implores the earth to open and receive her, thus proving that she has ever been true to her marriage vows and saving her from further suffering. A moment later the king and his court see the earth heave and open, and behold the goddess of the earth, who, taking Sita by the hand, announces she is about to convey her to realms of eternal bliss. Then Sita and the goddess disappear, the earth closes once more, and the gods chant the praises of the faithful wife, showering flowers upon Rama, who grovels on the ground in his agony. A broken-hearted man, he then returns to his palace with his two sons, the first to sing this poem, whose verses are so sacred that those who listen to a few of them are forgiven many sins, while those who hear the whole epic are sure to achieve Paradise. He shall be From every sin and blemish free: Whoever reads the saving strain, With all his kin the heavens shall gain. Because the poem is so sacred, its author enjoined upon the youths to recite it often, a task they faithfully performed as long as they lived, and which other bards have continued until to-day in all parts of India. Recite ye this heroic song In tranquil shades where sages throng; Recite it where the good resort, In lowly home and royal court. We are told besides that-- As long as mountain ranges stand And rivers flow upon the earth, So long will this Ramayana Survive upon the lips of men. Rama is finally visited by the God of Time, who offers him the choice of remaining on earth or returning to heaven. When he wisely choses the latter alternative, Rama is bidden bathe in sacred waters, and thence is translated to the better world. From this poem Tulsi Das has composed a play known as the "Ram Charit Manas," which serves as Bible to a hundred million worshippers in northern India, and is always played at the yearly festivals in the presence of countless admirers. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 41: The quotations in this chapter are taken from Griffeth's translation and from Romesh Dutt's.] THE MAHABHARATA The longest poem in existence is composed in Sanscrit, and, although begun before the Ramayana, it was completed only about one hundred years after. It consists of some two hundred and twenty thousand lines, divided into eighteen sections (parvans), each of which forms a large volume. Although the whole work has never been translated into English verse, many portions of it have been reproduced both in verse and prose. The Hindus consider this one of their most sacred books, attribute its authorship to Vyasa, and claim that the reading of a small portion of it will obliterate sin, while the perusal of the whole will insure heavenly bliss. Its name signifies "the great war," and its historical kernel,--including one-fifth of the whole work,--consists of an account of an eighteen days' battle (in the thirteenth or fourteenth century B.C.) between rival tribes. The poem is, besides, a general repository of the mythological, legendary, and philosophical lore of the Hindus, and reached its present state of development only by degrees and at the end of several centuries. Bharata, the real founder of the principal Indian dynasty, is so famous a character, that the Hindus often designate their whole country as "the land of Bharata." We are told that Rajah Dushyanta, a descendant of the Moon, while hunting one day beheld the beautiful Sakuntala, daughter of a sage, whom he persuaded to consent to a clandestine marriage. But, after a short time, the bridegroom departed, leaving his bride a ring as a pledge of his troth. Absorbed in thoughts of her absent lover, Sakuntala once failed to notice the approach of a sage, who cursed her, saying she should be forgotten by the man she loved, but who relenting after a while declared this curse would be annulled when her husband beheld his ring. Some time after this, on the way to rejoin her spouse to inform him she was about to become a mother, Sakuntala, while bathing in a sacred pool, accidentally dropped this ring. On appearing without it before Dushyanta, he sternly denied all acquaintance with her and ordered her driven out into the jungle, where she soon gave birth to their son Bharata. The lad was about six years old when a fisherman found in the stomach of a fish the lost ring, which he carried to the rajah. On beholding this token, Dushyanta, remembering all, hastened to seek poor Sakuntala, whom he discovered in the jungle, watching her boy fearlessly play with lion cubs. Proud of such a son, the rajah bore his family home; and Bharata, after having a long reign, gave birth to Hastin, founder of Hastinapur, a city on the bank of the Ganges about sixty miles from the modern Delhi. A grandson of this Hastin married the Goddess of the Ganges,--who was doing penance on earth,--and their children were animated by the souls of deities condemned for a time to assume human form. In order to enable these fellow-gods to return to heaven as soon as possible, Ganga undertook to drown each of her babies soon after birth, provided the gods would pledge themselves to endow one of her descendants with their strength, and would allow him to live, if not to perpetuate his species. After seeing seven of his children cast into the water without daring to object, the rajah, although he knew his goddess-wife would leave him if he found fault with anything she did, protested so vehemently against the similar disposal of his eighth son that his wife disappeared with the child. But a few years later this son, Bhishma, the terrible, having grown up, was restored to his father. To comfort himself for the loss of his first wife, the king now married the beautiful daughter of a fisherman, solemnly promising her son should succeed him, for Bhishma voluntarily relinquished all right to the throne and took a vow to remain celibate. The new wife's main attraction seems to have been a sweet odor, bestowed by a saint, who restored her virginity after she had borne him a son named Vyasa, the author of this poem. By the Rajah the fishermaid now had two sons, one of whom was slain at the end of a three years' fight, while the other began his reign under the wise regency of Bhishma. When it was time for his royal step-brother to marry, Bhishma sent him to a Bride's Choice (Swayamvara), where three lovely princesses were to be awarded to the victor. Without waiting to win them fairly, the young prince kidnapped all three, and, when the disappointed suitors pursued him, Bhishma held them at bay by shooting ten thousand arrows at once, and thus enabled his step-brother and brides to escape. Although thus provided with three royal wives, our prince was soon deserted by one of them and was never fortunate enough to have children by the two others. After he had died, custom required that his nearest kinsman should raise issue for him, so,--owing to Bhishma's vow,--Vyasa, who was fabulously ugly, undertook to visit the two widows. One of them, catching a glimpse of him, bore him a blind son (Dhritarashtra), while the other was so frightened that she bore a son of such pale complexion that he was known as Pandu, the White. Neither of these youths being deemed perfect enough to represent properly the royal race, Vyasa announced he would pay the widows another visit, but this time they hired a slave to take their place, so it was she who brought into the world Vidura, God of Justice. Because one prince was blind and the other the offspring of a slave, the third was set upon his throne by his uncle Bhishma, who in due time provided him with two lovely wives. With these the monarch withdrew to the Himalayas to spend his honeymoon, and while there proved unfortunate enough to wound a couple of deer who were hermits in disguise. In dying they predicted he would perish in the arms of one of his wives, whereupon Pandu decided to refrain from all intercourse with them, graciously allowing them instead to bear him five sons by five different gods. These youth, known in the poem as the sons of Pandu, the Pandavs (or the Pandavas), are the main heroes of India. As a prediction made by an ascetic was bound to come true, the king, momentarily forgetting the baleful curse, died in the embrace of his second wife, who, in token of grief, was burned with his remains, this being the earliest mention of a suttee. Meantime the blind prince had married a lady to whom a famous ascetic had promised she should be mother to one hundred sons! All these came into the world at one birth, in the shape of a lump of flesh, which the ascetic divided into one hundred and one pieces, each of which was enclosed in a pot of rarefied butter, where these germs gradually developed into one hundred sons and one daughter. As long as Pandu sojourned in the Himalayas, the blind prince reigned in his stead, but when he died, his surviving widow brought to the capital (Hastinapur) her five divine sons, the Pandavs. There the blind uncle had them brought up with their cousins, the hundred Kurus (or Kauravas), with whom, however, they were never able to live in perfect peace. Once, as the result of a boyish quarrel, a Kuru flung Bhima, one of the Pandavs, into the Ganges, where, instead of sinking, this hero was inoculated by serpent-bites with the strength of ten thousand elephants before he returned to his wonted place at home. The young princes, who had all been trained to fight by their tutor, Drona, and who had already given sundry proofs of their proficiency in arms, were finally invited by the blind monarch to give a public exhibition of their skill. The poem gives us a lengthy description of this tournament, expatiating on the flower-decked booths reserved for the principal spectators, and dilating particularly on the fact that the blind monarch, unable to see with, his own eyes, made some one sit beside him to describe all that was going on. After the preliminary sacrifice offered by the tutor, the skill of the princes, as archers, was tested on foot, on horseback, in howdahs, and in chariots; then they indulged in mock fights with swords and bucklers, closely watched by Drona, who pronounced his favorite Arjuna, the third Pandav, the finest athlete ever seen. Still the princes shook their weapons, drove the deep resounding car, Or on steed or tusker mounted waged the glorious mimic war! Mighty sword and ample buckler, ponderous mace the princes wield, Brightly gleam their lightning rapiers as they range the listed field, Brave and fearless is their action, and their movements quick and light, Skilled and true the thrust and parry of their weapons flaming bright![42] Thereupon, from the ranks of the spectators, emerged Karna, son of a charioteer, who challenged Arjuna to fight with him, but the prince refused on the score that they were not of equal rank. Still a legend assures us that Karna was a child of the Sun-god, set afloat by his mother on the river Jumna, whence this Hindu Moses, floating down into the Ganges, was rescued and brought up by the charioteer, his reputed father. Meantime the four Pandav brothers were greatly elated by the eulogy bestowed upon their brother, but their jealous cousins became so enraged that, when the time came for the youths to face each other in club exercises, the sham battle degenerated into an earnest fight. With ponderous mace they waged the daring fight. As for a tender mate two rival elephants Engage in frantic fury, so the youths Encountered, and amidst the rapid sphere Of fire their whirling weapons clashing wove Their persons vanished from the anxious eye. Still more and more incensed their combat grew, And life hung doubtful on the desperate conflict; With awe the crowd beheld the fierce encounter And amidst hope and fear suspended tossed, Like ocean shaken by conflicting winds. Seeing this, the horrified tutor separated the contestants, whom he soon after sent off separately to war against a neighboring rajah. In this conflict the one hundred Kurus were badly worsted, while the five Pandavs scored a brilliant triumph. They also subdued sundry other kings, thereby so rousing the jealous hatred of their uncle and cousins that these finally began to plot their death. The five Pandavs and their mother were therefore invited to a feast in a neighboring city (Allahabad), where the Kurus arranged they should be burned alive in their booth. But, duly warned by the God of Justice, the Pandavs had an underground passage dug from their hut to the forest, by means of which they escaped, little suspecting that a beggar woman and her five children--who had sought refuge in the empty hut--would be burned to death there in their stead. Disguised as Brahmans, the five brothers and their mother now dwelt for a time in the jungle, where they proceeded to slay some demons, to marry others, and to perform sundry astounding feats of strength. We are told, for instance, that whenever the mother and brothers were tired, the strongest of the Pandavs, Bhima, carried them all with the utmost ease. While in the jungle they were visited by their grandfather Vyasa, who bade them attend the Bride's Choice of Draupadi, daughter of a neighboring king, who--Minerva-like--came into the world full grown. Human mother never bore her, human bosom never fed, From the altar sprang the maiden who some prince will wed! She was so beautiful that her father decided the suitor she favored would have to prove himself worthy of her by spanning a bow which no one as yet had been able to bend, and by sending an arrow through a rapidly revolving wheel into the eye of a gold fish stationed beyond it. Owing to the extreme loveliness of Draupadi, many rajahs flocked to the tournament to compete for her hand, and the five Pandavs betook themselves thither in Brahman garb. After the preliminary exercises, the beautiful princess--to whom all her suitors had been duly named--gave the signal for the contest to begin. The mere sight of the huge bow proved enough to decide several of the contestants to withdraw, but a few determined to risk all in hopes of obtaining Draupadi's hand. No man, however, proved able to bend the bow until Arjuna stepped forward, begging permission to try his luck. While the rajahs were protesting that no Brahman should compete, this Pandav spanned the bow and sent five successive shafts straight to the goal, amid the loud acclamations of all present. He grasped the ponderous weapon in his hand And with one vigorous effort braced the string. Quickly the shafts were aimed and swiftly they flew; The mark fell pierced; a shout of victory Rang through the vast arena; from the sky Garlands of flowers crowned the hero's head, Ten thousand fluttering scarfs waved in the air, And drum and trumpet sounded forth his triumph. The beautiful princess, captivated by the goodly appearance of this suitor, immediately hung around his neck the crown of flowers, although the defeated rajahs muttered a mere Brahman should not aspire to the hand of a princess. In fact, had not his four brothers, aided by