UMMRSITY CF CAL:rCR:\IA AT LOS ANGELES HAVERFORD ESSAYS Studies in Modern Literature Prepared by Some Former Pupils of PROFESSOR FRANCIS B. GUMMERE In Honor of the Completion of the Twentieth Year of His Teaching in Haverford College HAVERFORD, PA. 190'J HAVERFORD ESSAYS Studies m Modern Literature Prepared by Some Former Pupils of PROFESSOR FRANCIS B. GUMMERE In Honor of the Completion of tlie Twentieth Year of his Teaching in Haverford College HAVERFORD, PA. 1909 ■PN 5\ \ INDEX PAGE The Logic of Akoument— C. G. Hoag, A.M 1 On Milton's Knowledge of Music— S. G. Spaeth, A.M. . . . 37 Geobge Hkrbekt: An Interpretation — W. S. Hinchman, A.M. . . 69 The Younger Wordsworth — C. H. Burr, A.M 91 Vita Nuova, Chapters 24 to 28— A. G. H. Spiers, AM Ill Some Franco-Scottish Influences on the Early English Drama— J. A. Lester, Ph.D. . . 129 Heine and Tennyson: An Essay in Comparative Criticism — C. W. Stork, Ph.D 153 The Franklin's Tale— W. M. Hart, Ph.D 183 Ipomedon: An Illustration of Romance Origin — C. H. Carter, Ph.D 235 The Moors in Spanish Popular Poetry Before 1600 — W. W. Comfort, Ph.D 271 214621 ' •i THE LOGIC OF ARGUMENT X ^\^^ By Claeence Gilbert Hoao, A.M. If THE LOGIC OF ARGUMENT. Argument or, as it is called in the text-books, argnmenta- tion is now made the subject of regular courses of study in American colleges. A correct view of its logical struc- ture is therefore much to be desired. The views presented in most of the current special text- books^ and in the chapters on argument in the current books on general rhetoric are evidently based largely on the pioneer text-book in this field, Professor G. P. Baker's Principles of Argumentation,^ revised by Baker and Huntington in 1905. And in that book the logic of argu- ment is not explained, it seems to me, either correctly or adequately. Works on logic furnished to the authors of this book theories enough of the isolated syllogism and the isolated induction, but no adequate account of the logic of ex- tended discourse. Works on legal evidence furnished them with principles normally applicable to a legal case but usually inapplicable to what the book was especially in- tended to give instruction on, namely arguments on ques- tions of public discussion or academic debate: in a legal case the conclusion in question usually covers a concrete fact, for example, Smith is guilty of murder in the first degree or Jones owes Brown fifty dollars, and the evidence is usually some kind of testimony, whereas in arguments ^ Tlw Art of DeMte, by R. M. Alden, Henry Holt, 1900. The Essentials of Argumentation, by E. J. MacEwen, Heath, 1900. Argumentation and Debate, by C. Laycock and R. L. Scales, Macmillan, 1904. "Giun and Company, 1895. (3) 4 CLARENCE GILBERT HOAG. on questions of public discussion or academic debate the conclusion usually covers a proposal as to what should be done, for example, Chicago should huy and operate hei\ street rmliuays or United States Senators should he elected hy direct vote of the people, and the evidence is usually not testimony of any kind. And these writers made the mistake, it seems to me, of taking over into their own book i3art of what the logics taught on the isolated single step in reasoning and of what the legal works taught on the principles of legal evidence without sufficiently working over the two bodies of material and correlating them to each other and to the third body of material which they developed more independently, that is, the principles of brief-drawing. The result is that their book is far astray in respect even to so fundamental a matter as the application to argument of the distinction between induction and deduction and that its teachings in respect to the principles of logic, the j^rinciples of legal evidence, and the principles of brief-drawing or structure, are al- most altogether uncorrelated with each other. I make these criticisms not in a carping spirit but only to justify my present attempt to analyze the logic of argument anew. To substantiate my criticisms briefly, I Avill simply cite and comment on some passages from Baker and Hunt- ington's influential book. The following passage is from page 109 : ''Summary of the Kinds of Evidence. Evidence, as we have seen, consisting of facts, the opinions of author- ities, and reasoning (inferences from the facts or opin- ions) can be classified as testimonial and circumstantial, facts and opinions being testimonial and inferences being circumstantial. Testimonial evidence needs no sub- THE LOGIC OF ARGUMENT. 5 division beyond the natural division into facts and the opinions of authorities, since the same tests are applicable to all witnesses and to all authorities. Circumstantial evidence, however, can be more surely tested if we sub- divide it into deductive and inductive reasoning. Deduc- tive reasoning, moreover, for our purposes may be tested without considering the subdivisions which formal logic applies to it. Inductive reasoning, on the other hand, it is helpful to separate somewhat arbitrarily into generaliza- tions, arguments based on a causal relationship, and argu- ments based on resemblance. In the section that follows it will be Avell to bear these classifications in mind, for they are helpful as guides to the tests to be applied." This makes "reasoning" a "kind of evidence," co- ordinate Avith "facts" and "opinions" grouped together. But surelv reasonins; is not a kind of evidence at all but the process of reaching a conclusion from evidence. More- over, the passage makes induction and deduction sub- divisions of circumstantial evidence and consequently ex- clusive of testimonial evidence. But induction and deduc- tion play, of course, exactly the same part with testimonial evidence that they do with circumstantial. When I reason "from authority," for example, to the conclusion. Such and such an act is treason, I am reasoning deductively from the two premises, say, Whatever BlacJcstone says is treason is treason and Blachstone says that such and such an act is treason. And the deductive syllogism is involved in the same way in the case of reasoning from ordinary testimonial evidence not classed as evidence "from author- ity:" when I reason to the conclusion, Jones was the murderer, from the testimony of Smith and Bro^ATi, I am reasoning deductively from two such premises as these. 6 CLAEENCE GILBERT HOAG. first, Whatever Smith and Brown agree on luithout col- lusion, in a case in which they have no motive to lie, in luhich they had good opportunity to ohserve the facts, etc., etc., is true, and second, Smith and Brown agree that Jones luas the murderer, without collusion, having no motive to lie, etc., etc. The passage makes '"generalizations" a subdivision of inductive argument. ]^ow, of course, the conclusions reached by inductive reasoning, in other words those based on inductive arginncnt or evidence, are generalizations, but inductive arguments themselves are not generalizations necessarily, or even usually. Consider, too, what it means to make "arguments based on a causal relationship" a suhdivisioii of inductive arguments. I have not the space here to go into a full discussion of the point — and as it is fully covered by treatises on logic it would be super- fluous to do so — but it may be said sweepingly that in- ducti^•e reasoning is absolutely meaningless except as based on supposed causal relationships. The failure of the book to correlate the principles of logic with those of brief-drawing means nothing less than that the scheme of brief-drawing taught is given no sound logical basis. That failure is illustrated by the comparison of a passage from pages 91 and 92 about "deductive argument" with one of the "good briefs" presented as models in the later chapter on brief-drawing. The teach- ing of the passage and the practice of the briefs are in- consistent. In this case it is the teaching that is wrong, the practice being right though its logical nature is al- together unexplained. Here is the passage from pages 91 and 92. Its teach- ing is that deduction is used but little in most arguments such as the book is concerned with. THE LOGIC OF ARGUMENT. 7 "The Use of Deductive Argument. Deductive argu- ment, depending as it does for its effectiveness largely upon the assumption that its fundamental generalizations will be accepted without argument, is especially service- able where there is close agreement between the writer and his readers in regard to the principles underlying the argument ; a philosopher or a scientist arguing with those of the same school of thought, a la^\'yer arguing before a bench of judges, a clergyman trying to convince others who accept his fundamental creed, — all these can make free use of deductive reasoning based on broad principles accepted by their audience. But in cases where there is Avide divergence in views the safer method is to establish the basal generalizations by rapid and well-selected in- ductive reasoning from significant special instances and to use the deductive process, if at all, chiefly to summarize results." "Good Brief," pp. 257-275, omitting the introduction, the conclusion, and the arguments supporting those num- bered with arable numerals: ''Resolved: That the Annexation of Canada Jjy Treaty with Great Britain woidd he Economically Advantageous to the United States. Brief Proper. "I. From an economic standpoint Annexation would be advantageous, for "A. Our present tariff makes our commercial rela- ' tions with Canada precarious, for 1. The tariff in itself is unfair. 2. Trade figures show it to be unfair. 3. The Canadians evidently realize this unfairness. 8 CLAEENCE GILBERT HOAG. 4. It is in Canada's power to equalize these tariff and trade conditions. "B. Our tariff is harmful in many cases. 1. It is almost prohibitive on many articles which are really needed in the United States. "C. These tariff evils would be removed by annexa- tion. 1. The tariff would be removed altogether. ^^D. Thus, with tariff removed, our home trade would increase naturally. 1. Our markets would have the preference on all Canadian products. 2. We should get all of Canada's trade now coming under the head of imports into Canada. "E. The wealth of the United States Avould be very materially increased by annexation. 1. Developed Canada has a very considerable wealth. 2. The vast undeveloped natural wealth of Canada, in lumber, minerals, fertile soil, and in nat- ural waterways for transportation, is beyond even the possibility of doubt. 3. This natural wealth Avould be developed by our capital and enterprise. ''F. As far as the export trade of a country shows the economic wealth we should not lose by an- nexation. 1. Our export trade would be increased. "G. The argument that aunexation, by opening our markets to Canadian competition, would hurt our manufacturers and producers, is worthless. THE LOGIC OF AKGUMENT. » 1. Iron, coalj lumber, fish and farm products are the principal products of Canada. 2. Canadian iron could not hurt our producers or our manufacturers. 3. Canadian coal could not injure our producers. 4. Canadian lumber cannot hurt our producers. 5. The argument that our producers would be un- able to compete against Canadian farm products and Canadian fish does not hold in case of annexation. ''H. We can strengthen our argument for annexation by comparing annexation Avith Reciprocity and Free Trade. 1. Such a comparison will show that all of these methods improve trade conditions through the tariff. 2. It will show that in some cases any one of these methods would prove equally effective. 3. It will show that our export trade Avould be increased by any one of these methods. 4. It will prove that only annexation would make all tariff conditions fair to both countries. 5. It will prove that only by annexation could the vast wealth of Canada benefit the United States. 6. It will prove that all the advantages of either Reciprocity or Free Trade would be realized by annexation." Now, as will be clearer later when we have analyzed the relation of deductive arguments to the conclusions they support, every one of these arguments is deductive. And the same is true of the "good briefs" printed as models on pages 272-285, 483-493 and 493-502. In short, the 10 CLAEENCE GILBERT IIOAG. briefs generally tliroiigliout the book are inconsistent with the passage about deductive argument on pages 91 and 92. I will now present my ow^n view of the logic of argu- ment. In doing so I must repeat some of the most element- ary principles of logic, and for this I ask the reader's in- dulgence. We shall discover the nature of argument best, perhaps, by first asking how it is that we come to hold any proposi- tion to be true or to be untrue. If we find out by what road we ourselves arrive at a conclusion, we shall be in the way of learning how to guide the minds of others to a conclusion, that is, how to argue. How do we come to believe that putting frost-bitten fingers into warm water makes them ache worse ? By try- ing it a few times: what we find to be true a few times we infer to be true always. How do we come to believe that heating water over a hot fire Avill cause it to go off into the air as water vapor ? By trying it a few times : in this case also what we find to be true a few times we infer to be true always. How do we come to believe that the time of vibration of a pendulum varies as the square root of the length ? If we come to this belief through ex- periments merely, the answer is the same, by trying it a few times. These examples illustrate one of the ways by Avhich we reach conclusions : what in actual experience we find to be true in some cases w^e infer to be true in all cases of the kind ; our conclusion is simply an assertion so phrased as to cover not only the observed cases but all cases Avhatever of the kind. The act of jumping to such a general conclusion from some of the facts it covers is called inductive reasoning or induction. But how, supposing we have never tried putting frost- bitten fingers into warm water, can we come to the con- THE LOGIC OF ARGUMENT. 11 elusion that putting into A\'arni water certain fingers, say those of a boy who comes into the house with fingers ap- parently frost-bitten, will make them ache worse ? Evi- dently not by the process of reasoning just explained, for whereas by that we inferred a generalization from some of the observed facts it covers, in this case our conclusion is not a generalization at all, and the one fact it covers we have not observed. Yet it may be that we can come to the conclusion by good reasoning. What is the nature of the process ? One of the grounds of our inference is the fact — for convenience I will call it a ''fact" at this point, though in reality it is itself only a conclusion reached by such reasoning as I am now explaining — one of the grounds of our inference, I say, is the fact that the particular fingers in question are frost-bitten fingers. The other ground of inference is a generalization already stored up in our mind and now suggested or brought to our attention by the frost-bitten fingers. It is the generalization. Putting frost-bitten fingers into ivarm water makes them ache worse — the same generalization, it happens, that was the conclusion of the induction w^e considered first, though in the present case, as we have explicitly supposed no previous experience of the fact it covers, not the result of previous induction. Our process of reasoning here, you see, is distinctly different from that explained above as induction : it consists in the application of a generaliza- tion to a case or another generalization which it covers. This process of reasoning, the application of a generaliza- tion to a case or another generalization which it covers, is called deductive reasoning or deduction. The grounds of induction are the facts showing that the conclusion, the generalization covering them, is true. The grounds of deduction are reasons why the conclusion 12 CLARENCE GILBERT HOAG. should he expected to he true. The generalization applied may be itself the conclusion of an induction, as we have seen the very generalization in this case might have been, or it may not, as we have supposed in this case. Induction and deduction are the only kinds of reasoning we use in coming to any conclusion. Let us proceed, then, with our examination of deduction, and then inquire into the bearing of both kinds of reasoning on argument. In regard to deduction, it must be noted that to express in language the grounds of inference for such reasoning two assertions are required. We cannot reasonably con- clude that putting these fingers into warm water will 7nahe them ache worse unless we believe not only the generaliza- tion already stored away in our mind that we call forth to apply to the case, namely. Putting frost-bitten fingers into ivarm water makes them ache worse, but also the fact, These fingers are frost-hitten fingers. Now the assertion which covers the generalization we aj^ply in deduction is called the major premise, and the assertion which covers the fact coming under it is called the minor premise. The major premise may take any one of several forms in language, but it must always be a generalization of some sort. The minor premise must, of course, conform to the major so as to make unmistakably clear the fact that it is covered by it. For the deductions we have been con- sidering here are several forms of the major, together with forms of the minor and the conclusion to correspond. Major: Putting frost-bitten fingers into warm water makes them ache worse. Minor: These fingers are frost-bitten fingers. THE LOGIC OF ARGUMENT. 13 Conclusion : Putting these fingers into warm water will make them ache worse. Major: Frost-bitten fingers always ache worse when put into warm water. Minor: These fingers are frost-bitten fingers. Conclusion: These fingers will ache worse when put into warm water. 3. Major: Frost-bitten fingers ache worse if put into warm water. Minor: These fingers are frost-bitten. Conclusion: These fingers will ache worse if put into warm water. Of these groups of forms some are more simple and natural, others more labored. Perhaps the most simple and natural group is the third, that with the if-clause. This is worth noting, for this if -form is just as sound logically as any of the others, and on account of its naturalness it is in many cases the most desirable form rhetorically. Such a group of assertions, the two premises and the conclusion of a deduction, is called by logicians, of course, a syllogism. Thus far we have been considering reasoning. Let us now ask, What is argument ? Argument is language ex- pressing the grounds from which another can reason to the conclusion upheld by the person arguing. Now we have just seen what are the only grounds from which any- body can reason to any conclusion. They are either the 14 CLAEENCE GILBEET HOAG. facts from which it can be inferred, that is, reasoned to, indnctively or the two premises from which it can be in- ferred deductively. Xo language is argument therefore, speaking very strictly, that does not express either such facts or such premises. Consider some concrete examples. If you wanted to persuade me that in general putting frost-bitten fingers into warm water makes them ache worse, you would per- haps say: ''It did so when I tried it; it did so when A tried it; it did so when B tried it." That, of course, is argument ;, and what docs it consist in ? Simply in the expression in language, in the form of assertions, of the facts of which the conclusion you want me to accept is the generalization. It is called, therefore, of course, in- ductive argument. Perhaps, however, you might say: ''The doctor Imows all about such matters, and he says so." That is argument too; and if you consider it, you will see that it is the two premises from which you expect me to reason deductively to the same conclusion. This becomes clear if we change the wording to either of these forms : If the doctor says that putting frost-bitten fingers into warm water makes them ache worse, it does nuike them ache worse (major). The doctor says that putting frost-bitten fingers into warm water makes them ache worse (minor). What the doctor says about such matters is true (major). The doctor says that putting frost-bitten fingers into warm water makes them ache worse (minor). If one tries to think of some other argument for this conclusion, one may think of several others readily, but THE LOGIC OF ARGUMENT. 15 they will all prove to be one of these two kinds, that is, the facts of which the assertion argued for is the generaliza- tion (inductive argument) or the premises from which it is the conclusion (deductive argument). As there are only two kinds of reasoning, there can be only two kinds of argument. We have seen that every argument bears one of three possible relations to the assertion it argues for, the rela- tion of facts covered by a generalization to the generaliza- tion itself (in inductive argument), the relation of major premise to conclusion (in deductive argument), and the relation of minor premise to conclusion (in deductive argument). Of these relations the first is so clear as to require no further treatment. The second and third, however, may not be ; and a thorough grasp of these last two relations is the secret of a mastery of the logic of argument. What, then, is the relation between a major and a minor premise ? And what is the relation between each and the conclusion ? Suppose the conclusion, the assertion to be argued for, is this: Mr. BooseveU should not he nominated for the Presidency in 1908. The two premises chosen as argu- ments, let us say, are these : Mr. Roosevelt has served two terms already and Any man who has served two terms already should not he nominated for the Presidency. The relations between these three assertions, from the point of view not of reasoning but of arguing, can be represented, I think, by a graphic method similar to that by which the mathematician Euler, in the instruction of a German princess in the eighteenth century, represented the relations between the three terms of a syllogism. The three circles of 16 CLARENCE GILBERT HOAG. Eiiler, each representing one of the three terms, will be re- membered by everyone who has studied the old fashioned elementary logic. The graphic representation of the rela- tions to each other of the entire propositions is equally simple. Let the assertion to be supported be represented by the ring called Conclusion in the figure below. Let the mind of the person to be convinced of the truth of the assertion, whom for convenience I shall hereafter call simjily the reader, be represented by the circle M. The function of argument, then, the work it is to do, the sup- porting of the assertion in the mind of the reader, is the linking of Conclusion to M. j^ote that well, for it is the heart of the whole matter: to argue is to link Con- clusion to M. Now, if you will look back to the two premises, you will see that the second one is simply language expressing that part of the contents of the reader's mind which the con- clusion can be United to, and that the first one is simply the link. Moreover, the second, you will note, is the major THE LOGIC OF ARGUMENT. lY premise ; the first, the minor. The complete figure, there- fore, is this : HON This figure represents all possible cases of single pro- cesses of deductive argument. To represent a chain of arguments it has only to be modified as I shall explain below. The process in all deductive arguments, that is, in all argimients whatever that are not inductive, is es- sentially that of linking the conclusion or assertion supported to what is already held as truth in the mind of the reader. Of what is held as truth in that mind, the part that is used to link the supported assertion to, when expressed in language, is called the major premise. The link is called the minor premise. This graphic mode of representing deductive argument reveals some interesting points concerning it. Evidently the adaptation of a deductive argument to the reader's mind is not important merely, but essential : if the link fails to connect the conclusion with something in his mind, it does no supporting whatever. This prin- ciple is fundamental for all arguing. Whether the major premise you are using is or is not really held as true in your own mind may be important, but only in respect to 18 CLAEENCE GILBERT HOAG. sincerity: what is important in respect to the performance of its work by the argument is whether the major you are using is or is not really held as true in the mind of the reader. With an audience of Christians, to use the good examj^le of Professor G. P. Baker, it is useless to sup- port an assertion by arguing that it is in the Koran, whereas with an audience of Mohammedans it is not. What is the difference from the point of view of my graphic representation of argument ? It is this : the Chris- tian does not have in his mind the ring, so to speak, namely. What is in the Koran is true, to which you are trying to link the conclusion; the Mohammedan does have it. So far as the mere effectiveness of the argument with the audience is concerned, it makes no difference what- ever whether this ring is in the arguer's mind or not. Deductive argument, to express the same point in dif- ferent words, is argument based on the consistency which must rule the thinking of the reader. You want him to believe, for example, that he should not vote for B for Governor. "What," you ask yourself, "can I say that he will believe which will make it clear to him that what he believes already requires the truth of my proposition? He believes that he should not vote for anyone for Governor who has accej)ted a bribe. If, then, I can say that B accepted a bribe while in the Legislature, that is, if I can say it and make the reader believe it, consistency will require him to believe the original proposition, namely, that he should not vote for B for Governor." If, to take another example, the proposition is, Chicago should buy and operate its street railways, it is consistency, if anything, that will require my reader to accept it if I can say and make him believe that Municipal ownership and operation of the street railways of Chicago will result in economic benefit to the people. THE LOGIC OF ARGUMENT. 19 This graphic mode of representing deductive argument makes it clear, too, that the minor premise, the link, is argument in a sense in which the major premise, the generalization linked to, the ring, is not. It shows that the minor premise may be altogether new to the reader, whereas the major, so far as we have yet seen, serves no purpose if it be not already part — whether or not it has ever been formulated in words — of the reader's store of accepted generalizations. And in this the graphic repre- sentation accords with the truth. Thus far, for the sake of explaining only one thing at a time, I have assumed that major as well as minor is actually expressed in argu- ing deductively. Three times out of four, however, the major is not expressed. The reason will now bo clear. In supporting the proposition, The city Uioidd ovm its street railways, you would probably not say at all. The city should own its street railways if owning them will result in economic benefit to tlie people. Your economic argument you would cover by the minor only, Mumcipal ownership ivill result in economic benefit to the people : you would trust that the major above would do its work (of serving as the ring for the conclusion to bo linked to) as well unexpressed as expressed. A syllogism of which only the conclusion and one premise are expressed is called by logicians, of course, an cnthymeme. Most of the syllogisms we use in arguing, then, are enthymemes, and the unexpressed premise is usually the major. But we must not go too far: we must not say that to express the major is never worth while. The assertion to be supported, is, let us say. You should not vote for Smith. Your minor is, Smitli was given the nomination by Williams. In this case it might be important not only to express the major but even to euiphasize and to support it. Three times out of four the major reed not be ex- 20 CLAKENCE GILBERT HOAG. pressed ; the fourth time it needs to be expressed and per- haps emphasized and supported. This may at first seem inconsistent with the conception of the major represented by the figure above. Kot so, how- ever: it is true that the major must be in the reader's mind before the minor, the argument par excellence, can do its work, but it is equally true that the major may be put there only a second before it serves its purpose. In other words, a major premise may be established in the reader's mind in order to be used a moment later to hang a con- clusion to by the link of a corresponding minor. In such a case what is the major in the second argument is the conclusion in the first. All this can be represented graph- ically. It is not until 3, in the figure below, is linked to 5, so that it is logically part of the hearer's mind, that 1 can be linked to 3 by 2. But as soon as 3 is linked to 5, it is a part of the hearer's beliefs, that is, held fast to the circle M and ready to serve as the ring for 1 to be linked to. The words to the right of the figure express the meanings of the several parts they stand opposite. (Mind of the hearer.) You should uot do anything that tends to perpetuate the power of a bad "machine." A'oting for men given the nomination by Williams tends to perpetuate the power of a bad machine. You should not vote for men given the nomination by Williams. Smith was given the nomination by Williams. You should not vote for Smith. THE LOGIC OF ARGUMENT. 21 In regard especially to supporting the major one further word is necessary. Though sometimes, as we have seen, a writer should support a major premise, he does well to ask himself, before doing so, whether it is not possible to cut out that major and the corresponding minor altogether and link the conclusion directly to some generalization already in the hearer's mind, closely allied to that to which the dropped major would have had to be linked. Why hang a thing to a ring that must itself be hung to the ceiling if you can as well hang it to the ceiling directly ? If the proposition is, The city should own Us street railways, why say as an argument on the negative. Municipal ownership of the street railways ivould he socialistic? The major to which this argument would link the proposition. The city should not do anything socialistic, would be at least as hard to support as the original proposition — unless, of course, the readers were blindly antagonistic to socialism — and supporting it would mean linking it to the veiy generalizations already in the hearer's mind to which the original proposition could have been linked directly. Considering now the minor, we may reasonably ask whether to it also apply these principles just explained in regard to the major. They do not: well-chosen minors that support directly the conclusion of an argument, that is, those I define below as "primary arguments," nearly always need support. The minors mentioned in the last few pages above will serve as examples. Municipal own- ership and operation of the street railways of Chicago will result in economic benefit to the people: unsupported itself, that argument is worthless ; supported successfully it does about half of all that is needed to convince the hearer of the truth of the original proposition. Smith was given the nomination by Williams: if we suppose 22 CLAEENCE GILBERT HOAG. the major that corresponds to it established, that argument is strong provided it is itself believed; not believed, it is of course worthless. One of the commonest faults in arguing is failure to support duly minor premises that would go far towards es- tablishing a proposition if themselves accoj)tcd but that are not likely to be accepted unless supported with the utmost thoroughness and skill. If a minor will do little or no good if believed, it should be thro\vn out altogether and the space devoted to arguments that will do good. If it will do good if believed, it should be thoroughly estab- lished in the reader's mind even at the cost of consider- able space. Propositions are not established by the number of arguments which directly support the proposition but by two or three arguments that settle the question if sup- ported successfully and that are supporttnl successfully. Often a writer should spend half his space or more in establishing a single minor. How much support a minor needs and what will support it, those clearly are questions quite distinct from the ques- tion how much support a minor, if believed itself, will give the original proposition. They should be considered, therefore, separatel,y. It is largely because it makes these questions distinct in the writer's mind and leads to his considering them separately that a mastery of the logic of argument is important. How are minors supported? Exactly as original pro- positions are supported. And what if these supporting arguments need support themselves? Thtrn they should be given support until they need it no more. And so the process should go on until the arguments needed to es- tablish the proposition are themselves established firmly. Whether or not any specific argument will be accepted THE LOGIC OF ARGUMENT. 23 without support can be decided, of course, by no rules but only by the common sense of the writer. The arguments that support the original proposition directly are no more important logically than their own supporters or than the supporters of their own supporters down to the last arguments used. Yet, because they de- termine the division of the matter of the whole discourse, as will be explained, they are often called the "principal" arguments. For convenience I shall call them the primary arguments ; those that support them, the secondary argu- ments ; those that support the secondary, the tertiary argu- ments, etc. Two or more arguments of the same one of these orders, that is, two or more primary or two or more secondary arguments, I shall call, in respect to their rela- tion to each other, co-ordinate. When we thus support a primary argument, we are making what may be called a chain of argument. Such chains fonn the logical skeletons — to mix metaphors — of all extended arguments. A chain of arguments of the less common sort in whic-h a major is supported was represented graphically on page 20. One of the common sort, in which only minors are expressed, is represented in this figure : 24 CLARENCE GILBERT HOAG. 1 is the proposition. You should not vote for B for Governor. 2 is the first minor, the last link used by the reader in reasoning to the proposition. It links 1 to 3. It would be expressed in the argument. B accepted a bribe ivhile in the Legislature. 3 is the major to which 2 links 1. It would not be expressed in the argument. You should not vote for any- body who has accepted a bribe. 4 is the minor linking 2, which is found to need sup- port, to 5. L says he saw B accept a bribe while in the Legislature. 5 is the major to which 4 links 2. It would probably not be expressed in the argument. What L says he saw, he saw. 6 is the minor linking 4, which is found to need support, to 1. The Daily Herald cjuotes L as saying in a speech last iveelc that he saw B accept a bribe, etc. 7 is the major to which 6 links 4. It would probably not be expressed in the argument. What the Daily Herald quotes L as saying, he said. The common use of the words ''a perfect chain of reason- ing" suggests the idea that in a perfectly constructed argu- ment there is but one such chain. Usually, however, there are several. If it is possible to link the original proposi- tion to the hearer's mind directly by two or more argu- ments, it is best to do so; and, of course, each such argu- ment connecting the proposition directly v/ith the hearer's mind starts a separate chain. Could the proposition sup- ported by the chain in the figure above be supported thus directly by another minor besides 2 ? Doubtless it could. If the issue covered by the question were that made by THE LOGIC OF ARGUMENT. 25 the rise of the better citizens in a reform movement to put down a corrupt "machine," a good argument connecting 1 directly with the hearer's mind would, perhaps, be this: Voting for B tends to strengthen the "machine." That argument is evidently coordinate with 2 and starts a second chain. Experience shows that the number of separate chains of arguments, in support of such propositions as are sub- jects of public discussion, is seldom more than three or four and seldom fewer than two. Should Chicago huy , and operate her street railways? What principles or gen- eralizations will cover that case ? Analysis reveals a gen- eralization in regard to economy that covers it: Whatever ivill result in economic benefit to the people should he done. Analysis reveals, too, a generalization in regard to politics that covers it : Whatever ivill tend to strengthen the cause of good government should he done. Perhaps you can think of one other generalization that can be shown to cover the proposition ; possibly you can think of two others ; but to more than three or four in all you evidently cannot reasonably connect the proposition directly. More than three or four chains of arguments, accordingly, you cannot reasonably make. When a writer supports his proposition directly by as many as eight or ten arguments, he does so simply because he fails to discard weak or trivial argu- ments and fails to distinguish between arguments that should be made "primary" and those that should be made "secondary," in other words, between those that should be made to support the conclusion directly and those that should support the supporters. There is an interesting point to be noticed in regard to two or more coordinate arguments which support a single argument. The moment you put one of them, in 26 CLARENCE GILBERT HOAG. almost any case, into syllogistic form, you notice that the major premise is not true independently of the other coordinate majors. Consider an example. The conclusion, let us suppose, is this, Chicago should buy and operate her street railways. One argument to be used is this, Munici- pal ownership and operation of the railways will result in economic benefit to the people of Chicago. ]^ow the major to which that argument links the conclusion, though surely held to be true, in a sense, by almost all readers, is not held true without reservation. The major in question, is, of course, this : Whatever tuill result in economic benefit to the people of Chicago should be done. Xow^ that is obviously true, of course, but only with the reservation which we sometimes cover by the Avords "other things being equal:" that a thing is economically beneficial is a reason accejDted almost universally for doing it, but only in the absence of counterbalancing objections. To steal may. sometimes seem to a man beneficial economically, but he does not necessarily conclude to steal : he may be inhibited by a still stronger argument on the other side. This interdependence of coordinate premises supporting the same proposition should be covered by our analysis of the logical structure of argument. What is, then, the principle that covers it, and how can it be represented graphically in our diagram? A little thought reveals the fact that rigid logic would require all coordinate majors supporting the same proposition to be combined into a compound major to each of the several parts of which a minor would correspond and link the proposition to be supported. To illustrate this we may suppose that the proposition is this, Life imprisonment should be sub- stituted for capital punishment in Pennsylvania. The minors supporting it are, let us say, these: the first, Life THE LOGIC OF ARGUMENT. 27 imprisonment is more effective than capital jjunislunent as a preventive of murder; the second, Life imprisonment is more humane than capital punishment ; the third, Life imprisonment is less lihely than capital punishment to result in injustice that cannot be remedied. ITow, as we have seeu, readers cannot be expected to hold true, sweep- ingly, without regard to any other considerations whatever, the major which must be held true by them if the first of these arguments is to be of any service, namely. Any punishment that is more effective as a preventive of murder than capital punishynent should he substituted for capital punishment in Pennsylvania: one might grant, for example, that life-long torture would l)e niore effective as a preventive without granting that it should be substituted for capital punishment. It is only if the punishment proposed is granted also to be at least as satisfactory in all other essential respects that the argument in question, the first minor above, is valid. And the same is equally true of the second and the third minors above. In other words, not one of the three majors to which these three arguments link the proposition is accepted independently of the other considerations. If, however, we combine the majors into one compound major, we have sound logic. The compound major might read : Any punishment that is more effective as a preventive of murder than capital punishment, more humane, and less likely to residt in injustice that cannot be remedied, shoidd be substituted for capital punishment in Pennsylvania; or it might read, more effective as a preventive, as humane, and not more likely, etc. ; or it might read in any other such way that would suit the facts and make the combination of argu- ments used really conclusive. 28 CLAEENCE GILBERT HOAG. Pursuing this line of thought farther, it becomes clear that the number of parts required by rigid logic in each such compound major would be indefinitely large, for all things in the universe are bound together and interrelated with all other things. Before so appalling a requirement of rigid logic, however, we may well recoil and fall all the way back to common sense : we may suppose the words "other things being equal" to be always understood and not compound our majors at all unless the case seems especially to require it, as it would in the support of the proposition about life imprisonment, and as, indeed, it often does. To represent the compounding of majors graphically is easy: all that is necessary is to elongate the loop that stands for the major and to link to it every minor that corresponds to one of its parts. If we now change the first of the three arguments above on the life imprisonment question to a form which it might just as reasonably have assumed, namely, Life im- prisomnent is as effective, etc., or not less effective, etc., we have an example of a rebuttal argument, that is, an argument of negative rather than positive service. Such a rebuttal argument must be worked into our logical scheme. Evidently such a rebuttal argument is merely one whose absolute dependence upon other coordinate argu- ments is obvious. So a rebuttal argument not only may but must appear in a graphic representation of the logic of argument as linking what it supports to a compound major. In the figure below I is the rebuttal argument; it is shown as linking the proposition it supports to a compound major to which II, an argument coordinate with I, links to the same proposition. THE LOGIC OE ARGUMEISTT. 29 ■^^^p tKe ACAje R ef CKccaoo wOt.(.> not b« a>eyA('(\*'*'''Ai. Ttothe pi/PLic poLiri tc^Lty Ant wowLi be Bc^eplii^c To T^«ft\eit of Sidney or Herbert under the old tall trees, until the grayiiess draws on, and only the s|)ire, dark against the sky, is still distinct. Then you need neither to read nor to wander ; you are (71) 72 WALTER S. IIINCHMAN. at peace and joining in the great silent service of God's temple. That is the influence of Salisbury, and that is the simple charm of the Cathedral. Of course you will stud}^ the interior, note the perfect example of "early English" architecture, admire the tomb of that fine old Crusader, AYilliam Longsword, learn the history of the so-called Boy-Bishop, loiter in the beautiful cloisters, and condemn the ruthless restorations of Wyatt ; and on Sun- day you will enjoy the simple dignity of the service in an old graysided English Cathedral. But if you have not been alone in silent service under the tall trees, at the time when English evening is at its loveliest, and if you do not go home to bed with a gentle hymn at your heart, you will not know Salisbury or the Cathedral there. With such an evening behind you, you may wander the next afternoon out on the old Wilton road, shaded by arching elms which in their day have perhaps looked upon the proud charger of Sir Philip Sidney, as he rode to Pembroke Castle. About a mile and a half on the way, you will find a turning to the left, running between high hedges down to the village of Bemerton. If you ask the passer-by to point out the village church, he will show you a large new edifice on the hill towards Wilton, and if you should ask him of George Herbert, he would probably look as if he did not speak the language. But if you keep to the left for about one hundred yards, you ^\dll find, at a fork in the road, a little ivy-hidden chapel behind a wall of climbing roses. In this little building, which can scarce seat fifty people, are the simple letters "G. H.," cut in the stone on the left side of the chancel, and under- neath, "1632." One or two things in the church are interesting, especially the porch and the little window behind tlie reading-desk. The building dates perliaps two GEORGE HERBERT: AN INTERPRETATION. 73 centuries before Herbert, but Wyatt has been here as well as at Salisbury, so the whole east end is a result of his "itch of doing." Outside the church, the little graveyard should not be hastily passed by; not tliat it is interesting as a graveyard, but lying as it does about the old church, holding as it does the bones of those who link you through the centuries to the poet clergyman, it is perhaps the best j^lace to drink in the quiet loveliness th.at is Bemerton, that is George Herbert. By this time the sun will be low in the west — striking long yellow shafts through the tall trees. There is no sound but that of the wind, soft in the highest tops, the distant call of a rook, black across the light, or the sharp note of the swifts, out for the evening insects. A proud robin hops before you, as if he had done a good day's work, and were out in his "Sunday best" for a promenade. Then hark ! those are the bells of Salisbury Cathedra], and if you turn you will see its tall spire over a house and a hill of golden grain, bright in the light of the setting sun — the same spire that George Herbert saw through the summer evenings, the same bells that perhaps called him from meditation by the very grave where you are standing. And so, as the long twilight draws almost imperceptibly on, you stroll along, past green places by running waters, to Wilton. You will carry with you, too, the spirit of gentleness and loveliness of Bemerton — the delight in tall trees and green grass and dark running waters and an old world chapel — the spirit of the beauty and gentleness of George Herbert. And if you are up betimes the next morning, you will liear the lark against the morn, and see the dew on the rose, and feel the wonder of an English lane. 74 WALTER S. HINCHMAN. What, after all, is significant in these things? Why should one speak of the Cathedral spire, the evening under the trees, the old road to Wilton, the graveyard, and the robin on the grass ? Did you never look over a bridge at running water? And as you looked, did your thoughts never flow with the leaf in the current, over bright shallows and in dark eddies, on past village and town to the sea ? Well, as you lie along the banks of the full, fresh-flowing ISTadder, a "strange mysterious dream of lively portrai- ture" will "wave at his wings" before your eyes, and Salisbury and Bemerton and Wilton will suggest these things — the distant spire, and the little church by the graveyard, and the tall trees — and ever the hymn at the heart. You, however, are only a passer-by. You may drink never so deep of this spirit, you are, nevertheless, off in a few days for London and its proud sights. But that lark you heard in the dawning — it lives in this spirit, it rises every morning to all this glory, it knows well the Cathedral spire, it has ever the hymn at the heart. And so in the days of King Charles, when London's tumult of modern machinery was supplied by the clash of arms, and by visits to the Tower that cost far more than your sixpence, there lived a gentle soul, George Herbert, who, like the lark, took inspiration from tliis spire, from these trees and meadows and waters. If you think of Bemer- ton, it is to think of "G. H. 1G32" cut in the little church wall, and then you are carried on again down the stream past village and town to the sea. george heebert : an interpretation. t5 11. The Man. "Only a sweete and vertuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives." (George Herbert, "Temple.") The note of the Wiltshire landscape is the chief note in the life and verse of George Herbert, True, a propor- tionately short period of his life was spent at Bemerton, but his early years prepared him peculiarly for his final earthly home — as did the Wiltshire parish for his heavenly resting place — so that the two years actually passed as Rector of Bemerton were relatively great in significance. Born in Wales, educated at Cambridge, government officer in London — George Herbert lacked, until he came to Bemerton, the final chord that should make the melody of his life complete. It was here that his gentle spirit first took an unwavering course ; it was here that the song of his life first struck a permanent note. Wiltshire ever sings its song — in the shade of the tall trees, in the glad sunlit downs, in the melody of the flowing waters, in the skyward pointing spire — sings it, too, in the life and verse of George Herbert. George Herbert, the fifth son of Richard Herbert and Magdalen Newport, and brother of Edward, Baron Her- bert of Cherbury, was born on the 3d of April, 1593 — in the family castle of Montgomery, Wales. His mother seems to have had a strong and beautiful influence over her sons; for after the father's death in 1507, she gave herself up, says Grosart in his memorial-introduction to Herbert's Poetical Works, "with a fine enthusiasm of con- secration to the training and general education of luu- fatherless family, in their castled home and at Oxford." This affection had such a lasting influence that up to her death in 1627, George always consulted her wishes. 76 WALTER S. HINCHMAN. About his twelfth year — just after King James had ascended the throne — George was sent to Westminster school, his family having meanwhile moved to Oxford. In his fifteenth year he was elected King's scholar for Trinity College, Cambridge. Both at school and at college he speedily made a name for himself by his scholarship, oratory, and Latin verses. In 1616, he received the degree of A.M., and the following year became "sublector quartae classis." In 1019, he was made public orator — the sinecure, says Isaac Walton, "that Queen Elizabeth had formerly given to her favorite. Sir Philip Sidney, and valued to be worth an hundred and twenty j)ounds." His chief duty Avas to write letters to the government. This office brought George Herbert in contact with the court, and with many prominent men, among whom may be numbered Btiooix, Lennox', Ilichmond, Hamilton, and Pembroke. That this acquaintance was more than official is attested by the later liberality of the Earl of Pembroke, in rebuilding Lay ton Church, and by "the affectionate dedication by Bacon to him of his versification of certain Psalms." Soon after the death of James, however, the Buckingham-Charles policy, sick- ness, and religious reflections caused Herbert to resign his position, and "betake himself to a retreat from London to a friend in Kent, where he lived very privately, and was such a lover of solitariness as was judged to impair his health more than his study had done." "In this time of retirement," continues Walton, "lie had many conflicts with himself, whetlier he should rotiii-n to tlie painted pleasures of a court life, or betake himself to a study of divinit}', and enter into sacred orders, to which his dear mother had often persuaded liim. These were such con- flicts as thev onlv can Imow that have endured them; for GEOKGE HERBERT : AN INTERPRETATION. YY ambitious desires and the outward glory of the world are not easily laid aside; but at last God inclined him to put on a resolution to serve at His Altar." This conflict is an important point in George Herbert's life ; for "the resolution to serve at His Altar" was not made without a struggle. It was indeed a resolution,, not the passive submissiveness of unearned piety. Witness ''The Collar/' one of Herbert's best poems ; in it are both the struggle and the resolution — the beautiful answer that such a nature as his could at last gladly give : — "I struck the board and cry'd, 'No more; I will abroad.' What! Shall I ever sigh and pine? My lines and life are free, free as the road, Loose as the winds, as large as store. Shall I be still in suit? Have I no harvest but a thorn To let me bloud, and not restore What I have lost with cordiall fruit? Sure there was wine Before my sighs did drie it; there was corn Before my tears did drown it; Is the yeare onely lost to me? Have I no bayes to crown it ? No flowers, no garlands gay? All blasted, all wasted? Not so, my heart; but there is fruit, And thou hast hands. ******** But as I raved and grew more fierce and wild At every word, Mcthought I heard one calling, 'Childe;' And I reply'd, 'My Lord.'" The last six years, then, from his thirty-fourth year to his fortieth, were the period spent in the church. In 1626, Herbert was made Prebend of Layton Ecclesia, in the Diocese of Lincoln ; which, with the help of London friends, he recovered from a dilapidated condition. In 1629, "he was seized with a sharp quotidian ague," the 78 WALTER S. IIINCHMAN. effects of which never left him, ''for he brought upon him- self a disposition to rheums and other weaknesses, and a supposed consumption." He seems to have recovered suf- ficiently, hoAvever, to marry rather suddenly Jane Danvers. The romantic story told by quaint Isaac Walton — though highly improbable — is well worth while. It seems that Mr. Charles Danvers entertained so high an esteem for George Herbert ''that he often and publicly declared a desire that Mr. Herbert would marry any one of his nine daughters — for he had so many — but rather his daughter Jane than any other, because Jane was his beloved daughter." Mr. Danvers, in short, "so much commended Mr. Herbert to her, that Jane became so much a platonic as to fall in love with Mr. Herbert unseen. This was a fair preparation for marriage; but, alas! her father died before Mr. Herbert's retirement to Dauntsey;^ yet some friends to both parties procured their meeting; at which time a mutual affection entered into both their hearts, as a conqueror enters into a surprised city; and love, having got such possession, governed, and made there such laws and resolutions as neither party was able to resist; inso- much, that she changed her name into Herbert the third day after this first interview." Considering that Charles Danvers' "profound esteem" was the result of "long and familiar knowledge of Mr. Herbert" and that Sir John Danvers, a near relative, had been for sixteen years the second husband of George Herbert's mother, it is improb- able that Jane and George had not met frequently before — but no matter ! On April 26, 1630, Dr. Davenant, Bishop of Salisbury, "inducted" George Herbert into the parsonage of Bemer- ^ Herbert retired to Dauntsey in Wiltshire (where Mr. Danvers lived) to recover from his consumption. GEORGE HERBERT : AN INTERPRETATION. 79 ton. As the biographer Grosart has well said: ''It were to violate the sanctities of reverence to retell the story of the 'ministry' at Bemerton and its all too premature close" — "an almost incredible story," says Isaac Walton, "of the great sanctity of the short remainder of his holy life: a life so full of charity, humility, and all Christian virtues that it deserves the eloquence of St. Chrysostom to com- mend and declare it." Here, beloved of all, he went his daily round, filling two short years "full of charity, humility, and all Christian virtues." It is said that "some of the meaner sort of his parish did so love and reverence Mr. Herbert, that they would let their plough rest when Mr. Herbert's Saint's-bell rang to prayers, that they might also offer their devotions to God with him; and would then return back to their plough." But the end soon came. "The sharp sword of the ever active spirit wore out its fragile sheath, the body." On the 3d of March, 1633 (o. s.), George Herbert was bur- ied in Bemerton Church. There you may read "G. H. 1632" scratched on the northern wall. Walton tells touchingly the story of his death: "He called for one of his instruments, took it into his hand, and said, 'My God, my God, My musick shall find Thee And every string Shall have His attribute to sing o » and having tuned it, he played and sung: 'The Sundaies of man's life, Thredded together on Time's string. Make bracelets to adorn the wife Of the eternall glorious King: On Sunday, Heaven's dore stands ope, Blessings are plentiful! and rife More plentiful! than hope.' .- ,iJ 80 WALTER S. lUJMCliMAN. Thus lie saug on earth such hymns and anthems as the angels and he and Mr. Farrer now sing in heaven." "He not merely ivalhed down 'the valley of the shadow of death/ says Grosart — knowing no 'fear' and making no 'haste'-^but sang." Just before his death, he consigned his unprinted verses, "The Temple," to Mr, Duncon, to be delivered to his "dear brother Farrer." "Desire him to read it," he said, "and then, if he can think it may turn to the advantage of any dejected, poor soul, let it be nuule public ; if not, let him burn it ; for I and it are less than the least of God's mercies." Brother Farrer had the good sense to make public the verses. They are inseparably linked with Bemerton and George Herbert ; they are the expression of the man when his life was attuned to the spirit of the place. Let us, then, sit down for a few moments under the "immemorial elms," with the Nadder whispering at the bend, and glance at some of these old religious lyrics, with their quaint seventeenth century conceits, tlieir flashes of spontaneity, their strong individual note — their melody of the waters of Wiltshire. Professor Palmer, in Ids recent careful analysis of Herbert's verse, has given a thorough survey of the religious lyric in the l7th century. Perhaps a word, however — for the sake of continuity — is justifiable. The lyrics of the century are famous ; were one to mention only the rulers of verse — Shakespeare, Jonson, Milton, Herrick — proof would be complete. Outside of the better known poets, however, there were countless lyricists of varying merit ; in fact, the English lyric has never flourished so luxuriantly as in the seventeenth century. The breadth of imagination, the spontaneity and originality of thought, the unerring felicity of phrase GEORGE HERBERT: AlX INTERPEETATIOX. 81 whieJi had cliaracterizod tlie Elizabethans were not quite banished, but rather imprisoned by the conscious art, the perfected form of the Jacobeans. The consequence was lyrics of every conceivable form with spontaneity as well as with finesse — lyrics strangled rudely in their prime by Puritanism. The poems of the period, moreover, fall, roughly speaking, into two convenient classes — religious and so- called cavalier. Milton's life shows that it is indeed diffi- cult to make this distinction rigid, that a Puritan could be either Churchman or Dissenter, that a man could write verse which evinced a love for ecclesiastical pomp and yet, politically, be strong for Parliament. It is fair to say, however, that lyric poets, with a few exceptions, tended to confine themselves to one class or other, so that by the outbreak of war — 1642 — almost no writer of lyrics dealt with both kinds, religious and cavalier. Those who did invariably felt uncomfortable in the imaccustomed attire. It must 1)6 admitted, for instance, that Herrick was in spirit a cavalier poet, that 'the more pagan the better' is strikingly true of him, and that when he prayed the Lord in his "Noble lumbers" that his hen mioht meet with daily success in egg-laying he was quite a't his worst. As a clergyman, he felt the necessity of writing something religious; there was a growing gulf between that and cavalier — so he climbed dow^n from his Pegasus, and, forgetting that he must mount a spiritual steed, vfrote standing right in his barnyard. Milton frankly took to prose. It was among such poetical possibilities that Herbert wrote. Yet, before him, few had been able to write religious verse quite freed from the trappings of sexual passion. In this sense he was one of the first to write completely religious lyrics, a form of verse which has become so well known to-day. 6 S2 WALTER S. IlINCHMAN. The bearing of Herbert's education and environment on his lyrical impulses was im^iortant. Both had their tap-root in the church, though superficial roots may have fed on a soil of gay cavalier pageantry. But this soil must have been very superficial ; what of worldly picturesqueness he did sec — at least by the time he began to write his verses — went down before him as "vain pleasures;" the spirit of "boot, saddle, to horse and away" was the antithesis of this gentle soul. His gentleness, moreover, was backed up by resolutions and quaintly conscious art, in support of his Master, It is most probable that the fine sensibilities of his lady mother, together with the rich sonorous music of the church, left a lasting influence ; while the phase of his London environment which may have burned most strongly into his character — especially by virtue of his intimate acquaintance with court extravagance — was the great movement for purity and simplicity. All this is the more probable since the mental attitude of a man is half the force of what determines liis influences — the liquid metal is as necessary to the mould as the mould to the liquid metal. Much of Herbert's verse, it must be admitted, is of a not very high order. In the first place, he is dwarfed by his contemporaries ; his voice is small beside that of "deep- chested Chapman" or "firm-footed Ben." In the second place, the quaintness often renders it dull to anyone who is not particularly interested in seventeenth century lyrics. There is, on the other hand, much of genuine worth ; and one finds, if one considers always the man and the place together with the verse, true touches that could have come from none of the great contemporaries. Everywhere is met the gentle soul, "full of all Christian virtues," regard- GEORGE IIEEBEKT: AN INTERPKETATION. 83 ing with almost Puritanic disfavor the gilded glories of the court, speaking ever of the ''beauty of holiness," and taking up, finally, his instrument on his deathbed to sing once more a hymn of praise. Herbert's verse is indeed moral — sometimes unattrac- tively so. The same impulse that had led Milton to "scorn delights and live laborious days" — the vanity and frailty of mankind — had, as we have seen, guided Herbert to Layton and Bemerton. This didacticism, with its Puritanic touch, not infrequently kills rudely the charm of the verse ; for example : "Summe up at night what thou has clone by day, And in the morning what thou hast to do ; Dresse and undresse tliy suul; mark the decay And growth of it; if with thy watch that too Be down; then wind up both: since we shall be Most surely judged, make thy accounts agree." Admirable advice — but the artist stops in the middle of the next to last line. Herbert constantly impresses one, however, with the sanity of his didacticism. He clings to the beautiful forms of the English church ; he finds in the "via media" room for both mystical worship and moral instruction.' The poem on "Constancie" expresses well this sanity: "Who is the honest man ? He that doth still and strongly good pursue, Who rides liis sure and even trot. While the world now rides by, now lags behind." The old sense of honesty is preserved in these lines; "moderation," "sanity" are there too. But if one is wearied for a moment with the didacticism, one soon forgets it for the chief charm of the poems — gentleness, fullness of song, spontaneity of thought — after 84: WALTER S. HINCHMAN. all, the characteristics of the man. There lacks the ingenuous enthusiasm of the Renaissance, but there is wanting, too, the shallow apotheosis of form of the Augus- tans. One finds, however — naturally enough, too, if one recalls the date — a suggestion of the imaginativeness and fine splendour of Shakespeare's England, the compact thought of Jonson's age, and the skill in polishing to which all the lyricists of the time aspired. Indeed this perfec- tion in trifles often breaks out in quaint conceits. One poem is in the form of an altar; another of Easter wings; a third bears the title "Ana '(^a^y) gnram;" a fourth has (AriTiy) o > the line: "Shall Thy strokes he ray stroking?" — devices dictatorially condemned by Addison, The studied art, however, does not often, as in Quarles, obscure to modern eyes, or, as in Crashaw, provoke irrelevant mirth. Beneath the extravagant figures descriptive of "Prayer," for example, one feels the final touch of a master : "Prayer, the ehurclie's banquet, Angels' age, God's breath in man returning to his birth, The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage, The Christian plummet sounding heav'n and earth; Church-bells beyond the stars heard, the soul's blood, The land of spices, something understood." This man's face was turned uj)wards. In little expres- sions, running like a glimpse of the fresh AViltshire morn- ing through the poems, in lines like: "I made a posie while the day ran by" — one catches, too, the note of a "sAveete singer." Though Ilerl^ert never attains to the occasional felicity — the "deep- sea stirrings," as Professor Schelling puts it — of Henry GEORGE HERBERT: AN INTERPRETATION. 85 « Vaughan, yet he strikes, at his best, a quite individual note that is true and of a fine melody — "Chase brave employment with a naked sword Throughout the world. Fool not, for all may have, If they dare choose, a glorious life or grave." This is of a different and higher order than anything already quoted. jSTo room for conceits here ; it is truth — gleam of naked sword. An "Easter Song" sums up in four of its lines the main theme of Herbert's verse and life: "I got me flowers to straw Thy way, I got nie boughs off many a tree; But Thou wast up by break of day, And brought'st Thy sweets along with Thee." There is the '^life of charity, humility, and all Christian virtues ;" there is Bemerton Church and the evening light ; there are the tall trees, the Cathedral spire, and the gentle hymn at the heart. III. The Medlar-tree. "Those trees for evermore bear fruit And evermore do spring: There evermore the angels are, And evermore do sing." "0 Mother dear, Jerusalem." Anon. We have followed, then, George Herbert down to his little parish of Bemerton, and we have lingered under the old elms long enough to catch at least a glimpse of the rest and cheerfulness that pervades all. We have looked, moreover, at a poem or two, and, while we find much that is mediocre and some that is bad, we are, nevertheless, pleased with the acquaintance; for, losing for a moment our stern and terrible faculty of criticism, we delight in 86 WALTER S. HINCHMAN. the little poems, not so mucli because tliey are good or bad or something else, but because we delight in Bemerton and George Herbert, and we find it hard, under these old trees, to answer the searching question: which is it that you really like — Bemerton, or Herbert, or his verse? For hefore all is said and done to show this virtue or that defect of the poems, we must first listen to the har- mony. That which delights is the gentle spirit of love- liness pervading the three — place, man, and poems; it is like the song of the lark we heard in the early morning; it is like the deep shadows and long beams of light in the churchyard at Bemerton. You can explain and criticise it when you can analyze the odour of the flower. Whether or not George Herbert did the vigorous thing in going to Bemerton, in running away from the strife, suggests the contrast of the country and the city. At Bemerton the rich experience of sensations came from the hills, the sunset, the light on the Cathedral spire; there, in London, was the press of mankind, work- ing, loving, hating, fighting. At Bemerton one was half with man, half with nature; in London was the "mighty heart," throbbing in deeds by day, throbbing in sleep by night. Here the intercourse was spiritual, gently intel- lectual; there it was of all kinds — brutal, avaricious, pas- sionately emotional and intellectual — tlie white liglit of intellect ! The man in the country has a kind of religious sureness: the sky and the stars and the morning sun are ever a sign and a wonder for him. But, be it never so deep, it is a child-like sureness — emotional, not intellectual. What, on the other hand, shall the man in the city take for a sign ? Doubt, discouragement, pallid pleasures, where the "desire outruns the delight" — what shall he make of the glittering, tinseled, pagan monster? He no GEORGE HERBEET : AN INTERPRETATION. 87 longer sees through a glass darkly, but now face to face. What shall he see ? God or No-God ? This is ever a fundamental contrast. Shall your life be simple and sweet in the country; shall it be scared, yet strong, in the city ? ''I bear them and yet I triumph" — how this word must ring in the ears of the man at work among men ! And then comes perhaps the sound of the swift-running water and the light of the sun on the everlasting hills — "^O Paradise, O Paradise, who doth not crave for rest !" — and the sin-sick soul, George Herbert if you like, goes back to his w^oods and fields and sky. The suggestion of such an action is a tremendous challenge to vigoroiis souls that "Dare look the omnipotent tyrant in his everlasting face, And tell him that his evil is not good." They put the slug-horn to their lips, they sing, they whistle, they cry : "Speed, tight on, fare ever there as here!" Thus stood "Milton, like a seraph strong." To a man, then, in 1G30, who, still churchman, felt a need for simplicity and purity, there were two courses open: stay and fight for them, or go seek them in unfre- quented places. That many bravely stayed is true. That many, on the other hand, perhaps wisely avoided London and the broil, is also true. Nicholas Farrer had shut himself up in monastic seclusion, at Little Gidding, to escape "the furie of Protestantism." Gentle Isaak Wal- ton found enjoyment, at this martial time, in fishing and meditation, along the winding waterways of Wiltshire. George Herbert would, no doubt, have floundered sadly in the hard steel accoutrements of that day — for the contest was like to be physical — but he could live purely and 88 WALTER S. HINCHMAN. kindly and sing sweetly by the banks of the Nadder. Something in him, strong and restful as the voice of the Avoods to the hunter, drew him there. It was not a vigorous step. Was it hence an unworthy action ? Listen to his own resolutions : "And I now can behold the court with an impartial eye, and see plainly that it is made up of fraud and titles, and flattery, and many other such empty, imaginary, and painted pleasures ; pleasures that are so empty as not to satisfy when they are enjoyed. But in God, and His service, is a fulness of joy and pleasure, and no satiety." E-xactly ! cries the vigorous soul, and the true service is in the thick of the fight. Not so for George Herbert. After all, the sin- cerity, not the conviction, is what counts. In London, the church, with Laud already in full charge, with anony- mous accusation and vituperation, with extravagance and corruption — an easy-going secularism on the one hand, and a run-down Romanism on the other — did not exactly suggest restfulness and religious meditation. The need- less strife, the priests of God soiling their robes with political intrigue, civil war in the air — these were to George Herbert a note inexpressibly harsh ; they were absolute contradiction to his idea of the "beauty of holi- ness." He did not gird his buckler on ; he fled from the wrath to come. And as we look back through nearly three centuries, and can see a little of right on both sides, we find much consolation in Herbert's retreat — we find a lesson in Bemerton as well as in London. In his little garden at Bemerton, George Herbert one day ]ilanted a medlar-tree. That tree flourishes to-day — only a tree, to be sure, but one more memorial to come back to mind when we think of the two letters, "G. H.," scratched on the church wall. It is a memorial, moreover, GEORGE HERBERT: AN INTERPRETATION. 89 peculiarly proper to Herbert. He has given long life, in his gentleness, to a little tree, growing quietly out of the common bustle and noise of the world, as he would have spread his gentle influence over his parish, as he himself, in fact, lived in simple beneficence. To live simply, to do our little well and kindly is an old and commonplace lesson, no doubt, but it is nevertheless a hard one — per- haps much harder than that of the big work in London- town, before the eyes of the world. In Westminster stand memorials to great men of every age. As one walks past the spirit of Kings and councillors, or stands silent before the "souls of poets dead and gone," an awe for the great dead creeps over him. The lesson of Westminster is written for all men and is daily learned in various ways by the great and the small. But let us turn for a space to the medlar-tree at Bemerton. Does it not teach its lesson, too ? And do the lessons of Westminster, be they never so grand, go more deeply or truly to the heart ? Does this medlar-tree not bring back the river of thoughts with the bright scenes by the way — the churchyard with its holy light, the old tall trees, the birds and the yellow grain on the hill, the Cathedral spire, and the gentle hymn at the heart ? ( THE YOUNGEPt WORDSWORTH. By Ohart.es H. Burr, A.M. THE YOUNGER WORDSWOETH. There is an almost universal disposition to adopt as the common conception of men great in literature the impression made by their personalities in the closing years of their lives. The image of the old Goethe, serene, Olympian, has long overlaid the intensely passionate youth of the author of "Werther ;" nor will any ever know how far the accustomed judgment of Keats as a poet voicing only warm and sensuous youth is due to his early death. It is the man as it knew him last, the world rememl)ers. The causes which bring this about are natural. After fame has come to a man, it is then that his every day words and doings take on importance, and impressions of personality are gained by many among whom in younger days he would have moved unnoted. These many then bequeath to the future the impressions thus formed. It is around a man's later years that the mass of reminiscence, anecdote and recollection gathers. Wordsworth is a marked example of this tendency, a peculiarly strong illustration of its danger to the critic. His detractors and admirers alike will recognize the fact that the great mass of his literary work is not poetry at all. The heavy verse which tills the printed volumes of his poems has held aloof innumerable readers, and dulled the enthusiasm of all but a small remnant. Matthew Arnold, appreciating this unfortunate condition, endeav- ored to meet it by a carefully excised edition of his poems. But this is only to provide a method of temporary escape for his admirers. The world will never accept a condensation as a man's real work. It is a difficulty in (93) 94 CHAKLES H. BUEK. the way of common enjoyment of Wordsworth which must be faced and overcome. But how ? By the only possible method : by complete understanding of the causes and the consequent correct estimation of the results. To explain from the course of Wordsworth's outward and inner life whence came the poetical impulse out of which was created his great poetical work, and how and wherefore the mass of valueless verse came from the same man, is the object of this brief essay. That Wordsworth affords an illustration of the gen- eralization we have allowed ourselves in the opening para- graph, would seem apparent ; still it will be best to consider the facts. Wordsworth died in 1850 at the age of eighty years. Tor at least a quarter of a century fame had set her seal upon him. One cannot question the solemn depth, so to speak, of Wordsworth's character, nor the rare eleva- tion of his spirit in the later years of his life ; and universal respect and honor came to him as his rightful due. To his home in the late country traveled daily the admiring and the curious. They saw a man of great personal dig- nity living a calm, simple life; but they did not see the gentleness and largeness of vicAv, which would seem to belong of right to the old age of a poet. Emerson, fresh from the beginnings of that life-long friendship with Car- lyle, was ''surprised by the hard limits of his thought." "To judge from a simple conversation," he wrote, "he made the impression of a narrow and very English mind." And Harriet Martineau recounts the lack of sensitiveness with which he received her. These expressions w^ere only too accurate: Wordsworth had become a placid adherent of Church and the established order of things, a talkative old man with a mind firmly closed against the entrance of new ideas. His own letters confirm the observation of THE YOUNGER WOKDSWOKTII. 95 his visitors beyond appeal. Writing to an American friend, he contentedly observes : "The reception given me 'by the Queen at her ball was most gracious. Mrs. 'Everettj the wife of your minister, among many others, 'was a witness to it. It moved her to the shedding of 'tears to see a gray-haired man of seventy-iive years of 'age, kneeling down in a large assembly to kiss the hand 'of a young woman." Of Shakespere, he fatuously remarks : "He had serious defects and not those only pro- 'ceeding from carelessness. For instance, in his delinea- 'tions of character he does not assign as large a place to 'religious sentiment as enters into the constitution of 'human nature under normal circumstances. If his 'dramas had more religion in them, they would be truer 'representations of man, as well as more elevated, and of 'a more searching interest." It is not from a man who so thinks and feels that great poetry comes, and many years had indeed passed since the period when the diverse qualities of Wordsworth's poetic nature were in harmonious accord. True it was that year upon year Wordsworth had lived close to nature, but now that old age was upon him the very closeness and absorption of his devotion had its perilous event. The old Goethe had likewise left far behind him the passionate emotions of youth, but he stands in the pages of Eckermann the one great critic of modern life. Largeness of view, breadth of sympathy, world-wide reachings after knowl- edge, glorify the old age of Goethe. But they were not given to Wordsworth to compensate for failing delicacy and keenness of vision. And indeed, so fleetingly evan- escent is that rare union of qualities resulting in sensitive- ness to beauty, openness to truth, which go to make up a poet's genius, that one stands before the old Wordsworth 96 CHARLES H. BURR. and marvels whence could have come that vibrating response of his poetry to the speech of nature and the voice of humanity. It is not however in the study of the old Wordsworth that one may come upon the secret. Long ago it was observed that none of Wordsworth's really valuable poetry was written before he was twenty- eight years of age, very little after he was thirty-eight. It is the man who then lived we should seek to know and understand. Wordsworth's boyhood lived in the country had been, as he always afterwards pictured it "a time of pleasure "lying upon the unfolding intellect plenteously as morn- "ing dew-drops, — of knowledge inhaled insensibly like a "fragrance, — of dispositions stealing into the spirit like "music from unknown quarters." But when, just before his coming of age, Wordsworth received his degree from Cambridge University, he went to London and within a few months passed over into France. The influ- ence of his relatives and friends had been strongly exerted to induce him to choose a vocation, but for over four years he lived as he might, hoping for some chance escape from the thraldom of regular work, until in 1705 a legacy from an admiring friend rendered possible, with the exer- cise of exceeding frugality, that life given to poetry to which he had destined himself with pure and unchangeable devotion. In after years, looking back upon these days of choice, and the disapprobation he had braved, Words- worth paused to explain his motives, and perhaps in some measure idealized them. "Youth," he said in one of his finest of prose passages, "has its own wealth and inde- "pendence ; it is rich in health of body and animal spirits, . "in its sensibility to the impressions of the natural uni- "verse, in the conscious growth of knowledge, in lively a THE YOUNGEK WORDSWORTH. 97 "sympathy and familiar commuuion with the generous "actions recorded in history, and with the high passions "of poetry; and above all, youth is rich in the possession of time, and the accompanying consciousness of freedom "and 230wer. * * * Hence, in the happy confidence "of his feelings, and in the elasticity of his spirit, neither "worldly ambition, nor the love of praise, nor dread of "censure, nor the necessity of worldly maintenance, nor "any of those causes which tempt or compel the mind "habitually to look out of itself for support, * * * "have power to preside over the choice of the young." How salutary to exchange for our memory of the older man this image of AVordsworth in the vitality of youth, with its idealism and its freshness of promise ! It was in the early days of the French Revolution that Wordsworth came to Paris. To the eye of eager youth "appeared "A glorious opening, the unlooked-for dawn, "That promised everlasting joy to France!" In its inception an intellectual movement, the French Revolution had knit up with its own destiny the hojx^s and dreams of the young thought of Europe. All that was progressive, all that was ardent, all that was aspiring was enrolled under its banner. "Europe at that time was thrilled with joy, "France standing on the top of golden hours, "And human nature seeming born again." This was the one great modern a priori effort to solve 'the problems of social and political life. ISTo one alive just before the beginnings of the Revolution who preserved his powers of perception and clear thinking but felt through and through that the conditions of existence were 7 98 CHAELES H. BUBR. intolerable to the multitude throughout Europe. And above the moan of pain had been heard and still echoed the voice of Kousseau, reminding his hearers of a time long past of innocence, happiness and equality; urging a return to nature and these conditions. It mat- tered not that the ideal of Rousseau and of the Europe which followed him never existed nor could exist, that it was an a priori proposition incapable of surviving dispas- sionate examination. The intense and powerful influence of Rousseau was due solely to the fact that his time demanded and welcomed eagerly an ideal with which their imagination might be fired and to which their s}-mpathies might respond. Much was promised, and fed upon rash hopes, all that was best and aspiring rushed blindly onward, till there came the Reign of Terror and the still more disillusioning years which succeeded. The mind and heart of the young Wordsworth in Paris went wholly with this movement. "Bliss was it that dawTi to be alive," he exclaimed, "but to be young was heaven!" He remained over a year in France, coming into vital contact with the forces there at work, and when he returned unwillingly to England in December, 1792, he had made the cause of the Revolution, as he conceived it, his own. In the lives of most men of genius there has early come the longing for experience, the longing to handle and taste life for themselves in all its possibilities of intensity, whether of pain or of joy. Genius in men of emotion seems to involve the capacity, the necessity of passionate sensation. To feel, has been the cry of their youth; to know, the desire of their mature manhood. And as poetry is above all a matter of emotion, so have the world's greatest poets most passionately suffered, most intensely lived. For THE YOUNGER WORDSWOETH. 99 thirteen months Wordsworth felt and lived, for the balance of eighty years he thought and reflected. In the signifi- cance of this fact lies the key to the understanding of Wordsworth and of his poetry. The deposition of the King and the September massacres had not served to weaken Wordsworth's faith, but on his return he found it otherwise in England. Many at first had sympathized excitedly and loudly, but by the end of 1792 the excesses of the Revolution and its threat to vested interests had roused a strong and general reaction. Wordsworth burned to throw his whole force against the current. His long letter to the Bishop of Landaff signed "A Republican" glows with white heat of indignation against monarchy and "the baleful influence of aristocracy and nobility upon happiness and virtue." Lacking a pub- lisher and a hearing, Wordsworth was thrown back upon himself, and passed through days and years of almost mor- bid dejection, out of wdiich came "The Borderers" and "Guilt and Sorrow," early and valueless poems. He had seen his bright dreams for the quick advance of humanity shattered ; and, more than this, his healthy mind had come to perceive the hollowness of the ideas on which he had builded, the falsity of the theories he had grasped as revelations. The emotion and high idealism with which his young imagination had touched the Revolution van- ished before the attack of France upon Switzerland. Wordsworth was then under twenty-five, and the shock was bitter, the blow went deep. He himself felt that he had been "tossed about in whirlwind," but he had kept grip upon himself; when it was over he possessed himself utterly. He wrought his way out of the storm roused within him by a return upon his younger self, developed and broadened in some measure by the experience through 100 CHARLES H. BURR. which he had passed, but yet in all reality the same self. It is significant that before beginning "to construct," to use his words, "a literary work that might live," he composed "The Prelude" as a "review of his own mind," attempted to examine what he had acquired from nature and education, seemingly without thought of development through entering into new regions of feeling and experi- ence. From that day onward (and he was not yet thirty) life, as signifying sensation, passion, was a thing unknown. The history of these years does not present the gradual attaining to clearer vision and a serener outlook worked out in a man by new ideas transforming his character and life, but the resolute taking up again of the old self and life, the transformation of which by the ideas so lately abandoned appear as an illusion. Around this thought must gather any real understanding of Wordsworth's devel- opment and life; it alone explains the vital enthusiasm and spirited energy toward progress manifest in the young man, the contented acceptance of conservative conventions in the middle-aged and older man. By 1798 Wordsworth's life had taken the course from which it never afterwards varied, passed as it was in his quiet home with his sister and wife. Dorothy Wordsworth w^as a woman of the most delicate originality. Her diary, her letters, every trace she has left, show her great gifts, her sensitive, beautiful, and yet strong nature. She gave herself whollv to her brother, and effaced herself; that his indebtedness to her w^as great indeed is clear, how gi'eat can never be known. His wife was not comparable to her as an influence or as a character. Wordsworth judged her, when, thinking to praise, he wrote of her: "Peace settles where the intellect is meek." These two women were his daily companions, and his THE YOUNGER WORDSWORTH. 101 whole life became one of self-absorbed reflection and con- templation. It was within, that he fonnd the springs of poetic impulse, and the subject of his interpretation was nature as she lay around him. The lines composed above Tintern Abbey are dated in the year 1798, and mark the beginning of his fruitful period. It is the man who then lived and wrote, not the older Wordsworth, who has most to give the world of encouragement and delight, and Avhom we must seek to understand. When Wordsworth turned in the Prelude to examine his faculties and powers, he looked upon a nature of great depth and strength. It was necessarily a character of fundamental stability which, after the ardent dreams known in France, could face the bitterness of the awaken- ing, and resolutely and withal joyously, take up again the eventful succession of days his country life meant to him. Such conduct, however, was not that of the sensi- tive, passionate lover of mankind. Keats was more highly sensitive than he, Shelley more swiftly imaginative, Byron, perhaps, had more force at the moment of contact ; but among literary men of the centu.ry none had a nature so firmly rooted in itself. To find such another, one must go back to Milton. An all-sufficing self-mastery, a noble dig- nity in purpose and in the achievement was the distinctive mark of Milton's genius, and among moderns is found in Wordsworth alone. If by the magic color of his verse Keats is, as Arnold said, with Shakespere, so by the solidity and substance of his poetry is Wordsworth with Milton. One is accustomed to think of the riches, the wealth of a poet's gifts from nature : of S]ienser, let us say, or Keats, or the young Goethe. But in studving Words- worth, one thinks rather of strength and steadfastness. 102 CHARLES H. BUEK. Strong affections, strong imaginative insight, strong faith in reality, touched to finest beauty by an abiding spirit of joyousness, made the man a poet. The Lucy poems are intense in their strength of emotion, and reveal the nature of Wordsworth, as his last sonnet likewise reveals Keats. Wordsworth lacked emotionally the ease and unreserve which would have allowed him to give himself with effusion ; deep as were his affections, though they had the intensity of strong feeling, they lacked always the intensity of sensuousness, of passion. His use of this last word is curious: with him it is the equivalent of "emo- tion;" its meaning is heightened by words such as "holy" and "pure;" never does it become the "breathing human passion" of Keats: never would Wordsworth have hailed the bending lover: "Forever shalt thou kiss and she be fair," but again never would love as he conceived it have brought "a morn high-sorrowful and cloyed, a burning forehead and a parching tongue." To some again Wordsworth may lack the lightness, the fire, the uplift of Shelley in his lines to a Skylark ; or the melancholy tenderness of his lament over Keats: "Alas! that all we loved of him should be, "But for our grief, as if it had not been, "And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me! "Whence are we. and why are we ? Of what scene "The actors or spectators?" Wordsworth, it is true, walked close to nature and stepped firmly upon this earth. And one may venture to think that the very stability of his footing gives to his words a greater healing power: "Though nothing can bring back the hour "Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; "We will grieve not, rather find "Strength in what remains behind: THE YOUNGER WORDSWORTH. 103 "In the soothing thoughts that sjiring "Out of human suffering; "In the faith that looks through death, "In years that bring tlie philosophic mind." Sensitiveness and delicacy of perception are to be found in strong, deep natures as often as in those richly and vehemently emotional ; and the gi'eatest possession of Wordsworth was his rarely penetrative imagination. ISTone ever so higlily conceived the office of this faculty, " but another name for absolute power "And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, "And reason in her most exalted mood"; none ever glorified it so highly "The gleam, "The light that never was on sea or land "The consecration and the poet's dream." This it meant to him, this it became in his hands. And with it there went along a purity of sensibility till he became "as sensitive as waters are "To the sky's influence"; and felt in his love for nature "Those hallowed and pure motions of the sense "Which seem, in their simplicity, to own "An intellectual charm." The imagination in Wordsworth was penetrative, not con- structive ; it never mastered him, took the pen from his fingers, and wrote of things greater than he knew. To the eyes of Wordsworth's imagination never appeared "Magic casements opening on the foam "Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn." 104 CHAELES H. BUBK. But working with bis sense of joy, it carried him into the heart of things and revealed to his deep nature the deepest and most fundamental facts of life. That which gives Wordsworth pre-eminent distinction is his vital faith in the "deep power of joy." The first half of this century was not a time when the need for joy was generally either accepted or recognized. The bitter words of Carlyle to Goethe strike the more popular note of feeling : "I have learned that what I once called "happiness is not only not to be attained on earth, but not "even to be desired." But Wordsworth, looking upon man, perceived "the grand elementary principle of pleasure, by "which he knows, and feels, and lives and moves." It meant to him, not the fleeting exhilaration of the senses nor light-hearted immunity from the pains and sorrows of life, but that normal, healthy sense of happiness and delight which comes to a man when his faculties and activities are all in harmony with the conditions of his life. Joy, then, is the child of health, health of mind and soul as well as of body ; and it is in reality that one shall seek and find it, not by building impossible dreams out of beautiful imaginings, but by living close to the heart of nature, and treading in the fragi-ant footing of duty. Then will nature appear to man "as a teacher of truth, "through joy and through gladness, and as a creatress of the faculties by a process of smoothness and delight;" he will say of duty: "Nor know we anytliing so fair "As is the smile upon thy face." "The joy of elevated thoughts" will be his, and under "the deep power of joy" he will "see into the life of things." Out of the real facts of existence into the common life a THE YOUNGEK WORDSWOKTH. 105 of man Wordsworth wished to bring joj, carrying inevit- ably with it into that life perceptions of truth and sen- sitiveness to beauty. It was in nature that Wordsworth found "a never-failing principle of joy." "The ever-living uniAcrse, "Turn where I might, was opening out its glories, "And the independent spirit of pure youth "Called fortli, at every season, new delights "Spread round my steps like sunshine o'er green fields." Nature became to him, therefore, ''a stronc; and holv passion," "strong," because of his deep memories of delight in her, "holy," because he felt he perceived in her forms of beauty the revelations of the spirit of the universe, "Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, "And the round ocean, and the living air, "And the blue sky, and in the mind of man "A motion and a spirit, that impels "All thinking things, all objects of all thought, "And rolls through all things." Wordsworth — "Felt the sentiment of Being spread "O'er all that moves and all that seemeth still; "O'er all that, lost beyond the reach of thought "And human knoA\ledge, to the human eye "Invisible, yet liveth to the heart; "O'er all that leaps and runs, and shouts and sings, "Or beats the gladsome air." Tenderly, therefore, reverentially even, did he approach nature; sacred to him were her moods and words. Inti- mately and closely he lived near her and studied her, and her slightest motion he perceived and stored in memory. To her influence he left his nature open and sensitive, that he might receive what she had to give ; he felt her to be 106 CHARLES H. BURR. infinitely greater than himself, and into lier moods he never forced his own. Impossible to him was a demand like Shelley's to the West Wind: "Be thou, spirit fierce, "My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! "Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, "Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth!" To Wordsworth that would have been to reverse his whole relation to nature. Equally impossible to him was the conception of her as fruitful and teeming; the "Ode to Autumn" breathes a feeling he never shared. The intoxi- cating and magical in nature, her fecundity, Wordsworth never felt ; to him she was bright and beautiful, pure and majestic. In this noble and elevated attitude toward nature, we may unreservedly follow and learn from Wordsworth. What is elemental in man, what is in him born of the traditions of his origin, what unites him to the universe about him and gives him his place therein — all this Wordsworth alone among moderns has firmly grasped, and the "Ode of Duty" and the "Lines composed above Tintern Abbev" come to us with the authority of the seer. There is nothing more tonic in English Literature than that invocation to the "Stern Daughter of the Voice of God !" "Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong "And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong." Again we venture to repeat that deep and powerful was the nature which returned upon itself and, while Europe was doing penance for her dreams, built up so sane an outlook upon human life. But Wordsworth, though he saw life steadily, saw it not whole. Turning back even to the days of Shakespere, how far removed is that world in which Hamlet lives to THE YOUNGEE WOEDSWOKTH, 107 our imagination, from the life of nature of which Words- worth sang ! Man in society with its inherent complexity, its subtle heightening of life, its broader capacities and wider possibilities for pain and joy, its graver dangers, its brighter promises to the spirit of man — all this was not within the scope of Wordsworth's vision. There is an accent in the greatest poetry, an abiding sense of the struggle and distress of mankind upon this sorrowful earth alien to Wordsworth's thought. Homer long ago voiced it in Zeus' address to the horses who were immortal : "O, unhappy pair! why gave we you to Pelevis, the King, a mor- tal? * * * Was it that with man born to misery, ye might know sorrow?" It informs the verse of Shakespeare: "We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and "Our little life is rounded by a sleep." It is known to Goethe : "Soul of man, "How like to the ^yater! "Future of man, "How like to the wind!" But this is only to say that Wordswortli is not one of the greatest of the world's immortals, and to mark the limits of his genius as poet. And the very comparisons he challenges place him far beyond the reach of envious fame. To the first flush of youth, the poetry of others — of Keats and Shelley, perhaps — may appeal as Words- v/orth's cannot. Their work was the work of youth, for Keats died at twenty-five, Shelley at twenty-nine ; at nearly the age when Wordsworth's really valuable work began. Let a few years pass over one, and in the best verse of Wordsworth is felt a deeper knowledge and a richer wisdom, it sounds upon one's ears with an authority soon 108 CHAKLES H. BUKK. honored and beloved ; it appeals to a more matured imagi- nation, to the man in whom the early all-importance of sensuous emotion each day grows less, and whom more and more moral and intellectual questions engage. Not for one moment be the suggestion made that the treatment of moral and intellectual questions in verse will constitute great poetry; often, as in Wordsw^orth's later verse, they operate to deprive it of all real poetry; but his best work came from a man whose mind and heart were alive to these questions, and in it he informed them with emotion and with beauty. The measure and health of his poetry, its reality, its high idealism, have a wonderful power of engaging and sustaining us. He gives us emotion, emotion chastened but imequalled in intensity. What in Keats or in Shelley can we lay beside the Lucy poems ? He makes us think, and where shall wo find such depth of thought clothed in rarest beauty as in the "Lines composed above Tintern Abbey?" He is spiritual, and it is an elevating, vitalizing, effectual spirituality, never ethereal and trans- cendental. What can be sounder, more applicable to daily lives than the sonnet ''The world is too much with us ?" And if in the feeling of some pure beauty is the one thing demanded of poetry, what more beautiful than the images which came to him as ho lay and courted sleep ? "A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by "One after one ; the soniul of rain, and bees "Murmurinfi;; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, "Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky." In the lives of too many of us there comes a time when we cease to draw each day new vitality from real contact with life and nature, and with unenlightened steps walk the path marked out by habit. That time came to Words- worth. A young man, he had warmed his whole nature THE YOUNGER WORDSWORTH. 