Krishna (a divine suitor), stood beside him, and had not the king insisted there should be no fracas, the young winner might have had a hard time. Then, as the princess seemed perfectly willing, the wedding was celebrated, and the five brothers returned to the humble hut where they lived on alms, calling out to their mother that they had won a prize! On hearing these tidings, the mother--without knowing what the prize was--rejoined, "Share it among you," an injunction which settled for good and all that Draupadi should be common wife to all five. But the legend adds that this came to pass mainly because the maiden had prayed five times for a husband, and that the gods were answering each of her prayers separately! Shortly after this fivefold marriage,--which assured the Pandavs a royal ally,--Bhishma persuaded the blind rajah--who had meantime discovered his nephews were not dead--to give them one half of his realm. Taking up their abode there, the Pandavs built the city of Indraprastha (Delhi) on the banks of the Jumna, before they decided that the eldest among them (Yudhishthira) should be king, the others humbly serving as his escort wherever he went. One day this eldest Pandav went to visit the eldest Kuru, a proficient gambler, with whom he played until he had lost realm, brothers, wife, and freedom! But, when the victor undertook to take forcible possession of the fair Draupadi, and publicly stripped her of her garments, the gods, in pity, supplied her with one layer of vesture after another, so that the brutal Kuru was not able to shame her as he wished. Furious to see the treatment their common wife was undergoing at the victor's hands, the five Pandavs made grim threats, and raised such a protest that the blind uncle, interfering, sent them off to the forest with their wife for twelve years. He also decreed that, during the thirteenth, all must serve in some menial capacity, with the proviso that, if discovered by their cousins, they should never regain their realm. "'Tis no fault of thine, fair princess! fallen to this servile state, Wife and son rule not their actions, others rule their hapless fate! Thy Yudhishthir sold his birthright, sold thee at the impious play, And the wife falls with the husband, and her duty--to obey!" During the twelve years which the Pandavs spent in the forest, with the beautiful and faithful Draupadi (who was once carried away by a demon but rescued by one of her spouses), they met with sundry adventures. Not only did they clear the jungle, rescue from cannibals the jealous cousins who came to humiliate them, and perform other astounding feats, but they were entertained by tales told by Vyasa, among which are a quaint account of the Deluge, of the descent of the Ganges, a recitation of the Ramayana, and the romance of Nala and of Savitri, of which brief sketches are given at the end of this article. All this material is contained in the "Forest Book," the third and longest parvan of the Mahabharata, wherein we also find a curious account of Arjuna's voluntary exile because he entered into Draupadi's presence when one of his brothers was with her! To atone for this crime, Arjuna underwent a series of austerities on the Himalayas, in reward for which his father Indra took him up to heaven, whence he brought back sundry weapons, among which we note Siva's miraculous bow. Meantime his four brothers and Draupadi had undertaken pious pilgrimages to all the sacred waters of India, and had learned sundry useful trades and arts, before they, too, visited the Himalayas. There Arjuna joined them in Indra's chariot, and led them to the top of a mountain, whence they beheld the glittering palace of Kuvera, God of Wealth. After the twelve years' sojourn in the jungle were ended, the Pandavs, thanks to divine aid, entered the service of a neighboring king as teachers of dice and music, as charioteer, cook, cow-herd, and maid. There the five men and their wife remained for a whole year, without being discovered by their enemies, and, toward the end of their sojourn, rendered so signal a service to their master that he offered his daughter in marriage to Arjuna. Although this prince virtuously refused to accept her for himself, he bestowed her upon a son begotten during his exile when he indulged in sundry romantic adventures. Having completed their penance, the Pandavs returned home, to demand of the Kurus the surrender of their realm. As these greedy cousins refused to relinquish their authority, both parties prepared for war. Seeing the Kurus had ten allies, the Pandavs became anxious to secure some too. The most powerful person in the region being the rajah Krishna, one of the Kurus hastened to his palace to bespeak his aid, and, finding him asleep, seated himself at the head of the bed. A moment later one of the Pandavs arrived, and modestly placed himself at the foot of the sleeping monarch's couch. On awakening, Krishna, of course, saw the Pandav first, but, after listening impartially to both petitioners, informed them that one party should have the benefit of his advice and the other the aid of his one hundred million soldiers. The greedy Kuru immediately bespoke the use of the army, while the Pandav was only too glad to secure the advice of Krishna (an embodiment of all the gods), who throughout the war acted as Arjuna's charioteer. All preparations finished, the Great War (Mahabharata) began, the two families pitted against each other meeting on the plain of Kurukshetra (the modern Panipat) where the battle was fought. After many speeches, and after erecting fortifications which bristled with defences and were liberally stocked with jars of scorpions, hot oil, and missiles, the two parties drew up rules of battle, which neither was to infringe under penalty of incurring the world's execration. Even nature now showed by unmistakable signs that a terrible conflict was about to take place, and when the two armies--which the Hindus claim numbered several billion men--came face to face, Krishna delayed the fight long enough to recite with Arjuna a dialogue of eighteen cantos called the Bhagavad-gita, or Divine Song, which contains a complete system of Indian religious philosophy. The Pandavs, having besought the aid of the monkeys, were informed they would derive great benefit by bearing a monkey banner, so it was armed with this standard that they marched on to victory. The sons of Pandu marked the coming storm And swift arrayed their force. The chief divine And Arjuna at the king's request Raised in the van the ape-emblazoned banner, The host's conducting star, the guiding light That cheered the bravest heart, and as it swept The air, it warmed each breast with martial fires. Throughout the war the Pandav forces were directed by the same general, but their opponents had four. A moment after the first collision, the sky was filled with whistling arrows, while the air resounded with the neighing of horses and the roaring of elephants; the plain shook, and clouds of dust, dimming the light of the sun, formed a heavy pall, beneath which Pandavs and Kurus struggled in deadly fight. This frightful conflict lasted eighteen days, the battle always stopping at sunset, to enable the combatants to recover their strength. And ever and anon the thunder roared, And angry lightnings flashed across the gloom, Or blazing meteors fearful shot to earth. Regardless of these awful signs, the chiefs Pressed on to mutual slaughter, and the peal Of shouting hosts commingling shook the world. The Kurus' general, Bhishma, fell on the tenth day,--after a terrible fight with Arjuna,--riddled with so many arrows that his body could not touch the ground. Although mortally wounded, he lay in this state, his head supported by three arrows, for fifty-eight days, and was thus able to bestow good advice on those who came to consult him. Darker grew the gloomy midnight, and the princes went their way; On his bed of pointed arrows, Bhishma lone and dying lay. He was succeeded as leader of the Kurus by the tutor Drona, who during his five days' generalship proved almost invincible. But, some one suggesting that his courage would evaporate should he hear his son was dead, a cry arose in the Pandav ranks that Aswathaman had perished! Unable to credit this news, Drona called to the eldest Pandav--who was strictly truthful--to know whether it was so, and heard him rejoin it was true in regard to the elephant by that name, but not of the man. Said Yudhishthir: "Lordly tusker, Aswathaman named, is dead;" Drona heard but half the accents, feebly dropped his sinking head! The poor father, who heard only a small part of the sentence--the remainder being drowned by the sound of the trumpets--lost all courage, and allowed himself to be slain without further resistance. The whole poem bristles with thrilling hand-to-hand conflicts, the three greatest during the eighteen days' battle being between Karna and the eldest Pandav, between the eldest Kuru and Bhima, and between Karna and Arjuna. During the first sixteen days of battle, countless men were slain, including Arjuna's son by one of his many wives. Although the fighting had hitherto invariably ceased at sunset, darkness on the seventeenth day failed to check the fury of the fighters, so when the moon refused to afford them light they kindled torches in order to find each other. It was therefore midnight before the exhausted combatants dropped down on the battle-field, pillowing their heads on their horses and elephants to snatch a brief rest so as to be able to renew the war of extermination on the morrow. On the eighteenth day--the last of the Great War--the soil showed red with blood and was so thickly strewn with corpses that there was no room to move. Although the Kurus again charged boldly, all but three were slain by the enemies' golden maces. In fact, the fight of the day proved so fierce that only eleven men remained alive of the billions which, according to the poem, took part in the fight. But during that night the three remaining Kurus stole into the Pandav camp, killed the five sons which Draupadi had born to her five husbands, carried off their heads, and laid them at the feet of the mortally wounded eldest Kuru, who fancied at first his cousins had been slain. The battle ending from sheer lack of combatants, the eldest Pandav ordered solemn funeral rites, which are duly described in the poem. Pious rites are due to foemen and to friends and kinsmen slain, None shall lack a fitting funeral, none shall perish on the plain. Then, no one being there to dispute it, he took possession of the realm, always dutifully according precedence to his blind uncle, who deeply mourned his fallen sons. Wishing to govern wisely, the eldest Pandav sought the wounded general, Bhishma,--who still lay on his arrowy bed in the battle-field,--and who, having given him rules for wise government, breathed his last in the presence of this Pandav, who saw his spirit rise from his divided skull and mount to the skies "like a bright star." The body was then covered with flowers and borne down to the Ganges, where, after it had been purified by the sacred waters, it was duly burned. The new king's mind was, however, so continually haunted by the horrors of the great battle-field that, hoping to find relief, he decided to perform a horse sacrifice. Many chapters of the poem are taken up in relating the twelve adventures of this steed, which was accompanied everywhere by Arjuna, who had to wage many a fight to retain possession of the sacred animal and prevent any hand being laid upon him. Then we have a full description of the seventeen ceremonies pertaining to this strange rite. Victor of a hundred battles, Arjun bent his homeward way, Following still the sacred charger free to wander as it may, Strolling minstrels to Yudhishthir spake of the returning steed, Spake of Arjun wending homeward with the victor's crown of meed. Next we learn that the blind king, still mourning the death of his sons, retired to the bank of the Ganges, where he and his wife spent their last years listening to the monotonous ripple of the sacred waters. Fifteen years after the great battle, the five Pandavs and Draupadi came to visit him, and, after sitting for a while on the banks of the sacred stream, bathed in its waters as Vyasa advised them. While doing so they saw the wraiths of all their kinsmen slain in the Great Battle rise from the boiling waters, and passed the night in conversation with them, although these spirits vanished at dawn into thin air. But the widows of the slain then obtained permission to drown themselves in the Ganges, in order to join their beloved husbands beyond the tomb. "These and other mighty warriors, in the earthly battle slain, By their valor and their virtue walk the bright ethereal plain! They have cast their mortal bodies, crossed the radiant gate of heaven, For to win celestial mansions unto mortals it is given! Let them strive by kindly action, gentle speech, endurance long, Brighter life and holier future unto sons of men belong!" Then the Pandav brothers and their wife took leave of the blind king, whom they were destined never to see again, for some two years later a terrible jungle fire consumed both cottage and inmates. This death was viewed by the Pandavs as a bad omen, as was also the destruction of Krishna's capital because his people drank too much wine. Krishna himself was slain by accident, while a hurricane or tidal wave sweeping over the "city of Drunkenness" wiped it off the face of the earth. Having found life a tragedy of sorrow, the eldest Pandav, after reigning thirty-six years, decided to abdicate in favor of Arjuna's grandson, and to start on a pilgrimage for Mount Meru, or Indra's heaven. As the Hindu universe consists of seven concentric rings, each of which is separated by a liquid from the next continent, he had to cross successive oceans of salt water, sugar-cane juice, wine, clarified butter, curdled milk, sweet milk, and fresh water. In the very centre of these alternate rings of land and liquid rises Mount Meru to a height of sixty-four thousand miles, crowned by the Hindu heaven, toward which the Pandav was to wend his way. But, although all their subjects would fain have gone with them, the five brothers, Draupadi, and a faithful dog set out alone in single file, "to accomplish their union with the infinite." Then the high-minded sons of Pandu and the noble Draupadi Roamed onward, fasting, with their faces toward the east; their hearts Yearning for union with the Infinite, bent on abandonment Of worldly things. * * * * * And by degrees they reached the briny sea; They reached the northern region and beheld with heaven-aspiring hearts The mighty mountain Himavat. Beyond its lofty peak they passed Toward a sea of sand, and saw at last the rocky Meru, king Of mountains. As with eager steps they hastened on, their souls intent On union with the Eternal, Draupadi lost hold of her high hope, And faltering fell upon