109 with generous dreams of lofty purpose ; and then returning to his country home, he drew upon the stored-up treasures of his young days for the inspiration of his earlier verse; and full and rich was the response. But he had severed himself from the sources of inspiration, from contact with real vitalizing life among men ; he had failed in persistent effort to gatlier to himself new ideas, to widen the bounds of his intellectual self, and broaden the possibilities of sympathy ; and the sterility of his later life was the certain and sad conseqiience. Yet one may wonder if in the man himself there was not inherently something which made him not so much narrow as limited. Even in his best poetry — and certainly in his best years when "Peter Bell" and "The Idiot Boy" were written — there was much in the world even of nature, and especially of mankind, seemingly cut off from his percep- tion and knowledge. The ethereal imaginative sweep of Shelley, the warm richness and color of Keats, the melo- dious finish of Tennyson, one will not find in Words- worth's poetry. Yet how much of gTcatness about the man remains, must always remain. On the poetry of whom else among moderns can one rest with equal sense of stability and happiness ? Who other speaks so clearly and with such authority to what is most fimdamental in us, what most deeply concerns our lives ? There is one all-important fact one must gi*asp if one would come fullv to know Wordsworth, the secret of his youth and his old age. It is that his best work is not the fresh and spontaneous outgiving of a man whose whole self is daily renewed and made fruitful, but is a result of a return upon his younger self. Happy for the world and for Wordsworth that such return was made upon a youth so worthily lived, so stored with beautiful and joyous 110 CHARLES H. BUER. memories ! And, when all is said and one tries to call up the image of Wordsworth as he will dwell in the memory of the world, there must vanish wholly the recol- lection of the older uninspired man, and remain only the bright pictui'e of that young spirit of health and joyousness who speaks to us out of his earlier verse, and brings us to say with him: "Poetry is the breath and finer spirit "of knowledge — it is as immortal as the heart of man." VITA NUOVA, CHAPTEKS 24-28. By a. G. H. Spiers, A.M. VITA NUOVA, CHAPTERS 24-28. Most critics see in the second Canzone the pinnacle of the Vita ISTuova. Prof. Grandgent, writing in 1901, said : "IsTow in this carefully planned Vita Xuova there is, in one place, a formidable gap : a poem is lacking in the very spot where one is most needed. At the real conclusion of the young poet's history, the death of Bea- trice, we find nothing but plain prose. It seems incredible that Dante, with his tendency to put all his psychic experi- ences into verse, did not at once attempt a poem on his bereavement; if he did so, his composition evidently did not suit him, either because he had not yet attained sufficient power to treat such a theme, or because the very keenness of his grief benumbed his inspiration. When he came to construct his Xew Life, artist as he was, he certainly felt this lack and adroitly sltifted the centre of interest to a different part of tlie narrative, the premoni- tion of his lady's death, told in the second Canzone."'^ Prof. Norton had already suggested this ; while John Earle had based upon the same opinion an argument for the allegorical interpretation of the whole book.^ Nor 'Romania, XXXI (Jan., 1902), pp. 17, 18. * — "So that this translation of B. (not her natural death, but her Heavenly translation) crowns the highest pinnacle of the whole structure, and likewise pervades it to its uttermost extremities" ( i. e., the first and last sonnets.) "If we consider that the natural death of B. is put by, as a matter not to the purpose, while her removal to another sphere stands first, middle, and last, can we think the 'Vita Nuova' to be in the nature of a literal memoir, or to be anything but a work of imaginative art and an allegory!" (Anonymously, in the Quarterly Review, July, 1896). 8 (113) 114 ^- Q- II- SPIERS. do the majority of Italian scholars themselves hold a different view.^ IsTow if we consider only the arrangement of the poems, only the design laid down by the verse compositions, the importance of the second Canzone cannot be contested."* There is, however, something else to be weighed. Besides poem-grouping there is content. In addition to the inter- relation of the verse, there is the broader and palmary con- sideration of the matter as a whole — ^not merely the story itself, but the manner in which, through both prose and verse, it is presented to us in the finished production of the artist. Dante has stressed, we believe, a totally different point of the Vita Nviova. This other stress receives too little recognition, being hidden by our different habits of com- position and shadowed especially, perhaps, by the dis- coveries of Rossetti and Prof. iS^orton.'^ Yet our text suggests it; and a study of the methods of procedure in the work of the Provengal and early Italian poets supports this suggestion. While space does not permit us to indi- cate here the place occupied in this early lyric by the tendency which we shall cite in support of our views, the present paper will, however, attempt to indicate briefly the presence of this tendency in Dante's writing in gen- eral and then show how its use, coupled with certain * e. g., Cesareo, who, reviewing G. Melodia's: La V. N. di D. Alighieri (Milan, 1906), looks upon the vision of Chapter 23 as "un preteato di D. per coUocare, nel bel mezzo della V. N., la canzone del transito dove B. di donna ridiventa cittadina del cielo." Zeitschrift f. rom. phil., XXX, p. 685. * For discussion and bibliography of this question v. Kenneth McKenzie's Symmetrical Structure of Dante's V. N. (Public, of Mod. Lang., Ass. XVIII, p. 341). •v. McKenzie ibid, p. 342. VITA NUOVA, CHAPTERS 24-28. 115 peculiarities of the Vita ISTuova itself, makes of Chapters 24-28 a studied preparation for an important climax — a climax coincident with the death of Beatrice. Dante had a feeling for mass and progression. It is a fundamental principle of his style. This general feeling can be traced even in his prose. The introduction to Canzone I of the Vita Nuova gives remarkable evidences of this. The incident to be given there contains two salient points, viz. the ladies' question and their final comment. Accordingly the story is divided into tv>^o parts. A leisurely preparation, rich with pretty details, prepares the way for each of these ; but their entry is short and terse. The second, however, is the really startling point of the two. Dante has answered simply, giving what — without stopping to reflect — he believed to be the truth. Then suddenly, almost brutally, the blow falls. Introduced only by the words *'Ed ella rispose," the lady shows him that his whole attitude toward Beatrice has been wrong. This second part, pausing for a moment, slowly develops, enwrapping the crest of the first as it proceeds, overtojDS it, and falls with the accumulated w^eight of both in the pregnant utterance: '*Se tu ne dicessi vero, quelle parole che tu n'hai dette, notificando la tua condizione, avresti tu operate con altro intendimento." A natural consequence of this feeling is a solicitude for the excellence of concluding passages, being, as they are, the terminus ad quem of the Avhole composition.^ * It must be noted, however, that in many cases Dante's concluding lines do not represent tlie culmination of the thought developed in the sonnet or stanza. They pailake often of the nature of an embellishment, as in the ca.se of the first stanza of "Amor dacchfe convien," or the third stanza to "lo sento si d'Amor." v. note 10. 116 A. G. H. SPIERS. Dante has openly confessed an interest in these. In Convivio IV-XXX, he says : "And here it must be known especially that every good poet should ennoble and beautify the end of his work as much as in him lies, so that it may leave his hands more worthy and more excellent." While, speaking of the final lines to the opening stanza of Canzone VI, he explicitly states that the reference to the star is made in order to catch the ear of those whom he is addressing. In a third case, his own commentary emphasizes his adherence to this principle : ''Oh quanto e come bello adornamento e questo die neirultimo di questa Canzone si da ad essa, chiamandola amica di quella, la cui propria magione e nol secretissimo della divina Mente.""^ In the separate Canzone-stanzas and in the sonnets, this solicitude takes the form of particular attention paid to the effect of final lines. Indeed "Dante's stanza or sonnet in nearly every case closes with a certain fillip to the mind or to the feelings."^ Among the most striking examples are Sonnets 18 and 23 of the Vita Xuova, and the fourth stanza of "O patria degiaa ." Of a different nature, though similar in strength, is the ending to "Guide vorrei ." The two lines which end the first stanza of "Tre donne " (lines very much admired by Carducci^), the pathetic addition of "Purche la vita tanto si difenda" to the third stanza of "lo sento ' Convivio IV, XXX. All references are to ]\Ioore's Tutte le opere di Dante Alighieri. Third edition, Oxford, 1904. • This statement, which space will not allow us to prove here, is drawn from "Character and Efl'eetiveness of Final Lines in Dante's Lyric" (A. G. H. Spiers), a dissertation accepted at Harvard Uni- versity as part fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Ph.D. V. our note 10 below. •Studi Lett. Second edition, p. 221. VITA NUOVA, CHAPTERS 24-28. 117 si d'Amor ," the final line to Sonnet 3 : "Che donna fu di si gaia sembianza," etc. Even the metre is made at times to minister to the effect of the stanza- ending.^^ But of the many forms taken by this constant solicitude for the final passages, one is of special significance to our study. This may, for lack of a l>etter term, be styled ''use of contrast.'' That Dante appreciated the force of contrast in general, the close of Sonnet 2 will testify : "Sicchf-, volcndo far come coloro Che per vergogna celan lor inancanza, Di fuor niostro allegranza, E dentro dallo cor mi struggo e ploro." ** G. Lisio (L'Arte del Periode iielle opere volg. di D.A. e del secolo XIII. Bologna, 1902), while paying no particular attention ♦o final lines, has incidentally brought corroboration to our state- ments, as when he notes (p. 1(!2) the strength, through unusual word-order, of "Morta & la donna tua che era si bclla" (Canzone II, IV), or when writing (p. 105) of Sonnet 21, he says: "Cosi nel sonetto XXI, L'Amaro bigriinar che voi facestc. tutto il discorso intimo del cuor di Dante termina per periodo al verso 13°, dove a punto non vorronmo fermarci per compiere il suono: e rinipro\^isa sosta e la cortezza sintattica danno quindi aU'ultinio verso 'Cosi dice il mio core, e poi sospira,' tale eflicacia, clie noi restiamo lungamente sospesi innanzi ad esso." Or when, again, he says (p. 205) : "Altro effetto si ottiene, specie in fine di coniposizione, con un construtto che par come una sospensione indcfinita di desiderio o di altra sospirata fantasia. Cos! mi sembra av^'enga per questi tre versi in fine di sonetto (Sonnets XI, XII and XV) : Si ^ twi^o miracolo c gciitilc: Che il cor mi trenia di vcdcrnc tanto: E va dicendo aWanima : sospira." It is pleasing to find a born Italian's appreciation, somewhat subjective thougli it may be, coin- ciding unwittingly with our own views. When we deal with finnl lines alone, however, far more conclusive reasons may be adduced to prove that Dante used his metre, as well as his matter, in such a way as to emphasize the last lines, v. Note 8. 118 A. G. H, SPIERS. as might also the conclusion : "Che da sera e da mane Hai ragunato e stretto ad ambe mano Cid che si tosto ti si fa lontano."" Considerable power is derived from this procedure in the closing lines of "Ch'Amor, quando si presso a voi mi trova, Prende baldanza e tanta sicurtate, Clie fiere tra' miei spirti paurosi E quale ancide, e qual caccia di fuora, Sicch'ei solo rimane a veder vui: Ond'io mi cangio in figura d'altrui; ]Ma non si ch'io non senta bene allora Gli giiai degli scacciati tormentosi.'"* Similarly there is an effective contrast between the attitude of mind provoked by the preceding lines and the message of the final statement when the poet sings: "Quando I'imaginar mi tien ben fiso, Giungemi tanta pena d'ogni parte, Ch'io mi riscuoto per dolor ch'io sento; E si fatto divento, Che dalle genii vergogna mi parte. Poscia piangendo, sol nel mio lamento Chiamo Beatrice; e dico: Or se'tu mortal E mentre ch'io la chiamo, mi conforta."" yj A more sudden shock is given in ''Poschia ch'Amor — where eighteen lines, explaining the behavior of a man who is really noble, are followed by the brief: "Color che vivon fanno tutti contra," " "Doglia mi roca * * *" Stanza IV. "V. N. Sonnet 7. Moore and Fratieelli do not, Ave think, clearly bring out the function of the last lines here: they use a simple comma after "altrui." Surely D'Ancona's semi-colon is preferable. Dante's preference for the independent construction and the efTect to l)e obtained therefrom is briefly indicated by Lisio ibid, p. 185. "V. N. Canzone III, Stanza IV; cf., also Stanza V. VITA NUOVA, CHAPTERS 24-28. 119 as closing words of the whole canzone. But most effective of all perhaps is the surprise in Vita Nuova Sonnet 20 — all the more worthy of notice in that the prose does not suggest it: "lo non posso tener gli occhi distrutti Che non rigviardin voi molte fiate, Pel desiderio di pianger ch'egli hanno: E voi crescete si lor volontate, Che della voglia si consuman tutti; Ma lagrimar dinanzi a voi non sanno." Having noted this general tendency in Dante's work and recognized particular manifestations of this tendency (and one especially, that of contrast), let us now turn to Chapters 24-28. Perhaps the most striking peculiarity of this group of chapters, regarded as a whole, is the pause in the story's advance. From the beginning to Chapter 24, prose and verse lead the mind on continually ; each is a step in a progression, and each contains, to a certain degree, the seed of its successor while presenting in itself the development of that which has preceded. In Chapters 24-28, this is not so. Even a casual perusal of the ideas in verse and prose shows this. Here the jjoet omits those episodes intro- duced elsewhere, as Cesareo has said, "per comporre il suo romanzo che, intimo e spirituale quanto si voglia, dovea pur esser variato di qualche azione accessoria."^^ If, before, we have been ascending a gradually rising slope, we ascend no further here: a sort of plateau lies before us, and not until Chapter 29 are we to rise or descend again. The individual poems themselves deser^^e comment. "Zeitschrift f. rom. phil., XXX, pp. 687-8. 120 A. G. H. SPIERS. Of the four verse compositions, the three sonnets seem to have little real connection with the Vita ISTuova. Kather they belong to other surroundings, and perhaps even to a different inspiration. Two patent peculiarities distinguish the first. One is the oft-noted use of the name ''Bice," while elsewhere in the verse of the Vita Nuova Dante's lady is never men- tioned by name until after her death, and even then only the full form "Beatrice" is used. The second is the extreme irregularity of structure. Thoroughly in keep- ing with these, is the expression of an almost careless joy (we are speaking of the Sonnet considered apart from the prose) of the kind found in the pastorals. Adding to these points the mention of Giovanna, we have every right to believe, as some critics do, that this poem was written under the direct influence of Cavalcanti, and is closely related to "Guido vorrei ." The two following sonnets present two peculiarities. As a rule, Dante's sonnets are distinguished, as we have said, by the careful development of each part from the preceding part, at least through the first tercet.^*^ It must prick our attention, therefore, to find looseness of construction in these two sonnets. These poems present ideas as a series rather than as a development, as a cata- logue rather than as a progression ; that is, they are an attempt to combine into a sonnet certain separate expres- sions of praise. Sonnet 16 especially presents this peculiarity — to such an extent, indeed, that, in spite of Dante's ovra analysis in the "divisione," we feel that it lacks unity of point of view. "cf. Note 6 above. VITA NUOVA, CHAPTERS 24-28. 121 The second peculiarity lies in the final lines. Sonnet 15 ends with: "E par che della sua labbia si mova Un spirito soave d'Amore Che A'a dicendo a I'anima 'sospira' " and Sonnet 1 6 with : "Ed 6 negli atti suoi tanto gentile Che nessun la si puO recare a mente Che non sospiri in dolcezza d'amore." It is useless to recall to the student of early lyric how frequently the sigh figures in the verse of the troubadours and how it later became incorporated in the system of the dolce stil nuovo. Now Dante was fond of this idea.-^* Appreciating its delicate power, and with that feeling for the importance of final lines which everywhere charac- terizes his lyric, Dante used it, as he did other cherished ideas,^'^ to heighten the eifect of his conclusions. Two other sonnets, besides Sonnet 15, end with "sospira" as the last word of the whole composition, while two canzone- " As shown, for instance, bj' " * * * Ne alcuno era lo quale potesse niirar lei, che nel principio non gli convenisse sospirare. Queste e piil mirabili cose da lei procedeano virtuosamente" (V. N., Chapter 26). " Interesting in this particular is Dante's use, in conclusions, of the exclamatory summary, as in Sonnet 14: " * * *st mi soraiglia," and in the Canzone "Quantunque volte * * *" which ends with " * * * tanto ^ gentile." This trait which, save for one possible exception — Guinizelli's " * * * e quest'6 la cagione" (Casini: Le Rime dei Poeti Bologncsi del secolo, XIII, Bologna, 1881, p. 42), does not appear in the works of Cavalcanti or of the "Maximus Guido," Dante developed from a similar but less pro- nounced use of the same, found among the Provengaux. In Dante's lyrics this summary occurs as often in the final jjosition as in all other positions put together: e. g., S., 11; S., 14; Canzoni V. II; XL XIII; XV. II; Sestina I. I. 122 A. G. H. SPIERS. stanzas give "sospiri" the same prominent position.^^ Whence it is evident that such conclusions were not unpremeditated, and that the final words of our sonnet received special attention — a point further emphasized bj the direct quotation, in the use of which our poet was careful.^ ^ In Sonnet 16 Dante has undertaken even more. iSTot content with the sigh, Avith "dolcezza" or with "Amore" alone, all favorite ideas, ^*^ he heaps them together, including them all in the one last line. Admitting, therefore, the great care which Dante bestowed on these last lines, and noting in the sonnets a looseness of construction unusual in his verse, as well as no references connecting them especially with incidents of the Vita IsTuova, we may be alloAved to believe that they may have been mere exercises, that Dante was practising his conclusions. The fact that the construction is worse '''Sonnets 21 and 39; Canzoni VI. II. and VII. II; compare the interestingly parallel use in Eambaut di Vaqvieiras : * * * tals vira sentira mos dans, qui . Is vos grazira, que. us mira consira cuidans, don cors sospira. (Appel's Provenzalische Chrestomathie, Leipzig, 1902, No. 52). " Not to enter upon a long discussion here, we simply indicate the fact that in what are perhaps Dante's two finest canzoni, "Donna pietosa * * *" and "Voi che intendendo * * *" every stanza, save the first, ends with a direct quotation. In the latter, Stanzas II and III have it at the end of the pedes as well (that point at which this canzone makes its main pause) ; while in Stanza IV the final quotation is double. •" "Amor" is the last word of two poems. Ballad X and Sonnet 27. It occupies the same position in the first stanza of Canzone VII ; while the verb is similarly used in Canzone VIII. I, and Canzone XIII. II. VITA NUOYA, CHAPTERS 24-28. 123 in that poem which undertakes the most iu its conclu- sion supports this supposition. It would seem then that the three sonnets of the chapters under discussion had originally no real connection with the Vita Nuova. That on Monna Vanna and Monna Bice was plainly out of harmony with the general tone of the '^libello," and Dante felt that it was unsuitable, as the efforts of the preceding prose to bring it into line readily show. To be sure, this very prose indicates a possible dif- ference to be made between these sonnets and those before Canzone II, by suggesting a more unearthly character for Beatrice, whereby the '^loda di questa gentilissima" might resemble the prevailing manner of praising saints f^ "It would be possible to go still further than Salvadori (Sulla Vita Giovanile di Dante, Rome, 1907, p. 88) : "quelle che piil importa $ che per essa (this new "poesia di lode") abbianio la manifestazione della bellezza dell'umilta. L'umilta si presentd ai nostri antichi poeti velata sotto il dolce riso femminile, etc." We might recall the frequent use of "humilitas" as applied to the saints. Folquet de Marselha pi'esents an interesting use of the equivalent in the vulgar tongue, applying it to the divinity : "Aias de mi bos ehauzimens car ieu soi pies de tot peccat E tu, senher, d'umilitat." Malm. Werke, I, p. 335. V. also Salvadori's own interesting notice (pp. 1G8-9) on the parallel treatment of Beatrice and St. Margaret as identified with Chi-ist (an identification which, it will be noted, is emphasized strongly in the first of our set of chapters). "Ma il massimo dono coneesso dal Salvatore a Margherita fu che la vita di lui in lei si rappresentasse per la conformitfl, etc." Nevertheless, it must be remembered that, after all, this attitude need in no way be the result of a special phase of Dante's love for Beatrice at this point of his story; for all the poets of the dolce stil nuovo stood, as Bertoni puts it (Studi IMedievali, 1907, p. 368), in relation to their ladies as the great doctors did to Mary Virgin. 124 A. G. H. SPIERS, and in that case, we should understand their being intro- duced. It would be logical, then, to agi-ee with Salvadori who, referring to the fragment immediately following, writes: ''L'ultimo termine di quest' amore poteva essere I'abbandono senza resistenza alia sua signoria sentita come soave, la dolcezza dell'estasi. Allora non rimangono che sospiri, e un intimo contento di trovarsi in quella con- dizione, cosi profonda, che I'uomo non puo quasi piu niuoversi ne parlare, rapito fuor di se. E questo lo stato descritto neirultima canzone composta Beatrice viva, rimasta interrotta."^^ This can hardly be so, however, as we shall see by considering the "fragment" — the only poem of our set of chapters not yet examined. We shall not insist upon the tone of this "fragment," which might well arouse a suspicion of exaggeration, exposing, as it does, an absolute lack of personal reaction that can be found in no other of Dante's poems. Such an observation is too weak a foundation for what we would demonstrate. We shall, however, lay stress on three other peculiarities, on three strong indications that this poem is not the transcription of a real state. The first is that Dante insists upon the incompleteness of a composition which seems to us, as to very many critics, to be complete as it stands. Casini, for instance, maintains that the ideas which Dante meant to put forward are completely expressed, and that this stanza formed originally a separate composition,^^ and all those, who, with Prof. ISTorton, regard it almost as a sonnet, doubtless share this view. The second indication shows us that the "divisione" to this poem is entirely lacking: and yet it is mentioned "Sulla Vita Giovanile di Dante. Rome, 1907, p. 89. " La V. N. di D. Al. con intr., commento e glossario. Florence, 1890. VITA NUOVA, CHAPTERS 24-28. 125 at least (if not developed) for every other poem in the book ; nor can this omission bo due to the "fragmentary" nature oi the present verse, since the four lines of an unsatisfactory beginning to Sonnet 18 arc explained with care.^* The third indication draws our attention to a still more significant fact. This canzone is broken off by the cry of tlie prophet : ''Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo ." This lament breaks in upon the song with absolutely no warning. Nor is this all. Con- scious planning, plainly discernible already, becomes still more obvious when we note that this Latin quotation is disi)laced. The natural sequel to the poem was the words : "lo era nel proponimento ancora di questa canzone, etc." But, instead, the Latin citation is thrust in before them, although its bearing on the narrative is explained only two chapters later and, even then, its presence is not by any means clearly justified. These three facts — insistence upon the fragmentary nature of a poem in all ])robability complete, unique omission of the disturbing "divisione," displacement of the Latin quotation — all can mean but one thing: Dante sought to emphasize very vigorously the interruption of the song by the cry of lament. Summing up, then, what reason can we find for includ- ing Chapters 24-28 in the Vita Nuova ? We have seen that the narrative does not progress through them, as a whole. The first sonnet was clearly out of keeping with the tone which our poet wished to stamp upon the finished work. The two following sonnets are in no way definitely con- ** It is needless to remind the student that Dante was fully aware of the interiniption which an inserted "divisione" would cause; as is evident from the words, "Acciociife ijiiesta canzone paia rinianere viepitl vedova dopo il suo fine, la dividero prima ch'io la scriva," prefixed to "Gli occhi dolenti * * *" 126 A. G. H. SPIERS. nected with the Vita Nuova, and originally indeed may have been nothing but exercises on climax. The fragment seems destined, with the aid of the following Latin, to fulfil some duty j^erformed by the juxtaposition of the two. Why, then, did Dante insert these chapters ? Let us examine them from a different point of view. After the preparatory vision of Canzone II, all is calm. Even those episodes destined to lend life and motion to the narrative, and which necessarily centred about the narrator's emotions, are withheld here. |^ Our attention is turned away from the effects of Beatrice on the poet: his suffering and unrest vanish. Four of the five chapters, save perhaps a hint here and there, may be called entirely objective. Chapter 2-i shows Beatrice superior to all women; Chapter 25 discusses a poetical usage; the two following are devoted to praise of Beatrice and her influ- ence, not upon Dante particularly, but on all persons. Only in Chapter 28, the fragment, does the subjective element return ; and, having at last appeared again, it emphasizes, as never elsewhere, the total loss of inde- pendence, of personal reaction. Beatrice is perfection, and wliatever she may bring of pain or sorrow, the poet accepts with delight. Thereupon, in sudden, planned explosion, the personal note, the protest, bursts out once more. The voice of the individual cries aloud. After four chapters of repose, the climax of happiness is cut short by a wailjDf sorrow^; the song of finally acquired peace is broken by an exclamation cherished throughout Christendom as an expression of deepest anguish.j To obtain this sudden turn, this shock, was Dante's aim. Its preparation extends backward as far as the end VITA NUOVA, CHAPTERS 24-28. 127 of Canzone II, If we accept, as we must, the idea that he prepared the finished work with the preoccupation of an artist, it is thus that we can account for the introduction of that apparently irrelevant chapter on the personifying of love. It is in this way, too, tliat we can understand the release of tension in general throughout this group of chapters. And the possible exaggeration of the fragment, as well as the evident preparation for the following prose, likewise find here a satisfactory explanation. As we have seen, the Vita IsTuova itself authorizes this form of aj)preciation : the peculiar character of the matter in Chapters 24-28 lends itself to this interjiretation, while structural peculiarities almost require it. In addition, the analogy with the methods of procedure found else- where in Dante, especially the use of contrast, is only too plain. Just as, in spite of Salvadori, we are unable to find any real model for the Vita iSTuova,-^ and are conse- quently forced to consider it as a development to a lai'ger scale of a single canzone, so the method applied in this group of chapters seems to represent the expansion of a procedure found elsewhere in single canzone-stanzas. Of "Salvadori (ibid. pp. 234-5) refers to Guittone d'Arezzo (with his series of Sonnets I-LXXIX, in the Pellegrini edition) and Caval- canti (with the 61 sonnets in the Vatican Canzoniere) as the "ante- cedenti" of Dante : indeed he speaks of the Vatican collection as perhaps the "antecedente iramediato, e probabilmente I'esempio, d'una raceolta di rime ordinata a contare un'intima storia d'amore, quale fu poi la Vita Nuova." A hasty perusal of Pellegrini will show how unfitted — for our subject at least — Guittone's work is to serve ae a model; while the one-man autliorship of the sonnets in Vatican 3793 seems to be about disproved. Bertoni, who gives the bibli- ography on this subject up to 1907 (in Studi Medievali, Vol. 2, fasc 3, pp. 363-366), writes: "Noi ci troviamo dinanzi ad un florilegio, di cui le parti costitutive possono anche risalire a poeti conosciuti per altri componimenti * * *" 128 A. G. H, SPIERS, course, the Latin quotation should be included in the same chapter as the fragment (or at least be severed from the succeeding chapter). It is part and parcel of Chapters 24-28, and more particularly attached to the last. Lack- ing it, this part of the book is as incomplete as though the final line were dropped from Cavalcanti's : "Per gli ocelli fere la sua claritate Si die quale mi vede Dice: non guardi tu questa pietate, Cli'S posta invece di persona morta Per dimandar mercede? E non si n'& madonna ancor aceorta. (lo non pensaA'a * *)" or Guinizelli's "e poi direttamente fiorisce e mena frutto, per6 mi sento isdutto ; I'amor crescendo iiori e foglie ha messe e ven la messe — e'l frutto non ricoglio."^' or any one of those passages from Dante quoted above, where the strength of the sonnet or stanza depends upon the contrast introduced by the final lines. It is beyond our ability to determine the value of the stress planned for this point in the Vita Nuova, and to indicate its relation to the evident stress on Canzone 11. But of one thing we may be sure : it certainly was con- sidered as having great strength by Dante himself. And no interpretation of the book can, we believe, neglect a consideration of this well-marked emphasis. "' Casini : Le Rime dei Poeti Bolognesi del secolo XIII, Bologna, 1881, p. 13. SOME FKANCO-SCOTTISH INFLUENCES ON THE EAELY ENGLISH DRAMA. By John A. Lester^ Ph.D. SOME FRANCO-SCOTTISH INFLUENCES ON THE EAULY ENGLISH DRAMA. From the treaty of Philip the Fair with John Baliol in 1295, down to the union of England and Scotland under one king, there runs an uninterrupted line of alli- ances between the two countries. Scotch troops fovight continually with the French, and on more than one occa- sion French troops were landed in Scotland. Buchanan, for instance, ser^'ed with the French force organized by Albany, which raided the English border in 1523. Intel- lectual relations necessarily followed the political. David Murray founded and endowed a Scots college in Paris in 1350, and before long schools for teaching French were started in Scotland. Rich youths aimed to go from St. Andrews t/O Paris, as Lindsay bears witness in making his purse-proud Abbot say : '^I send my sonis to Paris to the scuillis."^ Scottish ecclesiastics held French benefices, and a Frenchman was, early in the sixteenth century, regent of Scotland. William Dunbar, Alexander Barclay, and Lindsay w^ere all representatives of their country in France, as were Alain Chartier, Ronsard, and Du Bartas in Scotland. These were all poets who must have carried from court to court the taste for that literature and those forms of entertainment which flourished in a court atmosphere. The relation between the early drama of Scotland and that of France first shows itself in the fifteenth century,^ '^ Satire of th-e Three Estates. \Yorks (ed. Chalmers), II, 91. ■ Recorda of payments to Frencli minstrels can be found in the Calendar of State Papers for Scotland as early as Feb. 3, 1303-4: "Datum per regem Morand le Taborier facienti menestralciara suam coram rege apud Dunfermelyn." (131) 132 JOHN A. LESTER. as is shown by the following records, which seem hereto- fore to have escaped notice. In the Exchequer Rolls of Scotland,^ in the year 1436, there is record of the payment of £18 to three stage-players, who are hired at Bruges, and sent with their outfit to Scotland; and of £32 for a similar purpose, to some other stage-players. One of the said players, Martin Vanartyne, signs the receipt. The records read as follows: "Et tribus mimis conductis per computantem et transmissis in Scociam, et preparando se ad mare, sub periculo computantis XVIII li. gr. Et quatuor aliis mimis secunda vice conductis versus Scotiam pro servicio domini regis per compotantem, ad parandum se ad iter, ut patet per literas domini regis sub signeto de precepto et cujusdem Martini Vanartyne, unius dictorum mimorum, sub sigillo suo de recepto, ostensas super compotum XXXII li. gi'."-* There is a further payment for the dresses of these actors. : "Et compotat transmisse domino regi in nave vocata Skippare Henry, cum Willelmo Wik, in vestimentis mimorum, et argento dicta bullioun pro eisdem vestimentis, et duobus mantellis pellium martrix dicti sabill, scripto particulariter examinato et remanente ut supra, sub periculo compotantis XXXIII li. VI s. gr.'"^ Elanders was at this time under the illustrious and cultured Dukes of Burgundy ; and Bruges especially, where Philip the Good had frequently held his court, was a centre of commercial and literary activity. English merchants lived there in considerable numbers ; and Cax- •ed. Burnett, Edin., 1880. •id., IV (1406-1436), p. 678. • Id., p. 680. INlfLUENCES ON THE EARLY ENGLISH DRAMA. 133 ton began liis long residence there five years after these players were shipped. These mimi were perhaps profes- sional court performers, accustomed to act before the Burgundian aristocracy. Two years later there is a record of a reward paid to one Martin, presumably Vanartyne. An. 1438 ; "Et Martino, mimo, et sociis ejusdem, tempore coronacionis regis, de mandato regine et consilii, sub periculo computantis VIII li. X s."^ At the end of the century French actors were still in demand, as appears from the following entry in the accounts of the Lord High Treasurer ;^ "1490, Item, on Fryda the XXIII Julii in Dunde, to the king to gif the Franschemen that playt, XX unicornis XVIII li." But it was in the sixteenth century^ that early French dramatic forms most impressed themselves on Scotland. Influence of this sort was only a part of the refining process which Scotland was undergoing through contact with France. The Scotch court must have French builders, doctors, apothecaries, printers and tailors. French fashions in dress were indeed always a standing target for Scotch satirists. Buchanan, Knox and Lindsay* all protested *Id., V (1437-1454), p. 35. ^ed. T. Dickson (Edinburgh, 1877), p. 170. •The play called "Haliblude," acted at Aberdeen May 13, 1440, by the so-called Abbots of Bonaccord (vid. E. Bain, Historij of the Aberdeen Incorporated Trades, Aberdeen, 1887), pp. 49, 51, 58, to judge from its name and its svippression because of "divers enormyities" in 1445, was a mock-religious burlesque. In view of the close relations between France and Scotland, "Haliblude" may well have been a reproduction in Scotland of the type of plays furnished by the "soci§tes joyeuses" — burlesque dramatic societies which sprang up all over France at the end of the fourteenth and beginning of the fifteenth centuries. The Abbot of Bonaccord would correspond with the "prince des sots" of Paris, "la m^i-e folle" of Dijon, or the "Abb^ de la Liesse" of Arras. • Cf . Ane Supplication directit to the Kingis Grace in conlemp- tioun of Syde Taillis. Works (ed. Laing) , I, 128. 134 JOHN A. LESTER. against them. But it was in entertainments, courtly and popular, that French influence is most clearly seen. French musicians were hired by the Scotch court in the fifteenth century.^*^ Henry IV of France sends to James VI "un tireur d'armes et un baladin de la capacite et fidelite duquel il respondra."^^ James IV had a French entertainer who combined the art of alchemy, astrology and morris-dancing. Mary Stuart had a French female comedian called La Jardiniere, and a company of French puppets.^^ The first case of a farce known to Collier^ ^ is the per- formance mentioned in a letter of February 1541/2 from Sir William Paget, English ambassador in the French court, to Henry VIII. But farces were played in French mysteries long before 1541. For instance, in the miracle- play called ''La Vie de Sainct Fiacre,"^ ^ a farce occurs following the notice, "cy est interpose un farsse." AVhat the Scotch writers call farces bear evidence of French influence. Robert Lindsay, writing of the marriage of James IV with Margaret, daughter of Henry VII of England, which took place at Holyrood on August 8, 1503, says: "The heill nobillitie and commons of the realme * * * everie one according to thair estait, maid hir sic bankattin feirceis and playes that nevir siclykk was seine in the realme of Scotland for the entres of na queine that was resawit afoirtyme in Scotland. "^^ ^'Exchequer Rolls of Scotland, an. 1467; Lord High Treasurer's Accounts, CCLXI. ''^ Recueil dcs Icttixs missives dc Henri IV, VI. p. 181. *• Joseph K-oberteon, Inventories of Mary Queen of Scots, LX, LXXI. "Hist, of Eng. Drama. Poetry (L. 1879), 1. 71. " Jubinal, Mysteres Inedits 15"" Siecle, I, 332. "Robert Lindsay, The Historic and Chronicles of Scotland (ed. Mackay, Sc. T. S., Edinburgh and London, 1899), I. 240. Vid. also his account of the marriage of James V with Madeleine of France on Jan. 1, 1537; I, 365. INFLUENCES ON THE EAELY ENGLISH DRAMA. 135 Again describing the coronation of Mary Queen of Scots in 1543, the same chronicler relates: "Schone after this the lardis convenit at Stiruiling the XX day of August in the zeir of God 1543, and thair convenit the zoimg quein with gret solenipnitie, trieumphe, playis, phrassis and bankating, and great danceing befor the quene with gi-eit lordis and frinche ladyis."^^ Again at Mary's marriage with the Dauphin, in 1558, Lindsay says, there was "gret singing, playing, dansing and pheirsis."^'^ As early as 1530 Sir David Lindsay writes in the Complaynt of the Papingo : "And in the courte, bene present, in thir dayes, That ballatis brevis^^ lustelie, and layis, Quhilkes till our prince daylie they do present. Quha can say mair, thou schir James Inglis sayis In ballatis, farsis and in plesand playis."^^ Sir James Inglis was superintendent of court enter- tainments, and the Treasurer's accounts show payments to him as an actor: "Dec. 10, 1511, 12 ells of tafFcty and 12 ells of canvass were furnished at an expense of £8/8/0 and 14/ to be hyme and his collegis play-cotes." About the end of 1526 is recorded, "Item, to Sir James Inglis to by play-coitis agane Yule, be the kingis precept £40.""*^ His "farces" may be what some of this provision was made for. In 1554 there is mention in the Edinburgh records of the performance of a "litill farsche and play, made be William Lauder;"'^ and in 1561, "triumphs and "Id. II, 15. " Id. II, 125. " Writes. "Works (ed. Chalmers), I, 286, Stanza V. '^Dunbar's Poems (ed. Laing), II, 392-3. " Dibdin, Edinburgh Stage, p. 9. 136 JOHN A. LESTER. fairsais"^^ were plajed in the same town. We have the authority of Knox for saying that these farces were copied from the French.^^ Probably well before the middle of the century, but certainly by that time, the Scotch had made considerable progress in copying French triumphs, and those dramatic performances which were used on special public occasions. The preceding considerations show an early connection between France and Scotland in things appertaining to the drama, which will not be considered superfluous when it is remembered that Scotch drama, if we may give it that name, w'ith all its tendencies, preferences and precedents, was bodily transported to England and grafted on the national stock in 1603, But a direct line of French influence seems to have reached England by way of Scotland through Sir David Lindsay. Lindsay's well-known Satire of the Three "The Scotch writers are extremely careless in their use of the word farce. The earliest example of the word (missed by New England Dictionary) is in Lindsay's Epistil to the Kinyis Grace, prefixed to his Dreme, which was written in 1528. The reference is to a time ten or twelve years earlier. He reminds James V that he used to amuse him by "sumtyme playand farsis on the flure;" Works (ed. Laing, Edinburgh, 1879), I, 1. "Farces" here seems to mean gambols such as might please a child; for James at the time referred to was a young boy. But Robert Lindsay (Op. cit. I, 379), describing the reception in Scotland of James V and his second French bride, Mary of Guise, in 1538, says, "Thair was maid to hir ane irieumphant frais [MSS I has "pheirs," i. e., farce] be Schir David Lyndsay of the Mont." But the description which follows shows this to have been not a farce, nor a masque (as is stated by Diet, of Nat. Biog., James V, p. 157), but a triumph. It means this also in Robert Lindsay's account {Op. cit. I, 3S1) of the reception of James V and Mary of Guise in Edinburgh in 1538. They were received, he says, with "greit triumi)h phraisses." But cf. the instance in the text, where triumphs and farces are mentioned aa distinct and separate performances. "fftsf. of the Reformation (Works, ed. Laing), II, 287. INFLUEIN^CES ON THE EARLY- ENGLISH DRAMA. 137 Estates, was probably first played in 15-iO. It is a political morality denouncing and satirizing abuses in both church and state. Though political poems were per- haps even commoner in Scotland than in England duTing the time of the Reformation, the political morality was known in neither country before the time of Lindsay. The Scotchman's play Avas trenchant and witty to a degree far surpassing contemporary English drama, and attacked abuses which did not exist alone north of the border, but were objects of satire in every country which felt the Reformation. It Avould, then, be strange if Ward's opinion,^^ that this work was without influence on contemporary English drama, were founded on fact. The Satire of the Three Estates was very popular in Scotland, and was being played as late as 155-1. Sir William Eure's letter to Cromwell, in which he says that after the Linlithgow performance of 1540 the king called upon Chancellor Dunbar and several of his bishops and bade them reform "their fashions and manners of living," or else he would send "six of the proudest of them to his uncle, of England,"^^ shows how it impressed contem- poraries. Its influence appears first south of the border in Bale's King John.^^ R. Wever's Lusty Juvcntus (1550) seems to have caught the spirit of reformation controversy from Scotland, and in the liespuhtica,^'' a morality on the Catholic side, produced in 1553, there "History of Eng. Dram. Lit. (3d ed.), 1899, I, 131. '^ Diet, of ISfat. Biog., Sir David Lindsay. " Cf . Herford "Literary Relations of England and Germany, p. 135. In dating the first performance 1539, Herford fails to correct for new style. The performance was on Epiphany 1539/40; i. e., Jan. 6, 1540. ^'Printed by Brand], Quellen and Forschungen, Heft 80. 138 JOHN A. LESTER. is again evident influence of Lindsay.^^ Albion Knight, entered in 1565-6, shows a further ste]) toward the freedom and boldness of the Scot. Ward calls this a "political morality, "2 '^ and Collier says it is part of a political play which, so far as is at present known, lias no parallel in our language.^^ The part which survives shows us a satire in Lindsay's manner, where the troubles of Albion at the hands of Injuri and Division are expressed almost as boldly and bitterly as those of John the Commonweale. The same frequent use of Latin phrases occurs in both. The unpublished morality of "Somebody, Avarice and Minister" is, according to Brandl, modeled on Lindsay f^ and he thinlcs that several figures of G. Wapull's Tyde iaryeth no Man (published 1576), and Thomas Lnpton's All for Money (published 1578), correspond wath char- acters in the Three Estates. Again, in Preston's Cam- hises, licensed in 1569, a personification called Commons Complaint^^ prefers charges of venality against the judge, much as John the Commonweale does in Lindsay. It was never possible for the English moralists of the drama to speak out for political reform with the astonish- ing frankness of Lindsay, Buchanan and Alexander.^^ The monarchy was stronger in England than in Scotland, and in the northern monarchy court poets stood far closer to the person of the king. James VI always had a school- bov's dread of his austere tutor, and James V could take plain words from the man who had once carried him in his =^Vid. Brandl LV. ^"Op. cit. I, 139. '° Shakespeare Society Papers, Vol. I, p. .55. " But the names of the characters point to a direct French source. " Manly, Specimens of Pre-Shakesperean Drama. II, 176-7. " Cf. Buchanan's De Jure Regis, and Alexander's Paraenesis to Prince Henry, both of which advocate the murder of tyrants. INFLUENCES ON THE EARLY ENGLISH DRAMA. 139 arms and sung him to sleep."^^ But Lindsay pointed the way which English jjolitical satirists could endeavor to follow; and what they accomplished between 1550 and 1580 was largely due to the example of the intrepid Scot. The Satire of the Three Estates is clearly drawn from French models. During the reign of Louis XII (1408- 1515) there sprang up in France the political morality, unlvuown before, and again unknown soon after the acces- sion of Francis I. Gringore, whose relation to Louis XII, though far less familiar, is analogous to that of Lindsay to James V, was the exponent of the new genre. He Vv'as the leader of the Enfants-sans-Souci, one of tlie French mediaeval fraternities of comedians. His L'espoir de paLv, 1510, attacks the Papacy for worldliness and cor- ruption, as Lindsay attacks spirituality in his first part, and the Folles entreprises, 1505, attacks princes and lords who crush poor serfs and "vassoulx," as Lindsay attacks Temporality in his second part. It was Gringore who first in France applied the mediaeval drama to political ends ; and it seems to be from him that Lindsay took his pattern. The work which directly gave him a model appears to be Gringo re's Bottie. This was played in Paris on Mardi Gras, 1511. The play is a more open satire on both church and state than any other work of the French poet. Louis XII, the "prince des Sotz," is to hold his court and mete out justice to all comers. Many characters arrive, representing the multitudinous vices and follies of '* Cf . Lindsay's Dreiiie: EpistiU io the Kingis Grace, composed 1528: "Quben thou wes young, T bure the in myne arnie, Full tenderlye, till thou begouth to gang: And in thy bed, oft lappit the full warme, With lute in hand, syne, softlye to the sang." 140 JOHN A. LESTER. mankind, Ignorance, La Paillardise (cf. Lindsay's Sen- suality), La Seigneur Joye (cf. Lindsay's Wantonness), La Manque de zele Apostolique. Then enters La Com- mune, representing the people, and lodges complaints against the oppression of the seigneurs and the clergy. Last of all comes in the Mere Sotte, clad in the robes of Papacy, supported by her adherents. She preaches to the Seigneurs and the Clergy, advocating treason and rebellion against the king. A quarrel is provoked, and, in the scuffle, below the garb of the Pope is found the face of the fool. Here we have the main features of Lindsay's play, namely, a keen satire of the evils of church and state, under the figure of a court, presided over by the king himself, before which appear as plaintiff La Commune (Lindsay's John the Commonweale), and as defendants the seigneurs and the prelates (Lindsay's Temporality and Spirituality).