the earth. --_Edwin Arnold._ Thus during this toilsome journey, one by one fell, never to rise again, until presently only two of the brothers and the dog were left. The eldest Pandav, who had marched on without heeding the rest, now explained to his companion how Draupadi sinned through excessive love for her husbands, and that his fallen brothers were victims of pride, vanity, and falsehood. He further predicted that the speaker himself would fall, owing to selfishness, a prediction which was soon verified, leaving the eldest Pandav alone with his dog. On arriving, Indra bade this hero enter heaven, assuring him the other spirits had preceded him thither, but warning him that he alone could be admitted there in bodily form. When the Pandav begged that his dog might enter too, Indra indignantly rejoined that heaven was no place for animals, and inquired why the Pandav made more fuss about a four-legged companion than about his wife and brothers. Thereupon the Pandav returned he had no power to bring the others back to life, but considered it cowardly to abandon a faithful living creature. The dog, listening intently to this dialogue, now resumed his proper form,--for it seems he was the king's father in a former birth,--and, having become human once more, he too was allowed to enter Paradise. Straight as he spoke, brightly great Indra smiled, Vanished the hound, and in its stead stood there, The lord of death and justice, Dharma's self. --_Edwin Arnold._ Beneath a golden canopy, seated on jewelled thrones, the Pandav found his blind uncle and cousins, but failed to discern any trace of his brothers or Draupadi. He, therefore, refusing to remain, begged Indra's permission to share their fate in hell; so a radiant messenger was sent to guide him along a road paved with upturned razor edges, which passed through a dense forest whose leaves were thorns and swords. Along this frightful road the Pandav toiled, with cut and mangled feet, until he reached the place of burning, where he beheld Draupadi and his brothers writhing in the flames. Unable to rescue them, the Rajah determined to share their fate, so bade his heavenly guide return to Paradise without him. This, however, proved the last test to which his great heart was to be subjected, for no sooner had he expressed a generous determination to share his kinsmen's lot, than he was told to bathe in the Ganges and all would be well. He had no sooner done so than the heavens opened above him, allowing him to perceive, amid undying flowers, the fair Draupadi and his four brothers, who, thanks to his unselfishness, had been rescued from hell. The grandson of Arjuna reigned at Hastinapur until he died of a snake-bite, and his son instituted snake sacrifices, where this epic was recited by a bard who learned it from the mouth of Vyasa. There is also a continuation of the poem in three sections called the Harivamça, which relates that Krishna is an incarnation of Vishnu, and describes his exploits and the future doom of the world. THE STORY OF THE DELUGE The detached stories in the Mahabharata are a quaint account of the Deluge, where we learn that an ascetic stood for ten thousand years on one leg, before a small fish implored him to save him from the big ones in the stream. This ascetic placed the petitioner first in an earthen vessel of water, then in a tank, then in the Ganges, "the favorite spouse of the ocean," and finally in the sea, for this fish rapidly outgrew each receptacle. On reaching the ocean, the fish informed the ascetic, _with a smile_, that the dissolution of the earth was near. He also bade him build an ark provided with a long rope, told him to enter in it with seven other sages and seeds of every kind, and promised to appear as a horned fish to save him from destruction. When the flood came, the horned fish, seizing the rope, dragged the ark to the top of the Himalayas, where it rested securely. There it declared, "I am Brahma who saved you," and directed the ascetic, aided by his learned companions, to recreate everything by means of the seeds. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 42: The long line quotations are from the translation of Romesh Dutt, those in short lines from Griffeth's.] THE STORY OF NALA AND DAMAYANTI The romantic story of Nala and Damayanti was told to comfort the eldest Pandav for losing all he had while dicing. It seems that once, while hunting, Nala released a golden bird, because it promised to win for him the affections of Princess Damayanti. Pleased with this prospect, Nala let the bird go, and watched it fly in the direction of Damayanti's palace. There the bird, caught by the princess, praised Nala so eloquently that Damayanti fell in love with him, and, in order to meet him, announced she was about to hold a Bride's Choice. On his way to this tournament, Nala met four gods, all anxious to marry the beautiful princess, and they, after obtaining his promise to execute their wishes, bade him steal unseen into the palace and bid the princess choose one of them as a spouse. The broken-hearted Nala, forced to sue for the gods, made known their request to Damayanti, who declared she didn't intend to marry any one but himself, as she meant to announce publicly at the Bride's Choice on the morrow. "Yet I see a way of refuge--'tis a blameless way, O king; Whence no sin to thee, O rajah,--may by any chance arise. Thou, O noblest of all mortals--and the gods by Indra led, Come and enter in together--where the Swayembara meets; Then will I, before the presence--of the guardians of the world, Name thee, lord of men! my husband--nor to thee may blame accrue." She was, however, sorely embarrassed on arriving there, to find five Nalas before her, for each of the gods had assumed the form of the young prince after the latter had reported what Damayanti had said. Unable to distinguish between the gods and her lover, Damayanti prayed so fervently that she was able to discern that four of her suitors gazed at her with unwinking eyes, exuded no perspiration, and cast no shadow, while the fifth betrayed all these infallible signs of mortality. She, therefore, selected the real Nala, upon whom the four gods bestowed invaluable gifts, including absolute control over fire and water. The young couple were perfectly happy for some time, although a wicked demon (Kali)--who had arrived too late at the Bride's Choice--was determined to trouble their bliss. He therefore watched husband and wife in hopes of finding an opportunity to injure them, but it was only in the twelfth year of their marriage that Nala omitted the wonted ablutions before saying his prayers. This enabled the demon to enter his heart and inspire him with such a passion for gambling that he soon lost all he possessed. His wife, seeing her remonstrances vain, finally ordered a charioteer to convey her children to her father's, and they had barely gone when Nala came out of the gambling hall, having nothing left but a garment apiece for himself and his wife. So the faithful Damayanti followed him out of the city into the forest, the winner having proclaimed that no help should be given to the exiled king or queen. Almost starving, Nala, hoping to catch some birds which alighted near him, flung over them as a net his only garment. These birds, having been sent by the demon to rob him of his last possession, flew away with the cloth, calling out to him that they were winged dice sent by Kali. Over them his single garment--spreading light, he wrapped them round: Up that single garment bearing--to the air they sprang away; And the birds above him hovering--thus in human accents spake, Naked as they saw him standing--on the earth, and sad, and lone: "Lo, we are the dice, to spoil thee--thus descended, foolish king! While thou hadst a single garment--all our joy was incomplete." Husband and wife now wander on, until one night Nala, arising softly, cut his wife's sole garment in two, and, wrapping himself in part of it, forsook her during her sleep, persuading himself that if left alone she would return to her father and enjoy comfort. The poem gives a touching description of the husband's grief at parting with his sleeping wife, of her frenzy on awakening, and of her pathetic appeals for her husband to return. Then we follow Damayanti in her wanderings through the forest in quest of the missing Nala, and see how she joins a company of hermits, who predict that her sorrows will not last forever before they vanish, for they are spirits sent to comfort her. Next she joins a merchant caravan, which, while camping, is surprised by wild elephants, which trample the people to death and cause a panic. The merchants fancy this calamity has visited them because they showed compassion to Damayanti, whom they now deem a demon and wish to tear to pieces. She, however, has fled at the approach of the wild elephants, and again wanders alone through the forest, until she finally comes to a town, where, seeing her wan and distracted appearance, the people follow her hooting. The queen-mother, looking over the battlements of her palace and seeing this poor waif, takes compassion upon her, and, after giving her refreshments, questions her in regard to her origin. Damayanti simply vouchsafes the information that her husband has lost all through dicing, and volunteers to serve the rani, provided she is never expected to eat the food left by others or to wait upon men. Before she had been there very long, however, her father sends Brahmans in every direction to try and find his missing daughter and son-in-law, and some of these suspect the rani's maid is the lady they are seeking. When they inform the rani of this fact, she declares, if Damayanti is her niece, she can easily be recognized, as she was born with a peculiar mole between her eyebrows. She, therefore, bids her handmaid wash off the ashes which defile her in token of grief, and thus discovers the birth-mole proving her identity. Damayanti now returns to her father and to her children, but doesn't cease to mourn the absence of her spouse. She, too, sends Brahmans in all directions, singing "Where is the one who, after stealing half of his wife's garment, abandoned her in the jungle?" Meantime Nala has saved from the fire a serpent, which by biting him has transformed him into a dwarf, bidding him at the same time enter the service of a neighboring rajah as charioteer, and promising that after a certain time the serpent poison will drive the demon Kali out of his system. Obeying these injunctions, Nala becomes the charioteer of a neighboring rajah, and while with him hears a Brahman sing the song which Damayanti taught him. He answers it by another, excusing the husband for having forsaken his wife, and, when the Brahman reports this to Damayanti, she rightly concludes her Nala is at this rajah's court. She, therefore, sends back the Brahman with a message to the effect that she is about to hold a second Bride's Choice, and the rajah, anxious to secure her hand, asks his charioteer whether he can convey him to the place in due time? Nala undertakes to drive his master five hundred miles in one day, and is so clever a charioteer that he actually performs the feat, even though he stops on the way to verify his master's knowledge of figures by counting the leaves and fruit on the branch of a tree. Finding the rajah has accurately guessed them at a glance, Nala begs him, in return for his services as charioteer, to teach him the science of numbers, so that when he dices again he can be sure to win. On arriving at the court of Damayanti's father, Nala is summoned into the presence of his wife, who, although she does not recognize him in his new form, insists he must be her spouse, for no one else can drive as he does or has the power which he displays over fire and water. At this moment the sway of the demon ends, and Nala, restored to his wonted form, rapturously embraces his wife and children. Even as thus the wind was speaking,--flowers fall showering all around: And the gods sweet music sounded--on the zephyr floating light. Then, thanks to his new skill in dicing, Nala recovers all he has lost, and is able to spend the rest of his life in peace and happiness with the faithful Damayanti. THE STORY OF SAVITRI AND SATYAVAN Once upon a time a king, mourning because he was childless, spent many years fasting and praying in hopes that offspring would be granted him. One day the goddess of the sun rose out of his sacrificial fire to promise him a daughter, more beauteous than any maiden ever seen before. The king rejoiced, and, when this child was born, every one declared little Savitri the prettiest maiden ever seen. As she grew up she became more and more beautiful, until all the surrounding kings longed to marry her, but dared not propose. Seeing this, her father conferred upon her the right to select her own spouse, and the princess began to travel from court to court inspecting all the marriageable princes. One day, in the course of these wanderings, she paused beneath a banyan tree, where a blind old hermit had taken up his abode. He was just telling the princess that he dwelt there with his wife and son, when a young man appeared, bringing wood for the sacrifice. This youth was Satyavan, his son, who was duly astonished to behold a lovely princess. On returning home, Savitri informed her father her choice was made, for she had decided to marry the hermit's son! This news appalled the king, because the prime minister assured him Satyavan--although son of a banished king--was doomed to die at the end of the year. Knowing the unenviable lot of a Hindu widow, the king implored Savitri to choose another mate, but the girl refused, insisting she would rather live one year with Satyavan than spend a long life with any one else! But Savitri replied: "Once falls a heritage; once a maid yields Her maidenhood; once doth a father say, 'Choose, I abide thy choice.' These three things done, Are done forever. Be my prince to live A year, or many years; be he so great As Narada hath said, or less than this; Once have I chosen him, and choose not twice: My heart resolved, my mouth hath spoken it, My hand shall execute;--this is my mind!" --_Edwin Arnold._ So the marriage took place, and, because the hermit and his son had vowed to remain in the jungle until reinstated in their realm, the princess dwelt in their humble hut, laying aside her princely garments and wearing the rough clothes hermits affect. In spite of poverty, this little family dwelt happily beneath the huge banyan tree, the princess rigidly keeping the secret that her husband had but a year to live. Time passed all too swiftly, however, and as the year drew toward an end the little wife grew strangely pale and still, fasted constantly, and spent most of her time praying that the doom of death might be averted. When the fatal day drew near, she was so weak and faint she could hardly stand; but, when Satyavan announced he was going out into the forest to cut wood, she begged to accompany him, although he objected the way was far too rough and hard for her tender feet. By dint of coaxing, however, Savitri obtained his consent; so hand in hand she passed with her husband through the tropical woods. While Satyavan was felling a tree, he suddenly reeled and fell at her feet, fainting. In a moment Savitri was bending over him, holding his head in her lap and eagerly trying to recall life in his veins. While doing so, she suddenly became aware of Yama, God of Death, with blood-red clothes, cruel eyes, and the long black noose, with which he snares the soul and draws it out of the body. In spite of Savitri's pleading, he now drew out Satyavan's soul and started off with his prize, leaving the youthful body pale and cold on the ground. With that the gloomy god fitted his noose, And forced forth from the prince the soul of him-- Subtile, a thumb in length--which being reft, Breath stayed, blood stopped, the body's grace was gone, And all life's warmth to stony coldness turned. Then, binding it, the Silent Presence bore Satyavan's soul away toward the South. --_Edwin Arnold._ But the little wife, instead of staying with the corpse, followed Yama, imploring him not to bear off her husband's soul! Turning around, Yama sternly bade her go back, as no human mortal could tread the road he was following, and reminding her that it was her duty to perform her husband's funeral rites. She, however, insisting that wherever Satyavan's soul went she would go too, painfully followed the king of death, until in pity he promised to grant her anything she wished, save her husband's soul. Thereupon Savitri begged that her blind father-in-law might recover sight and kingdom, boons which Yama immediately granted, telling Savitri to go and inform her father-in-law so, for the way he had to tread was long and dark. Weak and weary as she was, Savitri nevertheless persisted in following Yama, until he again turned, declaring he would grant any boon, save her husband's life, to comfort her. The little wife now begged her father might have princely sons, knowing he had long desired an heir. This favor, too, was granted, before Yama bade her go back to light and life; but Savitri still insisted that was impossible, and that as long as she lived she must follow her beloved! Darkness now settled down on the forest, and although the road was rough and thorny Savitri stumbled on and on, following the sound of Yama's footsteps although she could no longer see him. Finally he turned into a gloomy cavern, but she plodded on, until she so excited his compassion that he promised her one more boon, again stipulating it should not be the soul he held in his hand. When Savitri begged for children,--sons of Satyavan,--Yama smiled and granted her prayer, thinking he would now surely be rid of her at last. But Savitri followed him on into the depths of the cavern, although owls and bats made the place hideous with their cries. Hearing her footsteps still behind him, Yama tried to frighten her away, but she, grasping the hand which held her husband's soul, laid her tear-wet cheek against it, thereby so touching the god's heart that he exclaimed, "Ask anything thou wilt and it shall be thine." Noticing this time that he made no reservation, Savitri joyfully exclaimed she wished neither wealth nor power, but only her beloved spouse! Conquered by such devotion, Death relinquished into her keeping Satyavan's soul, and promised they should live happy together and have many sons. After securing this inestimable boon, Savitri hastened out of the cave and back into the woods, where she found the lifeless corpse of her husband just where she had left it, and proceeded to woo it back to life. Before long warmth and consciousness returned to Satyavan, who went home with Savitri, with whom he lived happy ever after, for all the boons Yama had promised were duly granted. "Adieu, great God!" She took the soul, No bigger than the human thumb, And running swift, soon reached her goal, Where lay the body stark and dumb. She lifted it with eager hands And as before, when he expired, She placed the head upon the bands That bound her breast, which hope new fired, And which alternate rose and fell; Then placed his soul upon his heart, Whence like a bee it found its cell, And lo, he woke with sudden start! His breath came low at first, then deep, With an unquiet look he gazed, As one awakening from a sleep, Wholly bewildered and amazed. --_Miss Toru Dutt._ CHINESE AND JAPANESE POETRY WHITE ASTER Epics as they are understood in Europe do not exist in either China or Japan, although orientals claim that name for poems which we would term idyls. A romantic tale, which passes as an epic in both countries, was written in Chinese verse by Professor Inouye, and has been rendered in classical Japanese by Naobumi Ochiai. It is entitled "The Lay of the Pious Maiden Shirakiku," which is The White Aster. The first canto opens with an exquisite description of an autumn sunset and of the leaves falling from the trees at the foot of Mount Aso. Then we hear a temple bell ringing in a distant grove, and see a timid maiden steal out weeping from a hut in the extremity of the village to gaze anxiously in the direction of the volcano, for her father left her three days before to go hunting and has not returned. Poor little White Aster fears some harm may have befallen her sire, and, although she creeps back into the hut and kindles a fire to make tea, her heads turns at every sound in the hope that her father has come back at last. Stealing out once more only to see wild geese fly past and the rain-clouds drift across the heavens, White Aster shudders and feels impelled to start in quest of the missing man. She, therefore, dons a straw cloak and red bamboo hat, and, although night will soon fall, steals down the village street, across the marsh, and begins to climb the mountain. Here the steep path winds with a swift ascent Toward the summit:--the long grass that grew In tufts upon the slopes, shrivelled and dry, Lay dead upon her path;--hushed was the voice Of the blithe chafers.--Only sable night Yawned threatening from the vale. While she is searching, the rain ceases and the clouds part, but no trace of her missing father does she find. Light has gone and darkness has already invaded the solitude, when White Aster descries a faint red gleam through the trees and hears the droning voice of a priest chanting his prayers. Going in the direction of light and sound, White Aster soon approaches a ruined temple, standing in the midst of a grove of cypress and camphor trees, amid bleached bones and mouldering graves overhung by weeping-willows. Her light footfall on the broken steps, falling upon the ear of the recluse, makes him fancy some demon is coming to tempt him, so seizing a light he thrusts it out of the door, tremblingly bidding the "fox ghost" begone. In the East foxes being spirits of evil and having the power to assume any form they wish, the priest naturally takes what seems a little maiden for a demon. But, when he catches a glimpse of White Aster's lovely innocent face and hears her touching explanation, he utterly changes his opinion, muttering that she must belong to some noble family, since her eyebrows are like twin "half-moons." "'Tis clear she comes of noble family: Her eyebrows are as twin half-moons: her hair Lies on her snowy temples, like a cloud: In charm of form she ranks with Sishih's self, That pearl of loveliness, the Chinese Helen." Taking his visitor gently by the hand, he leads her into the sanctuary, where he seats her at Buddha's feet, before inquiring who she is and what she is doing at night in the wilderness. White Aster timidly explains that, although born in one of the southern islands and cradled in a rich home, the pleasant tenor of her life was suddenly interrupted by the outbreak of war. Her home sacked and destroyed, she and her mother barely escaped with their lives. Taking refuge near a ruined temple, they erected a booth to shelter them, where the girl who had always been lapped in luxury had to perform all kinds of menial tasks. But even under such circumstances her life proved pleasant compared to what she suffered when news came that her father had rebelled against the king, and that he and his adherents had been crushed in the war. No poppy-draught could enable the two poor women to forget such terrible tidings, and it is no wonder the poor mother pined away. As the stream Flows to the sea and nevermore returns, So ebbed and ebbed her life. I cannot tell What in those days I suffered. Nature's self Seemed to be mourning with me, for the breeze Of Autumn breathed its last, and as it died The vesper-bell from yonder village pealed A requiem o'er my mother. Thus she died, But dead yet lives--for, ever, face and form, She stands before my eyes; and in my ears I ever seem to hear her loving voice, Speaking as in the days when, strict and kind, She taught me household lore,--in all a mother. Having carefully tended her mother to the end, poor little White Aster lived alone, until one day her father suddenly appeared, having found at last a way to escape and rejoin them. He was, however, broken-hearted on learning of his wife's death, and, hoping to comfort him, White Aster paid him all manner of filial attentions. She could not, however, restore happiness or peace to the bereaved man, who, besides mourning his wife, keenly regretted the absence of his son Akitoshi, whom he had driven from home in anger when the youth proved wild and overbearing. During this artless narrative the recluse had exhibited signs of deep emotion, and, when White Aster mentioned the name of her brother, he clasped his hands over his face as if to conceal its expression. After listening to her tale in silence, he kindly bade White Aster tarry there until sunrise, assuring her it would not be safe for her to wander in the mountain by night. Little White Aster, therefore slept at Buddha's feet, shivering with cold, for her garments were far too thin to protect her from the keen mountain air. As she slept she dreamt of her father, whose wraith appeared to her, explaining that a false step had hurled him down into a ravine, whence he has vainly been trying to escape for three days past! The second canto opens with a description of a beautiful red dawn, and of the gradual awakening of the birds, whose songs finally rouse the little maiden, who again sets off on her quest. Now the red dawn had tipped the mountain-tops, And birds, awaking, peered from out their nests, To greet the day with strains of matin joy; The while, the moon's pale sickle, silver white, Fading away, sunk in the western sky. Clear was the air and cloudless, save the mists That rolled in waves upon the mountain-tops. Or crept along the gullies. Skirting the trunks of mighty trees, stealing beneath whispering pines, White Aster threads different parts of the solitude, where she encounters deer and other timid game, seeking some trace of her father. She is so intent on this quest that she does not mark two dark forms which gradually creep nearer to her. These are robbers, who finally pounce upon White Aster and drag her into their rocky den, little heeding her tears or prayers; and, although the maiden cries for help, echo alone reiterates her desperate calls. The brigands' lair is beneath an overhanging cliff, where they have erected a miserable booth, whose broken thatch has to be supplemented by the dense foliage of the ginkgo tree overshadowing it. In front of this hut runs a brawling stream, while the rocks all around are hung with heavy curtains of ivy, which add to the gloom and dampness of the place. Here the sun Ne'er visits with his parting rays at eve, But all is gloom and silence save the cry Of some belated bird that wakes the night. Having brought their prisoner safely into this den, the robbers proceed to eat and drink, dispensing with chopsticks, so wolfish is their hunger. Meantime they roughly jeer at their captive, who sits helpless before them, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Having satisfied their first imperious craving for food and drink, the brigands proceed to taunt their prisoner, until the captain, producing a koto or harp, bids her with savage threats make music, as they like to be merry. "Sit you down, And let us hear your skill; for I do swear That, if you hesitate, then with this sword I'll cut you into bits and give your flesh To yonder noisy crows. Mark well my words." So proficient is our little maiden on this instrument, that her slender fingers draw from the cords such wonderful sounds that all living creatures are spellbound. Even the robbers remain quiet while it lasts, and are so entranced that they fail to hear the steps of a stranger, stealing near the hut armed with sword and spear. Seeing White Aster in the brigands' power, this stranger bursts open the door and pounces upon the robbers, several of whom he slays after a desperate conflict. One of their number, however, manages to escape, and it is only when the fight is over that White Aster--who has covered her face with her hands--discovers that her rescuer is the kind-hearted recluse. He now informs her that, deeming it unsafe for her to thread the wilderness alone, he had soon followed her, intending to tell her he is her long-lost brother! Then he explains how, after being banished from home, he entered the service of a learned man, with whom he began to study, and that, perceiving at last the wickedness of his ways, he made up his mind to reform. But, although he immediately hastened home to beg his parents' forgiveness, he arrived there only to find his native town in ruins. Unable to secure any information in regard to his kin, he then became a recluse, and it was only because shame and emotion prevented his speaking that he had not immediately told White Aster who he was. Much then my spirit fought against itself, Wishing to tell my name and welcome you, My long-lost sister: but false shame forbade And kept my mouth tight closed. His tale ended, the recluse and his small sister leave the robbers' den, and steal hand in hand through the dusk, the forest's silence being broken only by the shrill cries of bands of monkeys. They are just about to emerge from this dark ravine, when the robber who managed to escape suddenly pounces upon the priest, determined to slay him so as to avenge his dead comrades. Another terrible fight ensues, which so frightens poor little White Aster that she runs off, losing her way in the darkness, and is not able to return to her brother's side in spite of all her efforts. The third canto tells how, after wandering around all night, White Aster finally emerges at dawn on the top of a cliff, at whose base nestles a tiny village, with one of the wonted shrines. Making her way down to this place, White Aster kneels in prayer, but her attitude is so weary that an old peasant, passing