^^ The parallel in detail is often striking. We have in Gringore, as in Lindsay, the call of the seigneurs and the clergy to the court, "^^ a discussion alwut the relative limits of the jurisdiction of the spiritual and temporal powers,^' an impeachment of the morality of the clergy,^^ a denunciation of plurality and sale of bene- fices,^' complaints by the representative of the people of distraint and confiscation of property by the church,^*^ "A soinewhat similar mise en scene is to be found in the first tale of The Three Priests of Peebles, dating perhaps from 1535. Cf. Complaynt of Scotland, ed. Murray, CXVI, 143. *'CEuvres Computes de Gringore (ed. Hericault and Montaiglon, Paris, 1858), I, 206. Cf. Lindsay, I, 469. "Gringore, 206, 229; cf. Lindsay, 73, 116. "Gringore, 219; cf. Lindsay, 388, 433, etc. "•Gringore, 220; cf. Lindsay, 62. *• Gringore, 237 ; cf. Lindsay, 5-7. INFLUENCES ON THE EAKLY ENGLISH DKAMA. 141 satire against the abuse of pardons/^ and the final abolition of the corrupt clergy. '^^ Lindsay's character of Divine Correction, of which there is no example in this Lottie, seems to be modeled on the figure of Pugnicion Divine iu Gringore's Moralite^'^ The speech with which this abstrac- tion introduces itself, and tells of the powers and terrors with which it is armed, is of the same character in each play.^'* Lindsay's Good Counsel, not found in Gringore's Sottie, is perhaps taken from his play of La Vie de Mou- se igneur Saint Loys^^ The character of People, not found in any English morality previous to Lindsay, occurs in both Gringore's Moralite and in his Vie de Saint Loys^^ It has been said that Gringore was the leader of one of the theatrical companies of Paris. This was the fraternity of the Enfants-sans-Souci, a band of amateur comedians, who affected to regard the earth as populated mainly by fools. Upon their stage the world was turned topsy-turvy. The mighty were put down from their seats, and the humble were exalted ; but the change was nothing, " Gringore, 234 ; cf . Lindsay, Off. "Gringore, 241, cf. Lindsay, 108. " CEuvres Completes, I, 244-209. "Gringore, I, 251-3; cf. Lindsay, I, 452.4. " (Euvres Completes, II, 29 ff. " Gringore may have taken the idea of his Sottie from th« Quadrilogue Invectif of Alain Chartier written in the third decade of the 15th century, and printed in the 1617 edition of his works, pp. 402-454. This however is not a satire but an appeal to the wearied patriotism of France to unite against the English invaders. Dr. Neilson has shown {Journal of Germ. Phil. I, 411fl'. ), that this is the source of the Complaynt of Scotland, which shows one or two striking resemblances to the Three Estates. These, and others of no significance, as for instance a parallel between a sentiment in the Complaynt and Lindsay's proverb, "Wo to the realme that lies ower young ane king," which last is a commonplace taken originally from Eec. X, IG, are noticed by Leyden, Complaynt p. 47, 48. 142 JOHN A. LESTER. for high and low were alike fools. Besides the farces and sotties which constituted their stock in trade, there was the sermon, a mock exhortation declaring that folly was every- where, that motley was the only wear. Instead of a Biblical text, the preacher took as his theme: "Stultonim mimeriis est iniinitus," which indeed was the motto of the fraternity. Lindsay's figure of Folly plays the part of such a preacher, and the sermon he delivers is modeled on the type of the Sermon des Fous. In parts it is not unlike the Sermon Joyeux, printed by Violet-le-Duc in his second volimie,'*' as the following lines show: Lindsay II, 148. "Heir sail Foly begin his sermon as followis : "Stultorum nunierus infinitus." The number of fuilles ar infinite. I think na schame, sa Christ me saife, To be ane fuill, among the laife, Howbeit, ane hundreth standis heir by Perventure, ala gret fuillis aa I," Ane. Th. Fr. II, 214. "Or ca, pro secunda parte Je trom-e, de quantitate, Que numerus stultorum est infinitus. A savoir men, si toute arisme- tique Sgauroit nombrer le sexe fola- tique Je ditz que non : il est inestim- able. I have of my genelogie, Dwelland, in everie cuntrie S'il y a done icy trois cens Hommes, & les comprendre tous, Je dy que les deux cens sont foulx." p. 216. Si bien nous cherchons, nous trouverons Foulx a monceaux en toutea regions. L'on a bien veu, par plusieurs foys, ' Ancien Thi&tre FranQais (Paris, 1854), II, 207 ff. INFLUENCES ON THE EARLY ENGLISH DKAMA. 143 Erles, dukis, kingis and empri- De sotz papes et de sotz roys. ouris, Sotz empereurs, cardiiiaux, areh- With niony guckit couquerouris : evesques, Quhilk dois, in folie, perseveir, L'on a veu, et de sotz evesques, And hes done sa this monie yeir. Abbez, curez, aussi chanoynes * * * * * "Ya partout, et do sotz iiioynes, Sotz gendarmes et chevaliers. p. 219 Sum dois as thay suld never die, Vous aultres qui entendez latin, Is nocht this folie, quhat say ye ? Leves voz cueurs, ouyez que e'est : "Sapientia hujus mundi stultitia Sapientia hujus mundi stultitia est apud Deum." est, etc." One of the classes of fools which Lindsay's Folly goes on to satirize is the class of cuckolds, and the French sermon runs on in the same strain : "Ilz ont femme honneste, gracieuse, Belle, plaisante, amoureuse, Mesnaigfere fort diligente, Et de mal au.ssi innocente Que Judas de la mort Jesus."" What was the direct channel by which Gringore's works reached Lindsay is not certain. The French satirist had, however, been made known in Scotland by Lindsay's predecessor, Barclay, who in 1506 published the Castell of Lahoure, a translation of the Frenchman's Le Cliasteau de Labour, 1199. Gringore did not die till 1544, and the Scot may have met him in France, when he was negotiating for James V in and after 1531. Gringore as court poet was succeeded by a new school of which Ronsard was the leader. With Ronsard, Lindsay was on intimate terms, for they sailed together to Scotland, when James returned with his second French bride in 1538, and Ronsard, on that occasion, remained three months at the Scotch court. The political morality was not the only form of the " Op. cit. p. 210. 144 JOHN A. LESTER. early drama to flourish north of the Tweed. Early traces of the masque can be found. One of the elements of the masque, namely, the dance, was in Scotland borrowed very frequently from France. Early in the sixteenth century we have records of payments to Frenchmen for dancing the morris,"^^ and among the popular sports which ended so boisterously at Christis Kirk on the Grene, it is related that "Auld Lightfute thair he did forleit And counterfuttet Franss; He used himself as man discreit And up tuke Moreiss dauss Full loud At Christis Kirk on the Grene that day.'"" To judge by the names of dances given in an old Scotch poem quoted by F. Michel,^^ one would conclude that the majority of Scotch dances in the sixteenth century were of French origin.^^ From other payments to entertainers it is clear that some of these dances were elaborate, and required special costumes. In 1-1:94 there is a record, ''Item, gevin to Pringill, be a precept of the Kingis, for a liffray to make a dans again Uphaly day ^' * IIII ellis " March 5, 1507-8. "To the French menstrallis, that maid ane danss in the Abhey, be the King's command, 12 French crowns. Dec. 5, 1512. Payit to Monsur lo Motes [the French ambassador's] servitouris that dansit ane Morris to tlie king 10 crowns of wecht. Dec. IG. To Monsur le Motes servitouris that dansit an uthir Moriss to the king and Queen £5|8|0." Vid. Dunbar (ed. David Laing) II. 289. " Ascribed to James I of Scotland. Poetical Remains of James I, (Edinburgh, 1783), p 170. " Rise and Progress of Civilisation in Scotland, p. 231. Cf. also the long list of dances, native and foreign in Complaynt of Scotland, ed. Murray, Early English Text Society, p. GO. and XCIV; also Leland Collectanea, IV, 291. " Scotch dances in their turn found their way into France. Cf. Michel, Ecossais en France, etc. II. 3. INFLUENCES ON THE EAELY ENGLISH DRAMA. 145 of taftays, price of ellen XVIII s."^^ In some of these, the dancers were masked,^"* as appears from the following entries. In 1488, "Item in Lannerisk, to dansaris and gysaris XXXVI s."^^ And in 1496, "Item, that samyn nycht [Dec. 27th] giffin to the gysaris in Melros XXXVI s."^« And in 1504-5, Feb. 2, "To the Gysaris that dansit to the king and queen, 7 French crowns." The rapid development of masquerades in Scotland during the last part of the aixteenth century was due in large part to Mary Stuart. As early as 1536, however, if we may trust one of the manuscripts of Robert Lindsay's Chronicles, James V had indulged in masking at the French court. He writes, "thair was nothing bot mirrienes, °^ Accounts of the Lord High Treasurer, ed. T. Dickson, Edinburgh, 1877, p. 232. ^* Cf. Edmonstone, yieii' of . . Zetland Islands (Edin., 1809) , II 64. If Ward is right in his view that the "masque probably at first differed from the mummings and disguisings customary before, by nothing except the fanciful adjunct of a mask to the costume worn by the participant" {Op. cit. I, 150) , there is no reason to insist on the Italian origin of tlie masque so strongly as he does. The actual mask for the face is one of the oldest elements: (vid. Dueange "larvae," "larvarium," "cervula"). Cf. Brotanek Die Englischen Maskenspiele 1902, p. 3, and 4 n.; and the illustrations of masked figures in Strutt, Sports and Pastimes (new ed. L. 1903), plates opposite pp. 138, 202; and Ed. Fdurnier Le Th. Fr. avant la Renais- sance, plate opposite p. 333. Cf. also Hugh Haliburton (pseudo. for J. L. Robertson), Furth in Field (L. 1894), p. 26 s. v. Hogmanay. The masks, even in early times, were sometimes human ; vid. Brotanek p. 6. Masquerades and plays ("larvales et theatrales jocos") were forbidden in France by the Council of Bale 1436; and the custom of masking the face had gone so far in France before the earliest date set for the Italian masque by Symonds, viz. 1474, (Shakspere's Predecessors, L. 1884, I. 321), that the society of Basochiens in Paris used masks reproducing the features of well-known people. " Accounts of the Lord High Treasurer of Scotland, ed. T. Dickson I., (1473—1498) p. 93. "'/d., p. 308. lo 146 JOHN A. LESTER. bancatting and great cheir * * * with great musick and playing on instruments and tryme"^^ danceing be the sound of instrumentis playand melodiouslie witht gallzart dancing in messerie [MS. I. has ^maistrie' or 'maskrie;' Freebairn reads 'masks'], and prattie frassis [I. has *pheirsis' = farces] and pleyis.'"^^ Mary Queen of Scots was greeted with a brilliant pageant at her wedding with Francis II ;^'^ and, naturally, on her return to her own country, she wished to emulate the splendor of the conti- nent. She brought with her to Scotland such Frenchmen as Ronsard, Guillaume Barclay, and James Crichton. When she entered Edinburgh in 1561, there were various dramatic entertainments modeled on those of France. To quote the blunt words of Knox, ''Great preparations war maid for hir enteress in the town. In ferses, in masking and in other prodigalities, faine wold fooles have counter- footed France."^*^ Before this time, pageants and public spectacles with some dramatic action had been introduced into Scotland. Lindsay was in Paris at the marriage of King James V to Madeline, and must have seen the devices so quaintly described by his namesake. He profited by his experience in France to devise plays himself in honor of Madeline after his return, and though she died before the occasion for their production, he wrote a Deploratioun of the death of Queen Magdalene, ^^ a large " Trim. =' Op. cit. I. 359. " For a contemporary account of these "triumphes et mommeryes," vid. Teulet, Papiers d' Flat relatifs d I'Hisioire de VEcosse, I. 300-303. '"History of the Reformation, (Works ed. Laing, Edin., 1848), II. 287. Calderwood, History of the Kirk of Scotlatid (Edin.. 1843). II. 154 (written in the first half of the 17th cent.), uses the same expression, evidently borrowing it from Knox. "Works (ed. Chalmers), II. 179-189. INFLUENCES ON THE EAKLY ENGLISH DRAMA. 147 part of wliicli is merely a description of the plays and pageants lie had devised to 2)lcase her. The arrival of the new bride, Mary of Guise, gave him another chance. When the new queen landed in Scotland the king met her, "and ressaved her with great joy and mirrines, of fearssis and plays maid and prepared for her." Next day the queen "confessed to the king that shoe never saw in France so many pleasant fearsis in so little rowme, as shoe did that day in Scotland."^^ But after the middle of the century masquerades no less than puLlic pageants grew in elaborateness and in popularity in Scotland. If the masking of 1561, as Knox says, Avas in imitation of that of France, the pageantry with which Mary was actually welcomed in the streets was also French. The account of it, as given in the Diurnall of Occurrenis of Scotlandf'^ yields several points of resemblance with the fete given in honor of the court at Rouen in 1550. The years between 1561, when Mary entered Edinburgh, and 1567, when she married Bothwell, were full of masquerades of great splendor. In the Autumn of 1561 was played at Holy rood the masquerade of which the verses remain in Buchanan's "pompa," Apollo et Miisae Exules. In Noveml>er of the same year, there was an equestrian spectacle, probably accompanied by a masquerade. ^'^ The masquerade at the marriage of tlie Earl of Murray in the next year, noticed in the Diurnall of Occurrents,'^'^ gave Knox another opportunity for a ^-Robert Lindsay, Vhronwlvf^ of Hcutlund (Sc. T. S., Ediii., 1899), II. 380. "Ed. Thomson (Edinburgh, 1833), p. 67 ff. "* Buchanan, Reriiin Scot. Hist. XVII caj). XI, mentions "luda et convivia," as part of the entertainment. "p. 71. 148 JOHN A. LESTER. sneer,^^ There was a masquerade of shepherds at mid- winter in 1563,^" and at Shrovetide next year a masque- rade of great magnificence, with verses by Buchanan. A three-day spectacle celebrated Mary's marriage with Darnley in 1565, with another equestrian performance ;°* and next year the Queen and her ladies appeared in the disguise of men in a masquerade at Holyrood. These masquerades were often planned by Frenchmen in attendance on Scotch j)rinces or lords. In 1566 the young prince James was baptized at Stirling. Court festivities were arranged for the occasion, and Buchanan vn'ote some Latin verses to be spoken by the participants.*^^ But tlie planning of the action disguises and machinery was all done by a Trenchman called Bastion Pagez. The complexity of tlie masquerade is remarkable for so early a period, and recalls the masques of the early Stuarts. Hidden machinery was devised, which caused the feast to come in on moving tables. Before them marched a pro- cession of rural gods, each of whom turned to the dais, where royalty sat, and recited his verses. Satyrs, naiads and oreads addressed the prince; nereids and fauns the queen. At this point the satyrs indiscreetly or impu- dently, — it does not appear which, — wagged their tails. The English embassy took offence, and the masquerade was interrupted. When quiet was restored, there was a sudden discharge of fireworks from a mimic fortress. This was a signal for the arrival of bands of "Moors, Highlanders, Centaurs, Lanzknechts and Fiends," who •«WorA-s, II. 314. Vid. also 319. •^Vid. J. Robertson Inventories of Mary Queen of Scots, p. 136. •' For a figure from a similar French spectacle, the picture of the Duke of Guise commanding a quadrille of American savages, vid. Pongin, Dictionnaire du Tlu'utre, p. 147. «» These are extant: Omnia Opera (1725), II. 404-5. INFLUENCES ON THE EARLY ENGLISH DRAMA. 149 stroA^e for the possession of the fort.'^*' This performance has the marks of the French renaissance court masque- rades. Satyrs had, it is true, appeared in early Scotch religious drama,^^ but not in company with fauns, oreads and the rest. It is not more complex than many other Scotch masquerades of the same time, and attracted the attention of chroniclers,^^ not because it surpassed others, but because it vexed the English, and caused a disturbance which nearly resulted in bloodshed. When Mary left Scotland, and her household of foreign servants and attendants was dispersed, the Holyrood masquerade, as we should expect, declined. It still existed, however. "It may haply fall out," writes Robert Bower to Walsingham, on Feb. 7, 1580-1, "that * * * some strange mask may be seen in this Lent in Holyrood House."'^^ And the splendor to which it had already attained in Scotland must be taken into consideration ™ Robertson, Innventories of Queen Mary, LXXXXI. ^ In a mystery of 1442 in Aberdeen. Vid. Joseph Robertson, Book of Bon-Accord, p. 236. A. S. wudu-wasa is satirus (Prompt. Parr. p. 531). This is M. E. wodwos, (Gaw. and Gr. Kn. 721; Alex, 1540), wodewese or woodwose. This is popularized into woodhouse or woodman. The Scotch form, wodmen, in the mystery above referred to, (pointing to A. S. wod-wasa), is much earlier than the first appearance of the "salvadge man," (at Christmas, 1514-15, vid. Collier, 1. 69; Sp. hombre salvaje), which is the form often taken by the satyr in continental and English renaissance drama. Thorndike in Puh. of Mod. Lang. Ass. Vol. XV, p. 118, attempts to fix an early limit for the Winter^s Tale from its antimasque of satyrs, which he conjectvires was suggested by the similar masque in Jouson's Masque of Oberon, Jan. 1, 1611. It should be noted, however, that the satyr is one of the commonest characters in masquerades; and that satyr-dances were known in the French "mascarades" as early as 1581. Vid Laeroix, Ballets et Mascarades de Cour (Geneve, 1868), 1. 53, 56. ^^ Such as Sir James Melvil, Mciiioircs 3rd ed., Glas., 1751, p. 150. " Calendar of State Papers ( 1907) , V. 619. 150 JOHN A. LESTER. when an explanation is sought for the great development of the masque after the two crowns had been united. As soon as James I came to the throne, the masque developed rapidly.^"* Of all English courts, that of James was most attached to this form of dramatic entertainment. This was due to his love of pageantry,''^ and to the passion for a certain aspect of classicism, caught from his tutors, whose minds were furnished with all the classical appara- tus of French scholar-poets. The royal taste for the classics was a narrow one, and the dramatic form which best satisfied it was one which showed most strikingly the figures of Greek and Roman mythology. This could best be done in the way in which Ben Jonson and her assistants did it, namely, by bringing to the aid of poetry cast in dramatic form, and written in this quasi-classical manner, striking scenery and novel machinery. James' queen, Anne of Denmark, was an ardent lover of masques. Her love of splendid entertainments and pageantry had been fostered by such spectacles as those of 1590, when she was received by the citizens of Edin- burgh with pantomimes and pageants at a greater cost than had ever been bestowed on any English or Scotch queen.'^^ At the English court her love of such festivities soon obtained full gratification, and she displayed her great skill in dancing in masques prepared by Jonson and Daniel. Jonson, indeed, often refers to the queen as the prime luover in deciding the nature which his masques were to take. Thus he says, in the introduction to the '* Cf. Johnson's Encyclopedia, article Masque by G. P. Baker. " Vid. the account of the pageant at his entry into Edinburgh, Oct. 17, 1579. Calderwood History of the Kirk of Scotland (Edin., 1843), p 458. '"Queens of Scotland, Strickland (1851), V. 40. INFLUENCES ON THE EARLY ENGLISH DRAMA. 151 Masque of Blackness :'^'^ ''Hence (because it was her majesty's Avill to have them, [i. e., the (laughters of Niger] blackmoors at first) the invention was derived by me." And again, in the introduction to the Masque of Queens, "Her majesty (best knowing that a principal part of life, in these spectacles, lay in their variety), had com- manded me to think on some dance or show that might precede hers, and have the place of a foil or false masque."^^ Gifford says that Queen Anne had been regaled in Scotland with nothing better than "one goodly ballad called Philotas" or the ribaldry of the Lion King, as his countrymen delight to call Sir David Lindsay, in the interminable "Satyre of the Three Eistatis."'* Queen Anne would have been badly off indeed if this had been all her entertainment in Scotland. She could never have seen Lindsay's Satire acted, for the last recorded performance was at Greenside, in 1554 ; and it is extremely doubtful if Philotas was ever performed at all. But her knowledge and love of the masque may not improbably be referred to the court pageants and masquerades per- formed during her thirteen years of residence at the Scotch court. In conclusion it may be noted that the vital element in the development of the masque, namely, dialogue, first appearing, according to Soergel,^° in 1604-5, and accord- ing to Brotanek, in conjunction with the other elements, in 1595, is to be found forty years before in the remnants of Buchanan's pompae, consisting of Latin verses written for the Holyrood masqueraders. ^^ Works (ed. Cunningham), VII, 6. " Works, VIII, 107. "Ben Jonson's Works (L. 1816), VI, 468. '^ Die Englischen Maskenspielc, p. 27. 152 JOHN A. LESTER. In the Pompa Deorum, played at Mary's wedding with Darnley, Diana begins with a complaint that love and marriage are claiming one of her five Maries. Juno and Venus reply to her, ridiculing her gi'ief, for as for them love and wedlock is their care. Pallas, Saturn and other gods answer Diana in the same strain, and Jupiter replies that the five maids are worthy of marriage, and dismisses the complaint.^^ The limits of this paper forbid the tracing further of indirect influences in this channel on the early English drama. But enough has been said to show the close rela- tion between political morality and court masquerades in Scotland and in France, and the interesting relation these bear to the corresponding forms in England. " Opera Omnia, 1725, II, 400 ff. HEINE AND TENNYSON : AN ESSAY IN COMPARATIVE CRITICISM. By Charles Wharton Stork, Ph.D. HEINE AND TENNYSON. AN ESSAY IN COM- PAEATIVE CRITICISM. The Englishman or American who compares literary notes with a native of continental Europe is always surprised to find what English-writing authors are admired abroad. For instance, a German remarlced to me that our three greatest geniuses were properly appreciated only in Germany, the three being Shakespeare, Byron and Oscar Wilde. Seldom indeed is it that the foreigner has read Spenser, Milton or Wordsworth, noblest representatives of our native Parnassus. It is evident, therefore, that many of the poets we most admire are somehow outside the interest of the cultured continent. A Shakespeare, a Dante or a Goethe can "pass the flaming bounds of place and time," but in the class immediately following, the writer's nationality often excludes him from his proper place in the world literature. This is peculiarly true of English authors, whose "insularity" is so strongly marked as to be proverbial. Conversely, certain continental writers never obtain proper recognition in England. We must all be aware of these two contrasting types in modern literature, the exclusively continental and the exclusively English. We deny, for instance, that Swin- burne is in the narrower sense an English poet, and we feel in reading such an author as D'Annunzio that, despite his harmonies of language, he represents an artistic code which is distasteful to us because it violates our innate sense of fitness. Abstractions are futile. We therefore choose as examples of their respective schools, Heine and (155) 156 CHARLES WHARTON STORK. Tennyson. Probably no modern lyrist is so widely accepted on the continent as Heine, whereas we of the narrower Anglo-Saxon traditions find our most intimate ideals expressed in the music of Tennyson. The fact that first arrests our attention is that Heine had already written all the poems which have made him famous by the time he was twenty-six. Some dozen familiar songs and ballads fall within the next five years, but even here the productions are in the main but repeti- tions of the more spontaneous and exquisite melodies from the poet's youthful "Buch der Lieder." \Yhere do we find anything more direct than the following from Heine's earliest period ? "Wenn ich bei meiner Liebsten bin Dann geht das Heiz mir auf; Dann bin ich reich in meinem Sinn, Icli biet die Welt zu Kauf. Doch wenn ich wieder scheiden muss Aus ihrem Schwanenarm, Dann schwindet all mein Uberfluss, Und ich bin bettelarm." In the same series come "Wenn junge Herzen brechen," and soon after, certainly Avritten by the time he was twenty, "Die Grenadiere." All the other incomparable songs follow in the "Lyrisches Intermezzo" and "Die Heimkehr" from 1822 to 1824.^ To be sure we have later some spirited ballads, e. g., Schelm von Bergen, Schlachtfeld bei Hastings, Konig Richard, and Rudel und Melisande; but to my thinking Der Asra is the only one that brims over with the old pulsating fire. For the rest his only sincere note is one of regret for Germany and his early love. His satires and occasional verse may be interesting 'Heine was born December 13th, 1799. HEINE AND TENNYSON. 157 to the special student of German literature; they have nothing to detain the lover of belles lettres. But what were the qualities which won the poet his laurels at such an early age ? The subject matter of his masterpiece falls into two classes: first, youthful love, happy or unhappy; and secondly, the ballad, always strongly personal. His genius, in brief, is his personality, for as he changes from passionate German sincerity to the coldness of the Paris roue, the glamour fades and vanishes. "Wermut sind die letzten Tropfen In der Liebe Goldpokale." Heine was disappointed in what we may assume was the one deep ideal love he experienced. The motive of the heroine marrying a man of straw, and being finally claimed by her affinity, the hero, under tragic cir- cumstances occurs not only in numerous lyrics, but also in Heine's two youthful tragedies. This devil's marriage of the beloved was a thought he could not escape, and he rings insistent changes on the theme. But then come happier, quieter loves, full of rich imagination and tender fancy. These are the poems which Heine himself, in a preface written many years later, describes as "eine Art Volkslieder der neueren Gesellschaft." And as such we recognize them. They have the poet's native ecstasy restrained, as we so often feel ourselves to be, by the deli- cate conventions of the drawing-room. Imagine Burns discarding his homespun and adopting the dress, manners and speech of the Edinburgh aristocracy, or conceive of Percy's Reliques translated into the metre of Waller. The decorous Heine loves in very truth, but he -s^dll not fall down at the feet of his mistress while "der Garten ist voller Lent'." The idea was a new one, this bringing of 158 CHARLES WHARTON STORK. sentiment into the very stronghold of sentimentality, and Heine, like all great innovators, left his successors to imi- tate what they could never surpass. Here is the quin- tessence of the whole in two quatrains : "Die Jahre kommen imd gehen, Geschlechter steigen ins Grab, Doch iiininier vergeht die Liebe Die icli im Herzen liab'. Nur einmal miicht ich dich sehen Und sinken vor dir aufs Knie Und sterbend zu dir sprechen: 'Madam, icli liebe Sie.' " We can hardly realize how startling to Heine's contem- poraries was the beautiful irony of the change from the "du" of the lover immemorial to the "sie" of polite address. But later, especially after Heine's removal to Paris, the amours became even lighter and less satisfying. I quote the following not for its sordidness but to illustrate Heine's decline. The date is 1829, before his settling . in Paris, and soon after his brightest blossom-period : "In welche soil ich mich verlieben, Da beide liebenswiirdig sind? Ein schijnes AVeib ist noch die Mutter, Die Tochter ist ein schones Kind. Die weissen, unerfahrncn Glieder Sie sind so ruhrend anzusehn! Doch reizend sind geniale Angen, Die unsre Zartlichkeit verstehn. Es gleicht mein Herz dem grauen Freunde, Der zwischen zwei Gebiindel Heu Nachsinnlich griibelt welcli von beiden Das allerbeste Futter sei." HEINE AND TENNYSON. 159 Heine had already burned himself out and, with charac- teristie frankness, was ready to admit it. "Doch wenn ich den Sieg geniesse, Fehlt das beste iiiir dabei, 1st es die verschwundne, siisse, Blode Jugend-Eselei?" Another even more striking example of the way Heine came to regard his most sacred emotions is the poem "Frieden" from the Kordsee series. Here, after relating a marvelous vision of Christ moving across the waters, the writer suddenly turns and asks, "Which of you Berliner poetasters could conceive such a vision as that V The effect is indescribably banal. As Heine brought the direct emotion of the popular ballad into modern society, he infused reciprocally a modern, personal element into his ballads. Every observer has noted that the Lorelei begins with "ich," and Die Wallfahrt nach Kevlaar has a psychological inti- macy beyond that of any other ballad ever written. Yet Heine's ballads, even as ballads, are thoroughly successful. The reason is that in them the feeling is not merely poignantly personal, the inspiration roots rather in that deeper poetic nature which touches the springs of all human passion, that of the peasant as well as that of the aesthete. Take, for example, the following: DIE BOTSCUAFT. Mein Knecht! steh auf und sattle schnell, Und wirf didi auf dein Ross, Und jage rasch durch Wald und Feld Nacli Konig Duncan's Schloss. Dort sehleiche in den Stall, und wart. Bis dieh der Stallbub soliaut. Den forsch mir aus: "Sprieh, welche ist Von Duncan's Tochtern Braut?" IGO CHARLES WHARTON STORK. * Und spricht der Bub' "Die Braune ist's," So bring mir schnell die Mar. Doch spricht der Bub "die Blonde ist's," So eilt Das nicht so sehr. Dann geh' zu Meister Seiler bin Und kauf mir einen Strick, Und reite langsam, sprich keiu Wort, Und bring mir den zuriiek. This has the true Percy ring with even greater intensity. And there is that most simple and inevitable of all, ''Es war ein alter Konig." Pater says that what the artist gives the world is himself, and Heine gives this self nobly and fnlly in his earliest emotions. With him far more than with Byron who coined the phrase, "Poetry is pas- sion," This self-revelation is his strength, but it is also his weakness ; his strength when the emotions spring forth strong and pure, his weakness when they sink into slug- gishness or stagnate with the scum of satiety. Turning now to Tennyson, in the metrical experiments written before he came of age we find the incipient germ of a poet and one undoubted poetic achievement, Mariana. Two years later follow ffinone, The Lady of Shalott, A Dream of Fair Women and The Lotos Eaters, proving the writer a master beyond all question, but still leaving his rank in doubt. Only with the volume published at the age of thirty-three could it be said: "A great poet has been born into the world." And from that time on, if there was no marked advance, there was continued pro- duction of a high order. We have certainly in our English master a steady development from youth to man- hood, and a long period of sustained activity. Tennyson is essentiall}^ a descriptive and reflective poet, appealing to our contemplative nature where Heine appeals to our HEINE AND TENNYSON. 161 emotions. For whenever Tennyson attempts to describe intense emotion he always fails to master it, and instead of carrying ns forward with him, merely stands still and marks time. Note some of his failures in this respect, e. g., his handling of the Tristram story, or the conclusion to The Death of ffinone. Fortunately Tennyson usually knows how to moderate his passion till it is well within his control and moves the delicate engine of his verse in perfect rhythm. How he might rage in Pelleas and Ettarre, how he might storm in Guinevere ; but he softens, idealizes, and the result is beautiful. We have only to look at the conception of Morris to see what an unreal figure is Tennyson's Guinevere, which has so much of sentimental charm and so little of human nature. She never could have been rude or womanly enough to have defended her woman's nature while she maintained, "Nevertheless yoii, sir Gawaine, lie." The greatest harm one can do a poet is to praise him for qualities which he has not, and in Tennyson's case we had best admit that he is never properly dramatic, never depicts real, naked passion. The two men are as different as can be imagined, and it must be confessed our instinctive preference will almost surely be for Heine. Frankly, I believe him to be the greater poet, but by no means in a higher class than his less emotional rival. However, the question of priority need not detain us here where the essential object is to define the types. Heine carries us by storm ; the style is direct, the response immediate. So irresistible is the passion that w^e do not read Heine, we are Heine, are in love, sharing every rapture and torture of the gamut. No such love poetry has been written since Catullus. II 162 CHAELES WHAKTOJf STOEK. Dante is more mystic, Petrarch more formal, no other so palpitatingly real. Quotation alone can do him justice: "Mit deinen blauen Augen Siehst du mich lieblich an, Da ward mir so traumend zu Sinne, Das8 ich nicht sprechen kann. An deine blauen Augen Gedenk ich allenvarta: — Ein Meer von blauen Gedanken Ergiesst sich liber mein Herz." Plere Heine reaches the absolute, but if we ask what else he has done in the field of poetry, the answer must be ''l!iothing that the world would not only too willingly let die." Love lyrics, love ballads, love dramas and this love of one sort only, the passionately sensuous. Tennyson also is a love poet, but of how different a nature I He is never direct, always a trifle sentimen- talized and, as we read him, always objective. The dif- ference between the poets is not merely one of personality, important as that may be; the difference is even more largely one of education and environment. Heine's full- grown love poetry is the result of the continental regime which brings the young man immediately into the most intimate and passionate relations with women, leaving no room for sentimentalism. Tennyson, on the contrary, trained in accordance wdth the accepted English traditions, spent his youth among other young men, associated with girls as with comrades, and gazed upon woman in general with the eye that admires much but understands very little. So far, from the artist's standpoint, the odds are all in favor of the continent, but Heine's further progress is one of disillusionment; he drained the cup at the first draught, and as a result we find at thirty Tennyson mel- HEINE AND TENNYSON. 163 lowed and Heine embittered. To be sure, youthful love is the most exciting to read of, and we can well understand that a man brought up under the continental regime might fail to be charmed by such characteristically English lines as those of Herrick : "I dare not ask a kiss." But if this be the case, how much of true beauty and purity the man of the continent misses ! What pathos is more tender than that of Elaine, of Qilnone ? What pastorals more charming than The Miller's Daughter and Dora ? Locksley Hall and Maud delight us perennially with their "Passion pure in snowy bloom Through all the years of April blood." And although these two great loA^e poems are so peculiarly English, they contain a world of beauty for all who may be wise enough to take it. Unfortunately the appreciation of one artist often pre- vents our doing justice to another, and in such cases it is always the quieter genius that suffers. He who admires a Velasquez will hardly take time afterwards to enjoy an Andrea del Sarto. We should, therefore, if we wish to be fair, give special attention to the calmer style. We have observed the effect of their environment on the two poets and have seen that the English mode of life, though less stimulating at first, has in the long run its compen- sations. To understand these the foreign critic may need to cultivate a wider range of responsiveness in order to feel the fascination of an author with whose point of view he is not naturally in sympathy. But admitting that Heine is the superior as a votary of Erato, we must give Tennyson the credit of being more impartial in his courtship of the Muses. How far above 164: CHARLES WHAETON STORK. Heine's bitter partisan satire are Tennyson's "Love thou thy land" and those stirring patriotic ballads, The Revenge and The Defense of Lucknow, ISTo doubt violence was required during Heine's lifetime to arouse the supine, but Heine resembles the French Revolution in that he profanes more than he purifies. German critics try very laudably to prove that the exiled poet remained always true to the Fatherland, but the reader feels that Heine, under French influence if you will, would rather be witty than genuine, would rather satisfy a private grudge than castigate a public wrong. I fear we must take the following for a belated bit of Byronesque not borne out by his actual conduct, but the passage deserves quotation not only as a record of his better nature but also for itself as prose : "Ich weiss wirklich nicht, ob ich es verdiene, dass man mir einst mit einem Lorbeerkranz den Sarg verziere. Die Poesie wie sehr ich sie auch liebte, war mir immer nur heiliges Spielzeug, oder geweihtes Mittel fiir himmlische Zwecke. Ich habe nie grossen Wert gelegt auf Dichter- ruhm, und ob man meine Liede preiset oder tadelt, es kiimmert mich wenig. Aber ein Schwert sollt ihr mir auf den Sarg legen; denn ich war ein braver Soldat im Befreiungskriege der Menschheit." ^ Such flashes, often a trifle lurid, appearing from time to time in Heine's poetic satires and prose reflections, stand out only too strongly against the shabby background of the context. More characteristic of Heine's general tone is the assertion that if he had to shake hands with the people, he would be careful to wash his hand afterwards. Again, Heine could never be called a philosophic poet, although in Atta Troll and Deutschland, his •Reise von Miinclien nach Genua. Cap. XXX. HEINE AND TENNYSON. 165 satires, are brilliant passages of truth and blasphemy inseparably interfused. We admire the astounding imagination, but we cannot regard Heine's faith very seriously when he expresses it in such figures as that when we accept a personal god we receive the future life gratis like a piece of scrap-meat at the butcher's. Heine's genius maintains itself only for short, meteoric flights ; he never could have held himself down long enough to evolve a philosophic creed, nor, supposing he had done so, was he earnest enough to have believed in it the next day. On the other hand, Tennyson, though not among the greatest English philosophic poets, thought earnestly and to a purpose. He rose from "honest doubt" to find a deeper meaning in nature and a deeper purpose in the seeming contradiction of the world of men. Though not equal to Browning, he has the advantage of thinking more lucidly and thus giving the results of his meditations to the average reader. Kor, despite his so-called didacticism, is Tennyson ever less than poetic. The "Flower in the crannied wall" is a fine example of an abstract truth made specific and comprehensible, and such poems as Faith, and God and the Universe bear witness to a well balanced and steadfast form of belief. Tennyson's political philosophy, most clearly portrayed in the second Locksley Hall, is the deeply reasoned conservatism of Burke which states that all advance must be based on the assured foundations of the past. Like Horace, Tennyson distrusts the "vulgus mobile," the thousand-headed monster, and exhorts the statesman to legislate with his eye fixed on a goal beyond the seething present.^ Yet Tennyson, without waiting for the help of Mr. Bernard Shaw, perceived many of the evils lurking in modern society, as we see in an outspoken ' Cf. his poem, To the Duke of Argyll. ICG CIIAELES WHARTON STOEK. passage of Aylmer's Field. In his patriotic and philo- sophical poetry Tennyson is again typically English, for unswerving love of country and a firm belief in the God above and the God within are an inalienable inheritance of the Englishman, no less of the American, as opposed to the spasmodic excitement and general indifference of the continent. Supposing, what we should hardly admit, that Tennyson were narrow in his creed, we must at least admire his sincere and resolute expression of it. One important observation must be made in Heine's favor, namely, that the most important of his later writings are in prose which is beyond the province of this essay as are the plays of Tennyson, since neither represents the v/riter at his best and neither gained a universal popu- larity. Heine's prose, however, is notable in many ways, especially for its technical and artistic beauty. Irresistibly fresh and charming is the style of the Harzreise, while in such later works as the Florentinische Nachte are imaginative passages not short of marvelous. Still the writer shows himself to us here as in his poems ; in youth, enthusiastic and lovable ; after thirty, world- weary and cynical. The random raptures and daring play of humor which we find delightful in the traveling student, become unspeakably stale and mean, often mere sacrilege and vulgarity, in the older man for whom no deeper mood succeeded. The brilliance is forced and only the bitter- ness is from the heart. The beauty of the Florentinische Nachte is morbidly exotic, and in the criticisms on Shakes- peare's women a really enlightening passage of criticisms, like that on Cleopatra, may be followed by trivialities or would-be witticisms on Ophelia and Lady Macbeth. Per- haps the finest critique is that on Cordelia, Avhom he describes as the modern Antigone who surpasses the HEINE AND TENNYSON. 167 ancient, "a pure soul, but a trifle obstinate." Heine's prose style is discursive, but he lacks the self-control needed to write in the manner of Sterne or one of the great French masters, the unevenness of his disposition and the obtrusion of personal cavilling or rancor spoiling the effect as a whole. He is not earnest enough for a satirist, nor good-natured enough for a humorist. We all remember Arnold's lines: "The Spirit of the world, Beholding the absurdity of men — Their vaunts, their feats — let a sardonic smile. For one short moment, wander o'er his lips. That smile was Heine!" The summary is just if we consider only the later Heine. To the young enthusiast of the Harzreise, Arnold pays a generous tribute in an earlier passage of the poem just quoted, viz. Heine's Grave. Turning from subject-matter to style in the narrower sense, we shall at first sight incline again to prefer the German. "Heine for songs, for kisses how?" writes Browning, who felt, as we all do, that Heine was the nearest approach to reality. Heine fuses figures with feeling, and runs them into a perfect mould of form. The imagery is not external, made to refer to the subject, but eves and stars are so described that we see both at the same instant. Heine's passion pervades all he sees. The setting sun sinks into his glowing breast; he bends over his beloved in the star-sown sky, her voice is the nightin- gale, "Die Eose, die Lilie, die Taube, die Sonne" unite in her; he seizes a ISTorway pine, dips it into the crater of Etna, and writes on the black tablet of the night in letters of fire, "Agnes, ich liebe dich!" Even to the 168 CHARLES WHARTON STORK. most simple and conventional emotions, he can give such unexpected yet profound expression as: "Wenn ich in deine Augen sell ; So schwinclet all mein Leid und Weh; Doch wenn ich kiisse deinen Mund So werd' ich ganz nnd gar gesund. Wenn ich mich lehn' an deine Brust, Koramt's iiber mich wie Himmelshist; Doch wenn du sprichst: 'Ich liebe dich!' So muss ich weinen bitterlich." Heine uses contrast and irony with the greatest effect, but the style is never decorative. A man writing at white heat has no time to pause for description or moral reflec- tion. It is indeed only with a soaring imagination that irony can be effective ; if the poet flies too low his attempt at humor may be taken for a mere accidental slip into the ridiculous, and it is the boldness of Heine's contrasts that makes both the passion and the anti-climax more effective. The rapture of a lover and the agonies of the Weltschmerz are in themselves an exaggeration which if carried too far will seem strained or absurd. The artist, seeing this, avoids the catastrophe by anticipating it, drops suddenly from his exalted height, and thereby not only attains a striking effect of irony, but also shows us to what a dizzy height of emotion we have been previously carried. For an example of this we may take the conclusion of "Fragen," which the poet asks by the seashore: "O lost mir das Rtitsel dcs Lebens, Sagt mir, was bedentet der Mensch? Woher ist er komen? Wo geht er hin? Wer wohnt dort oben auf goldenen Sternen?" Es murmeln die Wogen ihr ew'ges Geniurmel, Es wehet der Wind, es fliehen die Wolken, Es blinken die Sterne gleichgiiltig und kalt, Und ein Narr wartet auf Antwort." HEINE AND TENNYSON. 169 In the above quotation we may also note the handling of the free rhythm ; first the nervous, excited movement of the questions, then the monotonous indifference of the elements and the tremendous accent thrown on "I^^arr" in the final line. This brings us to Heine's versification, where he is once more a past master. His instinct, his ear is unerring; he loses no opportunity, and he makes no mistake. Considering the harshness of the German language, it is a wonder what music the great poets, especially Heine, can draw^ from it. For melodies of breathing tenderness almost any of the poems already quoted, and those even better known, wdiich are in every memory, will suffice. Again, wdiat unbridled restlessness chafes in the lines: "Mit schwarzen Segeln segelt mein Schiff Wohl Uber das wilde Meer," and what pathos echoes in the refrain where, this time with the deepest sincerity, he speaks of his country "in der Fremde." "Ic'h hatte einst ciii sclioncs Vaterland. Der Eiclienbaum Wiiclis dort so hocli, die Veilclicn iiicklcii saiift. Es war ein Trauni." Indeed, Heine at his best seems not so much to have a beautiful style as to have the power of verbal incarnation for every mood and change. We have seen that the essence of Heine's style is sub- jectivity and directness ; of Tennyson exactly the opposite is true. As Mr. Bagehot has noted, the style of Tenny- son is always objective, descriptive, decorative. He wreathes with flowers his classic goddesses, his medieval ladies and his English dairy-maids till we can hardly tell them apart. He is never too intensely centred on his 170 CHARLES WHARTON STORK. subject to miss a chance for a graceful bit of detail, and at the end he is nearly sure to drift into a moral parallel. In "Break, break, break," for instance, he takes time to turn around and look at himself before going on. The interpolation is in this case surely a fault. Why does not the poet make us feel what he cannot utter, instead of saying he cannot utter it ? One thinks of the typical traveler's letter or the typical popular novelist: "The scene was beyond description," "Words fail to express my emotions." Heine would simply have said "Mir traumt ich weiss nicht was," and we should have understood. Compare also the speech of Heine's grenadier, ready to spring full-armed from the grave at the sound of his Emj)eror's trumpet, with the more artificial figure used by the lover in Maud : "My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet. And blossom in purple and red." Tennyson often loses himself in his figure and prefers the simile to the metaphor. Take the picture of Geraint: "Arms on which the standing muscle sloped As slopes a wild brook o'er a little stone, Running too vehemently to break upon it." Here we shift our attention entirely from the thing described to the description. But no better illustration occurs than that cited by Mr. Bagehot, i. e., the passage about the tropic island in Enoch Arden, extremely pic- turesque, but quite extraneous to the action of the story. We need not treat of Tennyson as an epic poet, because he is not properly an epic poet at all. He not so much tells as illustrates a story. His plots are either flimsy or HEINE AND TENNYSON. 171 absurd, such as one would expect to find in novels written for boarding-school girls. What could be more mawkish than the bare narrative of Maud, of Locksley Hall, of Aylmer's Field ? Of the flimsy category are The Lady of Shalott, Sea Dreams, The Village Wife, etc. As to the Idylls of the King, the story is much better told in Malory. What then are the merits of this description which Tennyson has made an end in itself ? To this we must answer that although Tennyson appeals to a very large audience because of the lucidity with which he portrays universal, if somewhat generalized, emotions, yet a true appreciation of him as an artist does not come at once. Heine's fiery nature burns in an indelible impression at the first contact, but to feel the charm of Tennyson we must allow it to steal over us gradually. Heine sweeps us away and hurries us along with him ; but Tennyson is less a passion than a refuge after the burden and heat of the day, a soft, half-evasive loveliness, not to over- master, but to be yielded to. He gives us a picture of settled English landscape, with more or less idyllic figures moving about in the subdued light of summer afternoon, for in Tennyson's land it is "always afternoon." Here one has time to lean back and enjoy in their fulness all the lesser beauties of nature: "A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream, That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the oar, Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge Crown'd with the minster towers." But every line of The Lady of Shalott, The Lotos- Eaters and twenty others is precious and loses half its value in being wrenched from the context. Be it confessed, however, one wearies of In Memoriam, some hundred 172 CHARLES WHARTON STORK. and thirty modulations of luke-warm grief slightly sweet- ened by a modicum of philosophy. Exquisite lyrics there are, but the subject offers too little variety for such inter- minable repetition. Infinitely greater are Lycidas and Adonais. Let us observe, next, the figures in this Arcadian landscape. Heine displays only himself, an individual product of the French Revolution, fervent and lovable, violent and selfish, one complete but isolated personality; whereas Tennyson gives us in general two types, the strong, pure-hearted hero, and the gentle, somewhat Griselda-like girl. These are, to be sure, the idealizations of the English university man and the quiet-eyed English maiden. The villain is always a man of straw — did any one ever quite believe in Maud's brother or young Locks- ley's uncle? — and the peasant characters afford a back- ground of homely humor as in the novels of George Eliot. To point out the continental and English qualities in the character-drawing of Heine and Tennyson respectively would be superfluous. To be sure, we are all interested in Heine, whereas the savant of the continent might find the English hero tiresome and the heroine insipid. To appreciate them one must drift into the poet's atmosphere, as one might stand before Turner's "Crossing the Brook," until the day-dream becomes reality. Then we shall have time to examine each flower and shrub, to enjoy the branching elms, the oaks and smooth-boled beeches, and to let the eye follow their perspective into soft, hazy dis- tances of hill and cloud. And if the sound of church bells vibrates solemnly from far away, we do not feel it as an intrusion, but as an audible consecration of the scene. So are we affected bv Tennvson's moralizings, which are so sweet and unforced that we not only accept HEINE AND TENNYSON. 173 but enjoy them in the context despite all theories of art for art's sake. We Anglo-Saxons have all felt the charm of Tennyson's descriptions, but we have not perhaps stopped to think how typically English this passion for description is. No other literature contains anything like the same amount; indeed Lessing maintains that poetry should never describe, since it thus encroaches upon the province of painting and sculpture. The answer to Lessing is that given by a German professor of English, who said that English poetry was in itself the refutation of such a thesis. English poetry is peculiarly fond of picturesque detail for its own sake, "loading every rift with ore," as Keats specifies it. St. Agnes' Eve is perhaps the shining example, but we can go back to Milton and Spenser or forward to Morris, Rossetti and Tennyson. And this will always be the justification of pictorial poetrj^, that it enables the writer to evolve from such airy nothings as the motive of The Lady of Shalott, a poem which wholly delights us. The taste may be an acquired one, but it is certainly as well worth acquiring as a fondness for the strained and distorted emotions of the present continental school. Tennyson has also the rare gift of visualizing religious and political abstractions. He retells the newspaper account of some English victory so that it stirs our blood with the thought of the issues at stake, he states some governmental or moral axiom in so novel and perspicuous a way that he lends new meaning to the threadbare truth. The Ancient Sage, a commentary on the sceptic, is good reading and good poetry, the argument being summed up in the couplet from Locksley Hall Sixty Years After : "Truth for truth, and good for good! The Good, the True, the Pure, the Just — Take the charm 'for ever' from them, and they crumble into du't." 174 CHARLES WIIAETON STORK. To be sure we must give Heine credit for saying that pantheism is merely a compromise offered by the atheist, but we have seen how little heart this maker of epigrams had in the matter of religious faith. We think of Tenny- son'8 poems as the common-prayer-book of English poetry, but the volume contains many a sharp rebuke of narrow conventionality and intolerance. Xote his fine recognition of the English spirit which made the American revolu- tion.^ Inconsistent as the traditional Englishman in one point, he combines a love for the human race in general with a holy hatred of the French. But his personal philosophy has a high mobility. Akbar's Dream is in truth a dream of something loftier than the world has yet attained, a cosmopolitan religion, and nothing is farther from Tennyson's mind than the fanaticism which consigns its antagonists to fire and brimstone. His optimism, though not so virile as Browning's, carries conviction as to the progress and destiny of humanity, and his con- servatism is well reasoned and well stated. His attack on modern realism is especially telling, "Rip your brothers' vices open, strip your own foul passions bare; Down with Reticence, down with Reverence, — forward, — naked, — let them stare." Heine might indeed have replied with his sardonic: "Der lieben Mittelmassigkeit droht hier, wie iiberall, keine Gefahr." Tennyson is, as all critics have noticed, a remarkably eclectic poet, and in this quality pre-eminently English, which being interpreted means "retentive of tradition." Glancing at the gi-eat poets preceding him, we find Burns *Cf. England and America in 1782. HEINE AND TENNYSON. 175 more universal and so les8 insular. Byron and Shelley, children of the Revolution, might have been born any- where in Europe, Wordsworth is too metaphysical and Coleridge too far aloof from the visible world. Keats, of the early romanticists, is the most English, and forms the link in the line of royal succession from the Eliza- bethans to Tennyson, but Keats was born into a realm of fancy and died too young to acquire his full birthright in the outward world. In the contemporary period we have Browning rising to greater intellectual heights and Swin- burne attaining more elaborate complexities of form, but Tennyson is triumphantly English in that he keeps the balance of excellence between matter and manner. He originates comparatively little, adapting his true poetic gift to the models of the past, whether of English litera- ture or of what lies at the foundation of English literary tradition, the classics. He is never a mere imitator, but has the faculty of assimilating and re-employing the con- tributions of his predecessors. An ex-Haverford pro- fessor, Dr. Mustard, has given us an excellent book on classic echoes in Tennyson, showing that he not so much wrote as felt in the spirit of the originals. In the same way he used Wordsworth's philosophy of nature, the subtle music of Coleridge, the tenderness of Shelley, the lighter satiric touch of Byron. Above all, he assumes with dignity the gorgeous mantle of Keats' imagery. "Keats begat Tennyson, and Tennyson begat all the rest," says a critic. Yet, although Tennyson is inferior to each of the poets just mentioned in some one respect, he has given to literature a much greater body of good poetry than any one of them. He directs all the new-found beauties of the romanticists into the well-marked path of English literary tradition. Later he brings the dramatic monologue of Browning 17G CHARLES WHARTON STORK. within the apprehension of the masses in such splendid poems as Rizpah, The Wreck, etc. A more independent trait is Tennyson's ability to write noble occasional poems such as that to Virgil, the Ode on the Duke of Wellington, and the Inscription on the Monument to Sir John Franklin : "Not here! the White North lias thy bones; and thou, Heroic sailor-soul, Art passing on thine happier voyage now Toward no earthly pole." Literary coteries discussing their favorites among the poets of the last century will never agree upon one name, but the great bulk of readers will recrown with grateful love the late laureate. Although Tennyson is the poet of the average man, he is never an average poet. This is due, probably, not so much to his command of imagery as to the sustained flow and melody of his verse. His rhythm not ony fascinates us at the time, but lingers in our memory afterward, so that Tennyson is the most quotable of our modern poets. Lines seldom stand out like the mightiest utterances of Wordsworth and Browning, but on every page will be found some perfect fitting phrase, while the even balance of the context never jars us with commonplaceness or harshness. Tennyson's range of style, like the range of his emotions, is not great, but within his province he rivals the best. He has the faculty of the composer who develops a simple theme with perfect art in a hundred pleasing modulations. Mendelssohn is the best parallel — a musician never of striking originality, somewhat senti- mental, whom the savants are compelled to admire for the mastery of his art, and the world at large for his graceful blending of feeling and form. So the unsophisticated, the HEINE AND TENNYSON. 177 simple hearted, love Tennysou, and the finest and most discerning critics love him. Tliose who dissent, compose that too large middle class of culture who have read or understood just enough to mislead themselves and others. If Tennyson originated little in subject matter, he at least enlarged the technical resources of the literature by the introduction of a lyrical blank verse. His blank verse has a flexibility and melody exactly suited to the idealized tone of the substance. "Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable, Elaine the lily maid of Astolat" and "0 mother Ida, many-fountain'd Ida," have a beauty of sound which, like the mist in our English afternoon landscape, lends softness and remoteness to the scene. A nobler note, typifying the sunset splendor which succeeds the milder light, sounds in the heroic cadences of Ulysses and the harmonies beginning with "So all day long the noise of battle roll'd." The former rhythm reminds us of Turner's Crossing the Brook as contrasted with the larger effect of Ulysses derid- ing Polyphemus. The imitations of Tennyson are weak because they lack the stability and repose of classic inspira- tion, for only inherent strength and symmetry can sustain a wealth of ornament. But Tennyson's blank verse is so exquisite that he can use it for purely lyric purposes, to give atmosphere and touch the most delicate chords of emotion. ISTo night-pieces of Heine breathes more rap- turously than "Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me." 12 178 CHAELES WHARTON STORK. Again, "Tears, Idle Tears" and "Come Down, O Maid" are so overflooded with music that we do not even notice the absence of rhyme. Doubtless a reason why Tenny- son has been undervalued by foreign critics is that one must have not only a perfect ear but also a subtle appre- ciation of the values of sound in English in order to fully enjoy such an artist. Yet admirable as Tennyson shows himself in the control of blank verse, he is more beloved for the simpler music of his songs and rhymed lyrics, the mere mention of which is enough to set one quoting or improving one's memory in any of the anthologies. There is a mystical use of sounds as symbols that gives these lyrics a deeper magic, even for the casual reader, than any other English songs possess. This melody was Tennyson's birthright, tinkling at once in Claribel, and persisting through his entire works, to chime its last tones in Crossing the Bar. How often do the elfin echoes of the Bugle Song, "thin and clear And thinner, clearer, farther going," enchant us ! We are never deaf to the monotone of Mariana's lament, nor can we hear unmoved the crash of "Break, Break, Break," for these rhythmic sounds vibrate to the inmost depths of us. Tennyson's art was not at first unstudied — he speaks of the difficulties in handling esses in English — but soon he progi-essed far enough to trust his instinct. Swinburne's alliterative dithyrambs have always a certain trickiness, but Tennyson's felicities are as unsought as they are satisfying. Take, for example, A Farewell, which is more personal and delicate than the better known Brook. HEINE AND TENNYSON. l79 A FAREWELL. Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver; No more by thee my steps shall be. For ever and for ever. Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, A rivulet then a river; No where by thee my steps shall be, For ever and for ever. But here will sigh thine alder tree, And here thine aspen shiver; And here by thee will hum the bee, For ever and for ever. A thousand suns will stream on thee, A thousand moons will quiver; But not by thee my steps shall be. For ever and for ever. The beauties of such a poem are not obvious, indeed they conform to Swinburne's definition of poetry in that they are indefinable. In his technique Tennyson is not less English than in his subjects. He follows the traditions of elegant sim- plicity as we find it illustrated in the reposeful painting of Reynolds, Romney and Morland. With the poet, as with the painters, inspiration is inherent, but the form it assumes is redolent of the artist's environment. Tenny- son's poetry belongs to England, but must we therefore conclude that it has no appeal for the connoisseur of the continent? At the recent exhibition of classic British paintings in Berlin, general surprise was evoked and unqualified praise was bestowed by sincere German critics, who recognized that a new and important field of beauty was here opened to them. Might not foreign literary 180 CHARLES WHAETON STOEK. critics have the same sensation by allowing themselves to fall under the similar charm of Tennyson? Surveying the field of our subject from the vantage point of the conclusion, we see that Heine developed almost immediately under the forced growth of the continent an intense but narrow personality which confined itself to one phase of life, manifested itself in a remarkably bril- liant subjective style, and exhausted itself in a few years. In Tennyson we observe a slow but steady development, a much broader field of interests, and a subdued, imper- sonal style. Both are admirable artists ; the one as an individual romanticist, the other conforming the romantic spirit to the bounds of classic convention. This is a natural result of their development, for Heine was greatest in youth, Tennyson in maturity; and youth is usually romantic and passionate, whereas manhood is stylistic and restrained. Heine was essentially a Bohemian, one whose emotions were uncontrolled, whose opinions were antago- nistic to a settled mode of life, whereas Tennyson was composed, temperate, with that generous English tender- ness which never gives way to the egoism or the irony of the Parisian point of view. Not many great English artists have been Bohemian in the modern sense of the word; that is, self-centred, discarding all of life that did not minister to their passions. They have felt themselves a part of society rather than a sect at war with it, and have consequently tried to reform it from within instead of hurling promiscuous abuse at it from without. Some- one may be tempted here to enlarge upon Heine's misfor- tune, the ingratitude of his country, etc., but a clear view of the case will show that Heine was well placed by for- tune and that his destiny was in fact his character. Never- theless a ray of light is shed over his last hours. In the HEINE AND TENNYSON. 181 moonlight of liis last dream the Passionsblume opens to him mysteriously. After the agony of Gut ist tier Schlaf, der Tod ist besser — freilich Das beste ware, nie geboren sein," comes a fine resignation, recalling Stevenson's "Under a wide and starry sky" in wo? Wo wird einst des Wandermiiden Letzte Ruhestiitte sein? Unter Palmen in dem Siiden? Unter Linden an dem Rhein? i Werd' icli, wo in einer Wiiste Eingescharrt von fi'emder Hand? Oder ruh' ich an der Kiiste Eines Meeres in dem Sand? Immerhin! Mich wird iimgeben Gotteshimmel, dort wie hier, Und als Totenlampen schweben Nachts die Sterne liber mir. At first thought it would seem that a marked personality was the highest form of poetic genius, since in such a case we learn to know and love the poet, but after a little consideration of the subject we must admit that the greatest writers have often concealed themselves in their art. Tennyson's weakness is that his impersonality sel- dom goes beyond the English pale, so that to know him we must first know his country. But English virtues should interest even when they do not coincide with the taste of the cosmopolitan, and Tennyson has an undoubted claim upon universality. The man of the world may assert that such poetry is fit only for women and school children, but 182 CHARLES WHARTON STORK. even so a large audience remains, and have we not all our womanlike and childlike moods, which deserve to be encouraged rather than suppressed ? Ideal poetry must preserve a balance between power and restraint, both of which are essential. Of these qualities Heine excels in the former, Tennyson in the latter, and a fair critic will agree that the difference between them is not nearly so much in degree as in kind. Each developed as impulse drove, and if anyone goes further and insists that one kind must be higher than the other, we must answer that the greatest and most enduring poets have written imper- sonally, rising from themselves to a purer and more ideal form of expression. But this is going too far afield into mere theory. In practice let us be broad minded, never dictatorial in questions of taste. Here are two great poets, both of whom we must admire, and each of whom we may enjoy. Shall we destroy our pleasure by comparison because their beauties are so different ? Behold ! one star differeth from another in glory. THE FRANKLIA^'S TALE. By Walter Morris Hart, Ph.D. I THE FKAMi:LIN'S TALE. Considered as a Masterpiece of the Narrative Art, in Its Relation to the Breton Lay and to the General Frameworl^^ of the Canterbury Tales. I. The Franklin's Tale. The FrankVms Tale was manifestly written for the place which it now occupies. Not only did Chaucer con- nect it, by means of its prologue, with the preceding Squire's Tale; he gave also ample evidence that he was conscious of the dramatic situation; throughout the story he never forgot that the Eranklin was talking, and talking to the Canterbury Pilgrims.^' The tale has thus compara- tively little of that impersonal quality which we think of as characteristic of medieval literature. In his choice of story, and in his way of telling it, the Franklin revealed certain phases of his own charming and relatively complex personality. It was not, indeed, so much the own son to Epicurus, the St. Julian for hospitality,^ who was now * See the passages (like "For o thing, sires, saully dar I seye") where the Franklin, in the first person, addresses his audience, vv. 761, 829, 927, 1113, 1466, 1493ff., 1593f., 1621f. The Franklin's use of the word wryte is clearly a slip. See, however, Henry Barrett Hinckley, Notes on Chaucer, pp. 238f. Mr. Hinckley argues for an early date (1380) for the Franklin's Tale, on the basis of evidences of immaturity. But Professor Tatlock is clearly right in saying that "Chaucer's literary manner depended far less on the time of life when he was writing than on the character of his subject." Development and Chronology of Chaucer's Woi'lcs, p. 18. This is a peculiarly valuable comment on the Franklin's Tale. ' Except in the description of December, vv. 1252ff. (185) 186 WALTER MOEKIS HART. speaking, as the vavasour, conscious of his ''almost-baronial dignity,"^ yet retaining his sturdy middle-class morality, condemning his son for wasting his substance at dice and for associating with low company. This rare combina- tion of delight in high living and high thinking must have carried with it unusual sanity, maturity of judgment, knowledge of the world, and a perhaps not unlearned interest in the problems of life. Thus, although he may, as Professor Schofield maintains,' have intended his story as a compliment to the Squire, yet he could not refrain from siding against Aui'elius, his attitude varying from the amusement excited in sober maturity by calf-love,* to a sterner condemnation of magic or black arts.^ Middle- class morality drew the picture of conjugal equality, in conscious contrast, apparently, to the ideals of courtly love and to the notions of Aurelius. Upon this idealism, however, the man of the world made ambiguous comment concerning the ways of women.* In much the same mood he declared his inability to use figures of speech, and gave an example of their absurdity.'^ Such interest in ques- tions of style implies some reading; the Franklin's familiarity with Hieronymiis contra lovinianum, revealed in Dorigen's exempla, should not surprise us, nor should his knowledge of astrology. His whole character prepares us for his interest in the problem of evil. His interest, — for Chaucer did not forget that the Fraiiklin was speaking, and though their views and interests may have coincided, ' Cf. Skeat's note on v. 360 of the General Prologue. *M. L. A., XVI. 405. *Vv. 1084, 1217f. »Vv. 1119f., 1132f. •Vv. 743, 803ff., 817f. 'Vv. 726f., lOlCf. . . ■ THE FKANKLIn's TALE. 187 as Shakespeare's and Hamlet's did sometimes, the "fallacy of quotation" is almost as delusive in the case of the great narrative poet as it is in the case of the great dramatic poet himself.® It was, then, the Franklin, and not Chaucer, who said that he would relate one of the lays rhymed by the old gentle Britons in their first Briton tongue. The fact that the story was a very old one, that the events which it narrated must have happened long ago, may have invested it, for the Pilgims, with a peculiar charm. Yet no attempt was made to emphasize or to develop this glamor of the past, though the Franklin might well have learned from the Wife of Bath how to clothe his story in an atmosphere of beauty and mystery. How different was her beginning ! In tholde dayes of the king Arthour, Of which that Britons speken greet honour, All was this land fulfild of fayerye. The elf-queen, wih hir loly companye, Daunced ful ofte in many a grene mede; This was the olde opinion, as I rede. I speke of manye hundred yeres ago; But now can no man see none elves mo (vv. 857ff.)- The Franklin made no such distinction between past and present ; nor did he emphasize the connotation of the scene of his story, of "Armorik that called is Britayne." Doubt- less his hearers were more or less familiar with Breton lays and knew that Brittany was the home of mystery and romance, the very threshold of fairyland, but that the Franklin so conceived it there is no evidence whatever. The sea and the dangerous coast with its hostile black rocks were necessary for his story, and to these the "places delitables" — conventional medieval gardens — formed ' Cf. Jloulton, The Moral System of Shakespeare, p. 1. 188 WALTER MORRIS HART. effective contrast, and wliatever charm of unreality may have been present was due merely to vagueness in concep- tion, even to absence of clear visualization.' The time and the land seem empty; a May morning, a "Now" in December, a flowery garden, a bit of rocky coast, a busy street, stand out but dimly against a background of shadows. This background is vaguely peopled — by the vanishing figures in the busy street, or those friends of Dorigen who walked with her by the sea, or danced in the gardens. Detached but slightly from these are individuals, who appear in receding perspective, Aurelius the social favorite, Arveragiis the flower of chivalry, Dorigen the high-born, the magician, the squire and maid of Arveragus, and the servant of the magician. The nearest of these figures are but dimly seen. Dorigen has the distinction of being "oon the fairest under sonne." Aurelius alone is honored by a formal description ; he fressher was and lolyer of array, As to my doom, than is the monthe of IMay. He singeth, davmceth, passinge any man That is, or was, sith that the world bigan. Ther-with he was, if men sholde him discryve, Oon of the beste faringe man 6n-lyve ; Yong, strong, right vertuous, and riche ond wys, And wel biloved, and holden in gret prys (w. 927fl'.). This conventional panegyric, absolutely without visualiza- tion, is to be contrasted with vividly descriptive lines from the portrait of the Squire in the General Prologue: * It is noteworthy that the journey from Penmark to Orleans seems (w. 1239ff.) to require but a single day, whereas Orleans lies 300 miles due east (not south, as Professor Schofield insists). Aurelius thus seems imconsciously to perform a task like that of Doon, Avho rode from Southampton to Edinburgh in a day to win a maiden. THE franklin's TALE. 189 With lokkes crulle, as they were leyd in presse. Of twenty yeei* of age he was, 1 gesse. Of his stature he was of evene lengthe, And wonderly deliver, and greet of strengthe. Enibrouded was he, as it were a niede Al ful of fresshe floures, whyte and rede. Singinge he was, or floytinge, al the day ; He was as fresh as is the month of May. Short was his goune, with sieves longe and wyde. Wei coude he sitte on hors, and faire ryde (vv. 81ff.). One should compare particularly "young" with "twenty years of age," "strong" with "wonderly deliver and great of strength," "one of the best faring men alive" with Curteys he was, lowly, and servisable, And carf biforn has fader at the table (vv. 98f. ). In each case the General Prologue is the more precise, specific, vivid. It is the same convention, but here far more effectively elaborated, so that one feels that, in this respect at least, the Chaucer of the Franhlin's Tale is not quite the Chaucer of the General Prologue. Yet this is his nearest approach to that manner ; except Aurelius, not one person in the Franklin's Tale is seen or described at all. ]^ot one, in fact, is an individual ; they are all idealized types, simply. Dorigen is the obedient and constant wife ; Aurelius, the passionate lover ; Arveragus, the worthy man of arms, flower of chivalry. Comparison with the Knight of the General Prologue is suggestive. The lines : He loved chivalrye, Trouthe and honour, fredom and eourteisye. Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre (vv. 45ff. ), are an admirable description of Arveragus. But what follows reveals, again, the typical vividness and concrete- ness of the General Prologue. 190 WALTER ilOREIS HAET. This conventional quality of the persons, however, should not blind us to the relatively subtle contrast between Arveragus and Aurelius — knight and squire; for one is the typical man of action, wise, sane, mature; the other, the typical sentimentalist, youthful, inactive, passionate. The distinction is made consistently throughout the story ; the method is thoroughly characteristic. ^° Thus, at the out- set, Arveragus, to make himself worthy to speak to Dorigen of his love, undertakes many a labor, many a gi-eat enter- prise. In order that they might live the more happily, he was ready to swear never to take upon himself the mastery.^ ^ The Franklin is thinking of him in his gen- eral praise of those who are patient in love, who have learned to suffer whatever may be said or done amiss in wrath, or sickness, or sorrow, or because the stars above us govern our conditions, and who do not expect vengeance for every wrong. Much as he loved Dorigen, he loved . honor more, and after only a year of happiness with her, I set out for a two years' sojourn in England, there to ''seek worship in arms. On his return, in health and great honor, he, like Aurelius, danced, but he jousted also. He had neither suspicion nor fear that anyone had spoken to Dorigen of love. And when he had heard her story he did not accuse or reproach her. He sought rather to comfort her, and he saw at once a possible way, for one of his ideals of "trouthe," the only way, out. '"It may be Mel, paraventure, yet to-day. Ye shul your trouthe holden, by my fay!" (w. 1473f.). '° Cf. the contrast of the more highly individualized Nicholas and Absolon (in the Miller's Tale), Troilus and Pandarus, even the more vaguely conceived Palamon and Arcite. " His retaining the name of sovereignty for the sake of appear- ances does not seem quite in character; but this trait is, apparently, introduced here because it is necessary later. THE franklin's TALE. 191 When, with tears, he bade her tell no one "of this aven- ture," his grief was unmistakably caused, not by any fear for the future, but by what had already happened, by the same thought of appearances which led him at the begin- ning to reserve the name of sovereignty. It is because of just this foreknowledge of what Aurelius will do that Arveragus is not to be regarded as a ''lewed"^^ man. Dorigen, the Franklin tells his hearers, is to have better fortune than they imagine. Unlike Arveragiis, x\urelius, the sentimentalist, does not enter the story performing prodigies of valor, but dancing "passinge any man." He is well-mannered, amiable, dis- creet, and generally liked. Like Arveragus, he stood in EAve of Dorigen. He did not, however, seek to make him- self worthy of her by great deeds, but luxuriated in passive despair, expressing his grief, so far as he dared, in general terms, in lays, songs, complaints, roundels, virelays. When he spoke to Dorigen at last he began by telling her of his desire to die, then begged for mercy. He declared at once that Dorigen's condition was "an inpossible," and desired nothing but sudden and horrible death. With piteous heart he made his comjDlaint to the gods, and when they were deaf to his bootless cries, fell swooning and lay for a long time in a trance. His brother carried him to his bed, where he lay for two years in languor and furious torment. Then at last his brother, not, as in Boccaccio's story, the lover himself, bethought him of the magician. When the rocks had been removed he saluted his lady with humble countenance and heart full of dread. In his forbearance to press his claim as a right which he had now earned, he seemed to exhibit but another phase of his sentimentalism, four parts selfishness and cowardice to "V. 1494; "lewed" clearly means here ignorant, unskilful, bungling. 192 WALTER MORRIS HART. one of delicacy and consideration. And it was this same sentimentalism — lack of that will-power and decision which are developed by action, desire to stand well in the opinion of others — that led him to follow so promptly where another had shown the way, to vie with Arveragiis in generosity, as Arveragus expected him to do, even though, clearly enongh, he had not the same confidence in the outcome. For Aurelius was quite capable of a noble deed; from the beginning there is no doubt of that. Viewed, not from the modern, but from the medieval point of view, there was nothing unusual in his falling in love with Dorigen ; even Arveragus did not condemn him for that. What was unusual was the relation of Arveragiis and Dorigen. He was her lover and her lord also, and the |/ fidelity which she would, in medieval romance, have given her lover, she gave to her husband. Her scorn of Aurelius for loving another man's wife must have sounded strange in his ears. Yet, because of the unusual relation of Arveragus and Dorigen, the disturber of their happiness inevitably incurs the dislike and condemnation of readers. But this must not go too far. A villain ^vould have destroyed the ideal mood of the story, would have given it a different ending. Aurelius, therefore, is made as attractive as possible ; and even a sentimentalist may be — usually is — attractive, except for the over-strenuous man of action. If he loved Dorigen it was not his fault but his ''aventure," his misfortune. It is noteworthy that he and Arveragus never came togetlier. Such a scene would have been difiicult to handle, and Aurelius would have suffered too much by the contrast. He has the quali- ties of his defects, however ; his sentimentalism saves him. His youth, his popularity, his amiability, his sufferings, THE franklin's TALE. 193 the very strength of his passion (for who could help loving Dorigen'^), are all in his favor. It is his brother, not he, who thinks of the magician. And Aurelius makes no claim upon Dorigen, tells her simply that the rocks are removed, and leaves her without pressing his suit. That he should follow the noble example of Arveragus produces, then, no shock of unreality. The impression of these three characters, consistent types, if not individuals, is conveyed to us by a variety of means, mainly, perhaps, by what they say and do in carry- ing forward the story; for of dialogue or action for pur- poses of characterization there is very little. JSTor do their conventional good looks give us any clue. More significant are the effects which they produce upon one another or upon others ; the 'Svorthinesse" of Arveragus is capable of winning Dorigen to a very unusual fidelity ; her unde- fined charm inspires love in very different men ; Aurelius is 'Svel biloved and holden in gret prys," and subject to the good influence which springs from the powerful character of iirveragus. Epithets, giving the narrator's opinion of a character are, when used, conventional, like virtuous, gentle, worthy, wise. Beyond the contrast between Arveragus and Aurelius, and the necessary effort to make Aurelius attractive, it does not appear that Chaucer felt, in the Franklin's Tale, his usual interest in character. The story seems to have been interesting to him mainly because of what it offered, or demanded, in the way of study of emotion. ISTot that he attempts any analysis so subtle as that in Troilus and Criseyde; not that there is any great scope or variety of emotions, for they are limited to joy and sorrow in their various degrees. What is striking is the completeness of the "lines of emotion ;" 13 194 WALTER MORRIS HART. from beginning to end of the story we can trace the emo- tional rise and fall of Aurelius, fall and rise of Dorigen.^^ " Complete illustration would require the quotation of a large portion of the tale. Dorigen's varying moods may be traced in out- line as follows: "A yeer and more lasted this blisful lyf" (v. 806) ; in Arveragus's absence "wepeth she and syketh * * * moorneth, waketh, wayleth, fasteth, pleyneth" (vv. 817 and 819) ; her friends comfort her '"til she Receyved hath, by hope and by resoun, The emprenting of hir consolacioun, Thurgh which hir grete sorwe gan aswage" (vv. 832ff.) ; "Hir freendes sawe hir sorwe gan to slake" (v. 841) ; she walked with them and saw the ships, "but than was that a parcel of hir wo" (v. 852) ; she saw the rocks, "For verray fere so wolde hir herte quake, That on hir feet she mighte hir noght sustene" (w. 860ff. ) ; her lament concerning the rocks and the problem of evil follows. Her friends try other places, where, however, she "made ahvey hir compleint and hir mone" (v. 920) ; yet at last she must "with good hope lete hir sorwe slyde" (v. 924). When Aurelius declared his love, "she gan to loke" (v. 979) upon him, — evidently in surprise and scorn. "What deyntee sholde a man ban in his lyf For to go love another manues wyf" (w. 1003f. ) ; afterward, "And hoom they goon in loj'e and in solas. Save only wrecche Aurelius, alias!" (vv. lOlOf.) (Has Chaucer forgotten Dorigen, or did he intend to include her in those who went home joyfully?) When Arveragus returns, "0 blisful artow now, thou Dorigen!" (v. 1090). We hear no more of Dorigen until Aurelius tells her of the removal of the rocks; then "she astonied stood, In al hir face nas a drope of blood * * * ^^(j hoom she gooth a sorweful creature. For verray fere unnethe may she go. She wepeth, wailleth, * * * swowneth » * * With face pale and with ful sorweful chere." (vv. 1339ir.). Her Complaint follows. "Thus pleyned Dorigene a day or tweye" (v. 1547). "She gan wepen ever lenger the more" (v. 14G2). She expresses no emotion when she hears Arveragus's command, but when she meets Aurelius and he asks where she is going, She answerde, half as she were mad, 'Un-to the gardin, as myn housbond bad. My trouthe for to holde, alias! alias!' (w. ISllff.). Her relief is not described, except by "She thonketh him up-on hir knees al bare" (v. 1545). Finally, Arveragus and Dorigene his \yj{ In sovereyn blisse leden forth hir lyf (vv. 1551f.). THE franklin's TALE. 195 Equally striking is the contrast between rise and fall, joy and sorrow. Dramatic contrast heightens the effect of the despair of Aiirelius after his rejection: And hoom they goon in loye and in solas, Save only wrecche Avirelius, alias! (w. 1019f.). There is the same sharj) contrast between Aurelius's "Fy on a thousand pound" and his emotions when he finds himself beggared for nothing. As in dealing ^vith character, so also in dealing with mental states, Chaucer does not hesitate to use a direct or analytical method, to name emotions. Numerous epithets occur in the assignment of the speeches, — as when Aurelius is said to have begun his "pleynt" with "pitous herte," — including almost every conceivable word for joy and sorrow.^'* At supreme moments, however, Chaucer is likely to let a "known cause" suggest the emotion. Thus little is said of Dorigen's relief when she is released from her promise, or of Aurelius's when he is released from his, and nothing whatever of the joy of Arveragus when Doiigen returns to him. Doubtless his feelings "can be better imagined than described." Rather curi- ously, as it seems to us,^^ Dorigen expresses no emotion when Arveragus commands her to keep her word. The rocks and ships, a notable instance of "known cause," are not allowed to stand alone and suggest ; for purposes of "Astonied, blisse, blisful, cares colde, comfort, compassioun, con- solation, despeyred, dredful, fere, glad, herte soor, hope, good hope, humble, humblesse, loy, lisse, mad, penaunce, peynes smerte, pitous, pitously, routhe, solas, sorwe, sorweful, sorwefully, wo, woful. " It is perhaps modern feeling about the matter which dictates the passionate outburst of Dorigen in Beaumont and Fletcher's Triumph of Honor. She speaks to the same effect, though more briefly, in Boccaccio's novella. In Chaucer's conception, perhaps, her vows demanded a silence like Griselda's. 196 WALTER MORRIS HART. "preparation"^*^ their effect is explained and carefully emphasized. Chaucer, as has been said, does not visualize the back- ground or the persons of his story ; all the more striking, therefore, is his constant conception of the expression of the emotions as audible and visible. Grief finds inar- ticulate expression, — sighs, groans, tears. Aurelius "knew not what he spoke;" Dorigen answered "half as she were mad." Contrasted with these are the conventional prayers, "complaints," exempla proving the necessity of death, brooding over the problem of evil. Action, "pan- tomime," accompanying these emotional utterances, serves to heighten their effects, as when Dorigen sat and stared at the sea, or (in surprise and scorn) "gan to loke upon Aurelius," or thanked him for releasing her "upon her knees al bare," or as when Aurelius turned away (in despair) with a single word, or, kneeling on bare knees, raised his hands to Heaven, or started up suddenly when his brother suggested to him a way of fulfilling Dorigen'a impossible condition. In a singularly effective couplet, which almost dignifies Aurelius's passion, action stands alone : It may wel be he loked on hir face In swich a wyse, as man that asketh grace (v. 957f.). More purely automatic reactions, the results, or, as Pro- fessor James would say, the causes of emotion, convey to the reader a sense of the sufferings or the joys of Aurelius and Dorigen.^ ^ In spite, however, of this " Cf. pp. 204ff., below. "The tale abounds in such studies in physiological psj^chology as "Anon for loye his heite gan to daunce" (v. 1136) ; "For verray fere so wolde hir herte quake, That on hir feet she mighte hir noght sustene" (vv. 8G0f.) ; "In al hir face nas a drope of blood" (v. 1340) ; or as "in swowne he 111 adoun. And longe tyme he lay forth in a traunce" (vv. 1080f.). THE FRANKLIISf's TALE. 197 insistence upon emotion and the more violent forms of its expression, the tale is not witlioiit a certain reticence, as in the case just cited, of Aurelius turning away in despair with a single word, or, still more noteworthy, the brief and restrained speech of Dorigcn to Aurelius, when they met in the busy street: "Un-to the gardiii, as myn housbond bad, My trouthe for to holde, alias! alias!" (vv. 1512f.). Chaucer's silence at supreme moments has already been noted. ^^ In keeping with this relatively elaborate psychology is the relatively elaborate study of motives. The central motive, however, the mainspring of the action, is not an emotion, but a concept, *'the contagious influence of good." In this case the particular good is truth, honor, keeping one's word, remaining true to one's vows, without regard to the consequences to oneself or to others. "Trouthe is the hyeste thing that man may kepe" (v. 1479) declares Arveragus. It was a common medieval ideal. In one or another form it inspired most of the tales of the tenth book of the Decameron; it inspired romances like Amis and Amile or Sir Gaivayn and the Grene Knight. It is at bottom the ideal of perfect faith, of "Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him," or of "Whosoever will save his life shall lose it; and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it." It is an inspiriting belief; there is an encouraging optimism in the thought that virtue and self-sacrifice do in the end receive their reward. Stories illustrating it have a peculiarly stimulating quality ; they are, too, essentially dramatic, in that tragedy seems inevitable, and the hapjiy ending comes, with a shock of "P. 195, above. / 198 WAIvTEB MORRIS HART. surprise, as an unexpected relief, l^or does the fact that Arveragus foresaw the generosity of Aurelius destroy this ideal quality in the Franklin s Tale. We delight to find that his confidence was not misplaced, and our faith in the essential goodness of mankind is confirmed. Arveragus himself becomes, by virtue of his foresight, less the fanatic, more the sane man of the world, who conceives his ideal of truth in practical and rational terms. He is still to be contrasted with Boccaccio's Gil- bert©, who acted simply through fear of the necromancer. Common as was, in the Middle Ages, this high ideal of honor, it is not to be supposed that it was realized every day. To the charm of the idealism of the story must be added the charm of its strangeness, not only in the deed of Arveragus, but in his relations with Dorigen. Sense of honor must take precedence of love; the greater the love, therefore, the greater the triumph of honor. The Franklin takes care to emphasize, to expound at length, at the very beginning of the tale, the perfect equality and harmony of Dorigen and Arveragus, this paradox of married lovers. Only such an unusual wife as Dorigen would, without question, obey her husband's command, or would reject such a lover as Aurelius.^' Aurelius is from the very beginning doomed to defeat, a defeat which he owes not only to the perfect union of Dorigen and Arveragus, proof against any conceivable attack, but also to the nature of his own passion, which can stoop to attain its end by "constraint." The trap of his making in which Dorigen finds herself (v. 1341), the " Cf. Violet Paget's essay on Medieval Love in Euplwrion, and Bedier, Les Lais de Marie de France, Revue des Deux Mondcs, CVII, 852. THE franklin's TALE. 199 chain of his forging (v. 1355), stand in sharp contrast with the "large reyne" proffered her by Arveragus. The trap, after all, is not a real one; Dorigen's condi- tion is not actually fulfilled, for the removal of the rocks is but a passing illusion, a seeming, an appearance,^*'/ not an objective reality, like Merlin's placing of the Giant's Dance at Stonehenge. The art which produced such illusions was practiced by heathen folk ; it was "a supersticious cursednesse" (v. 1272),^^ and it is clearly not by chance that Aurelius is thus allied with the powers of evil, described as calling upon Apollo and Venus, and as thanking them when at last they seem to grant his prayer, while Dorigen is represented as swearing by the God of the Christians when she rejects Aurelius,^^ and apostrophizing him in regard to the problem of evil.^^ There is thus, in tlie Franhlins Tale, if not confusion, at least conflict, of creeds. The central motive of the story is essentially an apologue ,1 theme, a theme for a moral tale. But Chaucer was, asU has been said, interested even more in its concrete than in its abstract possibilities, that is to say, in the characters and emotions of the persons concerned, and by virtue of this interest the story becomes something more than mere 'apologue, still retaining, however, certain characteristics of apologue structure. This conflict of abstract and con- crete interests, of two distinct literary types, accounts for most of the peculiarities of structure of the FranJclin's Tale. It is 896 lines, nearly 7,500 words, in length. It is a "Cf. ^n.r. 1140, 1158, 1264ff., 1295f. "Cf. vv. 1132ff. « Vv. 989, 1000. "Vv. 865ff. 200 WALTER MORRIS HART. single episode, divided into five events, and preceded by a relatively long introduction.^^ It is difficult to draw hard and fast lines between the events ; they do not form distinct masses like the events in the Reeve's Tale. Yet they are, relatively, not more numerous, for the Reeve's Tale is less than half as long (3,350 words) and has three events.^^ This relative fewness of events makes possible a considerable elabora- tion, and all but the last two may be properly regarded as scenes. In each of the first three, that is, there is some emphasis of time and place relations, unity of dramatis personge, detailed incidents, and dialogue. From the human point of view, because of its emotional possi- bilities, and from the point of view of dramatic structure, the third scene (the disappearance of the rocks and its results) is the most important; it is, therefore, the longest. Xext in interest and length is the first (Aurelius declares his love). The last event (the magician releases Aurelius), most important from the point of view of apologue, since it forms the logical climax of the story, is emotionally least interesting, and therefore briefest. Partly, perhaps, in an attempt to avoid anti-climax, partly, perhaps, because of a certain distaste for the inevitable symmetry of the " Introduction ( vv. 729-900) 19 I. Aurelius Declares His Love (vv. 901-1086) 21 II. Aurelius Brings the Magician from Orleans {w. 1100-1238) .16 III. The Disappearance of the Rocks and its Consequences (vv. 1256-1458) 23 IV. Aurelius Releases Dorigen ( vv. 1459-1556) 11 V. The Magician Releases Aurelius (vv. 1557-1620) 07 Transitions and Connections 03 " The contrast with the Man of Law's Tale is striking. It is only 168 lines longer than the Franklin's Tale, but consists of a series of more than a dozen events, grouped into several distinct episodes. It is thus conceived as a long romance or an epic poem. THE franklin's TALE. 201 two events, Chancer j)asses rapidly, too, over the fourth event (Aurelius releases Dorigen), which, had it not been for the impending fifth event, might have been effectively elaborated as climax and close of the story. Apologue treatment of the original theme demanded emphasis of three deeds of increasingly astonishing magnanimity, requiring increasing elaboration of the last three events. Fabliau or short-story treatment demanded emphasis of a series of emotional situations leading up to an emotional climax in the untying of the knot, requiring special elaboration of the fourth event of the story. Chaucer attempted to compromise these conflicting requirements, and the result is the apparent lack of firmness of grasp, and the anti-climax and symmetrical close, which we have in the FranJcliri's Tale. Moreover, from the modern point of view, at any rate, Chaucer's method of elaborating his two great scenes leaves something to be desired. Even from the medieval point of view it was conventional.