by, takes pity upon her and invites her to join his daughter in their little cottage. White Aster thus becomes an inmate of this rustic home, where she spends the next few years, her beauty increasing every day, until her fame spreads all over the land. Hearing of her unparalleled loveliness, the governor finally decides to marry her, although she is far beneath him in rank, and sends a matrimonial agent to bargain for her hand. The old rustic, awed by the prospect of so brilliant an alliance, consents without consulting White Aster, and he and the agent pick out in the calendar a propitious day for the wedding. When the agent has departed, the old man informs his guest how he has promised her hand in marriage, adding that she has no choice and must consent. But White Aster exclaims that her mother, on her way to the temple one day, heard a strange sound in the churchyard. There she discovered, amongst the flowers, a tiny abandoned girl, whom she adopted, giving her the name of the blossoms around her. "Once," she said, "Ere morn had scarce begun to dawn, I went To worship at the temple: as I passed Through the churchyard 'twixt rows of gravestones hoar, And blooming white chrysanthemums, I heard The piteous wailing of a little child. Which following, I found, amidst the flowers, A fair young child with crimson-mouthing lips And fresh soft cheek--a veritable gem. I took it as a gift that Buddha sent As guerdon of my faith, and brought it up As my own child, to be my husband's joy And mine: and, as I found thee couched Amidst white-blooming asters, I named thee White Aster in memorial of the day." The little maiden adds that her adopted mother made her promise never to marry any one save her so-called brother, and declares she is bound in honor to respect this maternal wish. The governor, anxious to secure this beautiful bride, meantime sends the agent hurrying back with a chest full of gifts, the acceptance of which will make the bargain binding. So the clever agent proceeds to exhibit tokens, which so dazzle the old peasant that he greedily accepts them all, while admiring neighbors gape at them in wonder. Poor little White Aster, perceiving it will be impossible to resist the pressure brought to bear upon her, steals out of the peasant's house at midnight, and, making her way across damp fields to the river, climbs up on the high bridge, whence she intends to fling herself into the rushing waters. She pauses, however, to utter a final prayer, and, closing her eyes, is about to spring when a hand grasps her and a glad voice exclaims she is safe! Turning around, White Aster's wondering eyes rest upon the recluse, who ever since he escaped from the brigand's clutches has vainly been seeking her everywhere. He declares they shall never part again and tenderly leads her home, where she is overjoyed to find her father, who still mourns her absence. Thankful for the return of his child, the father relates how, having fallen into a ravine,--where he found water and berries in plenty,--he vainly tried to scale the rocks, to escape from its depths and return home. All his efforts having proved vain, he was almost ready to give up in despair, when a band of monkeys appeared at the top of the cliff and by grimaces and sounds showed him how to climb out by means of the hanging vines. Trusting to these weak supports, the father scaled the rocks, but on arriving at the summit was surprised to discover no trace of the monkeys who had taught him how to escape. He remembered, however, that while hunting one day he had aimed at a mother monkey and her babe, but had not injured them because the poor mother had made such distressing sounds of despair. He adds it was probably in reward for this act of mercy that the monkeys saved his life. "I spared her life; And she, in turn, seeing my sorry plight, Cried to me from the rocks, and showed the way To flee from certain death." Thus, this epic ends with a neat little moral, and with the comforting assurance that White Aster, her father, and husband lived happy ever afterward. AMERICAN EPICS When Europeans first landed on this continent, they found it occupied by various tribes of Indians, speaking--it is estimated--some six hundred different languages or dialects. At first no systematic effort could be made to discover the religion or traditions of the native Americans, but little by little we have learned that they boasted a rich folk-lore, and that their nature-myths and hero-tales were recited by the fireside from generation to generation. Because there were tribes in different degrees of evolution between savagery and the rudimentary stages of civilization, there are more or less rude myths and folk-tales in the samples with which we have thus become familiar. Among the more advanced tribes, Indian folk-lore bears the imprint of a weirdly poetical turn of mind, and ideas are often vividly and picturesquely expressed by nature similes. Some of this folk-lore is embodied in hymns, or what have also been termed nature-epics, which are now being carefully preserved for future study by professional collectors of folk-lore. Aside from a few very interesting creation myths and stories of the Indian gods, there is a whole fund of nature legends of which we have a characteristic sample in Bayard Taylor's Mon-da-min, or Creation of the Maize, and also in the group of legends welded into a harmonious whole by Longfellow in the "American-Indian epic" Hiawatha. The early European settlers found so many material obstacles to overcome, that they had no leisure for the cultivation of literature. Aside from letters, diaries, and reports, therefore, no early colonial literature exists. But, with the founding of the first colleges in America,--Harvard, Yale, William and Mary, the College of New Jersey, and King's College (now Columbia),--and with the introduction of the printing press, the American literary era may be said to begin. The Puritans, being utterly devoid of aesthetic taste, considered all save religious poetry sinful in the extreme; so it was not until the middle of the seventeenth century that Fame could trumpet abroad the advent of "the Tenth Muse," or "the Morning Star of American Poetry," in the person of Anne Bradstreet! Among her poems--which no one ever reads nowadays--is "An Exact Epitome of the Three First Monarchies, viz., the Assyrian, Persian, and Grecian, and the Beginning of the Roman Commonwealth to the End of their Last King," a work which some authorities rank as the first American epic (1650). This was soon (1662) followed by Michael Wigglesworth's "Day of Doom," or "Poetical Description of the Great and Last Judgement," wherein the author, giving free play to his imagination, crammed so many horrors that it afforded ghastly entertainment for hosts of young Puritans while it passed through its nine successive editions in this country and two in England. Although devoid of real poetic merit, this work never failed to give perusers "the creeps," as the following sample will sufficiently prove: Then might you hear them rend and tear The air with their outcries; The hideous noise of their sad voice Ascendant to the skies. They wring their hands, their caitiff hands, And gnash their teeth for terror; They cry, they roar, for anguish sore, And gnaw their tongue for horror. But get away without delay; Christ pities not your cry; Depart to hell, there may you yell And roar eternally. The Revolutionary epoch gave birth to sundry epic ballads--such as Francis Hopkinson's Battle of the Kegs and Major André's Cow Chase--and "to three epics, each of them almost as long as the Iliad, which no one now reads, and in which one vainly seeks a touch of nature or a bit of genuine poetry." This enormous mass of verse includes Trumbull's burlesque epic, McFingal (1782), a work so popular in its day that collectors possess samples of no less than thirty pirated editions. Although favorably compared to Butler's Hudibras, and "one of the Revolutionary forces," this poem--a satire on the Tories--has left few traces in our language, aside from the familiar quotation: A thief ne'er felt the halter draw With good opinion of the law. The second epic of this period is Timothy Dwight's "Conquest of Canaan" in eleven books, and the third Barlow's "Columbiad." The latter interminable work was based on the poet's pompous Vision of Columbus, which roused great admiration when it appear (1807). While professing to relate the memorable voyage of Columbus in a grandly heroic strain, the Columbiad introduces all manner of mythical and fantastic personages and events. In spite of its writer's learning and imagination, this voluminous epic fell quite flat when published, and there are now very few persons who have accomplished the feat of reading it all the way through. Still, it contains passages not without merit, as the following lines prove: Long on the deep the mists of morning lay, Then rose, revealing, as they rolled away, Half-circling hills, whose everlasting woods Sweep with their sable skirts the shadowy floods: And say, when all, to holy transport given, Embraced and wept as at the gates of Heaven, When one and all of us, repentant, ran, And, on our faces, blessed the wondrous man: Say, was I then deceived, or from the skies Burst on my ear seraphic harmonies? "Glory to God!" unnumbered voices sung: "Glory to God!" the vales and mountains rang. Voices that hailed Creation's primal morn, And to the shepherds sung a Saviour born. Slowly, bare-headed, through the surf we bore The sacred cross, and, kneeling, kissed the shore. 'But what a scene was there? Nymphs of romance, Youths graceful as the Fawn, with eager glance, Spring from the glades, and down the alleys peep, Then headlong rush, bounding from steep to steep, And clap their hands, exclaiming as they run, "Come and behold the Children of the Sun!" Not content with an epic apiece, Barlow and Trumbull, with several other "Hartford wits," joined forces in composing the Anarchiad, which exercised considerable influence on the politics of its time. In 1819 appeared Washington Irving's Sketch-Book, which contains the two classics, Legend of the Sleepy Hollow, and Rip Van Winkle, which are sometimes quoted as inimitable samples of local epics in prose. Cooper's Leather-stocking series of novels, including the Deerslayer, The Last of the Mohicans, The Pathfinder, The Pioneers, and The Prairie, are also often designated as "prose epics of the Indian as he was in Cooper's imagination," while some of his sea-stories, such as The Pirate, have been dubbed "epics of the sea." Bryant, first-born of our famous group of nineteenth-century American poets, made use of many of the Indian myths and legends in his verse. But he rendered his greatest service to epic poetry by his translations of the Iliad and the Odyssey, accomplished when already eighty years of age. There are sundry famous American heroic odes or poems which contain epic lines, such as Halleck's Marco Bozzaris, Dana's Buccaneers, Lowell's Vision of Sir Launfal, and Biglow Papers, Whittier's Mogg Megone, Holmes's Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill Battle, Taylor's Amram's Wooing, Emerson's Concord Hymn, etc., etc. Then, too, some critics rank as prose epics Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter, Poe's Fall of the House of Usher, Hale's Man Without a Country, Bret Harte's Luck of Roaring Camp, Helen Hunt Jackson's Ramona, etc., etc. It is, however, Longfellow, America's most popular poet, who has written the nearest approach to a real epic, and the poems most likely to live, in his Wreck of the Hesperus, Skeleton in Armor, Golden Legend, Hiawatha, Tales of a Wayside Inn, Courtship of Miles Standish, and Evangeline, besides translating Dante's grand epic The Divine Comedy. In Longfellow's Wreck of the Hesperus we have a miniature nautical epic, in the Skeleton in Armor our only epic relating to the Norse discovery, in the Golden Legend, and in many of the Tales of a Wayside Inn, happy adaptations of mediaeval epics or romances. Hiawatha, often termed "the Indian Edda," is written in the metre of the old Finnish Kalevala, and contains the essence of many Indian legends, together with charming descriptions of the woods, the waters, and their furry, feathered, and finny denizens. Every one has followed entranced the career of Hiawatha, from birth to childhood and boyhood, watched with awe his painful initiation to manhood and with tender sympathy his idyllic wooing of Minnehaha and their characteristic wedding festivities. Innumerable youthful hearts have swelled at his anguish during the Famine, and countless tears have silently dropped at the death of the sweet little Indian squaw. After connecting this Indian legend with the coming of the White Man from the East, the poet, knowing the Red man had to withdraw before the new-comer skilfully made use of a sun-myth, and allowed us to witness Hiawatha's departure, full of allegorical significance: Thus departed Hiawatha, Hiawatha the Beloved, In the glory of the sunset, In the purple mists of evening, To the regions of the home-wind, Of the Northwest-wind Keewaydin, To the Islands of the Blessed, To the kingdom of Ponemah, To the land of the Hereafter! The Courtship of Miles Standish brings us to the time of the Pilgrim's settlement in the New World and has inspired many painters. The next poem, which some authorities consider Longfellow's masterpiece, is connected with another historical event, of a later date, the conquest of Acadia by the English. It is a matter of history that in 1755 the peaceful French farmers of Acadia, without adequate notice or proper regard for family ties, were hurried aboard waiting British vessels and arbitrarily deported to various ports, where they were turned adrift to join the scattered members of their families and earn their living as best they could. The outline of the story of Evangeline, and of her long, faithful search for her lover Gabriel, is too well known to need mention. There are besides few who cannot vividly recall the reunion of the long-parted lovers just as Gabriel's life is about to end. All through this hopeless search we are vouchsafed enchanting descriptions of places and people, and fascinating glimpses of scenery in various sections of our country, visiting in imagination the bayous of the South and the primeval forests, drifting along the great rivers, and revelling in the beauties of nature so exquisitely delineated for our pleasure. But, as is fitting in regard to the theme, an atmosphere of gentle melancholy hovers over the whole poem and holds the listener in thrall long as its musical verses fall upon the ear. Still stands the forest primeval; but under the shade of its branches Dwells another race, with other customs and language. Only along the shore of the mournful and misty Atlantic Linger a few Acadian peasants, whose fathers from exile Wandered back to their native land to die in its bosom. In the fisherman's cot the wheel and the loom are still busy; Maidens still wear their Norman caps and their kirtles of homespun, And by the evening fire repeat Evangeline's story, While from its rocky caverns the deep-voiced, neighboring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. INDEX OF NAMES A Abbasides, 398 Abdiel, 298, 299 Abduction of Persephone, 64 Abel, 142, 311 Abeniaf, 116, 118 Abenteuerbuch, 326 Abraham, 311 Abstinence, 263 Abul Kasin Mansur, 398 Abu Zaid, 398 Acadia, 468 Achan, 170 Achates, 64-66 Acheron, 141 Achilleis, 63, 69 Achilles, 17, 19, 21, 22, 25, 27, 28, 30-40, 42, 46, 53, 61, 88, 143, 269 Acrasia, 264, 265, 267-269 Active Virtues, 354 Açvaghosha, 415 Adam, 142, 179, 186, 293-298, 302-313, 317, 322 Adamastor, 134, 135 Adonais, 221 Adone, 139 Adonis, 139 Adrian V., Pope, 170 Adventurous Band, 202, 204 Adversary, 292, 395 Aegistheus, 43 Aeneas, 23, 25-27, 37, 64-74, 76-80, 142, 146 Aeneid, 63, 64-80, 83, 108 Aeolus, 50, 51, 64 Aeschere, 226 Aesculapius, 258 Aethiopia, 17 Aetna, Mt., 70 Afrasiab, 404, 408, 412 Africa, 64, 65, 116, 120, 126, 194 African, 71 Agamemnon, 18, 21, 26, 29-33, 36, 42, 53, 178 Age of Gold, 400, 417, 429 Agias of Troezene, 18 Agnani, 170 Agnello, 154 Ahab, 316 Ahasuerus, 394, 396 Aino, 377, 378 Aix, 87, 99 Aix la Chapelle, 99 Ajax, 18, 24, 28, 29, 31, 33-35, 53, 61 Akitoshi, 458 Aladine, 199, 200-202, 206, 213 Alamanni, 139 Alaric, 84 Al Asmai, 398 Alastor, 221 Alba, 283 Alba Longa, 64 Alban, 80 Albany, Duke of, 193 Albion's England, 220 Alborz, Mt., 402 Al-Bukhari, 394 Alcazar, 120 Alcinous, 46, 47, 55 Alcocer, 115 Alda, 89 Alethes, 201 Alexander, 19, 63, 107, 148, 218, 219, 233, 324, 361, 398 Alexanderlied, 324 Alexandra, 19 Alexandreid, 83 Alexandras, 392 Alexandria, 20 Alfonso, 111-113, 115, 116, 119-124 Alfonso V., 133 Alfred, King, 222 Aliscans, 81 Allah, 200 Allahabad, 436 Allan a Dale, 247-249, 251, 254 Allemaine, 100 Almesbury, 242 Alonzo, 132 Alphonso the Brave, 132 Alphonsos, 131 Alpine fog, 169 Alps, 233 Alsatian Chronicle, 327 Al-Tirmidhi, 394 Alvar Fanez, 109, 113, 118, 119, 123 Amadis de Gaule, 107, 127, 221 Amalung, 339 Amata, 79, 80 Amazons, 18, 199, 269, 281, 408 Ambrosius, Aurelianus, 230 America, 464 American Epics, 464-467 American-Indian Epic, 464 Americans, 464 Amfortas, 349, 351, 353-355 Aminta, 197 Amis et Amiles, 82, 83 Amoret, 273-278 Amram's Wooing, 467 Amrita, 420 Ananias, 154 Anarchiad, 467 Anastasius, Pope, 147 Anchises, 23, 68, 69, 72, 74 Ancient Mariner, 221 André, Major, 465 Andreas, 218 Andrew, 316 Andromache, 27, 28, 38 Andvari, 365 Aneurin, 216 Angel of Absolution, 165 Angel of Pity, 411 Angelica, 190-194, 196 Angels, 177, 187 Anglo-Norman, 229, 346 Anglo-Saxon, 222 Anlaf, 217 Anna, 70, 71 Anna, St., 188 Annales, 63 Annunciation, 166 Antaeus, 156 Antenora, 157 Antinous, 44, 57, 59, 60 Antioch, 83, 198, 207 Apocalypse, 396 Apollo, 18, 21, 25, 28, 28, 33, 34, 38, 39, 60, 177 Apollonius Rhodius, 20 Apollonius of Tyre, 218 Apostle of India, 136 Aquinas, St. Thomas of, 179, 180 Aquitania, 324 Arab, 397 Arab Days, 397 Arabia, 397, 401 Arabian and Persian Epics, 397-414 Arabian Conquest, 399 Arabian Nights, 327, 398 Arabians, 394 Arabian Tales, 394 Arabic, 393, 397, 398 Arab Iliad, 398 Arab Literature, 394 Arachne, 167 Aragon, 109, 125, 126 Arany, 393 Archangels, 177, 178, 187 Archimago, 256, 259-261, 264, 267 Arctinus of Miletus, 17, 18 Arden, 190, 191 Ardennes, 324 Argalio, 190 Argantes, 201, 204-206, 208 Argenti, 145 Argentina, 108 Argonautica, 20, 63, 139 Ariolant, 193 Ariosto, 85, 138, 189, 192, 197, 220 Aristotle, 218 Arjasp, 413 Arjuna, 435, 437, 439-444, 446 Ark, 166 Armida, 203, 204, 206, 207, 210-213 Arminius, 323 Armorica, 216 Arno, 168 Arnold, Edwin, 452 Arnold, Matthew, 221, 230, 408 Arrebo, 360 Artegall, Sir, 269, 270, 275, 276, 279, 280-284 Arthur, 82, 107, 137, 216, 218-220, 229-235, 239, 241, 242, 261, 281-283, 285, 286, 326, 349, 351-353 Arthur a Bland, 247 Arthuriana, 230 Arthurian Cycle, 216, 229-243, 346 Arthurian Legend, 219, 221, 222, 240 Arthurian Romances, 127 Asbjörnsen, 362 Ascanius, 66 Asia, 21, 75, 319 Asiatic, 394 Aso, Mt., 456 Assyria, 319 Assyrian, 465 Astolat, 236 Astolfo, 190, 194, 195, 196 Asvatmedha, 417 Aswathaman, 441, 442 Athens, 321 Atli, 370, 371 Attila, 323, 324, 328 Atridae, 18 Aucassin, 82,101-106 Aucassin et Nicolette, 82, 101-106 Aude, 99, 324 Augustan Age, 63 Augustine, St., 188 Augustus, 74 Aulis, 21 Auracana, 108 Aurora, 36, 44, 200 Austria, 392 Austriada, 108 Austrian, 392 Austro-Gothic, 328 Austro-Hungarian Empire, 392, 393 Automedon, 35 Avalon, Isle of, 242 Avarchide, 189 Avarice, 257 Ave Maria, 178 Awe, 282 Ayodhya, 416 Azevedo, 108 B Babylonia, 319 Bacchus, 129, 130, 135 Bactrachomyomachia, 20 Badajoz, 131 Bagdad, 399 Balaam, 397 Baldwin, 372 Balin and Balan, 240 Balkan Peninsula, 392, 393 Ballads of Robin Hood, 220 Balmung, 329, 362, 363 Baptist, John The, 213, 316 Bards, 214 Barlaam, 361 Barlaamssaga ok Josaphats, 361 Barlow, 466, 467 Barons' Wars, The, 220 Battle of Frogs and Mice, 20 Battle of the Kegs, 465 Battle of Maldon, 217 Batyushkoff, 372 Bavaria, 100, 192, 325 Bavieca, 120, 126 Beatrice, 133, 140, 147, 164, 168, 173-189 Bedevere, 229, 241, 242 Beelzebub, 289, 291, 298 Belacqua, 163 Belgard, 288 Beige, 282, 283 Belgium, 214, 282 Belgrade, 196 Belial, 290, 317 Belisarius, 138, 179 Bellicent, 82 Bellona, 26 Bellum Punicum, 63 Belphebe, 277, 278 Benedict, St., 184, 188 Benoit de St. Maur, 19, 219, 230 Beowulf, 217, 222-229 Béranger, Raymond, 179, 206 Bern (Verona), 323 Bernard, St., 188 Bernardo del Carpio, 107 Berni, 85, 138 Bertha, 324 Bertrand de Born, 155 Besançon, 92 Bethlehem, 315 Beves of Hamdoun, 317 Bhagavad-gita, 440 Bharata, 418, 423, 431, 432 Bhartruhari, 415 Bhima, 434, 436, 442 Bhishma, 433, 434, 438, 441, 443 Biaucaire, Count of, 102, 104-106 Bible, 217, 360, 415 Biglow Papers, 467 Bildad, 396 Bira, 101 Bird of God, 402 Blanchefleur, Lady, 354 Blatant Beast, 278, 283-288 Blaye, 99 Blue Sea, 378 Boccaccio, 138 Bodleian Library, 84 Bogovitch, 393 Bohemians, 392 Boiardo, 85, 138, 189, 192, 197 Boniface, Pope, 152, 170 Book of the Dun Cow, 215 Book of Heroes, 326 Book of Leinster, 215 Book of Taliessin, 216 Bordeaux, 99 Born, Bertrand de, 155 Bornier, 85 Bors, 229, 355 Bors, Sir, 352 Bosphorus, 186 Boston Library, 355 Bower of Bliss, 264, 268 Brabant, 351 Bradamant, 192, 196 Bradstreet, Anne, 465 Braggadocchio, 280 Bragi, 361 Brahma, 416-419, 447 Brahfans, 436, 437, 450 Bramimonde, 101 Branstock, 362, 369 Brengwain, 239 Breton, 100 Breton Cycle, 82 Briareus, 167 Bridal of Triermain, The, 221 Bride's Choice, 436, 447, 448, 450 Britain, 84, 216, 218, 219, 231, 232 British, 214, 267, 469 British Isles, 214 British Museum, 222 Britomart, 269, 270, 273-276, 279, 281 Brittany, 193, 216, 241 Broceliande, 241 Brons, 347, 348 Brown the Bear, 357-359 Brunetto, Sir, 149 Brunhild, 330-334, 337, 339 Brut, 218, 220 Brutus, 84, 139 Bryant, 467 Bryhtnoth's Death, 217 Brynhild, 367-371 Buccaneers, 467 Buddha, 415, 457, 458 Bulgarians, 196, 197, 393 Buonaventura, St., 180 Buovo d'Antona, 137 Burgos, 112, 114, 119 Burgundian, 127, 323, 328, 329, 334, 338-344 Burgundian-Hunnish Cycle, 324 Burgundy, 331-333, 339, 340, 367 Busirane, 273, 274 Butler, 466 Bylinas, 372 Byron, 221 Byrsa, 65 C Cabra, 110 Cacciaguida, 182. Cacus, 154 Caecilius, 171 Caedmon, 217 Caesar, 65, 318, 320 Caiaphas, 154 Cain, 223, 311 Caina, 157 Calahorra, 109 Calespine, Sir, 285, 287 Calicut, 135 Calidore, Sir, 283-285, 287, 288 Caliphs, 398 Callisthenes, 19 Calypso, 40, 44, 45 Camelot, 235, 241, 352 Camilla, 76, 79, 142 Camoëns, Luis de, 127, 128, 136 Campeador, 110, 126 Can Grande, 182 Canterbury, 232 Canterbury Tales, 138, 220 Capaneus, 149 Cape of Good Hope, 134 Cape of Tempests, 134 Capitol, 320 Care, 266 Carlemaine, 85, 100 Carleon, 234, 241 Carthage, 65, 71, 106 Carthaginians, 70-72 Cary, 140 Casella, 161 Cassandra, 67, 68 Cassius, 159 Castile, 108, 110, 112, 116, 131 Castilian, 115 Castle of the Maidens, 354 Catalogue of Beotian Heroines, 20 Cathay, 190, 191 Cato, 160, 161 Cattle of Cooly, 215 Celestine V., Pope, 141 Celt, 214 Celtic, 214, 215, 217 Centenera, 108 Central Europe, 392 Cerberus, 143, 284 Cervantes, 107 Ceuta, 133 Ceylon, 415, 424, 426-428 Champion of Purity, 354 Chancery, 265 Chanson de geste, 81, 82 Chanson de Roland, 81-101 Chaos, 290-293, 302 Chapelain, 84 Charity, 165, 174, 183, 262 Charlemagne, 81, 82, 85-90, 92, 94-100, 127, 137, 183, 189, 190, 192, 193, 195, 196, 218, 323-325, 360, 361 Charles the Great (see Charlemagne), 326 Charles Martel, 179 Charon, 73, 141 Charybdis, 53, 54, 70 Chastity, 269 Chateaubriand, 84 Chaucer, 220 Chernubles, 91 Cherubim, 177, 184, 187 Chimera, 284 China, 456 Chinese, 415, 456 Chiron, 147 Chivalry, 261 Chosen People, 311, 321 Chrestien de Troyes, 82, 219 Christ, 81, 142, 145, 147, 154, 169, 178, 179, 181, 183, 184, 186, 188, 213, 293, 301, 312-315, 318-322, 327, 347, 393, 465 Christabel, 221 Christiad, 393 Christian Church, 174 Christian Epic, 64 Christian Era, 179 Christianity, 64, 81, 214, 360 Christians, 107, 178, 183, 191, 195, 198-200, 203, 205-208, 210-212, 217 Chrysa, 21 Church, 176 Ciacco, 144 Cid, the, 107, 108-146, 221 Cimmerian Shore, 52 Circassia, 192 Circassian, 205 Circe, 18, 51-54, 74 Citra-Kuta, 423 Civil Wars, 220 Claudianus, 64 Cleopatra, 143 Cloelia, 76 Clorinda, 199-202, 204-206, 208, 209 Clovis, 84 Clytemnestra, 43 Cocles, 76 Coimbra, 110, 127 Colada, 115, 122 Coleridge, 221 Colin Clout, 287 College of New Jersey, 464 Cologne, 92 Columbia, 464 Columbiad, 466 Columbus, 210 Combat des Trente, 84 Combel, 275 Comforter, 312 Concord Hymn, 467 Conington, 65 Conquest of Canaan, 466 Conrad von Kürenberg, 328 Constance, 230, 231 Constantine, 183, 230 Contemplation, 262 Cooper, 467 Cordova, 86 Coridon, 287, 288 Corineus, 219 Corneille, 107 Cornwall, 216, 237, 239 Corpes Woods, 124 Cortes, 123, 124 Courage, 259 Court Epics, 415 Courtesy, 283 Courtship of Miles Standish, 467, 468 Cow Chase, 465 Cowley, Abraham, 220 Crassus, 170 Crawford, 374 Creacion del Munde, 108 Creation of the Maize, 464 Crete, 69, 73, 149 Crist, 217 Croatian, 393 Cronica rimada, 107 Cross, 212 Crucifixions, 347 Crusade, 198, 199, 208 Crusade epics, 83 Crusaders, 198, 201-204, 206, 208, 209, 212, 213 Cuchulaind, 215 Cumae, 73, 146 Cumaean Sibyl, 70 Cunizza, 180 Cupid, 66, 286 Curse of Kehama, 221 Cycle of Brittany, 82 Cycle of France, 81 Cyclops, 36, 48-50, 70 Cyllenius, 61 Cymbeline, 219 Cymochles, 265 Cynewulf, 217 Cypria, 17 Cyprian Iliad, 63 Czechs, 392 Czuczor, 392 D Daedalus, 73, 179 Dagobert, 85 Dalian Frogaell, 215 Damascus, 203, 206 Damayanti, 447-451 Damian, 184 Dana, 467 Dandaka, 421 Danes, 227, 343 Danger, 84 Daniel, 171, 217, 318 Daniel, Samuel, 220 Danish, 217, 360 Dankwart, 342, 343 Dante, 137-189 Danube, 338, 339 Dasaratha, 417 Dauphin, 19 David, 166, 183, 220, 312, 318, 320 Davideis, 220 Day of Doom, 465 Dead Sea, 207 Death, 34, 291, 307, 308, 312, 314, 381, 382 Decameron, 138 Deceit, 265, 266 Deerslayer, 467 Deev, 400 Defense of Guinevere, 221 Delhi, 432, 438 Delos, 69 Deluge, 311, 439, 447 Demodocus, 46 Denmark, 222-225, 329, 371 Destiny, 195 Detraction, 283 Dharma, 446 Dhritarashtra, 433 Diana, 172 Diaz, 134 Dido, 65-67, 70-72, 74, 143, 170 Dietrich von Bern, 323, 328, 338, 340-343, 345, 346, 361 Diomedes, 25, 26, 29-33, 155 Dionysius, 148 Dis, 72, 145, 146, 159 Discord, 31, 75, 76, 193, 194 Disdain, 286 Divina Commedia, 137, 139-189 Divine Comedy, 139-189, 467 Divine Essence, 177 Divine Majesty, 188 Divine Song, 440 Doctors of the Church, 174 Doctor Patience, 262 Dog of Montargis, 83 Dolon, 31 Dominations, 177, 183, 187 Dominic, St., 180 Don Garcia, 109, 110 Don Gomez, 108 Don John, 133 Don Juan, 221 Don Pedro, 132 Don Quixote, 107 Don Ramon, 115 Don Sancho, 110, 111 Doomsday, 341 Dragontine, 191 Draupadi, 436-439, 442, 443, 445, 446 Drayton, 220 Drepanum, 70, 72, 74 Drona, 434, 435, 441, 442 Druidic cult, 214 Drunkenness, 444 Dryden, 220 Dublin, 255 Dudon, 202 Duessa, 257-259, 261, 264, 282 Du Guesclin, 84 Dumby, 124 Dunstan, St., 250 Durendal, 90, 91, 96, 97 Durindana, 90, 91 Dushyanta, 431, 432 Dutch, 356 Dwight, Timothy, 466 E Eagle, 183 Early Christian Epics, 395 Earthly Paradise, The, 221 Easter Day, 145 Ebro, 98 Ebuda, 193 Ecclesiastes, 396 Ector, Sir, 232, 234, 242 Edda, 215, 361, 362 Eden, 165, 186, 210, 294, 303, 314 Edward, 199 Egas Moniz, 131 Egilssaga, 361 Eginhart, 85 Egypt, 18, 43, 44, 161, 201, 204, 207, 289, 290, 317, 398 Egyptian, 19, 211, 212 Ekkehard, 324 Ekkewart, 333, 338, 340 Elaine, 229, 236, 352 Elder Edda, 361 Eleanor, Queen, 250, 251 Eleanora, 132 Elene, 218 Eleonora, 197 Elijah, 316, 317, 318 Eliphaz, 396 Elizabeth, 255, 281 Eljubarota, 133 Ellen, 247, 248 Elsa of Brabant, 351, 352 Elysian Fields, 44, 72, 741 Emerson, 467 Emmanuel, 133 Emmet, Prior of, 249 Empire, 176, 183 Empyrean, 176, 187 Enchanted Castle, 355 Endymion, 221 Enfances de Godefroi, 83 England, 192, 214, 217-220, 222, 230-232, 348, 465 English, 217, 243 Enid, 229 Ennius, 63 Enoch Arden, 222 Envy, 283 Eoiae, 20 Ephialtes, 156 Epic of Commerce, 128 Epic of the Gypsies, 393 Epic of Hades, 221 Epic of Kings, 398 Epics of the Netherlands, 356-359 Epic of Patriotism, 128 Epic Poetry, 17 Epic of the Volsungs, 362-371 Epigoni, 19 Epirus, 69 Epopée galante, 221 Erato, 75 Erec et Enide, 82 Ermanrich the Goth, 323 Erminia, 202, 205, 212 Ernst, Herzog, 325 Error, 256 Erse Poetry, 215 Erzilla, 108 Esau, 179 Eschenbach, Wolfram von, 219, 230, 326, 328, 352 Esther, 394, 396 Eternal City, 320 Eternal Rose, 187 Etruria, 76, 79 Etruscan, 76, 78 Ettarre, 229 Etzel, 328, 337-344, 346 Eugammon of Cyrene, 18 Eunoe, 174 Euphemia, Queen, 360 Euphemiaviser, 360 Europe, 127, 133, 137, 194, 198, 230, 372 European, 137, 216, 356 Europeans, 464 Euryalus, 77 Eurycleia, 42, 58 Eustace, 204 Evander, 76 Evangeline, 467, 469 Evangelists, 174 Eve, 188, 294-297, 302-310 Evelake, 348 Evil Pits, 151 Exact Epitome of the three first Monarchies, etc., 465 Excalibure, 283, 241, 242 Exodus, 217, 323, 395 Eyrbyggjasaga, 361 F Faerie Queene, 220, 255-288 Fafnir, 365, 366, 371 Fairy Queen, 261, 269 Faith, 165, 174, 183, 185, 262 Faithlessness, 257 Fame, 465 Famine, 468 Famine Tower, 157 Far East, 356 Farinata, 146 Faroese, 360 Fata Morgana, 194 Fate, 75, 77, 78 Fates, 170, 195 Faust, 327 Faustus, Dr., 327 Felez Munos, 122 Fénelon, 19, 84 Fennian, 215 Feridoun, 401, 402 Fernando, 132 Fernan Gonzales, 107 Ferrando, King, 108, 110 Ferrara, 192, 197, 211 Ferrau, 190, 191, 192 Fiance (bishop), 215 Fidessa, 257, 258 Fingal, 215 Finland, 372 Finn, 215 Finnish, 468 Finnish Epics, 372 Finns, 372, 373 Finnsburgh, 217, 225 Firdusi, 398, 399 First Crusade, 197 Fixed Stars, 176, 184 Flamença, 81 Flanders, 356 Florence, 140, 144, 146, 154, 163, 168, 182, 197 Florentine, 144 Flores and Blancheflour, 219 Florimell, Lady, 271, 272, 275, 276, 278, 280 Flourdelis, 283 Folco, 180 Folengo, 138 Force, 266 Forese, 171, 172, 177 Forest Book, 439 Fortiguerra, 139, 197 Fortitude, 160 Fortunate Isles, 210 Fortune, 144 Fountain of Youth, 83 Fountains Abbey, 250 Four sons of Aymon, 219 France, 84, 86, 88, 