^^ For the third scene owes its length mainly (100 of the 211 lines) to Dorigen's enumeration of exempla ; and of the first scene about one- third (60 of the 186 lines) is taken up with the "com- plaint" of Aurelius, and his prayer to Apollo and Venus. For the rest, however, these scenes are elaborated much as in modern narratives, — by emphasis of time, place, detailed incidents, dialogue, and description, or expres- ''" Cf. Schofield, M. L. A., XVI, 444f. Hinckley, Notes on Chaucer, p. 239, regards "the long and uninteresting list of virtuous women, which retards the story without exculpating the heroine," as an indication of Chaucer's immaturity and as evidence for the early date of the Franklin's Tale. Saintsbury, Cambridge History of English Literature, II, 217, is perhaps thinking of such passages as this when he says that "it is by no means cei-tain that in his dis- plays of learning Chaucer is not mocking or parodying others as well as relieving himself." 202 WALTER MOEE.IS HAKT. sion, of emotion. There is, as has been said, but little in the way of visualization ; the background is but dimly seen, and the figures do not clearly detach themselves from it. The story is therefore not strong in pictorial situa- tions, in moments when "the characters fall * * * into some attitude to each other or to nature, which stamps the story home like an illustration."^^ If the lines which tell how Dorigen gazed upon the rocks have any of this quality, it is due almost wholly to the reader's imagination : But whan she saugh the grisly rokkes blake, For verray fere so wolde hir herte quake, That on hir feet she niighte hir noght sustene. Than wolde she sitte adoun upon the grene, And pitously in-to the see biholde, And seyn right thus, with sorweful sykes colde (w. 859fif.). Visualization is left largely to the reader, yet the passage is immensely suggestive, and sets the imagination at work in the pictorial way, much as when Beo^vulf's faithful retainers stared at the sea, hoping against hope for their lord's return, or when stout Cortez and all his men stared at the Pacific, silent, upon a peak in Darien. Similarly pictorial by suggestion is the meeting of Dorigen and her lover, "amidde the toun, right in the quikkest strete" (v. 1502). With such passages as these, the best in their kind to the"" found in the Franklin's Tale, it is enlightening to contrast the description of Chauntecleer : He loketh as it were a grim leoun; And on his toos he rometh up and doun. Him deyned not to sette his foot to grounde. He chukketh, whan he hath a corn y-founde, And to him rennen thanne his wyves alle. Thus royal, as a prince is in his halle, Leve I this Chauntecleer in his pasture (B, vv. 4369flf.). The difference in method needs no comment. " R. L. Stevenson, Memories and Portraits, p. 256. THE FKANKLIn's TALE. 203 "Situation," however, has another meaning. It may be simply the point in a story "at which the actors are * * brought together significantly."^^ From the point of view thus suggested the Franklins Tale may be regarded as mainly a succession of situations, of situations, perhaps, rather than events or scenes, for what Chaucer gives us is not so much action as a series of readjustments of the interrelations of the persons. "^ Not unexpected, then, is the large amoimt of generalized narrative, summing up the antecedent events of the mar- riage of Dorigen and Arveragus, the transitional events of the years of Arveragus's absence and of Aurelius's despair, or recounting the habitual actions of Dorigen. The exempla of Dorigen's long "complaint" are in the form of still more rapid summary. Like the exempla in the Nuns Priest's Tale, they constitute a descending series, in which the succeeding tales are dealt with in more and more summary fashion. Characteristic of this kind of narration are the "often's" (vv. 848, 853) and the generalizing "would's," — "ther wolde she sitte and thinke" (v. 857), "so wolde hir herte quake" (v. 860), — which interfere somewhat with the pictorial suggestion of this situation. Curious enough is the effect of the passage quoted just above, in which it is said that when Dorigen sat by the brink and saw the grizzly black rocks, her heart would so tremble with fear "that on hir feet she mighte hir noght sustene" (v. 861), whereupon she would sit down on the green.^^ The lines that follow seem to imply that Dorigen was in the habit of repeating, word for word, " C. S. Baldwin, A College Manual of Rhetoric, p. 150. " Reconstructors of the "inner history" of anonymous poems would find in such a passage as this, with its inconsistencies and its "vicious repetition," ideal proof of "different hands" and "variant versions." 204 WALTER MORRIS HART. her interesting monologue in regard to the problem of evil. This whole tendency, manifestly enough, makes away from concreteness and vividness ; in the last example it even shows a complete failure to grasp as concrete at all what is of necessitv a concrete situation. The large amount of merely introductory or transitional matter, the failure to crystallize all the incidents of the story in a few clear-cut scenes or situations, the very marked tendency toward generalized narrative, seem to imply a lack of sureness, a lack of firmness of handling, almost a kind of fumbling with the matter in hand. And yet the first part of the story is admirably managed. The careful pre])aration for the peculiar form of Dorigen's rash promise is indeed very noteworthy, and comparable, in its way, with Shakespeare's treatment of the pound-of- flesh motive in the Merchant of Venice. Just as Shakes- peare leads up to the proposal of the bond by the discussion of interest,^*^ Chaucer avoids all shock of unrealitv in Dorigen's condition by most careful and gi-adual prepara- tion.^^ When, by force of time, and because of letters which she received from Arveragus, Dorigen's great sor- row began to assuage somewhat, she consented to walk in company with her friends. But her castle stood by the sea, and as they walked along the shore, the many ships, not one of them all bringing back her lord, served but to renew her grief. Turning from the ships, her eye fell upon their enemies the rocks, and her heart trembled so with fear that her feet could not sustain her. These hostile black rocks, she thought, were created for naught "Cf. ]\Ioulton, Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist, pp. 62ff. "A closer and more modern parallel is to be found in The Oreat Divide, wliere Mr. Moody is less successful than Cliaucer, in solving, however, a more difficult problem in preparation and motivation. THE franklin's tale. 205 but to injiu'o and destroy mankind. Her mind dwelt on the problem of evil. Her friends now chose "places delit- ables" for their walks, and one day in a fair garden she saw Aureliiis dancing with the others. When they were alone he declared his love. In her reply it is clear that she is thinking first of Anrelius, then of herself, as a faith- ful wife, then, naturally, of her liusband, with whom she has now come to associate, through her hopes for his return and through her fears for the danger of the voyage, the black rocks of Brittany. Thinking of Arveragus, of her love, her fear, the absurdity of Aurelius's petition strikes her, and so "in pleye," — by way of ironical emphasis, not to spare her lover's feelings, but rather to deride him, she says that she will gTant him her love, — yes, when he has removed all those dread rocks from the shores of Brittan}'.^- Her condition is "an impossible," as Aurelius declares; it is to be understood like the "when sun and moon dance on the green" of the ballads, like the "when a' the seas gang dry, my dear" of Burns, as a peri- phrasis for never. Her final words are scornful : "What deyntee sholde a man ban in liis lyf For to go love another mannes wyf?" (vv. 1003f.). Her threefold rejection of Aurelius is thus not emphatic, courteous, scornful, but, in climactic order, emphatic, derisive, scornful. As in the Merchant of Venice, this jesting promise is taken seriously by an enemy, and results as disastrous as they are unexpected seem immi- nent. Thus the whole matter of the rocks is significant as leading to the threatened catastrophe, as a dramatic " "The promise of Dorigen was really a vow to be constant as a rock to her husband. In taking her literally, Aurelius knew that he was taking her contrary to her meaning. This is explicitly acknowledged in v. IGOl." Hinckley, 'Notes on Chaucer, p. 239. 206 WALTER MORRIS HART. "moment of excitation," and in that part of the narrative which deals with the fulfilment of Dorigen's condition and with her escape from her predicament we have somewhat the same sort of gradual approach to an objective point.^^ The approach is now gradual, not so much for purposes of emphasis and verisimilitude, as it is for purposes of suspense created hj delay. Otherwise suspense seems little thought of; indeed the Franklin seeks rather to reassure his hearers : Dorigen "may have better fortune than yow semeth," he says. But one imagines that they had guessed that already.^"* The Franklin s Tale is, then, eminently dramatic, in that it was conceived and written as an integral part of the drama of the Canterbury Tales, springing from the ; character of the narrator and his relation to his fellow- pilgrims, from the dramatic situation of the Pilgrimage. j^ The Franklin described it as a Breton lay, yet did not ' attempt to invest it with the glamor of the past, or to \\ relate it to the Celtic other-world. His settings, indeed, are but vaguely conceived and vaguely described. The persons of his tale, too, are but dimly seen and conven- " There is an interesting instance of failure to provide for the necessities of the working out of the story. After the removal of the rocks, An'eragus, for purposes of suspense, must be away from home. Otherwise Dorigen's despair, which she was unable to conceal, could have no duration, would not be sufficiently impressive or "convinc- ing." This, clearly enough, (Jhaucer has not foreseen, and inserts only at the last moment, when the situation requires it, the line, "For out of toune was goon Arveragus" (v. 1351). The careful and timely motivation of his earlier absence ("I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honor more") is to be contrasted with this. Stevenson's discussion of a similar omission in Scott is interesting. " It is possibly in the interests of suspense that Chaucer refrains from laying greater stress upon Arveragus's foresight of the behavior of Aurelius. THE franklin's TALE. 207 tionally characterized. Yet they are firmly grasped as types, and between two of them, the man of action and^ the sentimentalist, the distinction is clear and consistenf^ though never carried too far. Our impression of the characters is conveyed by means of what they do and say, and by the effects which they produce upon one another. The Franklin's Tale, however, is less note- worthy as a study of character than as a study of mental / states ; for comj^leteness of the lines of emotion and for / the dramatic, — audible or visible, — expression of all / degrees of joy and sorrow it stands alone among the ' Canterbury tales. Yet its central motive is not an emotion, but a concept, — the contagious influence of good. This "good" is truth, honor; it involves self-sacrifice; and it constitutes, in its strangeness, its optimism, its dramatic quality, the essential charm of the story. It requires the emphasis of the unusual relation of a husband and wife. In conflict with their ideal and perfect love stands a baser passion, which, to attain its end, makes use of a passing illusion, the appearance of a miracle. The contagious influence of good is an apologue theme, and the anti-climax and symmetrical close of the FranJc- lin's Tale are doubtless due to an attempt to reconcile the technical demands of exemplum and pure narrative. The tendency to narrate in general terms, the absence of visual- ization and of pictorial situations may perhaps be traced to the same cause. Yet the tale abounds in suggestive situations, is itself perhaps to be regarded as a situation. And there is no lack of evidence of grasjD of the whole, of "preparation" for purposes of verisimilitude, of steady approach, gradual, yet without suspense^, to an objective point. 208 WALTER MORRIS IIART. II. The Franklin's Tale and the Breton Lays. Whether or not the Fraiiklin's declaration in regard to the source of his tale is to be taken seriously, it is at least a challenge to compare his story of Dorigen and Arveragus with undoubted Breton lays. Such a com- parison reveals many resemblances, and these are not merely of the obvious sort, such as the selection of Brittany as the scene of action, but much that seems, at first glance, peculiar to Chaucer, may be paralleled in the lays of Marie de France, or in other stories of the same type. The treatment of character is similar. Marie's hero, Lanval, springing up and advancing courteously to meet the attendants of the fairy queen, thus showing his breed- ing, revealing his character by pantomime, may well remind us of Aurelius, dancing "passinge any man." Often, too, IMarie's persons are like the Franklin's in that they are not visualized, and in that, if they reveal themselves by speech, it is by what they say merely, and not by the manner of saying it. Both Marie and the Franklin make use of the conventional epithets, — like "valiant" and "courteous," — for the conventional quali- ties. Equally conventional are the emotions ; and in no single lay is there gi-eater variety than in the Franklin's Tale. Professor Schofield calls attention to the resem- blance of the despairing lovers, Aurelius and Lanval; both experience the sharp contrasts of joy and sorrow.^ ° It is not possible, however, to trace complete "lines of emotion," and Marie's vocabulary of the pmoti(ms is not so large as the Franklin's. Yet she has not quite the Franklin's reticence; she is not content with telling us that Lanval's heritage was far hence, in a distant land, all his money gone, — for King Arthur gave him nothing, "Cf. M. L. A., XVI, 428f., Franklin's Tale, vv. 101 Off., and Lanval, w. 255ff. THE franklin's TALE. 209 and he knew not where to seek for aid ; she adds that he was much perplexed and very sorrowful and heavy of heart. Like Aurelius and Dorigen tho heroes of the lays > reveal their strong feeling by "automatic reactions." The frequent swoonings in the English Emare recall Aure- lius. And a similar method is revealed in Tyolei in the knight's wagging liis head at those who mocked him, in the false knight's saying never a word when he is caught in a lie, but reddening and frowning as one ashamed. In. the same manner Guigemar's heart is set in a tumult bv love ; he sighs in sore anguish, passes the night in sighing and sore trouble, remembering her words and her manner, her shining eyes and her sweet mouth, that had brought this sorrow into his heart.^* In the matter of structure there are some general, though not very significant, resemblances between the lays and ■' the Franklin's Tale. There is the same tendency to begin with a formal introduction in general terms, the same tendency to make use of narrative in general terms,^*^ and an absence of the vigorous handling and excellence of proportion, so noteworthy in the fabliaux. Yet, where it is necessary, Marie is quite capable of making careful preparation for succeeding events, as where she empha- sizes the silken mantle and the ring by which the heroine of La Frene is to be identified at a critical moment;'**^ or as where she carefully motives the transition from love to hate in the queen's feeling toward Lanval.'*^ Marie is capable, too, of the gradual approach to an objective point, ^^ yet she makes no attempt to keep the reader in " Guigemar, vv. 379ff. ^* Cf. Lanval or Bisclavret. "Cf. La Frine, vv. I'ilff., 301ff.. 390ff., 484ff. *' Lanval, vv. 261ff. " Cf. the "gradation" of the opening event in Bisclavret. 210 WALTER MORRIS HART. doubt, and, like the Fraukliu, tells what the end is to be before she reaches it.'*^ It is interesting to comj)are her treatment of the werwolf with that of a modern author; Marie lets the reader into the secret at once. S. Carleton, in The Lame PriestJ^^ gives the reader increas- ingly definite suggestions as to the solution of the mystery, yet never really solves it for him. Finally there is in the lays a suggestion of that same idealism which is the essential charm of the Franhlins Tale. The persons are of noble birth, and their characters are vaguely idealized. The first wife of Eliduc, who gives up her rights to a second, and La Frene, who consents in all humility to her lover's marriage with another, have a generosity as ideal (and as difficult for us to sympathize with) as that of Arveragus. Only for Frene (from our point of view) does the story end well and encourage the timidly unselfish with an example of the safety of apparent self-sacrifice. These are some of the technical similarities of the Franklin's Tale and the Breton lays; the differences are more striking. Not one of the lays, in the first place, has the dramatic or personal quality of the Franhlins Tale. Few, if any, dispense so completely with the atmosphere, the glamor, of the past, which the subject-matter demands. ^^ While " Cf. La Frene, v. 304, and Les Dous Anianz, w. 185ff. ** Atlantic Monthly, LXXXVIII, 760ff. *^ Cf. the opening lines of Tyolet, describing the England of Arthur's time, when there were fewer folk in the land, and knights, wandering through the country without even a squire for company, seeking adventures by day or by dusky night, often found neitlier house nor tower. "In Brittany of old time there reigned a king" sounds more like the FranJclin's Tale, but in that Brittany Guingamor rode through the adventurous land, over a meadow where the turf was green and llowery, and saw the walls of a great palace, well built, yet without mortar. THE FKANKLIN S TALE. 211 some produce the same impression of isolation, others are more elaborate in their geography than the Franklin's Tale, and the lay of Two Lovers attaches itself to a locality real and known. Marie usually surpasses the Franklin in the visualization of the scene of action, in sense for the beauty and color of the background. The Franklin draws no picture so vivid as that scene in the lay where Lanval lies alone in the green meadov/, his horse grazing beside him, and watches the approach of the two fair maidens, clad in purple gray, bearing the towel of white linen and the basin of gold. There is contrast of the same sort in the treatment of the social setting; it is indeed rather surprising that in this respect the lays should be more realistic than Chaucer's tale, but such is the case.*^ ISTot only by relating them to the world of men, but also by visualizing them, are the persons of the lays made to seem more real. AVhile Chaucer is content with bare mention of Dorigen's high rank, Marie is at pains to describe the supernatural beings of her lays, in order to convince us of their powers.'*'^ This visualization, more- over, is not confined to supernatural beings ; the naively charming, if somewhat conventional, passage in the Earl of Toulous describes an empress ''showing openly her face" for the love of a knight.'*^ "Compare, for example, the historical setting of Lanval: King Arthur was sojourning at Cai'duel because of the Picts and the Scots, who had greatly destroyed the land, for they were in the kingdom of Logres and often wrought mischief therein. The heroine of Doon is not merely a lady of high i-ank, but has definite powers as ruler. " Cf. Lanval, vv. 553ff. **The description recalls Chaucer's Prioress: 212 WALTER MOKEIS HART. Aside from personal api)earance, however, the reader learns far more of character from the Frankliri's Tale I than from the lays. In tlie latter the persons are scarcely » even types; they are not, at any rate, differentiated; all are valiant, courteous, and beautiful. Even Dorigen seems real if we place her beside the heroine of Boon, who was also rich, noble, and averse to losing her freedom in marriage.^^ Contrasts are confined to characters merely good and bad; the lays have nothing so subtle as the difference between Arveragus and Aurelius. The per- sons in the lays are simply good and bad, and evil char- acters are not, like Aurelius, endowed with redeeming qualities. The lays, as we have just seen, show something like Hur eyen were gray as any glas, Mowthe and nose schapen was At all nianer ryght ; Fro the forhedd to the too, Bettur schapen myght non goo, Nor none semelyer yn syght. Twyes sche turnyd hur abowte, Betwene the erlys that were stowte, For the erle schulde hur see; When sche spake wyth mylde ste\-yn, Sche semyd an aungell of he^yn, So feyre sche was of blee. Hur syde longe, hur myddyll small, Schouldurs, amies, therwythall, Fayrer myght non bee; Hur hondys whyte as whallys bonne Wyth fyngurs longe and ryngys upon Hur nayles bryght of blee (vv. 340fr.). "Like Dorigen, she required of her suitors the performance of impossible tasks. But when they did ride from Soutliampton to Edinburgh in a day, she, instead of contemplating suicide, put them to death, after the manner of the raiirchen heroine. THE FRANKLIN S TALE. 213 Chaucer's interest in the emotions ; with them, indeed, the passion of lovo is regularly the central motive, and they do not come nearer a pure concept than the general notion of love which underlies Guigemar, — that neglect of love leads to excessive suffering through love.^*^ We find, indeed, the same insistence on the importance of a vow; Sir Degare has won a lady by his valor, but at the beginning of the very marriage ceremony, remembers his vow to marry no one whom certain gloves will not fit. We can find a fair example even of the contagious influ- ence of good, when, in the Earl of Toulous, the Empress Beulyboon insists that Sir Trylabas must keep his word, bring the earl, her husband's enemy, to see her, and let him depart unharmed. Sir Trylabas felt that her reproof was well deserved, and did not at that time harm the earl. Later, however, though he owed much to the earl's gen- erosity, he, with two other knights, treacherously attacked and sought to slay him. There is, too, a formulated moral at the end of Equitan, to the effect that he who digged the pit must lie in it, and the same notion is implied in the birth of the twins in La Frene.^^ But all this is exceptional ; normally the lay is not in the least interested in abstract or general ideas, and, normally, it is utterly unmoral. Thus in Emare the Pope is said to sanction the marriage of a father and daughter, or, in ElidiLC, to permit the hero to take a second wife while the first one lives. In Yonec the hero kills his mother's husband ; and in La Frene the relations of hero and heroine are regarded as a matter of course. It was clearly not the *'' Seven Lays of Marie de France, translated bj^ Edith Rickert, p. 168. " To a woman who had declared that twins and fidelity are incompatible. V 214 WALTER MOERIS HAE.T. way of the lay to seize upon an apologue theme and attempt to make of it a romantic story. Most striking of all is, perhaps, the treatment of the supernatural. ^ Beside the Franklin's scepticism stands simple belief; beside a mere sham, appearance, illusion, stand real fairy queens and kings, living in a real fairy- land, reached only through caves or over perilous rivers ; stand also actual transformations from stag, or wolf, or bird to knight or lover. The draught, finally, which the young lover brought from Salerno was of a real, not an imaginary, potency ; it would have made possible a super- human feat of strength. As it was, the land where the draught was sprinkled was the richer for it, and even to-day many a good herb is found there that had its root in the potion. ^^ The lay did not seize upon an apologue theme, and consequently was never marred, as is the Franklins Tale, by an unduly symmetrical structure. To this the nearest approach is the coming of the maidens attendant upon the fairy queen, in Lanval, two by two, leading up to the climax of the apj)earance of the queen herself. In this, however, we have something akin to the simple art of the ballad or folk tale, but no attempt to shape by moral purpose or logic the wayward events of human life. With its keener visualization of persons, with its rela- tively greater interest in things outward and tangible, the lay combines a greater delight in pictorial situations. This coming of the fairies in Lanval, the hero's first meet- ing with them, Guingamor's first glimpse of the fairy princess, Tyolet's first sight of a knight, who changes from stag to man-at-arms before his eyes, — all these, and many more, passages in the lays, stamp themselves upon "Les Dous Amanz, yv. 225flf. THE franklin's TALE. 215 the mind like illustrations. Situation, both in the pic- torial sense and in that of a significant assembling of the persons, is that fine passage in Sir Degare, where the hero, in a strange general silence, sups with a distressed damsel in her castle and is afterward put to sleep by her harping. The main interest in the lays, however, is in the plot and its strangeness; no lay could be described, as one may describe the Franklin s Tale, as a story of situation, where there is little action, but simply a series of readjustments of the characters' relations with one another. The Franklin s Tale is, then, like the Breton lays, in that the scene is laid in Brittany ; in its general treatment of character and mental states, its revelation of emotion by "automatic reactions ;" in its summary of antecedent action and narration in general terms; in the absence of firm and vigorous handling of plot, and of due emphasis and proportion; in the relatively careful preparation for what is to come; in its steady approach, gradual, yet with- out suspense, to an objective point ; and in its idealism. The contrasts are more striking than the resemblances. The Franhlins Tale differs from the lays in its dramatic quality and all that this implies. It lacks their vivid backgrounds, their glamor of the past, their social setting, preudo-historical, yet realistic in effect. It lacks their visualization of character. Its persons are not mere doers of deeds, but relatively complex types; not contrasted as good and bad, but, more subtly, as man of action and sentimentalist ; and none are merely bad, but the worst has redeeming qualities. While it betrays, perhaps, no greater interest in mental states, its lines of emotion are far more complete, and it is more dramatic in its hesitation to name emotions which are adequately implied in the situation. It differs from the lays in its concern with 216 WALTER MORRIS HART. general or abstract ideas, Avith a moral concept, with an apologue theme. It differs from them in its use of a false rather than a true supernatural element, and in its curiously symmetrical structure. And it lacks their delight in pictorial situations and in action. Thus its art differs very materially from the art of the lays. Ill, The Franklin's Tale and the Canterbury Pilgrimage. The Franklins Tale was, as has been said, written for the place which it now occupies, and is to bs regarded as an organic part of the Drama of the Canterbury Pil- grimage. It must be studied not merely as an isolated work of art, not merely as an imitation of the Breton lay, but also in its relation to the General Prologue, to the Prologues^^ of the various tales, and to the Tales them- selves. The action of what I have ventured to call the Drama of the Pilgrimage begins, towards the end of the General Prologue,^'^ after the descriptions of April, the Tabard Inn, and the characters of the Pilgrims, with the Host's suggestion for their entertainment on the road, and ends with his request to the Parson to tell the last tale. It has thus at least a beginning and an end, two of the requisites of plot. The middle is a series of loosely con- nected comic incidents, unified by the dominant personality " Tliese should be understood to include all the matter that inter- venes between the tales. — Prologues, Introductions, Epilogues, various "'Words of the Host." etc. The general term Prologues is used for convenience. The Drama of the Pilgrimage does not include the Prioress's Prologue, or the Envoy of the Clerk's Tale, or the Man of Law's Prologue, which are to be regarded rather as parts of the tales. "At verse 715. THE FEANKLIn's TALE. 217 of the Host,^"' by the presence of the general plan through- out, and the mood or tone of the whole. Here and there are indicated the shifting scenes (by place-names and without visualization) and the passing time of the action. There are bits of narrative, too, but nine-tenths of the 2,347 lines^*^ are dialogue. Of the speakers, those whom the Eighteenth Century would have described as "loW"^^ have the most to say, dominate the whole, and produce the general impression. They are all comic, and, for the most part, confessedly, or very evidently, or apparently, drunk. Six of them,^* — seven, if we include the Host, — and only four of the other group,^^ speak out of their own prologues. Inevitably we learn most of the low char- acters, and we get the impression that Chaucer was more interested in them than in the others. There is little or no direct description of the persons ; Chaucer's methods are here wholly dramatic and objective. Thus the Miller nolde avalen neither hood ne hat, Ne abyde no man for his curteisye, And in Pilates vois he gan to crj'e. And swoor by armes and by blood and bones (A, 3122ff. ). "^ He is silent only in the Prologue of the Summoner, and in that of the Second Nun, which has no connection with the general frame- work. Cf. Saintsbury, Cainh. Hist. Engl. Lit., II, 204. ^^ It is interesting to note that the longest of the metrical tales, the Knight's, has only 2,550 lines. ^^That is, those low in rank, or those who show themselves, by what they say in their tales or their prologues, to be relatively low in the moral scale or in refinement. They are, in the order of the length of their parts, the Wife of Bath, Host, Pardoner, Canon's Yeoman, Summoner, Reeve, Maunciple, Merchant, Cook, Miller, Friar, Shipman, and Nun's Priest. Nearly nine-tenths of the dia- logue (1,807 lines) is assigned to them, and but little more than one-tenth (279 lines) to the Man of Law, Franklin, Chaucer, Clerk, Parson, Monk, Knight, Canon, Scjuire. and Prioress. "' Friar, Cook, W'iie of Bath, Reeve, Summoner, and Pardoner. " Chaucer, Knight, Monk, and Parson. 218 WALTER MOERIS HART. The "pantomime," the voice, the oaths, all are typical; the reference to contemporary drama is significant.^^ Perhaps suggested by the drama is the convention of the confession, of persons' setting forth their own characters, exposing, for the benefit of the Pilgrims, good and evil, without shame. Thus the Keeve, in his northern dia- lect, — ''But ik am old, me list not pley for age" (A, 3867). Thus the Maunciple confesses to the Host that the Cook might well reveal his dishonesty. It is only an extension of the same convention when the Pardoner discloses his methods, perhaps inspiring thereby the Wife of Bath's disclosure of hers. Clearly the Pardoner feels that she has outdone him : "Teche us yonge men of your praktike," he says (D, 187). The persons describe not only them- selves but one another, and of this there is no better example than the gradual revelation of the true character of the Canon, by Chaucer, the Yeoman and the Host. The Host is elsewhere active in this way, serving as a kind of showman, calling the Pilgrims' attention to details of Chaucer's, the Monk's, and the Squire's manner and appearance and drawing his own conclusions in regard to character. He serves, too, as a kind of social barometer, his manner being adjusted, though not always with perfect precision, to the rank and importance of the person whom he addresses. It is interesting to contrast his "let the woman tell hir tale," addressed to the Wife of Bath, with "My lady Prioresse, by your leve, So that I wiste I sholde yow nat greve, I wolde demen that ye tellen sholde A tale next, if so were that ye wolde. Now wol ye vouche-sauf, my lady dere?" (B, 1636ff.)" •"Cf. Gayley, The Plays of Our Forefathers, pp. lllff. " In general we may contrast his respectful treatment of Knight, Squire, Prioress, Clerk, Merchant, Physician, Man of Law, with his familiar or rude manner in addressing Miller, Reeve, Parson, Nun's Priest, Monk, and Franklin. THE FEANKLIn's TALE. 219 Particularly interesting, as evidence not only of Chaucer's tolerance, but also of his objectivity, his dramatic detach- ment, is the Host's treatment of Franklin and of Parson. In the General Prologue the former is described as a person of great dignity, with nothing to his discredit more serious than delight in high living; the latter is the most highly idealized of all the Pilgrims. Yet Chaucer permits the Host, whom he describes as "wys and wel y-taught" (A, '755), to say to one ''Straw for your gentillesse, * * telle on thy tale with-outen wordes mo" (F, 695ff.) ; and to say to the other: "O lankin,^^ be ye there? I smelle a loller in the wind" (B, 1172). Later, indeed, the Host makes partial amends, yet he still persists in the offensive swearing, and urges the Parson to be "fructuous, and that in litel space" (I, 73). Additional evidence, — if addi- tional evidence is necessary, — of Chaucer's delight in describing "low" characters may be found in the portraits of certain persons who, though not among the PilgTims, come to be pretty clearly individualized for us, — the Franklin's account of his son, the Merchant's account of his wife, the Wife of Bath's account of her five husbands, and, finally, the masterpiece, the Host's discriminating description of his wife. She has not, he says, the for- giving disposition of Dame Prudence in Melibeus: "By goddes bones! wlian I bete my knaves, She bringth me forth the grete clobbed staves, And cryeth, 'slee the dogges everichoon, And brek hem, bothe bak and every boon' " (B, 3087flF.) . Yet he would not have us think that she was like the heroine of the Merchant's Tale; though she is a labbing shrew and has a heap of vices more, she is as true as steel (E, 24-2e)ff.). '* Skeat's note on this line calls attention to the derision involved in the diminutive "lankin." 220 WALTER MORRIS HART. Chaucer's interest in low characters was doubtless due in part to the fact that he found in them, as Goethe and Wordsworth did, centuries later, elementary feelings, simply combined and not under restraint, but expressed in plain and emphatic language. Certainly he permits them to express themselves more freely than their betters. The Host, who speaks so much, scarcely speaks at all except under the stress of strong feeling, of delight, or grief, or wrath ; and it is from him and from such persons as the Cook, or the Shipman, or the Friar, that we get the frankest criticisms of the tales. For the Host it would be possible to trace from Prologue to Prologue a kind of "line of emotion." And it is of course the others of his type who are continually involved in quarrels and expressing most freely and most feelingly their low opinions of one another. Chaucer seems to have regarded restraint, on the other hand, as a differencing characteristic of the other class ; Parson and Franklin make no reply to Host or Shipman; the Monk, it is said, took the Host's innuendo "al in pacience" (B, 315.5). Like description of character, the description of emotion is largely in the dramatic manner, of suggestion by words and actions, rather than direct naming or analysis. The Cook, for example, is seen in c(mtrasting passions; while the Eeeve spoke, "for Toye, liiui tlioughtc, he clawed him on the bak" (A, 4326). But when the Maunciple told him he was drunk, the cook wex wroth and wraw, And on the niaunciplo he gan nodde faste For lakke of speche, and doun the hors him caste, Wher as he lay, til that men up him took (H, 46ff.). Emotions, thus violently expressed, are often the results of the quarrels of the Pilgrims, conflicts sometimes of THE franklin's tale. 221 individuals, sometimes, rather, of the professions or trades which they represent. There is more of the personal element in the quarrels of Miller and Reeve, Host and Pardoner. The Host's good-natured criticism of Cook and Maunciple has reference, like the Shipman's attack on the Parson, mainly to the failings peculiar to their professions. The Yeoman, it may be supposed, represents Chaucer or society at large, in his exposure of the Canon's methods. The quarrel of Friar and Summoner is rather a matter of professional jealousy. Even in the case of the Miller and the Reeve, however, the latter's wrath is aroused by the part that a carpenter plays in the Miller's Tale, and he proceeds to get even by telling a tale of a miller. In all cases there is something of a conflict of trades or professions, or criticism of individuals as their representatives, so that the Prologues recall the manner of the old "debates" or fly tings. JS'o two of them, it wall be seen, are quite alike ; they vary not only in relative emphasis of individual and trade or profession, but also by virtue of the differences in the characters concerned and in their relations to one another. The series is further saved from monotony and given an air of reality and spontaneity by the apparent changes in the Host's plans for the tales, as when the drunken JVIiller insists that his tale, and not the Monk's, must follow the Knight's ; or the Shipman, to save the Pilgrims from the Parson's sermon, insists upon telling his tale; or the Maunciple volunteers to take the place of the temporarily incapacitated Cook. There is much lively detail in the account of the latter's equestrian exploit. In this respect it is surpassed only by the lively dramatic incident of the Canon's Yeoman's Pro- logue, where sweating and foam-flecked horses gallop into the story, bearing the alchemist and his assistant. Details 222 WALTEE MORRIS HART. of dress are noted and interpreted, character is revealed by swift question and answer, and the Canon rides away again in shame, leaving his reputation to the tender mercies of the Yeoman. This little scene thus adds to an interest in character like that of the Oeneral Prologue, an interest in the action of a specific moment, with vigorous move- ment, suspense, climax, and lively dialogue. In the last respect, indeed, the scene is but typical of the Avhole Drama of the Pilgrimage, which is, as I have said, nine-tenths direct discourse. In the present instance the Canon twice takes part in the colloquy of Host and Yeoman ; and else- where the quarrels, and reconciliaions through the media- tion of a peace-maker, result in group conversation. For the rest, the utterance is all peculiarly indicative of character and emotion, — loquacity, oaths, coarseness, and dialect, contrast appropriately with brevity, refinement, restraint, and correctness of speech. On the whole, the variety and vigor, the life and spontaneity of the frame- work of the Canterbury Tales present an interesting con- trast to the repose and to the monotonous, though by no means unpleasiug, elegance of the Decameron.^^ The Prologues are, then, mainly in dramatic form, and while Chaucer sometimes speaks with apparent sincerity, in his own person, he might have described them, as Brow^iing did his Dramatic Lyrics, as "so many utterances of so many imaginary persons, not mine." I^^evertheless they are, as Professor Mead has saidj^"* '*by far the most *' Chaucer's inconsistencies, — like the Host's forgetting, in the MatmcijAe's Prologue, that the Cook has already told a tale, or the reference, in the Parson's Prologue, to the Elaunciple's Tale as just finished, — are doubtless due, as Skeat suggests, to the absence of a final revision. They are not, in any case, particularly significant. Even in finished work inconsistencies are common enough. " M. L. A., XVI, 388. THE franklin's TALE. 223 characteristic and original part of his writings. * * * In them * * * we find, perhaps more than anj^vhere else, the true Chaucer, working in his own way, and controlling his sources instead of being partly controlled by them." Thus, with all due regard to the "fallacy of quotations," we can find in this part of Chaucer's work very definite indications of his tendencies and interests, of the questions that occupied his mind, if not always of his answers to them. There is, certainly, very clear indication of his self-consciousness ; the Host's description, in the Prologue to Sir Thopas, is not a sketch of a typical poet, or a caricature ; it has every mark of a portrait and gives evidence of careful self-observation. In the Man of Law's Prologue (B, 45ff.), moreover, as in the Apology and the Retraction,*^ ^ is ample proof that the poet thought of himself as the author of his works, responsible for their matter and their manner. He is a critic of other poets, too, as in the Clerk's praise of Petrarch (E, 32ff.), or the Man of Law's probable condemnation of Gower (B, 77ff.). It is clear that each of the Pilgrims is expected to tell a tale of a definite kind,^^ and where, as with Monk or Wife of Bath, the tale does not seem, at first glance, particularly characteristic of the teller, we must regard it as necessary modification or amplification of the portrait in the General Prologue. The criticism, «»A, 731ff., 3171ff., and I, 1048ff. The final leave-taking of the author is not part of the Drama, but, whatever its sincerity, must be considered in connection with the present phase of the discussion. "Thus the Squire is regarded as a specialist in love; ribaldry is feared from the Pardoner; a dull sermon from the Parson; Chaucer's appearance seems to promise some tale of mirth, "some deyntee thing;" the Host feels that he must warn the Clerk against preach- ing and the "higli style." ;/ 224 WALTER MORRIS HART, too, is characteristic of the critics. Like the gallery in the modern theatre, it is the Ioav characters who are the most outspoken, in jjraise or condemnation, yet the quieter appreciation of the gentles is not forgotten."" In general, Chaucer recognizes the important principle of basing criticism upon psychological effect. Thus the Host demands that the Clerk shall tell a tale which shall be intelligible, and shall neither cause his audience to weep nor put them to sleep. It is the soporific influence to which the Host objects in the Monk's tragedies, while the Knight interrupts them rather because of their too painful character. All the Pilgrims are deeply affected by the Prioress's Tale. That Chaucer had relatively clear conceptions of certain literary types is revealed by the Prologues. "Tragedy" is defined for us by the Monk, whose instructive remarks are concluded by a line suggestive of the modern lecture- room: '*Lo ! this declaring oughte ynough sufiise" (B, 3172). Host and Knight point out the defects of this type. The Parson, in his Prologue, distingTiishes between fiction and the sermon, — chaff and wheat, — but promises to give his hearers all permissible pleasure. It is, how- ever, the Pardoner who is the authority on the technique " Thus the Host vociferously takes sides with virtue in his com- ment on the Physicimi's Tale (C, 287ff.)> expresses violent disgust at Sir Thopas and the Monk's tragedies, strong approval of the Nun's Priest's Tale and the Shipman's Tale, and bestows perfimctory praise on the effort of the Man of Law. The Cook expresses intense delight in the Reeve's Tale. The Knight's Tale is unanimously declared a noble story, but especially praised by "the gentils everichoon." All are solemn when the Prioress has finislied. The Franklin praises the wit and eloqiience of the Squire; the Knight interrupts the Monk. Curiously enough, as it seems to us. the Miller's Tale is received with general laughter (A, 3855), and while there was some difference of opinion, only the Reeve was offended. THE franklin's TALE. 225 of the sermon; the confession of this conscious artist is, in large measure, a disquisition on methods of Persua- sion, wholly with reference to psychological and other effects, including sample arguments, and reference to such minor details as the use of voice and gesture. Most noteworthy is his exposition of the theory of exempla : "Than telle I hem eiisaniples many oon Of olde stories, longe tyme agoon : For Icwed peple loven tales olde; Swich thinges can they wel reporte and holde" (C, 435ff. ). Chaucer clearly distinguishes between such tales as "sounen in-to sinno" and. those concerned with "gentillesse," morality and holiness. He describes his own Meliheus as a "moral tale vertuous" and he expressly refers to the Miller and the Reeve and "othere many mo" as telling tales of the former type.®^ He makes the realist's plea that he has no discretion, is under compulsion to tell all the tales, and adjures his readers not to "make ernest of game." While it does not appear that any of the Pilgrims were offended by the coarseness of the Miller s Tale, it is clear that the gentles stood in some fear of the Pardoner's ribaldry.^® In obvious contrast to tales of this type stand those composed by the "gentle Britons." Chaucer was conscious of a similar contrast in style. He apologizes not only for the subject-matter of Miller and Reeve and their like, but for their manner, their rough and coarse speech, as well. It is, as we have seen, one way of distinguishing them from those of higher rank and greater refinement, in the conversations of the Pro- logues. The Host, moreover, adjures the Clerk to tell •'A, 725ff., 3171ff., I, 1084ff. " In this connection should be noted the Man of Law's condemna- tion of such stories as those of Canacee and Appolonius (B, 80). 226 WALTER MOEEIS IIAET. bis tale plainly and intelligibly, to keep bis pedantic and set expressions, bis fine pbrases, and bis figures of speecb, until such time as be may write tbe bigb style appropriate for kings.'^*' Tbe Man of Law reveals Chaucer's interest in matters of versification, declaring him unskilled in meters and rhyming. Tbe Host finds tbe "drasty ryming" of Sir T ho pas to be "rym dogerel ;" and the Parson holds but a low opinion of rhyme and alliteration in general, and associates the latter with the North and, apparently, with "moralitee and vertuous matere."'^ Tbe Friar displays an unexpected sense of relative emphasis and proportion when be laughs at tbe Wife of Bath's ''long preamble of a tale." More in character is the Clerk's criticism of Petrarch's impertinent description of Pied- mont and Saluzzo, introductory to the tale of Griselda. It is clear that Chaucer had thought of such matters. He was alive, too, to the dangers of monotony, for it is partly on this ground that Knight and Host condemn tbe Monk's tragedies, and that tbe Host interrupts Sir Thopas. The variety of tbe Canterbury Tales is thus not to be regarded as tbe result of their history, or of accident, or of instinct. If the Prologues reveal Chaucer's concern with questions of literary technique, they reveal no less bis surpassing interest in men and in human relations. Nowhere is more manifest his humorous tolerance, bis sympathetic under- standing of men of all degrees of rank, morality, and intel- ligence. He seems to know the peculiar vices incident to every occupation. His prevailing interest, however, seems to be in tbe "war of the sexes," and especially in the "wo that is in mariage." Whether be is sincere in '•Cf. the Franklin's Prologue, F, 716ff. " I, 37ff. It is easy to read between the lines here a reference to Piers Plowman. THE franklin's TALE. 227 his attitude, basing it, like the Wife of Bath, ou experience rather than on authorities, or whether, like Will Honey- comb, he merely "shows his parts by raillery on marriage," he is clearly disposed to take the cynical view. The longest of the Prolognies, that of the Wife of Bath, is a disquisition on methods of making husbands unhappy and obtaining mastery over them. We women, she says, desire what is forbidden us (D, 5l7ff.), and "We love no man that taketh kepe or charge Wher that we goon, we wol ben at our large (D, 321 f.). The Merchant, married but two months, echoes the closing lines of Chaucer's Envoy to the Cleric's Tale to the effect that "weping and wayling^ care, and other sorwe" (E, 1213ff.) are the common lot of husbands. And the Host adds to the descriptions of his wife, already noted, an interesting glimpse of his relation to her, recalling that of Simkin to his wife, in the Reeve's Tale (A, 3961f.) ; she will persuade him to kill one of his neighbors some day, he says, "For I am perilous with knyf in honde, Al be it that I dar nat hir withstonde, For she is big in armes, by my feith (B, 3109). Characters such as the Miller, the Summoner, the Cook, the Host, and, particularly, the Wife of Bath, display the power of ''lewed folk" to "report and hold" proverbial sayings. Proverbs, therefore, are of frequent occurrence in the Prologues, and most of them express, in crisp, sen- tentious fashion, the speakers' cynical views of women. These utterances are not all Chaucer's own, and it is not to be assumed that they express his opinions. But it is worthy of note that he mentions no happy marriage, and 228 WALTER MORRIS HART. ,-^/ no Pilgrim comes forward to extol the joys of matrimony or the virtues of his wife. Silence about such matters was doubtless characteristic of the gentles, then as now. The Prologiies, moreover, are comic, and happy marriages and virtuous women have no gi-eat value as sources of comic effect. Still, reference to them could have been delicately managed, and would have heightened the effect by contrast. In spite, then, of the Miller's declaration that there are a thousand good women to one bad one, it is difficult to believe that the Chaucer of the Prologues was not inclined to share the traditional medieval view of the sex. That he did share this view there is excellent evidence in "The Counseil of Chaucer touching Mariage, which was sent to Bukton."