89, 92, 97, 99, 107, 127, 140, 191, 193, 214, 219, 283, 347 Francesca da Rimini, 143 Franciade, 84 Francis of Assisi, St., 180, 188 Franciscans, 180 Francus, 84 Frankish, 328 Franks, 84, 88, 89, 90, 100 Fraud, 266 Frederick II., 137, 148 Frederick of Telramund, 351 French, 85, 87, 89, 90, 170, 392, 393 French Classic, 18 French Epics, 81-106 Frenchmen, 94, 95, 96, 98, 99, 100 Friendship, 275 Frisian, 323 Frithjof Saga, 360 Froschmeuseler, Der, 327 Frost God, 385 Furies, 75 Furor, 265 G Gabriel, St., 100, 101, 114, 181, 188, 198, 295, 296, 303, 314, 317, 322, 469 Gaelic Literature, 215 Galahad, 229, 236, 352, 353, 354, 355 Galland, 394 Gallicia, 110, 112 Gamelyn, Tale of, 220 Gan (Ganelon), 100 Ganelon, 81, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 92, 98, 99, 100, 324 Ganga, 432 Ganges, 133, 416, 419, 422, 432, 434, 435, 439, 443, 444, 446, 447 Ganymede, 165 Garcia Ordonez de Montalvo, 108 Garden of Eden, 174 Gareth and Lynette, 229, 240 Garin le Lorrain, 81 Gascony, 89 Gaucher, 230 Gawain, 229 Geats, 227, 229 Gemini, 184 Genesis, 217 Geoffrey of Monmouth, 216, 218, 219, 230 George of Merry England, St., 262 Georgos, 255, 260, 262, 264 Geraint and Enid, 229, 240 Gérard de Roussillon, 83 Gerbert, 230 Gereones, 282, 283 German, 392 German Epics, 323 German Literature, 327 Germany, 84, 214, 323, 325 Gernando, 204 Gernot, 344 Gerusalemme, 138 Gerusalemme, Conquistata, 138 Gerusalemme Distrutta, 139 Gerusalemme Liberata, 197 Geryon, 150, 151 Gherardeschi, Count Ugolino de, 157-158 Ghibelline, 146, 179 Giants, Battle of the, 64 Gibraltar, Strait of, 128, 186, 194, 210 Gideon, 318 Gildas, 218, 219, 230 Gil Diaz, 126 Gildippe, 199, 213 Ginevra, 193 Giovanna, 165 Girone il Cortese, 139 Giseler, 340 Glastonbury, 242, 348 Glauce, 269 Gleemen, 214, 360 Glittering Heath, 366 Gloriana, 255, 256, 262, 267, 269, 279, 283, 288 Gluttony, 257 Goa, 128 Goddess of Discord, 20 Goddess of Fame, 71 God of Death, 453 God of the Forest, 382 God of Sleep, 33 God of Time, 431 Godfrey of Bouillon, 138, 183, 198, 199, 201-204, 206, 207-213 Goethe, 84, 85, 327, 356 Golden Age, 107, 108, 415 Golden Fleece, 151, 268, 373 Golden Legend, 326, 467, 468 Golden Tree, 355 Gomorrah, 173 Good and Evil, 373 Gorgon, 146 Gorlois, 229, 231, 232 Goth, 323, 362, 371 Gothland, 363 Goths, 138, 362, 363, 364 Gottfried von Strassburg, 230 Gouvernail, 237 Graces, 287 Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill Battle, 467 Grane, 364 Grantorto, 283 Great War, 440, 442, 444 Grecian, 463 Greece, 20, 24, 29, 36, 290, 393 Greek Epics, 17-62 Greek Literature, 17, 63 Greeks, 21, 25, 28-37, 39, 40, 42, 43, 47, 48, 51, 54, 66, 67, 68, 70, 73, 196, 214, 373 Grendel, 223-227, 229 Grettissaga, 361 Greyfell, 364 Griffeth, 416, 435 Grimbart, the Badger, 356-359 Guardians of the Holy Grail, 355 Gudrun, 325, 326, 367-371 Guelf Party, 140 Guelfs, 146, 150, 179 Guillaumey Charlotte, 216 Guido, 146 Guild, 367 Guillaurae d'Orange, 81 Guimaraens, 131 Guinevere, 229, 233-236, 242, 352 Guinicelli, 137 Gundulitch, 393 Gunnar, 367-371 Gunnlaugssaga, 361 Gunther, 323, 324, 328-337, 345 Guy of Warwick, 217 Guyle, 282 Guyon, Sir, 263-270, 280 Gyöngyösi, 392 H Hades, 53, 61, 72, 73, 141, 144, 145, 147, 149, 160, 161, 256, 258, 308, 380, 382, 383 Hadubrand, 323 Hagan, 325 Hagar, 318 Hagen, 324, 329-345 Hale, 467 Hall, 223 Halleck, 467 Haman, 169 Hanuman, 426, 427 Hardré, 82 Harivamça, 446 Harjala, 384 Harpies, 69, 75, 148 Harte, Bret, 467 Hartford, 467 Hartmann von der Aue, 219, 230, 326 Harvard, 464 Hasâr Afsâna, 398 Hastin, 432 Hastinapur, 432, 434 Hastings, 85 Hauteclaire, 91 Havelock the Dane, 217 Hawthorne, 467 Heavenly Wisdom, 174 Hebrew, 361 Hebrew Epics, 395 Hector, 17, 23, 24, 26-30, 32-35, 37-40, 67, 69, 74, 142 Heimskringla, 360, 361 Heinrich, Der Arme, 326 Heinrich von Ofterdingen, 328 Heldenbuch, 326 Helen, 17, 20, 21, 24, 25, 27, 29, 43, 44, 56, 78, 143, 457 Helena, 218 Helenus, 69, 70 Heliant, 323 Heliodorus, 170 Hell, 315 Helm of Dread, 365 Hemans, Mrs., 131-132 Hengist, 231 Henning the Cock, 357 Henriade, La, 84 Henriqueiada, 127 Henry, 127 Henry II. of England, 155, 243, 244, 251 Henry IV., of France, 383 Heorot, 223, 225, 227 Heracles, 19 Hercules, 18, 76, 147, 155, 404 Hereford, Bishop of, 249, 251 Heresy, 256 Hermann und Dorothea, 327 Hesiod, 19 Hesperia, 68, 69 Hexaemeron, 360 Hezekiah, 183 Hiawatha, 372, 464, 467, 468 Hieronymo, _see_ Jerome, 119 Higelac, 224 Highlands, 215 Hildebrand, 323, 340, 345, 346 Hildebrandslied, 323 Hildegund, 324 Himalayas, 419, 434, 439, 447 Himavat, 445 Hindu, 415, 416, 419, 431, 435, 440, 444, 452 Hintze the Cat, 357 Hisi, 381, 390 Historia Britonum, 218 History of Britain, 218 Hoenir, 364 Högni, 369, 370 Holiness, 256 Holmes, 467 Holy City, 201 Holy Grail, 127, 216, 229, 230, 234, 236 Holy Grail, Story of, 346-355 Holy Mountain, 348 Holy Sepulchre, 199, 213, 348 Homer, 17, 18, 20, 21, 40, 142, 372, 399 Homer of the East, 399 Homeric, 299 Homeric Battle, 26 Homeward Voyage, 18 Hope, 84, 165, 174, 183, 185, 262 Hopkinson, Francis, 465 Horace, 142 Horn, King, 217 Horsa, 231 Hostius, 63 House of Usher, 467 Hrothgar, 222-227 Hudibras, 466 Hug-Dietrich, 325 Hugues Capet, 83, 170 Hunnish, 328 Hun, 323, 328, 341-345, 370, 371 Hungarian, 392, 393 Hungary, 179, 323, 337, 338, 342, 343, 370 Hunt, Leigh, 221 Huntington, Earl of, 254, 255 Huon de Bordeaux, 83, 219, 327 Hvin Haustlöng, 361 Hyperion, 221 Hypocrisy, 256 I Icarus, 151 Iceland, 360 Icelandic, 360 Ida, Mt., 29, 149 Idleness, 257 Idle Sea, 265 Idylls of the King, 222 Igerne, 229, 231, 232 Igor, 372 Ilia, 64 Iliad, 17, 19, 20-40, 63, 83, 139, 155, 221, 325, 398, 465, 467 Ilion, 40 Ilion Persis, 18 Ilmarinen, 374, 379, 380-386, 389 Ilmater, 374 Ilya Muromets, 373 Impha, 101 India, 127-129, 133, 135, 398, 415, 419, 429, 431, 434, 439 Indian, 130, 136, 427, 430, 467 Indian Edda, 468 Indian Epics, 415-455 Indian Literature, 415 Indian Myths, 467 Indian Peninsula, 426 Indians, 464 Indra, 439, 444, 445, 446. Indraprastha, 438 Indus, 133 Inez de Castro, the Fair, 131-132 Infantes of Carrion, 120-125 Infantes de Lara, 107, 108 Infernal Regions, 159 Inferno, Dante's, 139-160, 164, 184 Inouye, 456 Inquisition, 282 I Promessi Sposi, 139 Iran, 401 Ireland, 214, 218, 237, 238, 279, 283 Irena, 279, 283 Iris, 23, 24, 39, 40 Irish, 214, 215 Irish Channel, 239 Irus, 57, 72 Irving, Washington, 467 Isabella, 221 Isegrim the Wolf, 356-359 Isenland, 330, 332 Iseult, Queen, and Princess, 237-240 Iseult of Brittany, 240 Iseult of Cornwall, 240 Iseult of the White Hands, 240 Isfendiyar, 412, 413 Isidro, St., 116 Isis, 281 Islamic, 397 Isle of Avalon, 242 Isle of Joy, 136 Isle of Refuge, 385 Ismarus, 47 Ismeno, 199 Isolde, 326 Israel, 161, 312, 320 Israelites, 316, 318 Istria, 63 Isumbras, Sir, 220 Italia Liberate, 138 Italian, 80, 137-139, 189, 206, 392, 393 Italian Epics, 137-213 Italy, 64, 70, 71, 74, 78, 137, 138, 197, 323, 328 Ithaca, 40, 41, 45, 50, 62, 155 Ithacan, 55, 62 Ithuriel, 295 Iulus, 66, 68, 71, 75, 76, 78 Ivain le Chevalier au Lion, 82 Iwein, 326 J Jackson, Helen Hunt, 467 Jacob, 179 James, St., 185 Janak, 420 Janes Vilez, 393 Janus, 76 Japan, 456 Japanese Poetry, 456 Jason, 20, 151 Javanese, 129 Jemshid, 400, 401 Jephthah, 178, 318 Jerome, Bishop, 116, 119, 126 Jerusalem, 139, 198, 201-203, 205-207, 210-213, 319, 322, 325 Jerusalem Delivered, 197, 198, 372 Jesus, 214, 316, 317, 318, 320, 321 Jewish Heroine, 394 Jews, 114, 119, 178, 347 Joan of Arc, 221 Joan Delaemi, 893 Joannes Boetgezant, 356 Job, 314, 316, 318, 395, 396 John, the Baptist, 171, 188, 213, 316, 356 John, King, 254 John Little, 244 John the Messenger of Repentance, 356 John, St., 174, 185, 186, 195, 234 John II., 133 Jongleurs, 107 Jordan, 213, 315, 316 Josaphat, 361 Joseph, 156, 318, 348, 353 Joseph of Arimathea, 347, 355 Joshua, 180, 183 Jove, 156, 184 Joyeuse, 98 Joyless, 258 Joyous Garde, 236, 241 Judas, 157, 159, 347 Judea, 319 Judecca, 159 Judges, 312 Judgment, 183 Judgment of God, 359 Judith, 188, 323 Juglares, 107 Juliana, 217 Juliet, 403 Julius Caesar, 63, 318 Jumna, 435, 438 Juno, 20, 22, 26, 30, 33, 35, 64, 68, 70, 71, 72, 75, 76, 78, 80 Jupiter, 17, 20, 22, 25, 26, 29-34, 36, 40, 44, 45, 62, 64, 65, 71, 77, 78, 80, 129, 149, 176, 183 Jupiter Ammon, 19 Justice, 160, 279, 433 Justice, Champion of, 269 Justinian, 178, 179 Juturna, 80 Juvencus, 64 K Kaaba, 397 Kabul, 403, 414 Kaikeyi, 420 Kaikobad, 404, 405 Kaikous, 405, 407 Kai-Khosrau, 412 Kalevala, 372, 373-391, 468 Kali, 448, 449, 450 Kalidasa, 415 Karl, 87-90, 99, 101 Karlamagnussaga, 361 Karna, 435, 442 Kaspar von der Rhön, 323, 326 Kauravas, 434 Kavah, 401 Kaviraja, 415 Kavyas, 415 Kay, Sir, 232 Keats, 221 Keewaydin, 468 Kiev, 373 King's Cottage, 464 Kireyevski, 372 Kirk Lee, 254 Kjaempeviser, 360 Klopstock, 327 Knight of the Cart, 235 Knight of the Red Cross, 256, 258 Knight with the Lion, 326 Knights of the Holy Grail, 348 Knights of the Bound Table, 82 Knight's Tale, The, 220 Knot de Provence, 230 König Laurin, 326 Krieg auf der Wartburg, Der, 326 Kriemhild, 328-330, 332-338, 340-346 Krishna, 437, 440, 444, 446 Krist, 323 Kullerwoinen, 385, 386 Kumarasambhava, 415 Kundrie, 351 Kurvenal, 237 Kurukshetra, 440 Kurus, 434, 436, 438-442 Kusa, 429 Kuvera, 439 L Labyrinth, 73 Lady of the Lake, 221, 233, 234, 241 Lady of Sorrows, 234 Laertes, 41, 56, 61, 62 Laestrigonians, 51 Laexdaelasaga, 361 Laisses, 85 Lake Avernus, 72, 73 Lakshmana, 418, 422, 423 Lalla Rookh, 221 Lament of the Nibelungs, 346 Lancelot, 242 Lancelot du Lac, 218 Land of the Dead, 384 Land of Heroes, 373-391 Lang, Andrew, 101 Langobardian, 323, 325 Lanka, 427 Lapland, 377, 381, 384 Laplanders, 373 Lapps, 373, 376, 378, 385 Laocoon, 18, 67 Last Judgment, 465 Last of the Mohicans, 467 Last Supper, 347 Latin Epics, 63-80 Latin Literature, 63 Latins, 75, 80, 85, 137, 138, 160, 392 Latinus, 75, 76, 79 Latium, 72, 73, 80, 164 Launcelot du Lac, 82, 143, 229, 234-236, 242, 352 Laurin, 326 Lausus, 76, 78 Lava, 429 Lavinia, 75, 79, 80, 169 Lawlessness, 260 Lay of the Pious Maiden Shirakiku, 456 Lechery, 257 Lawrence, St., 178 Layamon, 218, 219, 230 Lay of the Last Minstrel, 221 Lays of Ancient Rome, 221 Lazarus, St., 109 Lea, 173 Lear, King, 219 Leather Stocking Tales, 467 Leda, 20 Légende des Siècles, 84 Legend of the Sleepy Hollow, 467 Leicester, 261 Lemminkainen, 381, 382, 384, 385 Leon, 110, 112 Lethe, 174, 175 Lettsom, 328 Leucothea, 45 Libyan, 66 Life and Death of Jason, 221 Life of Christ, 64 Life of St. Catherine of Alexandria, 392 Light and Darkness, 373 Lincoln, 244, 245, 253 Lisbon, 127-129, 136 Liszti, 392 Little Iliad, 18 Little John, 244-255 Lives of Saints, 323 Livius Andronicus, 63 Llywarch Hen, 216 Loathley Damsel, 354 Lockhart, 221 Locksley, 243 Lohengrin, 351, 352 Loki, 364, 365 Lombards, 189, 325 Lombardy, 182 London, 244, 255 Longfellow, 326, 372, 464, 467, 468 Lönnrot, Elias, 372, 373 Lord, The, 108 Lotus-eaters, 48 Louhi, 379-383, 385, 388, 389 Louis, 100 Louis I., 323 Louis XIV., 19, 394 Love, 273 Low Countries, 356 Lowell, 467 Lucan, 63, 142 Lucia, St., 140, 165, 166, 188 Lucifer, 139, 157, 296, 298, 299, 347 Lucifera, Queen, 257 Lucius Varius Rufus, 63 Luck of Roaring Camp, 467 Lucretia, 142 Lucretius, 63 Ludwigslied, 323 Luke, St., 174 Lüneburger Chronicle, 327 Lusiad, 127-136, 139 Lusitanians, 129, 135, 136 Luxembourg, 356 Lycia, 34 Lycophron, 19 Lynette, 229 Lyonnesse, Tristram of, 284 M Mab, Queen, 215 Mabinogion, 216 Macaire, 83 Macao, 128 Macaulay, 221 Maccabees, 183, 319 Macedo, de, 127 Macedon, 318 Macpherson (James), 215, 218 Madagascar, 129 Madeira, 134 Madoc, 221 Magdalen, 180 Magnetic Rock, 268 Magyar Epic, 392 Mahabharata, 415, 416, 431-455 Mahàkavyas, 415 Mahmoud, 399 Mahomet, 135, 155, 398 Maid Marian, 251 Maid of Beauty, 379, 381, 383 Maiden of the Rainbow, 379, 383-386 Malbecco, 273 Malebolge, 151, 154, 155 Malebouche, 84 Malepartus, 358 Malgigi, 191 Malory, 230, 240 Mammon, 265, 268, 290 Mandara, Mt., 426 Mandricar, 194 Manessier, 230 Manfred, 162, 221 Manlius, 76 Manto, 152 Mantua, 152, 164 Manu, 416 Man Without a Country, 467 Manzoni, 139 Marches of Brittany, 85 Marco Bozzaris, 467 Marco Polo, 137 Mariatta, 390 Marie de France, 82, 219, 230 Marinell, 271, 278, 280 Marinus, 139 Mark, King of Cornwall, 237-240 Marmion, 221 Mars, 25, 26, 65, 77, 129, 130, 176, 182 Marseilles, 194, 347, 348 Marsile, 85-90, 98, 99 Martin Antolinez, 114, 119 Martyrs, Les, 84 Mary, Queen of Scots, 257, 282 Mary Stuart, 220 Mary, Virgin, 140, 165, 172, 181, 297, 314, 316, 317 Mathilda, Queen, 199 Matière de Rome la grand, 83 Matilda, Countess, 174, 175 Matter of France, 218 Maur, Benoit de St., 19, 219, 230 Mauritania, 134 Mazinderan, 399, 405, 406 Mazuranie, 393 McFingal, 465 Mecca, 397 Medea, 151 Mediaeval India, 415 Medina, 115 Mediterranean, 348 Medusa, 146 Medway, 278 Melchisedec, 179 Melesigenes, 17 Melibee, 287, 288 Melinda, 130, 135 Menelaus, 18, 20-26, 31, 35, 41, 43, 44, 56 Meneses, 127 Mentor, 42, 43 Mercilla, 281, 282 Mercury, 44, 52, 61, 65, 71, 129, 130, 176, 178, 179 Merlin, 82, 216, 218, 229-234, 240, 241, 261, 269, 347, 351, 352 Merlin and Vivien, 229 Meru, Mt., 415, 420, 444, 445 Mezentius, 76, 78 Messenian Strait, 53 Messiah, 299, 301, 312 Messias, 327 Michael, 144, 193, 206, 291, 295, 299, 300, 309-312 Michael's Mount, St., 92 Mickle, 130 Midas, 170 Midsummer Night's Dream, 219, 327 Milton, 139, 217, 288, 290, 292, 294, 313, 347, 356 Milutinovitch, 393 Mimer, 364, 365 Minerva, 20, 22, 23, 25-28, 30, 31, 37, 38, 41, 42, 44, 45, 46, 55-59, 61, 62, 68, 436 Minnehaha, 468 Minnesingers, 326 Minos, 74, 142, 156 Minotaur, 147 Minuchir, 402 Mirth, 265 Mogg Megone, 467 Mohammed, 394 Mohammedan, 394 Moloch, 290, 300 Mombaça, 130, 135 Monçaide, 135, 136 Mon-da-min, 464 Montereggion, 156 Montjoie, 90 Montsalvatch, 348-350 Moon, 176 Moore, 221 Moors, 94, 95, 107-117, 119, 120, 122, 125, 128, 130, 133, 135 Mordred, 82, 241 Morgana the Fay, 233, 242 Morgante Maggiore, 138 Morning Star of American Poetry, 465 Moro Exposito, El, 108 Morocco, 117 Morolt, 237, 238 Morpheus, 256 Morris, William and Lewis, 221, 361 Moscow, 373 Moses, 188, 311, 435 Morte d'Arthur, 240 Mozambic, 135 Mucius Scevola, 178 Muiredhach, 215 Müller, Paludan, 360 Muslem, 394 Muspilli, 323 Mycenae, 42, 44 Myrden, 216 Mystic Rose, 188 N Naevius, 63 Naimes, Duke, 86, 89, 97 Nala, 428, 439, 447-451 Namus, see Naimes, 192 Naobumi Ochiai, 456 Naomi, 396 Naples, 162, 198 Nausicaa, 45, 46 Navarre, 112, 125, 126, 153 Nazareth, 317 Nectanebus, 19 Nennius, 218, 219, 230 Nepenthe, 43 Neptune, 29, 32, 33, 37, 45, 50, 52, 64, 68, 72, 135 Nessus, 147 Nestor, 22, 23, 26, 29, 30-33, 41-43, 56 Netherlands, 356 Neurouz, 400 New Jerusalem, 262 Nibelungen hoard, 329, 332, 338, 339 Nibelungenklage, 346 Nibelungenlied, 325,328-346, 361, 362,370 Nibelungs, 332, 336, 337, 339, 367-369 Nicaea, 198, 206 Nicholas III., Pope, 152 Nicolette, 101-106 Night, 290, 292 Nimrod, 156, 167 Nimue, 233 Niobe, 167 Niphates, 293 Nisus, 77 Njalssaga, 361 Noah, 142, 311 Noble, the Lion, 356-359 Noman, 49, 50 Nonnenwörth, 325 Norman, 84, 100, 323 Norman Conquest, 218 Norse Discovery, 468 Northland, 374, 375, 378, 383-385, 390 Norway, 204, 361 Northumbrian, 222 Norwegian, 360, 361 Nostroi, 18 Nottingham, 243, 245, 252, 253 Novgorod, 373 Nüremberg, 326 Nymue, 233 O Oberon, 327 Oblivion, 196 Odenwald, 335 Odin, 222, 362, 364, 366, 367, 370, 371 Odyssey, 17, 18, 40-62, 63, 83, 139, 325, 372, 416, 467 Oechalia, 19 Oedipus, 19 Ogier, 360 Ogier le Danois, 81 Ogygia, 45, 55 O'Hagan, John, 85 Oisianic Poems, 215 Oisin, 215 Olifant, 92, 99 Olindo, 200, 201 Oliver, 86, 89, 90-94, 96, 98, 196, 324 Olives, Mt., 208 Olympian, 26, 77 Olympus, 22, 26, 29, 34, 40, 64, 130 Olympus, Mt., 25, 36, 44, 129 On the Nature of Things, 63 Orestes, 18, 53 Orgoglio, 259, 261 Oriental Princess, 189 O Oriente, 127 Ore, 193 Order, 282 Orlandino, 138 Orlando, 138, 183, 190-192, 194-196 Orlando Furioso, 138, 189 Orlando Innamorato, 138, 189 Orlandos, The, 189-197 Ormsby, 113 Ormudz, 412 Os Lusiades, 127-129 Osman, 393 Ossian, 215 Otfried, 323 Otnit, 325 Oude, 416, 420, 423, 424, 429 Ourique, 131 Ovid, 142 P Padua, 197 Palamon and Arcite, 220 Palestine, 211, 290, 347 Palinurus, 72 Palladium, 18 Pallas, 26, 41, 45, 76, 78, 79, 80 Palmerina D'Inglaterra, 127, 221 Palmotitch, 393 Pandavas, 434, 445 Pandavs, 434-447 Pandemonium, 291 Pandu, 433, 434 Panipat, 440 Paolo, 143 Papal Chair, 174 Paradise, 90, 97, 140, 141, 173, 176-189, 205, 294-296, 302-304, 308-311, 313, 322, 401, 430, 446 Paradise Lost, 139, 217, 288-313, 356 Paradise Regained, 213-222 Paridell, Sir, 272, 273 Paris, 17, 18, 20-25, 27-29, 33, 38, 143 Paris City, 192, 197 Parthian, 319 Parvans, 431 Parzifal, 326, 349-354, 361 Pasiphae, 173 Passau, 338 Pastorella, 287, 288 Pathfinder, 467 Patrick, St., 214, 215 Patroclus, 30, 32-36, 39, 42 Paul, St., 174 Peccata (P.), 166-172 Peirian, 175 Peleus, 17, 20, 21, 40 Pelleas and Ettarre, 229, 240 Pelles, 236, 352 Pellerwoinen, 374 Pellias, 234 Penelope, 18, 40-42, 44, 56, 58, 60-62 Pelican, 185 Penthesilea, 18 Perceval, 82, 229 Percival, 352, 355 Perfect One, The, 113, 115 Pergamus, 26 Pericles, 218 Pero Mudo, 124 Persepolis, 400 Persia, 125, 319, 398, 399, 401, 407, 408, 412 Persian, 393, 398, 465 Persian Consort, 394 Persian Epic, 398 Persians, 401 Peter the Cruel, 132 Peter the Hermit, 198, 208 Peter, St., 125, 126, 166, 185, 186, 188 Peter Damian, St., 184 Petöfi, 392 Petrarch, 138 Phaeacia, 45, 55 Phaeacian, 45, 47, 53, 55 Phaedria, 265, 268 Phaeton, 151 Pharos, 44 Pharsalia, 63 Philip II., 282 Philip IV. of France, 170 Philip of Macedon, 318 Philips, Stephen, 222 Philoctetes, 18 Philosophy, 169 Phlegethon, 147 Phlegyas, 145 Phoebus, 60 Piccarda, 172, 177 Pilgrim, 468 Pilgrin, Bishop, 338, 340, 316 Pioneers, 467 Piran-Wisa, 412 Pirate, 467 Pisa, 157 Pisistratus, 17 Plautus, 171 Pleasure, 264 Pluto, 61 Plutus, 144 Poe, 467 Poema del Cid, 107-126 Pohyola, 383 Poland, 393 Polar Star, 134 Poles, 393 Polyolbion, 220 Polyphemus, 48-50 Pompey, 63 Ponemah, 468 Pope, 21, 41, 110, 220 Portugade, 128 Portugal, 112, 127, 129, 131, 133, 135, 136 Portuguese, 129, 130, 131, 133, 135, 136 Portuguese Epics, 127-136 Portuguese Literature, 127 Pot of Basil, 221 Poverty, 180 Powers, 177, 180, 187 Prairie, 467 Prakrit, 415 Pramnian, 51 Priam, 18, 23, 24, 29, 37, 39, 40, 68, 84, 218 Pride, 257 Primum Mobile, 186 Prince Arthur, 261, 267, 269, 270, 271, 277, 278 Princedoms, 177, 179, 187 Priscilla, 285 Prometheus Unbound, 221 Promised Land, 311 Prophet, 394 Prose Epic, 243 Proteus, 44, 278 Provençal, 137, 180 Provence, 216 Providence, 313 Prudence, 160, 174, 263 Ptolomea, 158 Publius Terentius Varro, 63 Pucelle, La, 84 Pulci, 85, 138, 189 Punic War, 63 Purana, 415 Purgatory, 137, 140, 141, 160-176, 184 Purgatory, Mt., 160, 161 Puritans, 465 Pushkin, 372 Pygmalion, 170 Pyle, Howard, 230, 243 Pylos, 42 Pyrenees, 85, 87, 99 Q Quatre Fils d'Aymon, Les, 81, 82 Queen Mab, 215 Queen of Heaven, 185, 188 Queen of Night, 258 Quest for the Holy Grail, 107, 218, 230, 239, 240, 241, 352, 354, 355 Quest of the Sangreall, 222 Quiloa, 129, 135 Quintus Curtius, 63 Quintus Smyrnaeus, 19 R Rachel, 173, 188 Radigonde, 281, 286 Raghuvamça, 415 Ragnar Lodbrog, 361 Ragnarsdrapa, 361 Rahab, 180 Rakshasas, 424 Rakush, 404-407, 411, 414 Rama, 415, 416, 418-431 Ramayana, 415, 416-431, 439 Ram Charit Manas, 415, 431 Ramona, 467 Raoul de Cambrai, 81 Raphael, St., 297, 298, 300-303 Rape of the Lock, 221 Ravana, 415, 417, 424-429 Raymond Béranger, 179, 206 Rebecca, 188 Red Cross Knight, 256-264, 270 Redeemer, 213, 214, 306, 309 Red Handed, 264 Reformation, 327 Regin, 364, 365, 366 Reinecke Fuchs, 327, 356-359 Religion, 262 Renaud de Montauban, 190, 199 Renaissance, 138 Revelations, 174, 396 Revolt of Islam, The, 221 Revolutionary, 466 Reynard the Fox, 137, 356-359, 360 Rhapsodist, 17 Rhesus, 31 Rhine, 214, 328, 329, 330, 332, 337, 341, 365 Rhodes, 20 Ricciardetto, 139, 197 Richard Coeur de Lion, 219 Richard, King, 251, 252, 253 Richard of the Lee, Sir, 249 Righteousness, 354 Rinaldo, 138, 190-194, 196, 197, 199, 204, 206, 207, 209-211, 213 Rip van Winkle, 467 River God, 37 River of Death, 381-384 Robert de Borron, 230 Robert of Naples, 179 Robin Hood, 243-255 Roderick, the Last of the Goths, 221 Rodomont, 192, 194, 195, 197 Rodrigo Diaz de Bivar (the Cid), 108, 109, 110, 113, 115, 117 Rogero, 192-196 Roland, 84-100, 107, 138, 156, 189, 216, 324, 325 Roland Insane, 138 Rolandseek, 325 Rolandslied, 324 Romance of Beni Hilâl, 398 Romagna, 155 Roman, 63, 131, 315, 319 Roman Commonwealth, 465 Roman d'Alexandre, 19, 83 Roman d'Aventure, 221 Roman de la Rose, 84, 137 Roman de Rou, 84 Roman de Thèbes, 83 Roman de Troie, 19, 83 Roman du Renard, 83 Roman Empire, 320 Roman History, 179 Roman Literature, 64 Romance of Antar, 398 Romans, 64, 214, 320, 323 Rome, 63, 65, 74, 76, 80, 140, 149, 168, 169, 174, 197, 198, 320 Romeo, 403 Romesh Dutt, 416, 435 Romulus, 65, 74 Roncesvalles, 87 Roncevaux, 87, 89, 91, 98, 156, 324 Ronsard, 84 Rose, 177, 187 Rosengarten, Der, 326 Rother, 325 Round Table, 107, 216, 229, 234, 239, 241 Rudaveh, 403, 404 Ruddy Main, 264 Rudiger, 337, 338, 340, 342-345 Rufo, 108 Rufus, 63 Ruksh, 411 Rumanian Literature, 393 Ruslan and Lyudmila, 372 Russia, 372, 373 Russian Epics, 372, 373 Rustem, 404-411, 413, 414 Rustum, 409, 411 Ruth, 188, 396 Rutules, 76, 77 Ryenee, 269 S Saavedra, 108 Sabines, 76, 179 Sabula, Mt., 426 Samson, 393 Sachs, Hans, 326 Sack of Troy, 18 Sacred Mysteries, 354 Sacripant, 192 Saemunt the Wise, 361 St. Gall, 324 Sakuntala, 431-432 Saladin, 199 Salem, 201 Salisbury Plain, 231 Salve Regina, 164 Sampo, 372, 373, 379, 380, 381, 383, 388, 389 Sanchos, 131 Sanglier, Sir, 279 Sangreal, 352 Sanhedrim, 154 San Pedro de Cardena, 114, 119, 126 Sanscrit, 431 Sansfoi, 257, 258 Sansjoi, 258 Sansloi, 260 Santarem, 128 Sapia, 168 Saracens 85-87, 89-91, 94, 96-100, 105, 194-196, 202, 279, 282, 348 Saragossa, 85, 87, 89, 96, 98, 99, 115 Sarah, 188 Sarpedon, 33, 34 Sarras, 229, 348, 353, 355 Satan, 144, 159, 160, 230, 288-301, 303, 304, 306, 307, 308, 312-322, 347, 395, 417 Satrughna, 418 Saturn, 75, 176, 184 Satyavan, 451-454 Satyrane, Sir, 260, 261, 272, 273, 275 Saul, 167 Saviour, 315 Savitri, 439, 451-454 Saxon, 222, 231 Saxony, 329 Scandinavian, 360-362 Scandinavian Epics, 360-391 Scarlet Letter, 467 Scarlet, Will, 247, 251, 254 Scean Gate, 27, 28, 32 Schiller, 85, 327, 392 Scorn, 286 Scotch, 215 Scotland, 192, 214, 215 Scots, 214, 257 Scott, 221 Scriptures, 217 Scudamore, Sir, 273-276 Scudéri, 84 Scyldings, 226 Scylla, 53, 54, 70 Scythian, 319 Sea of Gluttony, 265 Sebastian, 129 Seer of Patmos, 896 Seistan, 414 Semele, 184 Semiramis, 143 Seraphim, 177, 186 Serena, Lady, 285, 286, 287 Serpent King, 400, 403 Servia, 393 Servian, 393 Sette Giornate del Mundo Creato, 138 Seven Branched Candlestick, 353 Seven Deadly Sins, 354 Seven Kings before Thèbes, 19 Severin, St., 99 Seville, 118, 133 Shah-Nameh, 398-414 Shah of Persia, 399 Shakespeare, 83, 219, 327 Shakespeariana, 230 Shelley, 221 Sheriff, 243, 245, 246, 249, 252 Sherwood Forest, 248, 250, 254 Shield of Heracles, 19 Siawush, 411, 412 Siberia, 372 Sibyl, 73, 74, 146 Sicily, 70, 137, 162 Sidney, Sir Philip, 283 Siege Perilous, 234, 241, 348, 351, 352 Siegfried, 329-338, 341, 345 Siegmund, 329, 337 Siennese, 168 Sigfried, 323 Siggier, 362, 363 Sigmund, 225, 362, 363, 364 Signy, 362-364 Sigurd, 364-371 Sigurd the Volsung, 362-371 Silence, 193 Silius Italicus, 63 Simeon, 317 Simon, 316 Simurgh, 402, 404, 407, 410, 413 Sin, 291, 307, 308, 312, 314 Sinai, Mt., 311 Sinfiotli, 363, 364 Singer of Paradise, 398 Sinon, 18, 67, 156 Sirens, 53, 54, 136, 169 Sishih, 457 Sita, 420-430 Siva, 415, 419, 420, 439 Skalds, 361 Sketch Book, 467 Skeleton in Armor, 467 Skiold, 222 Slander, 84, 278, 283 Sleep, 33, 34, 266 Sleipnir, 364 Snorro Edda, 361 Snorro Sturleson, 361 Socrates, 318 Sodom, 173, 308 Sofonisba, 138 Soldan, 281, 282 Solomon, 181, 279, 317, 355 Solon, 179 Solyman, 206, 207, 213 Somnus, 38 Son of God, 292, 293, 301, 302 Song of Igor's Band, 372 Song of Songs, 396 Song of the Crusade Against the Albigenses, 83 Song of the Nibelungs, 328 Song of Roland, 84-101, 189 Son of Man, 230 Sophronia, 200, 201 Sorab, 407-411 Sorab and Rustem, 323 Sordello, 137, 164, 165 Sorlin, St., 84 Sorrento, 197 Southern Cross, 134, 160 Southey, 221 Spain, 85-89, 96-99, 107, 108, 125, 127, 133, 191, 282, 348 Spanish, 349 Spanish Ballads, 221 Spanish Literature, 107 Spanish Epics, 107-126 Sparta, 21, 43, 44 Spartan, 24 Spenser, 139, 220, 255, 287 Sphinx, 322 Spirit of Evil, 385, 388 Spirit of Solitude, 221 Spirit of the Cape, 134 Spiritual Pride, 261 Squire of Dames, 272, 273, 275 Squire of Low Degree, 220 Star of Bethlehem, 315 Stasimus of Cyprus, 17 Statius, 63, 170, 171, 172, 174, 176 Steinthal, 373 Stentor, 26 Stephen, 169 Story of Apollonius of Tyre, 218 Story of Bimini, 221 Strage degl' Innocenti, La, 139 Stupidity, 259 Stately, Will, 245 Sugriva, 426, 427 Stygian Lake, 77 Styx, 145, 146 Sun, 52, 54, 176, 180 Suomi, 378, 391 Superstition, 259 Suttee, 434 Swamp-land, 390 Swanhild, 371 Swan Road, 224 Swayamvara, 433, 448 Sweden, 222, 360 Swedish, 360 Swinburne, 221, 230 Swiss, 392 Switzerland, 214, 392 Sylvia, 76 Syrian, 203, 397 T Tagus, 121 Taillefer, 85 Tales for Children, 216 Tales of a Wayside Inn, 467 Taliessin, 216 Talus, 279, 281-283 Tamineh, 407, 408 Tancred, 199, 202, 204, 205, 206, 208, 209, 212 Tantalus, 266 Tarncappe, 331 Tarpeian Rock, 320 Tartar, 404, 408, 412 Tartarus, 29, 53, 74, 291, 296, 299 Tasso, 138, 197, 198, 372, 393 Taylor, Bayard, 464 Tebar, 115 Tegner, 360 Telegonia, 18 Telegonus, 18 Telemachia, 18 Telemachus, 18, 41-44, 55-60, 84 Télémaque, 18, 84 Tell, William, 327, 392 Temperance, 160, 263 Templars, 348 Temple, 169, 213, 322 Tennyson, 221, 230, 235, 236, 240, 326 Tenth Muse, 465 Tenth Ocean, 385 Ten Tribes, 320 Terence, 171 Testament, 178 Teucer, 30, 34, 74 Teutonic, 217, 323, 325, 392 Thais, 151 Thalaba, 221 Thames, 278 Thebais, 19, 63, 83 Theban Cycle, 19 Thèbes, 63, 149 Theodoric, 323, 328 Theogony, 19 Théroulde, 84, 101 Thersites, 23 Theseus, 147 Thesprotia, 18 Thessaly, 20 The Thousand Tales, 398 Thetis, 17, 20, 21, 22, 35, 36 Thidrekssaga, 361 Thirty Years' War, 327 Thomas, St., 136, 180, 181 Thomas Aquinas, St., 180 Thousand and One Nights, 394 Thracian, 69 Thrones, 177, 184, 187 Thuringian Chronicle, 327 Tiber, 73, 75, 76, 77, 78, 168 Tiberius, 320 Tiera, 385 Timias, 261, 277, 278, 285, 286 Tintagel, Castle of, 241 Tiresias, 52, 53, 61 Titan, 135 Titurel, 348, 349, 350, 351, 353 Titus, 347 Tizona, 122 Tobosa, 110 Toldi, 393 Toledo, 111, 112, 116, 123 Topelius, Zacharias, 372, 373 Topsy-Turvy Land, 105 Torelore, 105 Tories, 466 Toro, 110 Torquato Tasso, 138, 197, 198, 372, 393 Tortosa, 198 Toru Dutt, 455 Tous, 399 Trajan, 166 Tramtris, 237 Trask, Mrs., 222 Triamond, 275 Trij, 402 Trinacria, 52, 53, 54 Trinity, 177 Trissino, 138 Tristan, 82, 107, 143 Tristan and Isolde, 326 Tristram, 238, 239, 240, 284, 285, 392 Tristram and Iseult, 220, 221, 237 Triune Divinity, 186 Troilus and Cressida, 220 Trojan, 24, 30, 31, 64-67, 69, 72, 77, 80, 84, 183 Trojan Cycle, 17, 392 Trojans, 18, 21, 26-30, 32-35, 37, 39, 47, 69, 70, 71, 73, 75-79, 156 Trojan War, 74, 220 Tronje, 329 Troubadours, 81 Trouvères, 81, 229, 346 Troy, 19, 20, 22-24, 27-29, 33, 34, 36, 40-43, 47, 53, 63, 64-66, 68, 84, 137, 218, 219 Trumbull, 465, 467 Truth, 169, 256 Tuck, Friar, 248, 249 Tudela, 83 Tulsi Das, 415, 431 Tuoni-bear, 384 Turkey, 394 Turkish Literature, 393 Turks, 392, 393 Turnus, 75-80 Turoldus, 84 Turpin, Archbishop, 90-92, 95, 96, 98 Turpine, Sir, 281, 286 Tursus, 375 Tydides, 31 Tyre, 65, 218 Tyrian, 65, 71 U Ugolino de' Gherardeschi, Count, 157-158 Ukko, 375, 380, 389 Ulster, 215 Ulysses, 18, 23, 24, 30-33, 40-62, 70, 84, 155, 169, 222 Una, 256, 257, 259-263 Under King Constantine, 222 Uriel, 293-295, 300 Usk, 234 Uther, 229, 232 Uther and Igerne, 229, 231 Uther Pendragon, 231, 232, 234 Uz, 395 V Valhall, 369 Valence, Count of, 102 Valencia, 116-126 Valerius Flaccus, 63 Valkyr, 367 Valley of Roncevaux, 87, 89, 91, 98 Vallombroso 194, 289 Válmikí, 416, 429, 430 Varro, 63, 171 Vasco da Gama, 127-136 Veillantif, 88 Vellido Dolfos, 111 Velasco, 108 Venice, 137, 152 Venus, 20, 23-26, 39, 64, 65, 66, 68, 70, 76, 78, 80, 129, 130, 135, 136, 139, 176, 179 Veronica, St., 347 Vespasian, 347 Vestal, 64 Victor Hugo, 84 Victorian, 221 Vidura, 433 Vienna, 338 Viking, 217, 364 Virgil, 63, 64, 140-160 Virgin, 185, 188, 199 Viriagus, 131 Virtues, 177, 182, 187 Vishnu, 416, 417, 418, 419, 446 Vision of Columbus, 466 Vision of Sir Launfal, 467 Visions of Judgment, 323 Vivien, 101, 229, 241 Vladimir, 373 Vogelweide, 326, 328 Volker, 341, 342, 343, 345 Volksbücher, 327 Volscian, 76, 77 Volsung, 362, 363, 364 Volsunga, 361 Volsunga Saga, 362-371 Voltaire, 84 Vondel, 356 Vörösmarty, 393 Vortigern, 229, 230, 231 Vosges Mountains, 324 Vulcan, 22, 35, 36, 47, 76 Vyasa, 431, 433, 436, 444, 446, 449 W Wace, 84, 218, 219 Wackerlos the Lapdog, 356 Wagner, 230, 327, 352, 362 Wagner's Trilogy, 361 Wainamoinen, 374-384, 386, 388-391 Wainola, 390 Waldhere, 217 Wales, 214, 216, 218 Walter of Aquitaine, 217 Walter Map, 218 Walther von Aquitanien, 323, 324 Walther von der Vogelweide, 326, 328 Wandering Jew, 327 Warner, William, 220 War of the Roses, 220 War of Troy, 17 Water of Life, 420 Wealth, 265, 439 Wealtheow, 225 Weber, 83 Welsh, 216, 240 West, 214 Western Asia, 392 Western Europe, 394 Western Sea, 160 Westwood, Thomas, 222 White Aster, 456-463 White Demon, 406 White Man, 468 Whitsuntide, 356 Whittier, 467 Wieland, 83, 327 Wigglesworth, Michael, 465 Wiglaf, 228 Wipunen, 382 Wissant Bay, 92 Wolf-Dietrich, 325 Wolfram von Eschenbach, 219, 230, 326, 328, 352 Wonders of the East, 218 Worms, 328, 329, 330, 333, 336, 337, 339, 346 Wrath, 257 Wreck of the Hesperus, 467 Wulfstan, 218 Wülpensand, 326 X Xanten, 329, 333 Xanthus River, 37 Xerxes, 179 Ximena, 107, 108, 114, 116, 120, 126 Y Yale, 464 Yama, 453, 454 Youkahainen, 374, 376-379 Younger Edda, 361 Yudhishthira, 438, 442, 443 Z Zal, 402-405, 411, 413, 414 Zamorin, 135, 136 Zamorra, 110, 111, 112 Zealand, 325 Zephon, 295, 296 Zeus, 22 Zhukovski, 372 Zohak, 400, 401 Zopher, 396 Zrinyi, 392