^^ Here Chaucer begs his friend to read the Wife of Bath concerning this matter, repeats her phrase, "the wo that is in mariage," and echoes the Merchant's view of the married state. He advises Bukton to take a wife, lest he do worse ; but he will surely have to endure much sorrow and be her slave. A third interest of Chaucer's, that in astronomy, appears, finally, in the Prologues. The method of calcu- lating the time of day is given in the Introduction to the Man of Law's Prologue, and again in the Parson s Pro- logue. In this connection it is convenient to mention the references to astrology made by the Wife of Bath, who sinned, she says, by virtue of her constellation (D, 614ff\), and accounts for the mutual hatred of clerks and women on the ground of the natural hostility of the children of Mercury and the children of Venus (D, 697ff.). These passages are doubtless purely dramatic, and with the irony implied in them may be connected Chaucer's condemnation of alchemy, in the Canon's Yeoman's Prologue and Tale, " Skeat, The Works of Chaucer, I, 398. THE franklin's TALE. 229 and the Pardoner's exposure of his methods of gulling his victims. Turning now from the framework to the tales which it encloses, we find that they are, finished and unfinislied, twenty-four in number. Of these, twelve are serious and twelve are comic. Of the serious tales, two are in prose and five in stanzas. Of the remaining five, one, the Knight's Tale, is an older tale remodeled, and another, the Squire's Tale, is unfinished. This leaves three finished tales in the meter of the framework, written, in all proba- bility, for the places which they now occupy, namely, the Physician's, the Wife's, and the Franklin's. Of the comic tales,"*'^ one, the Cook's, is unfinished ; one, Sir Thopas, is in stanzaic form, though only for purposes of parody.'''^ The remaining ten are all finished and all in the meter of the framework. All twelve were evidently conceived and written as Canterbury tales. They are closely connected with the Drama of the Pilgrimage. Five of them, — Miller's, Reeve's, Friar's, Summoner's, Canon's Yeoman's, — spring from the quarrels of the nar- rators, and comic characters in them are counterparts of some of the Pilgrims."^" The Miller insists upon telling " Classed as comic are Sir Thopas, and tlie tales of Nun's Priest, Friar, Merchant, Cook, Shipnian, Miller, ]\Iaunciple, Reeve, Siim- moner, Canon's Yeoman, and Pardoner. There may be some question as to whether the Pardoner's Tale should be placed in this group. Certainly it has serious elements. But the condition and character of the Pardoner, his Prologue, the conversation following the tale, and the fact that schwank and fabliau did not hesitate to find in death a source of comic effect, justify the present classification. The story is grim comedy, indeed, but still comedy. ''* It is hardly conceivable that Chaucer ever intended to add anything to Sir Thopas or to the Monk's Tale. "^ These are Miller, Reeve (Carpenter), Friar, Summoner, and Canon. There is no Palamon or Arcite, no Constance or Griselda among the Pilgrims. 230 WALTER MORRIS HART. his tale because he is drunk; the Shipman, upon telling his, in order to save the company from a dull sermon ; and the Maunciple volunteers to take the place of the drunken Cook. Taken all together, the comic tales make a very different impression from the serious ones, an impression of gTeater uniformity,'^ and one practically identical, speaking roughly and generally, with that produced by the Drama of the Pilgrimage. To sum up the characteristics of that Drama is, therefore, to sum up the characteristics of the comic tales as well. The Drama, we have just seen, is a series of comic incidents, realistic in relations of time, place, and persons. The latter are, for the most part, ''low" and comic. These, at least, are more com- pletely revealed than their betters, speak more frequently, and dominate the whole. Their characters are mainly suggested by objective and dramatic methods, rarely directly described. Chaucer's attitude toward them is detached and impersonal. He is interested in their thouglits and emotions, but here again there is little direct » — ^ description, the method is almost wholly dramatic. These emotions are mainly the results of the conflicts of the characters, and in these conflicts are the elements of per- sonal hatred and professional jealousy in varying degTees. The drama consists largely of a series of these violent diiferences of opinion, relieved from monotony by com- pulsory changes of the Host's plans, and by vivid bits of action. It is carried on mainly by dialogue, vigorous and "The serious tales represent a variety of literary types, — romance, lay, fairy tale, saint's legend, tragedy, novella, and classical tale. The use of prose and stanzas has been noted. The comic tales, on the contrary, maj' all be fairly classed as fabliaux, except the beast-epic of the Nun's Priest, which dilfers very little from the fabliau manner, and NfV Thopas, which is, like the Old French fabliau Du Mantel Mauiaillc, a parody. THE FRANKLIN S TALE. 231 realistic, indicative of character and emotion, seldom taking the form of long monologues, and frequently taking that of group conversation. While they are essentially dramatic and largely imper- sonal, the Prologues still reveal much concerning Chaucer's tendencies and interests. They reveal the fact that he was a conscious artist in literature, able to calculate the effects which he desired to produce, aware of the existence of certain literary types, interested in questions of technique, style, and meter. They reveal, too, his interest in hiiman relations, particularly in marriage, and a certain cynical tendency in regard to women. And they reveal, finally, his interest in astronomy, and contain perhaps an ironical condemnation of astrology, and certainly a condemnation of the deceitful use of the pseudo-supernatural by alchemist and pardoner. These characteristics are to be found in one or more, — most of them, indeed, in all, — of the comic tales. They are to be found also, whether faintly foreshadowed or clearly developed, in the Old French fabliaux, so that we may say with a fair degree of certainty'^ ^ that in the technique of the Drama of the Pilgrimage and of the comic tales Chaucer was writing under fabliau influence. While the serious tales amount to 12,677 lines, and the whole framework and comic tales together only to 9,411 lines, it is clear that the latter group represents the Chaucer of the Canterhury Tales, for every part of it was composed especially for that purpose, in the style and "The general influence of the fabliaux upon Chaucer's work is of great importance and should be studied. Evidence will he in the form, not of parallel passages and borrowings of stories, but of general similarity of technique. The present writer's article on the Reeve's Tale {M. L. A., XXIII, Iff.) is an attempt in this direction. 232 WALTER MORRIS HART. meter'^^ and general tone peculiar to it. It indicates that the prevailing manner and point of view of Chaucer's work at this time were the manner and point of view of the fabliaux, and it leads us to expect that when he came to write stories of other types these would inevitably be con- taminated ; that classical story, Celtic fairy tale, or Breton lay, would have some fabliau characteristics. Of the finished serious tales, written, in heroic couplets, for the place which they now occupy, the classical story, the Physician s Tale, exhibits but few of these character- istics;"^ the Celtic fairy story, the Wife of Bath's Tale, exhibits more of them ; and the Breton lay, the Franklins Tale, exhibits most of all. It has the same consciousness of the audience, the power of calculating effects, inherited from schwank and fabliau ; the same dramatic quality and technique; the same use of place-names with little visualization; the same passing references to time and season. In both the time is the present or an immediate past, without glamor or mystery. There is the same interest in character, love of contrasts (though this is more subtle in the Franklins Tale), and preference for the dramatic method of suggesting character and emotion. The tendency to regard character with broad tolerance and from the comic point of view is present in the Franklin's atti- tude toward Aurelius. There is the same sustained interest in mental states; and something of the same con- '" With the trifling exceptions of Sir Thopas, which necessarily makes use of the meter of the genre which it parodies, and of its prologue, which continues for three stanzas the meter of the Prioress's Tale. " The source of the Physician's Tale is the Roman de la Rose, and this, in a general division of medieval literature, is to be classed with the fabliaux. Bedier points out common characteristics. {Les FaUiaux, pp. 362, 371.) THE franklin's TALE. 233 trast between the free expression of emotion of the rela- tively ''low" and the restraint of the relatively ''high" in character, in the contrast between Aurelius and Arveragus. The question proposed at the close suggests the old "debates," as the quarrels do in the Drama of the Pil- grimage ; and there is something of the same conflict of characters, not as individuals, but as representatives of classes or professions, in the emulation of knight, squire, and clerk. There is the same literary self-consciousness and critical power, and interest in matters of style and technique. There is the same interest in marital relations « and the same cynical tendency. The condemnation of astrology, and the explanation of character and conduct by planetary influence, connect the Franklifis 'Tale with the Wife of Bath's Prologue. The use of a pseudo-super- natural trick to gull the credulous connects it with the Pardoner's Prologue, the Miller's Tale, and the Canon's Yeoman's Tale, as well as with the traditions of schwank and fabliau. Like the comic tales, the Franklin's Tale is closely connected with the framework. It springs, if not from the quarrel, at least from the good-natured rivalry, of Franlvlin and Squire. The Franklin is con- scious throughout of the conditions under which he is speaking. Two of his characters, knight and squire, are more or less accurate portraits of Canterbury Pilgrims. There are, of course, striking differences between the Franklin's Tale and the Drama of the Pilgrimage, — its moral purpose and serious nature, its preference for "high" rather than "low," serious rather than comic, characters. It is less vivid, less concrete and real. Its idealization of character it may well owe to the Breton lay. Its lack of vividness and concreteness may perhaps be regard*^*! as the result of the apologue theme. And this remains to be 234 WALTER MOERIS IIAKT. accounted for. Desire to illustrate and enforce a moral concept is certainly not a significant part of the purpose of the Canterbury Drama or of the comic tales. Yet the stories told bv Nun's Priest, Pardoner, and Canon's Yeo- man, together with Chaucer's interest in the general ques- tion of marital relations, are sufficient perhaps to account for his moralization of a Breton lay. Even the Old French fabliaux are sometimes, by exception, moral in intention,^" witness the Housse Partie, Bourse Pleine de Sens, and FoUe Largesse. Doubtless Chaucer was familiar, if not with these, at least with fabliaux of this type, and such familiarity may be added to the forces which would lead a fabliau writer to compose a moral tale. Furthermore, it is possible to account for part at least of the curiously symmetrical structure of the Franklin's Tale on the basis of an influence which relates it closely to the most important of the Canterbury Prologues. It is exceedingly interesting to note that Dorigen borrows the exempla of her complaint from the favorite book of the Wife of Bath's fifth husband, from the treatise of Jerome against Jovinian.^^ So far as manner, point of view, general interests and tendencies are concerned, Chaucer seems to owe nothing to Boccaccio, either to the Decameron or to the Filocolo. Whatever the provenience of the story, the technique of the FranMins Tale has every appearance of being simply the result of a translation of a Breton lay, or an imitation of the Breton lay, by a great poet who happened to be writing at the time mainly in the manner of the fabliaux. To say this is by no means to deny the originality of the great poet; whatever he may liavc learned from his predecessors, selection, recombinations, improvements of every sort were his own; the main source of Chaucer's technique was Chaucer himself. *" Cf. Bedier, Les Fabliaux, p. 34. "Cf. F, 1307ff. and D, 71 Iff. IPOMEDON, AN ILLUSTEATIOIsT OF ROMANCE ORIGIN. By Charles Heney Carter, Ph.D. IPOMEDON, AlsT ILLUSTRATIOlSr OF ROMANCE OEIGIK About the year 1187/ Hugh of Rutland, living at a little place named Credenhill, near Hereford, on the Welsh border, launched a three-decker metrical romance, written in good French and entitled Ipomedon.^ Hugh was prob- ably a friend of Walter Map, for they lived near each other and Hugh mentions Map familiarly, if not jocosely : "Sul lie sai pas de mentir I'art, — Walter Map reset ben sa part." Other famous contemporaries, somewhat older than Hugh, were Marie de France and Chrestien de Troyes. Even when compared with the work of the notable Chrestien, Hugh's performance is not insignificant. Ipomedon is ^ Ward, in his ^'Catalogue of Romances in British Museum," Vol. 1, p. 728if., shows by internal evidence that both Ipomedon and Prothesilaus, the other extant romance by Hugh, nuist have been written between 1174 and 1190-1. Neither Ward nor any other investigator, however, has cited the evidence of the following passage (Ip. 1. 8937if.) : Si fist vms reis gvialeis jardis, Jo quit, k'il I'apelerent Ris; II fut mut larges d'Engleterre, A ses hirdnians parti la terre, E Herefort e Glovecestre, Salopesbure e Wircestre; Mas il en lava ben ses mains. II e li son ourent li meins, Kar il fust vencnz e laidiz, Vilment chacez e descumfiz. This refers without doubt to Rhees ap Gryffyth, fomentor of insur- rections in Wales from 1158 till his death in the next century. A careful examination of his career (Cf. R. W. Eyton: "Court, House- hold and Itinerary of King Henry II, p. SOfT.; also, Lyttleton's History of Henry II, Vol. 3, p. 80 ff.) shows that the only one of his forays into the English counties which fits this reference by (237) 238 CHARLES HENRY CARTER. composed with a good degree of leisurely literary skill ; it has humor, a lively style, a lack of tedious incident uncon- nected with the main plot, and a good climax. Excellences of style were lost in the English versions of Ipomedon^ produced by later redactors. Aside from the literary value of Ipomedon, a study of the poem makes clear certain points of interest in regard to romance origins. We can discover this twelfth century poet manufacturing his story from sources at hand and from his own invention. AVe can show that one-half the story is based on a widespread type of folk-tale, a type which has also influenced various other romances. We can show what are j^robably definite borrowings from the work of the j)oet's immediate predecessors. We can there- fore secure a fair idea of the way in which this particular romancer set about amusing French-speaking Englishmen, two centuries before Chaucer amused their English-speak- ing children. Hugh took place in 1186. Ultimate authority is found, in the Peterborough Chronicle (De THa et Gestis Eenrici II et Ricardi I. Pub. by Hearne, 1735. Vol. II, p. 457). Under date of 1186 is found the following passage: "Interim, rumor ille nefandus venit in Angliam ad aures Regis, qvii misit Eanulfum de Glanvil, Justiciarium suum, ad Resum filium Griffin, et ad ceteros Wallorum Regulos, ad Pacera faciendam inter eos et Herefordenses et Cestrenses (qui paulo ante in quondam [sic] Conflictu, multos Walensibus interfecerant) — " Apparently, therefore, Hugh's fellow townsmen in 1186 had joined with men from Chester in driving back this Welsh king. Probably Rhees had been boasting of the way in which he would divide Eng- land among his followers: this would agree well with his character. If it be granted as probable tliat Hugh was referring to this event, both Ipomedon and Prothesilaus must have been composed between the years 1186 and 1190-1. Ipomedon, the earlier of the two romances, is therefore dated, with probable accuracy, 1187-8. ^ Hue de Rotelande's Ipomedon, ein franzosischer Abenteuerroman des 12ten Jahrhunderts. KiJlbing und Koschwitz. Breslau. 1889. ' Ipomedon, in drei englischen bearbeitung. Kolbing. Breslau. 1889. IPOMEDON. 239 The plot of Ipomedon falls easily into two main themes : the three days' tournament, and the rescue of a besieged lady by a knight who plays the fool. With the latter is woven the theme of finding a lost relative by means of a ring, after the relatives have fought each other. I. Resemblance to Folk-loee. The first of these, the three days' tournament, is a theme which appears in certain other romances and also in a large number of folk-tales gathered from all over Europe. Ward cited in this connection a tale named "Le Petit Berger/' Xo. 43 of Vol. II of E. Cosquin's edition of ''Contes Populaires de Lorraine/''^ A study of the folk-tale group to which this belongs reveals points of interest in regard to Ipomedon. The writer has examined many of these folk-tales as found in collections^ * Also cited by Karl Breul in connection with Sir Goivther. Cf. Sir Ooivther, eine englische romanze aus dem XV Jahrhundert. Oppeln, 1886. "Cosquin: Contes Populaires de Lorraine, II, Nos. 43, 55. Luzel : Traditions Orales des Bretons- Armoricaius, p. 34. Zingerle: Tirols Yolksdichtungen, etc., II, pp. 90, 32G, 91, 198. Wolf: Dentsrhe Hausmarchen, pp. 2G9, 356, 369. Wolf: Deutsche Ilausniiirchen ii. Sagen, No. 2. Grimm: Kinder u. Eausmarchen, No. 136. JNIeier: Deutsche Volksmdrchen aus Schwahen, No. 1. Schambach u. MUller: Niedersachsische Sagen, p. 278. Karl Miillenhof: MUrchen u. Liedcr der Eerzogtlmmer Schlesmig, Holstein u. Lauenherg, p. 432. Gaal : Mdhrchen der Magyaren, p. 25. Milenowsky: Yolksnidrchen aus Bohmen, p. 147. Karadzic: Yolksmiirchen der Serhen, p. 12. Scliiefner: Aivarische Texte, No. 4. Halm: Griechisclie u. Alhan- esische Mdrchen, No. 26. W'enzig: Westslawischen Mtirchenschatz, p. 1. Dietrich: Russische VolksmUrchen, No. 4. Gonzenbach : Sicilianische Marchen, No. 26. Ebert's Jahrhuch, etc., VIII, p. 253. Comparetti: (yunti e Racconti del popolo italiano, VI, p. 93. Campbell: Popular Tales of the West Highlands, I, p. 72. Curtin: Myths and Folk-lore of Ireland, p. 157. Larniinie: West Irish Folk- tales and Romances, p. 196. Others are cited by Ilartland: Legend of Pcrrr}!s. TIT. p. 7. 240 CHARLES HENRY CARTER. made by students of folk-lore about the middle of the nineteenth century. These tales may be summarized as follows : ( 1 ) The hero is either someone of low rank, or else a prince in the disguise of the menial. He is a shepherd boy in tales from Lorraine, Germany, Italy, Swabia, Tyrol, Brittany, and Western Russia ; a goat-herd in Tyrol ; a fowl-herd in Schleswig-Holstein and the Odenwald; a cattle-herd in still another tale from the Tyrol, also in Scotland and Ireland ; a swine-herd in Hungary ; a gardener in Spain ; a prince without menial position in Servia and Transyl- vania; a prince disguised as a gardener in Germany; a prince in disguise in Sicily ; the son of a knight in disguise of a gardener in Russia, etc., etc. (2) By some means, usually magic, he gains control of a horse, or more fre- quently of three horses. He may slay giants or other malevolent beings and thus gain access to their secret stables, — as in the case of fifteen tales examined by the ^vriter; he may, however, simply find the mysterious castle where the horses are (Odenwald) ; or procure them from a subterranean vault (Russia) ; or from a magic nut (Sicily) ; or from a magic tree (Saxony) ; etc., etc. (3) These horses are of various colors, and with them frequently go suits of armor of three different colors. The horses may be: white, black, and brown (Tyrol, Germany) ; white, red, and black (Servia, Western Russia) ; black, red, and white (Odenwald, Tyrol) ; copper, silver, and gold (Schleswig-Holstein) ; etc. In several cases the color of the horses is not given, and in more, no color is given to the armor. In one instance, dogs are mentioned, corresponding to the three horses as in Ipome- don (Schleswig-Holstein). (4) Having now got posses- sion of the horses, and keeping his exploits secret, the hero IPOMEDON. 241 performs a thrice repeated feat by whicli lie wins the hand of a princess. The feat may be winning at a three days' tournament (four tales, with two others where the feat resembles a tourney) ; it may be winning in a three days' battle against the foes of the kingdom (four tales) ; it may be fights with dragons (eight tales) ; it may be a race; a contest in riding at the ring; a contest in riding at golden apples ; in catching golden apples as thrown by the princess; in jumping a horse over a tower; etc., etc. (5) Before this, the hero may have won the friendship, or even the love, of tlie princess ; in some cases he has married her, but has attained no honor. In one case (Lor- raine) she urges him to take part in the contest, and in another (Sicily) invites him to be present as a spectator. (6) At the end of each day's exploits, the hero invariably escapes unknown, and is often modestly reluctant about showing himself and receiving his reward. In one case (Sicily) he, like Ipomedon, expressly declares that he has no interest in the outcome of the battle. In two tales the hero is regaled in the evening with an account of his own exploit. (Y) In several tales the hero is wounded on the last day, either in the fight (Swabia, Tyrol, Russia), or more often in the endeavor of the onlookers to keep him from making a third escape unknown (six tales). In one case (Sicily) when asked about the wound, he answers, like Ipomedon, "Ich liabe mich gestossen." (8) Now fol- lows his identification, often by a piece of weapon left in the wound, and then the inevitable marriage with the princess. For the sake of convenient comparison, let us put side by side the points of resemblance between Ipomedon, the elaborate romance, and this variegated group of folk-tales. i6 242 CIIAKLES HENRY CARTER. We postulate the right to select incidents as we choose from the tales. Ipomedon. Ip. hears of the beauty of La Fiere, goes in disguise to her court, and takes service with her. They fall in love. After a reprimand, Ip. leaves court. Her barons compel La Fiere to choose a husband, and she decides on the thi-ee days' tournament as a means for making choice. Ip. brings his three horses, white, red, and black, and his three suits of armor of the same colors. He wins on each day and departs secretly, keeping his identity unknown. After each day's fight, he sends word to La Fiere that he cannot be present on the next day, thus leaving her in continual sus- pense. On his return each day, Ip. is laughed to scorn by the court ladies. In the evening Ip. hears Thoas narrate the incidents of the day. Ip. is assisted in his deception by his master, Tholomeu, wlio hunts with dogs matching the horses in color. Folk-tales. Prince becomes enamoured of princess through seeing her por- trait and goes to seek her. He disguises himself. They become at least very friendly. Hero slays giants, or in some other way gets possession of three horses. King announces three days' tournament for hand of his daughter. The three days' feat is more frequently some- thing other than a tourney. Hero uses horses colored white, red, and black, and clotlies or armor of the same color. He wins on each day and departs secretly, keeping his identity unknown. Princess each day implores hero to take part; he says he will, but apparently does not, thus keeping her in continual sus- pense. Hero is laughed at as he returns on his decrepit nag. (Germany). In the evening hero hears eye- witness tell of his deeds. Hero is helped by dogs distin- guished like the horses by cer- tain adornments. IPOMEDON. 243 On the last day Ip. is wounded On last day hero is wounded in in the fray. conflict, or as he escapes. He tries to keep his wound He tries to conceal wound, and secret, and when he cannot, explain it away, but is identified explains it away. by it later. Ip. ultimately marries La Fiere. Hero marries princess. These resemblances to the first half of the plot of Ipomedon are so close and so pervasive that it seems impossible to regard them as accidental. The theme is too comiDlicated to have arisen, quite independently, once in the mind of Hngh, or some literary predecessor of his, and again among the folk all over Europe. To be sure, no great stress can be laid on certain isolated resemblances ; for instance, the mention of the three dogs corresponding to the horses, found in the variant from Schleswig-Hol- stein, very doubtfully shows <5ccult relation to the dogs in Ipomedon ; this is an idea which might easily have been added independently in England, or in Schleswig-Hol- stein, or anywhere. But the cumulative resemblance of Ipomedon to the widespread type is strong. The folk- tales usually contain magic, and the romance is rational- ized ; but the framework is practically identical, so that, on the whole, one must believe the romance and the folk- tales historically dependent. The great gap of seven centuries between the writing of the romance and the writing dovra of the folk-tales, together with the general obscurity resting on folk-tale origins, might lead a critic to hesitate to accept the folk-tale as in any way the source of the romance. Foerster and his school of critics, espousing "Methode streng literar- historische," think that reasoning from folk-lore is unsafe. But to derive the folk-tales from the literary forms of the story would require us to suppose that the unlettered 244 CHAllLES IIEXKY CARTER. folk seized upon tlie essentials of the story and decked them out in fairy-tale paraphernalia — magic castles, talk- ing horses, etc. — in other words, reversed the usual ten- dency in early literatures to go from the simple and the supernatural to the intricate and the rational. This supposition is not tenable. On the other hand, the romance has the appearance of being a complex and rationalized development of a primi- tive theme, — and folk-tales are undoubtedly old enough to be the ultimate sources of twelfth century romance. After the investigations of Wilhelm Grimm, Emmanuel Cosquin, Andrew Lang, and others, this last statement will hardly be questioned. Moreover, a wide distribution of any folk- tale, as in this case, is a good indication of its antiquity. It seems reasonable, therefore, to suppose that the first part of Ipomedon is dependent in some way upon the folk-tale, which has itself lasted um\Titten among the peasantry of Europe till modern times. Here, however, should be made a reservation. It is impossible to believe that Hugh (or his literary prede- cessor, if he had one) could have derived from a folk-tale the tournament. The reason is that in 1187 the tourna- ment was still a rather recent institution.*^ The folk-tale represents the old ideas of the people, a ad therefore the tournament in Ipomedon is probabl}' a literary substitu- tion for some primitive form of the feat, such as the fight with the dragon, found in eight of the folk-tales. Much later, after the tournament became a common-place in •Freeman: Eistory of the Norman Conquest, V, p. 488, says, "The tournament appears among us as a novelty of the twelfth century." A. P. Budik: Vrsprung des Turniers: quotes Wm. of Newburgh, Bk. V, ch. 4 of Eistoria Anglicnna, when he says that in 1194 people in England began to use warlike practices commonly called tourneys. IPOMEDON. 245 Europe, it naturally stole into a few variants of the oral folk-tale, independently of the romances. It is not a common feature of folk-lore. The exact history showing hoiu the romance is dependent on the folk-tale is probably not to be determined. One or several literary adaptations may have intervened between the simple, magic story, told perhaps by some- body's nurse, and Hugh's long poem. In his introduction Hugh professes a Latin source for his story, but this profession, as "we may see more clearly later, is very doubtfully true. II. The Three Days' Feat ix Other Romances. Meanwhile, if w^e have established the ultimate dependence on folk-lore of this part of Ipomedon, let us turn to glance at various other literary versions of the three days' feat. Will they help in tracing the literary history of this theme ? These other versions" are found (1) in Sir Goivthcr and in Robert the Devil; (2) in Lanzelet, and in three other rather unimportant passages where Lancelot is the hero; (3) in Cliges; (4) in Partonopeus; (5) in Roswall and Lillian; and (6) in Bicliard Coeur de Lion. Let ns con- sider them in order. (1) Sir Oowther and the various versions of the widely distributed Robert the Devil story are very similar to each other in those points where they resemble Ipomedon, and 'Ward first called attention to the resemblance between Ipomedon and one incident in the Prose Lancelot. The credit for first citing Lanzelet, a passage in the Dutch Lwncelot, and Chrestien's Cliges in connection with Ipomedon is due to Miss Jessie L. Weston in her book "The Three Days' Tournament," London, 1902. Kolbing men- tions Oowther and Partonopeus. Lengert (Eng. Stud. XVI, 321flF., and XVII, 341f.), and Child (Eng. and Scot. Ballads No. 271) mention Ipomedon in connection with Richard and with Rostoall. 246 CHARLES HENRY CARTER. it is therefore convenient to consider them together. These resemblances may be briefly summarized as follows : The hero, in disguise of a menial, is at the court where the hand of a princess is at stake. We are not told that he loves her, but we feel sure that she loves him. On three successive days he is provided (here miraculously) with three horses. In Gowther^ the horses are colored like Ipomedon's. The hero escapes unknown on each occa- sion, — unknoAvn except to the dumb daughter. (La Fiere in I-pomedon knew" each evening who the hero was.) The hero appears like a fool at the suppers in the evening. He is wounded on the last day. To be sure, the thrice repeated contest is a battle, not a tournament. BreuP has industriously examined the Goivther-Rohert story, but does not mention Ipomedon or any other literary version. Instead, he seeks the basis of the story in folk- lore, and, as a basis for that part which concerns Ipomedon, finds the same group of folk-tales which ^ve have been considering. He cites three examples and then constructs an ideal marchen with which to make his comparison. His conclusion is that the Gowther-Bohert legend is the clerical working over of a widespread folk-tale of the youthful knight voluntarily lowering his social standing and finally rewarded by the hand of the princess, — the story of the male Cinderella. This working over belongs to the twelfth century, perhaps earlier, and becomes essen- tially the tale of a sinner and his repentance.^^ ' Sir Goivther may be more than a mere retelling of the Robert story, as Breiil would have it. In view of such tales as the Breton Lai/ of Tydorel, and Sir Degore, Dr. Schofield thinks it may repre- sent the combination of such a story with that of Robert. 'Sir Qoivther, eine englische romanze aus dem XV Jahrhtindert. '"Reviewers of Bi-eul's book find no serious error in his derivation of the story from folk-lore. Cf. Romania, XV, 160. Englische Studien, XII, 78-83. IPOMEDON. 247 Sir Gowtlier dates from the fifteenth century, and the earliest known version of Robert is found in the Latin of Etienne de Bourbon, about 1250. (Printed by Breul, p, 208.) Etiemie says he heard the story from two brothers who said they had read it. Is it possible that the Robert story was directly influenced by Ipomedon (1187) ? No. The three days' tournament as we saw, is probably a literary injection as it appears in the romance ; and both Robert and Gowtlier keep the old ( ?) three daj's' battle. The three colors do not appear in Robert, and in Gowtlier they are not in the same order. None of the complications exhibited in Ipomedon, — the hunting, the dogs, the two women open to the hero's love, and so forth, appear in the other stories, which in nearly all points keep closer to the simplicity of the folk-tales, and retain some of the magic elements. It is equally impossible to suppose that Ipomedon is based directly on the Robert tradition, which Breul thinks may have existed in the twelfth century. For there is nothing of the clerical element in Ipomedon, — none of the devils, popes, miracles found in Gowtlier- Robert. It seems probable, therefore, that the Robert and the Ipomedon are independently based on the same general group of folk-tale. The "clerical elaborator" of Breul's theory would find it easy to account for the appearance of the horses and armor as the answer to prayer; it was not necessary to follow the folk-tale in its slaying of dragons, finding of subterranean castles, or what not. To bring in the Saracen king that he might be soundly drubbed by the Christians was natural to him. Also, to have the princess dumb offered a good chance for a miracle. Hugh, or his predecessor, on the other hand, though keeping 248 CHAELES HENRY CARTER. fairly close to the folk-tale framework, has developed the theme romantically. (2) We turn now to the three days' tournament theme as found in various stories where Lancelot is the hero. The story most to our purpose is the Lanzelet of Ulrich von Zatzikhoven. Here the tournament episode is simply one of a series of detached incidents in this biographical romance. Lanzelet is said by its author to be the transla- tion of a romance in French taken from England by Hugh de Morville. This was in 1194, The story runs as follows : One day Lanzelet learns of a tournament at which all good knights should be present. Gawain, with whom Lanzelet has been having a friendly bout at arms, urges his young opponent to accompany him to the tourna- ment; but the young hero says he may not do so. After entreaty, Gawain sees that he cannot prevail, and therefore departs alone. Later Lanzelet decides to go with Ada, his amie, and her brother Diebalt. Bedecked in green, he takes his place. He overthrows the boaster Keiin (Kay) and others. That he may not be recognized on the follow- ing day, he bids Diebalt prepare for him a white shield, banner, and coat of mail. He wins again and departs unfollowed to his inn. On the third day he comes in red and joins battle with Gawain. King Lot, fearing for his favorite knight, rides at the unknown knight. With that, Lanzelet turns his attention to King Lot, who, though soon aided by his retainers, is presently captured. At the end of the day Arthur and Gawain ride down to the lodging of the hero, who will not give his name, say the proper things, and invite him to come to Arthur's court. This, however, Lanzelet refuses to do, and rides off for another adventure. This account is nearer to Ipomedon and to the folk-tale IPOMEDON. 249 type than any of the other accounts where this adventure is ascribed to Lancelot,^^ That the theme, however, though in modified forms, turns up three times again with reference to him, indicates the strength of this tradition. In spite of obvious differences between Ipomedon and Lanzelet — dissimilar colors, no princess concerned, the sketchiness of Lanzelet and the elaboration of Ipomedon — there are yet certain strong points of resemblance. Miss Weston pointed out the likeness between the overthrow of Keiin in Lanzelet to that of Caeminius in Ipomedon. She might have mentioned even stronger similarities: (1) The hero is urged by the chief knight, his friend, to take part in the tourney, but refuses, only to go later in disguise. (2) The king in person rides to the assistance of this chief knight when in the tourney the latter is too sorely assailed by the unknown hero, and is in turn vigorously assaulted. (3) Ade in Lanzelet is similar to "The Dutch Lancelot, cited by Miss Weston, {Roman van Lancelot, ed. W. J. A. Jonckbloet) gives a long-winded and dull account not strikingly similar to the other versions. Ward cites a passage in the Prose Lancelot (Les Romans de La Table Ronde, ed. P. Paris, "Vol. 3), dating from the middle of the thirteenth century. Young Lancelot fights in white, red, and black. The fight, however, is not a tournament, and a year inter\'enes between the second and third appearances. Another account, unnoticed hitherto, can also be found in the Prose Lancelot (See Sommer's notes on Bk. XVIII of his edition of Malory's Morte Darthur. On this part of Malory, Tennyson bases the incidents of Lancelot and Elaine.) Lancelot goes in disguise to the tournament to test his strength. His armor is red. He fights unknown, and casts down all. His kinsmen, thinking a stranger is gaining fame due to Lancelot alone, run at him in a body, and Sir Bors wounds him in the thigh. He wins, however, and departs unknown, to be nursed by Elaine and the hermit. He had planned to appear in a second tourney in white, but his wound, bursting forth afresh, detains him. A third tourney is decreed, but again an accident prevents him from going. 250 CHARLES HENRY CARTER. a ratlier mysterious niece of Ipomedon, whom he leaves with Meleager's queen until he departs after the tourna- ment; and (4) Diebalt, who aids Lanzelet in the tourna- ment by carrying spears and taking charge of captured horses, is much like Jason, who in Ipomedon performs similar services for the hero. These resemblances occur in no other version of the story, either literary or popular. They render plausible the theory that Hugh may have known the French original of Lanzelet extant in England some time before 1194, or some closely allied version. That he did not build up the whole first half of his story from this incident is shown, however, by the close resemblances to the folk-tales, retained by him and lacking in Lanzelet}^ (3) Now for the theme as it appears in the Cliges of Chrestien de Troyes. Cliges, leaving his court in Constan- tinople, learns that Arthur has appointed a fifteen days' tournament. (Only four days are told of.) He at once devises the scheme of fighting there in differently colored suits of armor. He already has four horses, white, sorrel, fa^\^l-colored, and black. He sends three squires off to London to buy three siiits of armor, black, red, and green. His original suit was white, — a gift from the emperor, — so that he is now provided with four suits. On the tourney day, Sagremors is the first knight to take the field ; at him spurs Cliges, in black armor, on Morel, his black steed. "Miss Weston, following Ward, contends that Walter Map wrote a romance on Lancelot, and hints that the French original of Lanzelet was this romance. As evidence she cites the couplet quoted at the beginning of this article: "I am not the only one who knows the art of lying, — Walter Map knows his part too." This can hardly be cited as proof, in view of its extremely general character and its likeness to other personal hits by Hugh at his contemporaries. Cf. Ipomedon 1. 5345ff. ; and 1. 5511flF. The Map authorship of such a romance appears doubtful. IPOMEDON. 251 Sagremors is overcome, and at the end of the day Cliges is pronounced the winner. When he goes back to his lodgings, he hides his black armor and hangs up the green in a conspicuous place. Thus he escapes being known. Next day in green armor on the fawn-colored horse he overthrows Lancelot. In the evening he hangs up the red armor. In red on the third day he rides the sorrel horse to the tourney and defeats Perceval le Galois. Again he escapes and hangs up the white armor. By this time the wise heads recognize that the victor on each day must be one and the same man. Gawain proposes, therefore, to meet him the next day and learn his name. Cliges appears in white. At the first joust both he and Gawain are unhorsed. Then they fight an even battle with their swords until Arthur parts them. Cliges, by the way, is Gawain's sister's son. This ends the tourney. Cliges goes in state to the court and makes himself known. He soon returns to Constantinople. Foerster, the enthusiastic editor of Chrestien, believes that in Cliges (1160) the three days' tournament theme was first introduced into literature, and that from it Lanze- let borrowed directlv. When Miss Weston attacked this theory,^^ WolfangGolther^^ replied in defense of Foerster, and went so far as to maintain that Cliges is also the source for this incident in Ipomedon. The present writer agrees with Miss Weston in thinking that the natural impression one would derive from Cliges is that of a four days' tourna- ment, and that any version based entirely on Cliges would be likely to follow it in this respect. The four days' "She endeavors to prove that Cliges is dependent for this episode on the lost French original of Lanzclct, but from lack of conclusive evidence, falls short of proof. ^* Zeitschrift fiir franzosische Sprache und Literatur. 1903. 252 CHARLES HENRY CARTER. fight in Cliges looks rather like an elaboration, in the style of Chrestien, of the simpler three days' theme. If the test from folk-lore is of value, Ipomedon, which adheres much more closely than Cliges to the folk-tale type, is not likely to be derived wholly, if at all, from Cliges, where the incident is so sketchy and so changed. Hugh must have known some other version. Of course it is possible to imagine Hugh finding an abbreviated account of the tournament, in Cliges, for example, or in the lost French original of Lanzelel, and expanding it from his own knowledge of the folk-tale. More probably he had before him some literary version of the incident nearer the usual folk-lore type.^^ (4) Still another version of the three days' tournament with which Ipomedon may be compared is found in the '^However, it is not unlikely that Hugh knew Chrestien's work. The fight of Ipomedon with Capaneus, his half-brother, is somewhat like that of Cliges with Gawain, his uncle: they fight to a stand- still and then discover their relationship. Moreover there is some resemblance between the love of Alexander and Soredamors in Cliges and that of Ipomedon and La Fiere. The parallel is one of style rather than of incident. There are in each long monologues, which are psychological analyses of new-born love. The same device is used of having the speaker make some statement and then catch himself up on the last words, which he repeats as a question. Grober (Grundriss der Rom. Phil., p. 585) recognizes this stylistic influence. Kolbing sees dependence of incident on Chrestien in the following points : ( 1 ) Ipomedon placed as sweetheart of Meleager's queen imitates Lancelot placed as sweetheart of Guinivere in "Le Chevalier de la Charette;" (2) the fight between Ipomedon and Capaneus is like a fight in "Le Chevalier au Lyon;" (3) the coming of Ismaine for a champion is like the coming of Lunete in "Chev. au Lyon." Upon careful investigation, the writer sees no evident dependence in these details: the first point is based on resemblance extremely gen- eral; the second is almost no parallel at all; and the third passage in Ipomedon is so evidently drawn from a different source, Le Bel Inconnu story, that the slight resemblance to Chrestien's work counts for nothing. IPOMEDON. 253 Partonopeus story. ^^ Kolbing cites the parallel. This story does indeed give a good version, but two very distinctive features, the disguising colors and the secret escape, are lacking. In some particulars Partonopeus resembles Iponiedon, and in some it rather strikingly resembles por- tions of the Lancelot story. Without pausing to give a summary of tiiis tale, let us enumerate these resem- blances. Hov\^ is this romance like Ipomedonf The heroine by her capricious pride has driven away her lover. Her courtiers, to procure her a husband, decree a three days' tournament, the victor at which she is to marry. She mourns her lot, but considers that she is being justly punished for her pride. The hero comes, but does not make himself known to the lady. On the first day he is in white. The ladies watch his success from a tower. At the end of the three days he is announced the victor. Detailed descriptions of fights are given. After the tournament the hero fights a special duel with a rival suitor. The heroines, when trying to speak the name of the lover, stick in the middle of it, — in one instance a mighty sigh cleaves it in twain, and in the other she stammers. (Kolbing calls attention to this last point.) How is the romance like the Lancelot story? The hero, on being driven away, runs demented into the woods, where he is later found and cared for. He had alreadv won extreme favors from the lady. She girds his sword upon him. He is taken prisoner by a cruel knight. The wife of the knight frees him on parole that he may attend the tourney. She furnishes him with horse and armor. He wins and returns to prison, but is able to go again to court. He slays the cruel knight who had imprisoned him. ^^ Piirionopeus de Blois, by Denis Pyramis, ed. G. A. Crapelet, Paris, 1834. Partonope of Blois, ed. Buckley, London, 1862. Par- talopa Saga, ed. 0. Klockhoflf, Upsala, 1877. 254 CHARLES HENEY CARTEK. When these points are thus singled out, the resemblances seem stronger than they really are, for a large number of incidents and details which lend peculiar cast to each story are absolutely lacking in the others. Opinions differ somewhat as to the date and origin of the Partono'peus story. It seems probable, however, that the French version, ascribed to Denis Pyramus, dates from the latter part of the twelfth century. Whether its com- position precedes or follows that of Ipomedon has not been determined. Since Ipomedon, however, as we have pointed out many times, seems to stand near the standard form of the folk-tale, much nearer than Partonopeus, it seems doubtful that Hugh borrowed his tournament from such a source. The broken name of the lover looks like a literary borrowing on somebody's part, but it is as apt to be on the part of Denis as of Hugh. It is suggestive, however, to find the tournament theme turning up in a romance which recalls again the Lancelot story. It makes one wonder if both Hugh and Denis may not have known some lost Lancelot storv with similar features. Two more romances, both late, contain the tournament theme. (5) One of these, Rosivall and Lillian,^^^"' resem- "O. Lengert [Englische Studicn, XVI, 321f., and XVII, 341f.), in a careful edition of this romance, cites many apposite folk-tales, and incidentally compares BL with Ipomedon. He does not radically disagree with Ward, who thought that RL borrowed from Ipomedon. Part of the story, minus the tournament theme, is found again in various ballad forms, notably The Lord of Lome ami the False Steward. (Child's Eng. and Scottish Ballads, No. 271). Child thought the ballad derived from RL; but it is rather noteworthy that the ballad omits altogether jiist that part of RL which offers close parallelism to Ipomedon. This circumstance seems to indicate that the author of RL adapted the tournament and tlie hunting from Ipomedon, possibly one of the English versions, to the simple ballad story, which still persisted till modern times. IPOMEDON. 255 bles Ipomedon so obviously in the hunting combined with the tournament, that one may regard its direct dependence on Ipomedon as certain. The other, (G) Richard Coeur de Lion^^ contains the three disguises, black, red, and white ; the secret departure of the hero after each appearance ; the detailed account given the hero of his actions by those who do not know that he is the knight under discussion. However, the contest is all on one da^^, the purpose of the tournament is not to win a lady, the hero is worsted twice, the colors are not used in the same order as in Ipomedon. This romance, nevertheless, shows the persistence of the old idea. It is conceivable that Richard may have actually done some such thing, incited by tlie old romances,^ ^ but it is more probable that the writer of the romance was the one who adapted the idea. Direct literary dependence on Ipomedon of course cannot be shown. The foregoing consideration of the tournament theme shows at least how widespread and persistent it is. We can point to no literary version of it as the undoubted source of Ipomedon. Folk-lore would seem to be the ultimate source. Probably much in Ipomedon is due to Hugh's own imaginative ingenuity. The literary origi- nal from which he adapted the idea may yet be discovered. III. Relation to Le Bel Inconnu. We turn now to other aspects of the plot, and find a literary original from which Hugh probably adapted a motif. His exact debt to it has never "Weber: Metrical Romances; Richard Coeur de Lion, 1.257f. " Kittredge (Harvard Studies and Notes, Vol. V, p. 94) cites an interesting case of fact in the life of Richard Warwick, about the year 1416. 256 CHAELES HENRY CAETER. before been definitely pointed out.^*^ This is Le Bel Inconnu by Eenaud de Beaujeu. Certainly, if Hngb did not know this romance itself, he mnst have known a closely allied form of it. Not only is the action similar, but also at times the phraseology. Let us put side by side sufficient summary and quotation to make this fact evident : Ip. goes to Meleager's court in the guise of a, fool, to escape recognition. King and Ivnights are at table. Ip. enters, does not dismount, but forces his old nag along with blow and spur. He addresses king, boasts of former prowess, and causes great merriment. He makes covenant with king that he be granted the option of accepting or refusing the first quest in defense of maid or gentle lady which may- offer. Queen and steward enter the conversation. King grants covenant. Ip. dismounts, thanks him politely, sits down at table. Then comes into room a maiden on a white mule. Trap- pings of horse are described at length: ivory saddle, cover of purple "samit," gold, tinkling bells, etc. Ismeine is described elaborately: velvet mantle, "li cors pareit lunc e bel," "le chars blanche," "e cum esteit beas sis visages," "Un cercle d'or el chef aveit, La crine bloie avant pendeit." Stranger appears at Arthur's court. King and knights are at table. Stranger rides up, salutes king and knights. Arthur invites him to dismoimt; he replies that he must first be assured of being granted the first gift which he may ask for. The king promises. Stranger then dis- mounts, is given a mantle, and sits down at table. When asked his name, he says his mother called him "biel fil." Arthur decides to call him "Li Biaus Desconneus." Before the tables are moved, comes to court a maiden on a "palefroi." Description of her: "Gente de cors et de vis biele." She was clothed with "samit." "Face ot blance," "cors avenant," "Bel cief avoit, si estoit blonde," "En son cief ot un cercle d'or." Description of horse and trappings: covered with silk, gold and precious stones. With her comes a dwarf, of whom is given a short description. '"Kolbing and Miss Weston spoke in passing of parallelism, but no one has compared them closely with reference to other versions of the story. IPOMEDON. 257 Ismeine speaks : "Meleager, reis pouestis, Helie speaks: "Artur," fait ele, "cntent a moi. Entendes, sire, ma querele : Saluz vus raande la pucele, La fere, ke nostra nece est. La fille au roi Gringars te mande Salus, si te pria et demand© Secors. El mund n'at tant triste pucele. ****** Sa grand joie turne a roburs, Se par vus n'at aukun sucurs. Ma dame se deit desredner Par le cors d'un bon chevaler." Li reis entendi sa resun, Esgarde envirum sa meisun E n'ot nul d'eus un sol mot dire." Ismeine reproaclies king and knights. Ip. jumps up and "Sire, fet 11, vus savez ben Ke reis ne deit uientir pur ren." He claims the quest. After some bickering, the king replies, "Volenters, fol, ore i alez!" Ismeine objects: "N'irat pas issi; Od moi ne voil pas, ke il aut." She leaves and returns to a dwarf whom she has left out- side of the city. Dwarf counsels her to admit the foolish knight to her company. She refuses. Ip. arms : "un bon hoberc ad tost vestu, Elasca \\n heaume gemme. ****** Menez li fut un bon cheval, Muntez i est cest bons vassal. Un escu prent e lance el poing." He sets out after Ismeine. Moult a painne, moult a dolor. Moult ert entree en grant tristor. Envoie-li tel chevalier Qui bien li puisse avoir mestier, Trestot li millor que tu as." ****** Li rois esgarde et atendoit Qui le don li demanderoit; Mais n'i trove demandeor. Car n'i ot nul qui n'ot paor." Li biaus Desconnus jumps up and claims the quest. "Raison feras, ce m'est a via; Rois es, si ne dois pas mentir. Ne covent a nului faillir." Ce dit li rois, "Dont i ales." Helie objects: "Non sera. Ja, par mon cief, a moi n'ira!" She cries out against the Round Table, and leaves the court with the dwarf. Bel Inconnu arms: "Ses cauces lace, I'aubere vest, Et en son cief son elme trest. Puis est monte en son destrier; Son escu li porte et sa lance." BI takes leave of king, and seta out after Helie with his squire Robert. "E le retorne, si le vit." Ilelie swears that she will 17 :258 CHARLES HENEY CARTER. "Ele ot Tesfrei; s'est I'eturnee not willingly suffer his company, Et veit celui venir I'estree." and counsels him to go back. Dwarf refuses to send Ip. back, BI says he will not return, and so that Ismeine herself turns dwarf intercedes for him. upon him and tells him peremp- torily to go back. Ip. answers in his role of fool. About here the direct parallelism ceases, for the suc- ceeding adventures in each story differ widely. In Ipomedon v\'e have the three fights with the relatives of Leonin, and in Le Bel Inconnu we have the fight at the ford, the fight with the tliree avengers, the adventure with the giants, the sparrow-hawk adventure, all the adven- tures at L'lle D'Or, the disenchantment of the serpent woman, etc. It is interesting to observe, however, that Hugh has evidently retained a proper name from the story he was following, namely, that of Malgis, whom he represents as first to fight for possession of Ismeine. This is doubtless Malgeris, the knight who fights against BI at the He D'Or. In the Middle English lAheus Desconus he is a giant named Maugys. It is rather remarkable that Hugh should have derived nearly all his proper names from classical sources, and yet should have retained this one as an additional foot-print to mark where he had been for material. Schofield^^ has had occasion to compare carefully four versions of this maiden and dwarf ejiisode: Liheaus Desconus, Le Bel Inconnu, Wigalois, and Carduino, in Middle English, Old Erench, Middle High German, and Italian, respectively. An inspection of the parallel sum- maries which he gives, coupled with the comparison just given above, shows that, as compared with the others, " Studies on the Liheaus Desconus, Harvard Studies and Notes, Vol. IV. IPOMEDON. 259 Ipomedon and Le Bel Inconnu are very closely related. Let us point out details common to these two and lacking in the others. (1) Hero rides up while the king is at table. (2) He remains obstinately seated on horse-back till his request is granted. (3) The dwarf takes no part in the conference with the king. (4) Elaborate descrip- tion is given in similar phraseology of the messenger lady. (5) She begins her speech by delivering salutation from her mistress. ( 6 ) Messenger explains at length the adven- ture to be undertaken. This is true of Carduino also, but not of the others. (7) The king looks around and waits for someone to offer himself. (8) The hero prevails on the king by saying that, since he is a king, he should not lie. (9) The messenger is loud in her complaint of the treatment given her. (10) Elaborate description of the arming of hero. This is also true of Libeaus Desconus. (11) Tholomeu in Ip. somewhat resembles the squire Robert in BI. No such character in other versions. (12) Similarity of phraseology when the messenger looks back and sees hero approaching. In only two minor points does Ipomedon resemble the other versions as opposed to BI. (1) The messenger rides on a white mule. In BI the horse is simply "un palefroi," but in Libeaus Desconus and in Wigalois, the color white is given. (2) Ipomedon wishes to have the option of undertaking or of refusing the first fight in defense of lady who asks aid. In BI the hero asks simply that he be granted the first request (unspecified) that he shall make. In Lib. Desc, like Ip., he asks definitely for permission to undertake the first fight which offers. Wigalois also makes a definite request, but not until after the messenger has come and stated her case. Very little significance, however, can be seen in these details of difference. In regard to the 260 CHAELES HENEY CAETEE. second point of deviation from BI, we should remember that Ipomedon comes to court with a very special purpose, namely, to meet that messenger who, he feels sure, will come thither. He must therefore make the special request to provide for the contingency of someone's coming on a similar errand before Ismeine. We therefore see that Hugh was forced to depart from the story before him, in order to adapt the incident to his own plot, and therefore his agreement here with the other versions might well be a coincidence. In view of this strong resemblance, and of a few other passages^^ where the phraseology is similar, it seems prob- able that Hugh had before him Renaud's poem, or else a French source for Renaud's poem. Hippeau places the date of Le Bel Inconnu as approximately 1190. If Hugh made use of it, it almost certainly was written before 1187. With this whole episode should l>e remembered the Oareth and Lynet story in Book VI of Malory's Morte Darthur. Weber has said -P "The treatment which Ipome- don receives from the damsel * * * bears great similarity to that experienced by Libeus Desconus * * * and by Beaumains in Caxton's Morte d' Arthur. The latter adven- ture is undoubtedly borrowed from one of the two former ; but whether the author of the Libeus or he who permed Ipomedon is entitled to the claim of priority of invention it is now impossible to decide." (Weber probably knew only an English version of Ipomedon.) Sommer, in his investigation of Malory's sources, has found no source for Book VI; the presumption, however, is that the source was French prose, possibly a lost section of some Prose "Cf. Ip. lines 377f., 395f., 407f.. 2225f., 2245f., and 7956f., with BI, lines 3255f., 2198f., 2214f., 2408f., 3255f., and 4658f. "Metrical Romances, Vol. Ill, p. 363. IPOMEDON. 261 Lancelot. Certainly Malory did not base his story wholly or directly either on the LD-BI story, or on Ipomedon, or on any other known version. It agrees now with LD-BI, now with Ipomedon; and again it differs widely from them and from any other version of the story. IV. Relation to Tristan. Through the maiden and dwarf episode, one feature is essentially characteristic of Ipomedon: The hero's assumed role of fool, adopted in order to accomplish his designs the better. This idea is clearly a skilful way to avoid logical difficulties in Hugh's plot. Ipomedon had been at Meleager's court before, and could not therefore ride up, like the Fair Unknown, to demand the quest openly. He must go in disguise. Kolbing at this point cites the story of Tristan; and investigation shows that Hugh may very probably have remembered Tristan's "folie."^^ Surely this Tristan episode, which space forbids us to summarize and compare carefully with Ip., is much like the corres- ponding episode in Ipomedon. The hero has already been at court, and, wishing to return, adopts the disguise of fool ; he cuts his hair, scrapes his skin, and puts on old clothes ; he comes in while the king, queen and nobles are feasting; he sets the whole company in a roar of laughter with his fooling. The essence of his fooling is this : he tells the absolute truth about certain former " Tv.'o versions are preserA^ed in Old French Aerse, pub. by Michel: Tristan, Londres, 1835. Vol. II, p. 89, and Vol. I, p. 215. The second is much shortened. The episode is not found in the English "Sir Trisfrem," nor in Gottfried von Strassburg's "Tristan." It appears in a greatly changed form in Old Norse prose, printed by Kolbing: "Die Nordische und die Englische Version der Tristan Sage." Ileilbronn, 1878. 262 CHAKLES HENKY CARTER. occurrences, of which at least one other in the company besides himself knows; but because of his disguise his remarks are not taken in earnest, or are not understood, so that in his mouth they seem broadly witty. Of course, many other instances of assumed foolishness or madness may be cited, but that particular type which manifests itself in making fun at the expense of the hearers by allusions to past events which they do not recognize as true, appears, as far as the writer knows, only in Tristan and Ipomedon. Versions of the Tristan story existed before Hugh's time; Chrestien, for example, often refers to Tristan, and probably wrote a version himself. Though the episode does not occur in all versions of the Tristan storv, there is no reason for thinkinc; that it is not suffi- ciently old for Hugh to have knoAvn it. V. Fight Between Brothers. One of the principal minor themes of Ipomedon is the hero's discovery that Capaneus is his half-brother. This discovery is prepared for by the poet with some artistic skill. He does not give away this point of his story at the beginning, as many mediaeval poets might do. No hint is dropped of the relationship between the two knights, until they have fought to a standstill and Capaneus has caught sight of the ring. Then, however, we can see how their lives have been converging. The fight between relatives, when neither knows the other, is a dearly beloved situation among mediaeval ^vriters. Very frequently the combat is between father and son. This subject has been carefully investigated by Potter,^ ^ whose book contains an appendix giving a ^^ M. A. Potter: Sonrah and Rustum, London, 1902. See appendix, p. 207. iroMEDON. 263 list, gathered from folk-lore and romance, of twenty-seven combats between brothers. In not one of these, however, does the identification by a ring occur. Ipornedon seems to be unique in this respect. Identification by a ring, how^ever, is not unusual in stories of combat between father and son. Good examples of this are found in the lays of Doon^^ and Milun.'^'' It cannot be said that Hugh adapts the idea very happily to suit his situation, for he appar- ently does not see the logical difficulties in the way. It is quite natural for a father to leave a ring with the mother to be placed on the boy's finger when he should grow up, but does the ring idea suit brothers ? Capaneus and Ipomedon are apparently about the same age, and how should Capaneus know the ring given Ipomedon by the mother of them both ? If the queen had known where Capaneus was, she would not have resorted to the ring as a means of bringing the brothers together. It would then appear that she had lost all knoAvledge of her former son, in early years, and we are not told how a long-lost son should know that his mother had another son by a second marriage, and that he might recognize him by means of a ring. Probably Hugh derived his idea from some such story as Doon or Milun, but did not show his usual skill in adaptation. VI. Claim of Latin Original. Thus far in investigating the sources of Ipomedon we have not considered the words of the poet himself in his ** Romania, VIII, p. 59. "Die Lais de Marie de France. Ed. K. Warnke. Halle, 1885, p. 152f. 264 CHARLES HEXRY CAETEE. prologue. After commenting on the duty of transmitting one's knowledge for the benefit of others, he continues in substance as follows: "I marvel greatly at those wise clerks who understand several languages, that they have passed by this history, so that they have not kept it in memory. I don't say that he did not tell it well, who has written it down in Latin ; l)ut there are more laymen than learned men, and if the Latin be not translated, scarcely will they understand. Therefore I wish to tell the story in French as briefly as I know how, and then both clerk and layman will understand." This claim of a Latin original is very doubtfully true. After once getting the prologue off his hands, Hugh does not in any subsequent passage of his long poem allude to an original of any kind. Moreover, it seems to have been a rather common trick for a romancer to protest that his original was written in Latin, in order to gain the readier hearing for his own fabrications. The author- ity of Latin was great. Ward, in his Catalogue, con- siders several cases in point. There is much doubt that there ever existed a certain "grand liure del graal" in Latin, kept in the abbey of Salisbury, out of which are said to be translated Map's "liure del graal" (cf. Ward, p. 348) ; the Tristan, by Luces de Gast (Ward, 357, 363) ; and the Meliadus by Helie de Borron. The ascription to a Latin source in Perceforest is a clear case of lying (Ward, 378). The prologue to a prose Saint Graal says the book was first written by Christ, and then came "mes sires robers de borron qui cest« estoire translate de latin en franchois" (Ward, 340). We have still better reason, however, than this a priori reason, for doubting a Latin source for Ipomedon. Let us compare with Hugh's prologue two others, that of the IPOMEDON. 265 Roman de Thehes, and that of the Roman de Troie. I first quote certain lines from the Ipomedon. Moult me mervail de ces clers sages, Ky entendent plusurs langages, K'il ont lesse ceste estorie, Ke mis ne Font en memorie; etc. — Si li Latin n'est translatez Gaires n'i erent entendanz; Por ceo voil jeo dire en romanz A plus brevment qe jeo saurai, Si entendrunt and clerc and lai, etc. — Mes pur hastiver la matire, Nos estovra par bries motz dire: Fors la verrour n'y acrestrai, Dirai brefment ceo que j'en sai, etc. — Ne voil tut mon sen celer mes : Or m'escotez si aiez pes! Certain lines from the prologue to the Roman de Thehes are as follows : Qui sages est nel deit celer Ainz por co deit son sen monstrer Que, quant serra del siecle alez, En eeit pues toz jorz remembrez, etc. — Por CO ne vueil mon sen taisir Ma sapience retenir; Ainz me delet a aconter Chose digne de remembrer. Or s'en voisent de tot mestier, Se ne sont clerc o chevalier Car aussi pueent escouter Come li asnes al harper. From the prologue to the Roman de Troie come the follow- ing lines: Salemons nos enseigne et dit Et si lit len en son escrit Que nul ne deit son sen celer, Ainz le deit len si demostrer Que len i ait prou et enor. (They who find valuable old books and keep silent about them verily do foolishly). 266 CHARLES HENRY CARTER. Et por CO me voil travaillier Et une estoire comencier, Que de latin ou gie la truis Se j'ai lo sen, et se jo puis La voldrai si en romanz metre, etc. — Dire vus dei ci a bries motz De quel fait iert li livres toz. It looks as if Iliigli were adapting ideas for his prologue from these. Moreover, his debt to the Roman de Thebes does not end here. It seems very probable that Hugh derived from it many of his proper names. The following names appear in each romance: Adrastus, Amphion, Amphiaras (in Ip., Amfiorax), Antenor, Capaneus, Creon, Daire (in Ip., Daires), Diana, Drias, Egeon, Eurimedon, Ipomedon, Ismaine, Meleager, Minos, ISTestor, Tholmes (in Ip., Tholomeu).^® Kolbing, follow- ing Ward, thought that Hugh might have known enough Latin to read in the "Fahidae" of Hyginus about the seven kings slain before Thebes. Kolbing states that in Hyginus Capaneus and Hippomedon are mentioned as uterine brothers — the relationship which they bear in Hugh's romance ; but this is an error. The words in Hyginus are these : "Capaneus Hipponoi filius ex Astynome Talai filia sorore Adrasti Argivus," and later, "Hippomedon Mnesi- machi filius ex Mythidice Talai filia sorore Adrasti Argivus." It thus appears that Capaneus and Ipomedon were merely first cousins, their mothers being sisters ; so "Kolbing and Ward were apparentlj' unacquainted with this fact. L. Constans, however, recognized it in his preface to the Roman de Thehes: "Le Boman de Thebes, a resu tin prologue et une suite. * * * Je veux parler des ronians d' Ipomedon and de Protliesilaiis, dont I'auteur est Huon de Rotelande, de Credenhill, en Cornuailles. * * * Ipomedon * * * emprunte presque tous ses personnages au Roman de Thebes, aiiquel il se reffere dans un passage curieux." Of course it is not fair to call Ip. merely a prologue to the Roman de Thebes; neither is Credenhill in Cornwall. IPOMEDON. 267 what at first seemed like a fairlj strong argument that Hugh knew Hygiuus, since in the Roman de Thebes these two heroes are not mentioned as relatives, becomes weaker. In the B. de Th., however, they are introduced together. Cf. 1. 2003 and 2007. Ward says that Hugh may have been distorting a little knowledge from Hyginus when he says of Amfiorax (i. e., Amphiaraus) that he was a "devin" attached to Adrastus the duke of Athens. But this fact was easily derivable from the B. de Th., cf. 1. 2025ff. The reference in Hyginus is very vaguely apposite. Cf. Fab. LXXIIL Still further, it seems likely that in several places Hugh kept the B. de Th. in mind as a model, especially in descriptions of persons. ^^ At the end of Ip. we find this significant passage, 1. 10539: De ceste estorie, k'ai ci faite, Est cele de Thebes estraite: A Thebes fut Ipomedon, Aillurs querrez, si viis est bon, Cument ilokes li avint. "From this history that I have made, is that of Thebes continued ; Ipomedon was at Thebes, — seek elsewhere, if you wisli, to see how he fared there." Hugh may be trying to find a proper place for his story in the eyes of those who already knew the B. de Th. Where have you heard about these people ? In the History of Thebes, to be sure. My story belongs in time just before the events chronicled there. In view of this evidence, it looks as if we had caught '° Compare E. de Th. 7S3ff. with Ip. 401ff.; Th. 1. 3802 and 8427ff. with Ip. 2201ff. — very similar passages. Also Th. 1. 4355 with the tournament descriptions in Ip. Also Th. 1. 3391-3407; 4412ff.; 4427fr. One of Hugh's favorite tricks of style is anaphora, and this device is frequently employed also in Th. Cf. 1. 2810, 4899, 4555. 268 CHARLES HENRY CARTER. Hugh practising his "art of lying" when he professed a Latin original for his romance. Especially in those por- tions where he appears to be adapting from contemporary French literature is a Latin original almost impossible. The Roman de Thebes goes back ultimately to Statins, and we can conceive Hugh claiming for his story the same authority in Latin which this romance, already popular perhaps, claimed and possessed. Several other works besides the Roman de Thebes and the Roman de Troie were adapted, if not translated from Latin about this time and before. We may cite the Alexander story, resting on the Latin version by Julius Valerius of the Pseudo-Callis- thenes; the Eneas, perhaps by Benoit, a travesty on the Aeneid in the spirit of the middle ages; Chrestien's adaptation of Ovid, now lost ; and Jules Cesar (13th cent.) from the Pharsalia of Lucan.^° It was natural, therefore, for a poet who wished to give currency to a romance of home manufacture to tell a white lie about a Latin source. VIT. Place Amoxg Romances. Now Gaston Paris^^ classes both Ipomedon and Pro- thesilaus as coming into French from Byzantine sources by oral tradition without passing through Latin, This would happen during the time of the crusades, when con- nections between Frenchmen and Greeks became direct. Under the same caption he places the following romances : Eraclc, by Gautier d'Arras, 1100; Floire et Blanchefleur (12th cent.) ; Florimont (1188) ; Athis et Porphirias; Comte de Poitiers (12th cent.) ; Roman de la Violette (1225) ; Floire et Jeanne; Guillaume de Dole; Constant Tor those and other examples see Gaston Paris: La Litf. Fran- faise adi Moyen Age, second cd., 1890. Chapter II. "La Litt. Frangaise au Moyen Age. Chapter III. IPOMEDON. 269 I'empereur; Manehine (13tli cent.) ; Partenopeus de Blois (12tli cent.) ; Cliges; Cleomades ; Floriant et FloreUe; Guillaume de Palerme; L'Escoufie; Clarus; and Berinus. Of the group as a whole, he says in substance : ''All these have in general the same style and the same tone, as they have the same form, — octosyllabic verses rhyming in couplets. The principal subject is love, which, hindered during the story, ends by triumphing. There are mingled with this imiumerable adventures on sea and land, enchant- ments, predictions, and metamorphoses. Destined for elegant society, these romances have usually sought part of their success in the portrayal of its customs, in the exact and brilliant description of its exterior life." It is noteworthy that for nearly every one of these romances, except for Ipomedon and Prothesilaus, Gaston Paris adds a clause or two, sometimes more, to show the Greek or Byzantine element which he discovers. It might appear that he wished to classify Ipomedon somewhere, and, influenced by the Greek names, possibly, and the scene laid in Sicily and Italy, thought it convenient to call it Byzantine. We have seen, however, that the names do not imply a direct Greek source, and that the scene does not necessarily imply such. The character of the story, moreover, is not happily described as ''innumerable adven- tures on sea and land, enchantments, predictions, and metamorphoses." Still less is it described by Ten Brink,^- who, in speaking of the romantic themes brought through the crusaders from Byzantine and Late Greek sources, says: "As to subject-matter, we find a pair of lovers who are pursued or parted, who endure all sorts of adventures, and are happily rescued from ever-recurring perils. The execution shows an absence of all analysis of motive and " History of English Literature, I, p. 170. Translated by Kennedy, 1889. 270 CHARLES HENEY CAKTEE. of all portrayal of character. There is a predominance of chance, an effeminate sentimentality in the treatment of the erotic element, together with detailed descriptions of beautiful gardens, fountains, etc. The favorite roman- tic apparatus consists of storms, shipwreck, land or sea robbers, caves in which men hide, and the like." He does not include Ipomedon under this head, however, — does not mention it at all, indeed. Ipomedon can hardly be placed, as Paris places it, in such company, however honorable that company may be. Ipomedon seems essentially like a manufactured romance, in which Hugh has made free use of the ideas of his predecessors. In a stock prologue he invested his story with the authority of a Latin source. With much skill he elaborated, keeping his attention well fixed on the main plot of the story w^hich he had outlined, and resisting the besetting mediaeval sin of rambling digression. His romance cannot be called Arthurian, though if he had borrowed his names from Chrestien's romances instead of from the Roman de Thebes, and had localized the story in England instead of Sicily, the difference from Arthurian romance would not be great. It is not among the bio- graphical romances, so-called, where the romancer traces the fortunes of his hero from the days of his father to the days of his grandchildren, and strings adventures on the life thread of each. It belongs to none of the great cyclic romances. It can hardly be called Byzantine. It might be called a sporadic romance, based partially on folk-lore, and manufactured with conscious literary art by an Englishman, who, like the other dominant English- men of his day, happened to write French, and who had never heard of the modern sin of plagiarism. THE MOORS m SPANISH POPULAR POETRY BEFORE IGOO. By William Wistar Comfort, Ph.D. THE MOOES IN SPANISH POPULAR POETEY BEEOEE 1600. Sismondi, together with Faiiriel, Schack, Wolf, Durun, Dozy, Menendez y Pelayo and the whole century of his- torians who have dealt with the influence of the Mahometan peoples upon European civilization, do full justice to the mediaeval foes of Christian Europe. Not only are the Arab triumphs in science, philosophy and literature rehearsed in general by nineteenth century historians, but individual enthusiasts stand out here and there who would have us believe that Christian Europe owes a great part of what is best in its arts and sciences to the learning and accomplishments of those divers races which we may group under their mediaeval appellation of Saracens. Leaving aside the unquestioned interchange of influence upon the natural sciences, philosophy and architecture which resulted from the shock of Christian and Moslem in southern Europe during a period of seven or eight centuries, it is interesting to consider the aspect under which the Saracens appeared to the purveyors of popular literature in southern Europe. It is not a question here of borrowed motifs in the French fabliaux and contes, or of the alleged adopted forms of verse in the early Pro- vencal and Spanish lyric poetry. The inflow of oriental fable upon European literature is as unquestioned nowa- days by scholars as the development of lyric verse forms in southern Europe independent of all Arab influence is stoutly maintained. Eather are we concerned to learn just what was the impression made upon the mind of the European from the twelfth to the sixteenth century by i8 (273) 274 WILLIAM WISTAE COMFORT. the legendary or actual presence of the Saracens. To borrow the convenient phrase of Gaston Paris, what was the "poetic history" of the Saracens in European litera- ture ? How much of a position did they occupy, and in what fashion did the Christian poets use them as dramatis personae ? To answer this question in complete detail is too gi-eat an undertaking for our present purpose. The Spanish romances, the Old French chansons de geste and romans d'aventure, the Italian court epics of Pulci, Boiardo, Ari- osto and Tasso, — all present the Saracens. They are stock personages in the heroic poetry of the Romance domain until the sixteenth century. The literary field which they have invaded is of vast size, — co-extensive, indeed, with the European territory once threatened by their arms. For the purpose of making our observations more tangible, we may confine our attention in this essay to the treat- ment of one of the Saracen peoples, in this case the Moors, in the Spanish popular poetry before 1600. By referring in the course of our examination to the Saracens as they appear in France and Italy, we shall at the same time get some comparative view of their treatment at the hands of the three Christian nations with which the Infidels came chiefly into contact. Though not as exhaustive as we hope to make this study at a later date, the general history of the Saracens in Christian poetry may here be traced more distinctly than has been done heretofore by those literarv critics who have been concerned with the Saracens only incidentally. It must be stated at the outset that nowhere in the literature which we are about to survey are the followers of Mahomet represented as we must believe them actually to have been. Nowhere, except in Spain, were circum- THE MOOES IN SPANISH POPULAK POETRY. 275 stances favorable to any sympathetic and detailed examina- tion of a people from whom the western Christians felt themselves to be separated by that widest of dividing clefts — religion. Even in Spain, during the eight centuries of partial occupation by the Moors, the essential separation between the two races seems to have been always felt, and by many laws to have been accentuated. Schack's observation commends itself as being very near the truth : ''One cannot escape the tremendous cleft which separated the Christians and Mahometans in matters of belief, and made excessively difficult any contact of the two civiliza- tions."^ If, in spite of numerous qualifications, the truth of this remark may be asserted in the case of Spain, with much greater confidence can it be asserted in the case of France and Italy, where the contact between the oriental and occidental peoples was never more than of a fortuitous and temporary nature. The actual incursions of Saracens into the territory of France and Italy occurred, for the most part, so long before the composition of the earliest poetry we have in the vulgar tongues, that any description of the Infidels based upon observation was out of the question. Before the time of our earliest French epic poems, the Saracens had become assured of a promi- nent and permanent inheritance in the trouvere's pack of legendary lore, but an inheritance saddled withal by literary convention and popular prejudice. Strange to relate, the revival of interest in the Saracen awakened by the Crusades and by the later piratical onslaughts of the Berbery corsairs availed little to bring the true Saracen any nearer to the jjopular mind. Not until Cervantes took up the subject with his practical experience and his love of realism, as part of a political crusade, do we ^ Poesie und Kunst dcr Araber (1865), v. II, pp. 91, 92. 276 WILLIAM WISTAK COMFORT. get any true picture of the life and manners of the hostile races.^ Nowhere in the mediaeval literature of France, so far as we are aware, is a Saracen to be found portrayed with the truth and the colors we should expect from an eye-witness. Yet, in French narrative poetry of the eleventh to the fourteenth century the Saracen is every- where. He is well-nigh as inevitable in a Franch chanson de geste and in many of the romans d'aventure as are the Moros and Moriscos of Spain in the heroic poems and popular romances of the Peninsula. In the earliest monuments of Spanish heroic poetry, such as the Poema del Cid (1150 circ.) and the Poema de Fernan Gongalez (1250 circ.) one is struck by the fact that the Moors are taken for granted. The Christian poets feel under no necessity to explain their presence, nor do the Moors possess the slightest romantic interest for the Christian public. Since the time of Don Pelayo's stalwart resistance until the reconquest of Alfonso, as narrated in the Cronica General, it was one long up-hill fight to regain the northern and central kingdoms from the Infidel invader. Thus, we should expect to find the Moors consistently regarded as enemies of the true God, to be uncompromisingly converted or slaughtered. So, indeed, we do find them in the earliest French chansons de geste. But in Spain we have to reckon with the innumerable jealousies between local Christian monarchs and the fre- quent quarrels between these monarchs and their powerful vassals. In other words, the unified resistance of Chris- tian Spain opposed to the solid attack of the Moors is in popular poetry as far from being established as it is in history. It is unnecessary to cite the numerous instances = Cf. Emile Chasles, Michel de Cervantes: Sa vie, son temps (2d ed., 1866), Chapter V. THE MOORS IN SPANISH POPULAR POETRY. 277 of political alliances for private gain narrated as existing between individual Moorish and Christian chiefs. In Spain we find no parallel to the French and Italian con- ception of Christendom nncompromisingly arrayed under Charlemagne against the definitely planned aggression of the Infidels. Policy and expediency weighed more than religious affiliation in the early relations of the two races in Spain. As Dozy has well shown," the people were interested in the Cid primarily as a great independent vassal, who could dispense with the favor of an ungrateful king. The Poema del Cid does not sing the praises of a defender of Christendom, but of an independent free-booter, who as time went on became more refined and religious to meet the requirements of a higher civilization. There is this essential difference between the first great national expres- sions in the Roland and the Poema del Cid. To the Cid the killing of Moors is only an occasional incident in the securing of booty (470f., 498f., 1236, etc.). When it suits his purpose, the Cid is lenient with the Moors. When he leaves Casteion "Los moros y las moras bendizienclol estan" (541). When he leaves Alcoger, the Moors exclaim "Vaste, myo Qid; nuestras oragiones uayante delaiite" (853). One of the most sympathetic of the secondary characters in the poem is the Moorish king, Avengaluon of Molina, a useful ally of the Cid throughout, and called by him, with good reason, "myo amigo de paz." It is not unusual to find Moors and Christians fighting on the same side: as when Count Remont of Barcelona ^ Recherches sur I'histoire et la litterature de VEspagne pendant le moyen dge (2d ed., 1860) v. II, pp. 222, 223. 278 WILLIAM WISTAR COMFORT. led a mixed host against the Cid {Cid, 988), when Bernard del Carpio joined with Marsil(io), king of Saragossa, to defeat the Twelve Peers of Charleniagiie {Fernan Gon- Qolez, 141), and when Fernan Gonzalez reproves Don Sancho of ISTavarre for having in the past allied himself with Moors to fight Christians {F. G., 288). There is just a suggestion of that bitter religious competition familiar in the French epic poems : when the Cid, after his conquest of Valencia, established Jeronimo (that Spanish Turpin) as bishop of Valencia, the poet says: "Dios, que alegre era todo christianismo, Que en tierras de Valencia senor avie obispo!" {Cid, 1305-6). In the other camp, we read (1620) of how Yucef, king of Morocco, grieved to hear of the victory in Valencia of those who worship "Jhesu Christo." But we suspect these to be concessions to the deepened religious convictions of the twelfth century, and that the Cid was right when he thanked the Creator for his victories and spoils regardless of the reliffion of his victims: "to' "Antes fu minguado, agora rico so, Que he auer 3' tierra y oro y onor, E son myos yernos yfantcs de Carrion; Moros y christianos de mi lian grant pauor; [Cid, 2494f.) The point upon whicdi we would insist, then, is the matter-of-fact, business-like tone which is employed here in speaking of the Moors. They are enemies, of another religion, to be sure. But no personal hatred is expressed for them, no religious crusade is preached against them, and, if it be expedient, alliance with them is winked at. There is no trace here of that bitterness employed by Ibn-Bassam, the Arab writer of 1109, whom Dozy quotes,* * Op. cit., V. II, p. 7f . THE MOOES IN SPANISH POPULAR POETRY. 279 and who accompanies every mention of Alfonso with the hearty exclamation : "May God curse him !" In the Poema de Fernan Gonzalez (1250 circ.) we feel a distinct advance in the sentiment of Castilian nationality and, consequently, in the hostility toward the Moors. Though we are still following the career of an individual hero, we realize at once that his chief claim to popularity rests in his valor against the Moors, "la gente descreyda" (173, 174). Indeed, F. G. dedicates himself solemnly in God's name to the reconquest (184f.). The Moorish king, Almozor (i. e., Almanzor of the tenth century, and hence not really a contemporary of F. G.),^ rallies a great host to fight F. G., — a host of 5,000 legions. The Cronica General^ is more conservative with its allowance of seven legions of 6,666 men each on the Moorish side. But the exaggeration of the enemy's numbers is a constant trait, especially in the French heroic poems, and is used to enhance the credit of the Christians' victories. It may be added that the mediaeval audience accepted the pro- portion of ten Saracens to one Christian as about the proper odds to provide an interesting fight. In the Spanish poems, where the Christians are counted by hun- dreds, the Moors are rated by thousands; and in the French poems, where the French are counted by thou- sands, the Saracens move like a vast horde: "Des tentes issent aussi espesement Come li pluie, quant le cachent li vent." {Anse'is von Karthago, 6658-59) When fighting against such odds, it was no disgrace to succumb; to win was sublime. The religious element is i)rominent throughout the ' Cf. the note of Professor C. C. Marden in his edition of the poem. • Ed. of Meneudez Pidal, p. 392. 280 WILLIAM WISTAK COMFOET. Poema de Fernan Gongalez, and brings this poem well within the sphere of onr observations made in another place" regarding the Saracens in the chansons de geste. The hero is supported by the promises of God made through chosen vessels, and upon these promises he rests confident : "Alii fue demostrrado el poder del Mexyas, El conde fue David e Almozor(re) Golias" (F. G., 267). After this great victory it is true that the booty is still detailed with satisfaction as a valuable asset 5* but the Count uses his share in endowing the Church, as he had previously promised to do (278, 246f.). This poem contains one other interesting reference to the popular estimation of the Moors as enchanters and experts in black art. Explaining the nature of a fiery serpent in the heavens, whose appearance had terrified his men, Fernan Gonzalez says: "Los moros, byen sabedes, (qiie) se guian por estrellas, Non se guian por Dios que se guian por ellas, Otrro Criador nuevo lian fecho ellos dellas, Diz(en) que por ellas veen muchas de maraui(e) lias. A y (avn) otrros que saben niuchos encantamentos, Fazen niuy malos gestos con sus esperamentos, De rreuoluer las nuves e (de) rreuoluer los \-yento3, Muestra les el diablo estos entendymientos. AyA'ntan los diablos con sus conjuramentos, Aliegan se con ellos e fazen sus conventos, Dizen de los pas (s) ados todos sus fallimientos, Todos fazen congejo, los falsos earvonientos. Algun moro astroso que sabe encantar, Fyzo aquel diablo en syerpe fygurar, Por amor que podies(s)e a vos (otrros) (mal) espantar, ' Vid. Publications of the Modern Language Association, of America, V. XXI. •Plunder by the Christians is but rarely mentioned in the French and Italian poems. Cf., ho^vever, Les Enfances Ogier, 6899; Geru- salemme Liberata, XIX, 52; Mambriano, XVII, 67f. : XXXV. THE MOORS IN SPANISH POPULAR POETRY. 281 Con este tal enganno cuydaron (se) nos tornar. Commo sodes sesudos byen podedes saber Que ellos non ban poder de nml a nos fazer, Qua quite les don Cristo el su fuerte poder, Veades que son locos los que lo quicren creer." F. G., 473-477. Here the Moors are represented as astrologers iu league with the devil, who has tanght them his arts, but of which the true Christian need have no fear. This reputation of the mediaeval Saracens as astrologers, soothsayers, or wizards may be regarded as a frequent, though not greatly emphasized, trait in popular poetry.^ That it is the pale reflection of the actual superiority of tho Arabs in the domain of the natural sciences seems probable. To this superiority and to the attitude of the Church toward Arab learning the historians of Arab civilization have done full justice. But as Schack,^'' D'Ancona,^^ Kenaii^^ and others have remarked, the ignorance of the Saracens' religion displayed by the mediaeval Christians is monu- mental. It is difficult for us to conceive how such gross misrepresentation of the Infidels' tenets could have been accepted, even by the most ignorant of the Christian masses. Leaving aside the ecclesiastical attitude toward Mahometanism, we have found nothing in the popular poetry of Spain which would indicate any interest in or knowledge of the religion of the Moors. If the popular poets possessed any such knowledge, they made no use of it, — not even as much as did the French poets.^^ By •The Saracen magician is a standard character in the Gcr. Lib. and in the Italian court epic poems. 19 Op. cit., V. II, p. 92f. ^''Giornalc sforico della Lett, ital., XIII. pp. 192-281. " Etudes d'histoire religieuse. "Cf. Conronnement de Louis, 847f. ; Floovani, 373; Oaufrey, 3582; Aiol, 10090; Conquete de Jerusalem, 5546. 283 WILLIAM WISTAR COMFORT. way of compensation, in the Spanish poems there is no ridiculous talk about the Saracens' gods and idols, such as Apolin, Cahu, Tervagan, Diana, Mahom and the rest. Beside Allah, Mahomet alone is mentioned, and is regarded not as one of the grotesque fraternity just mentioned, but as the counterpart of the Christians' Messiah, — a prophet of God. Usually devoted to Mahomet and his cause, the Saracen is often represented by the Christian poets as disgusted with his Mahomet and disappointed with his protection. For instance, after Almozor had lost the bat- tle to Fernan Gonzalez, he exclaims: "Alas, Mahomet, in an evil hour did I trust in thee. All thy power is not worth three beans."^^ With this compare the outbreak of pagan fury against their idols described in the Roland (2580-91) and in Fierahras (p. 156). This puerile doubt ill tlie efficacy of their gods must have been introduced for a humorous purpose, to contrast with the abiding faith of the mediaeval Christian in his God of battles. To conclude, the religious element in the strife between Christian and Saracen comes out in the French far more than in the Spanish narrative poems. From the Roland on till the close of the epic period, the French poet puts religion in the foreground ; for conversions and argument on religious beliefs between hostile warriors there is always room in the most animated narrative.^'* Before the promise of conversion the avenging arm of the French falls. The things of the Spirit are given the first chance. In Spain there is little to indicate any altruistic religious interest on the part of the Christians. We may doubt if there were actually any such interest during the early "P'. G., 268. "Cf. Roland, 3661-74; Mainct in Romania, IV, p. 330; Cour. de Louis, 847f.; AUscans, 1223-27; Enf. Ogier, 4453-56; Chev. Ogier, 11316-21. THE MOORS IN SPANISH POPULAR POETRY. 283 centuries of the Moorish occupation, when the Christians were in the minority. After the taking of Granada in 1492, history tells us of the strenuous endeavors of the State egged on by the Church to coerce the Moorish popu- lation to an empty conversion.^ ^ But even in the romances of the sixteenth century, as we shall see, the religious note is lacking. We suspect that the living religious enthusiasm bred by the Crusades, in which the French j^layed so much larger a part than did the Spaniards, may explain this difference in attitude. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, when the highly civilized French nation con- sidered itself in a position to dictate to the Saracen foe in the East, the Spaniards were still fighting for their exist- ence on the frontera. If one may risk the remark, we should say that the Spaniards from actual experience know far more of wdiat they are speaking when they introduce the Moors in their early poetry, but that they saw nothing in the subject w^orthy of description or amplification. The French, with far less actual knowledge, made of the Saracen an Infidel chevalier, and personified in him the idealized opposition to themselves in the "lutte de I'Europe chretiemie sous I'hegemonie de la France." ^^ The Italian poets took over this conception in toto, while introducing into the treatment many traits of levity and romance. The Spanish poems reflect an actual state of affairs, with the Christians fighting for their fire-sides, Avith expediency and compromise as counters in the game; the French and Italian poems reflect an ideal strife between Christendom and Paganism, in which compromise with principle has no place, and where the extermination of heresy is the ultimate goal. "Cf. H. C. Lea, The Moriscos. " Gaston Paris, Histoire poetique de Charlemagne, p. 16. 284 WILLIAM WISTAK COMFOKT. The practical realism of the Spanish treatment of the Moors in the historical poems, and the poetic idealism of the French treatment of the Saracens, is explained by the historical relations of these peoples. This fact should be borne in mind by anyone who reads these pages. The French were freed from any imminent danger of invasion by the Saracens at an early date. In onr period they did not know as a nation what the African peril was. We should see the romantic side of their relations with the Infidels finding expression at a comparatively early date. The Spaniards until within two centuries still knew the danger of the Berbery corsairs at their very ports. ISTot until they had gained a heavy upper hand in the fifteenth and the sixteenth centuries do we note the lenient and romantic literary treatment of the Moors and Moriscos invading the romances. The struggle for existence is then passed, and the Christian poets can afford to use for artistic purposes the faded orientalism of the western Caliphate. As bearing upon the twelfth and thirteenth century knowledge concerning the Saracens, a word is in order as to their geographical distribution and their physical characteristics according to the popular poets. The Spanish poems, as we should expect, have the Moors dis- tributed with due regard to the facts. The topography of the wars of reconquest is observed in the heroic poetry with sufficient exactness to make comparison with historical records interesting and profitable. The Poema del Cid and the Poema de Fernan Gongalez are as full of topog- raphy as the Cronica General is full of dates. Whether tlie enemy be called Moros, Moriscos, Aldrahes, Turcos, Sarricenos or Berheriscos, the Spanish poets of all ages know pretty well what they are talking about, and present their enemies Avithin proper geographical limits. What THE MOORS I^r SPANISH POPULAR POETRY. 285 extravagant notions the French popular poets entertained of the origin and whereabouts of the Saracens it is hardly necessary to tell. Anyone who has read any mediaeval French narrative literature will have given up the fruit- less task of identifying the names of Pagan peoples and countries. In this confusion the Roland leads off witli a score of names before which tlie most zealous speculation retreats in confusion. Who are les Ormalois, les Leus, les Eugles, les SoUras?^^ Where are Yalpenuse, Occiant la deserte, Balide-la-FoHe, Floredee? As to many of the other places and peoples mentioned and which have been identified {(), it may be safely said that the modern scholars know far more about them than did the mediaeval poet. As time went on, confusion became worse con- founded. The one desire of the poet, as Professor Geddes has said, is "to name the peoples who have terrorized Christian Europe during the last centuries." ^^ Thus we find masquerading as Saracens the Saxons,-^ the ISTor- mans,^^ the Danes,^^ and the Albigenses.^^ As to the individual, there is no attempt in early Spanish verse to describe him either seriously or grotesquely. The great crowd of Africans who arrive at Almozor's summons after his first defeat offers a fine chance for such descrip- tion (F. G., 383, 384). Their equipment is described in this place, as so frequently in the later romances; but not a Pagan in the vast host stands out so that we can see "Les Enfances Ogicr (1275 circ.) offers a somewhat more recog- nizable assortment of Saracen peoples: Turs, Persant, Arrabis, Esclers, cil de Barbarie, Achopars, Esclavons, Aufricans, Arragons. '^Geddes, La Chanson de Roland (1906), p. 223. '"In the Chanson des Saisnes. " In Aquin and Le Roi Louis. '■" In Chronique de Phil. Mouskes. " In Oar in de Montglane. 286 WILLIAM WISTAR COMFORT. him. And why should the poet describe the dark-skinned peoples ? All his audience had seen them. There was no exotic charm for the Spaniard in an African complexion. He wanted events, not portraits. But in France, where neither the poet nor the audience had ever seen a Saracen, a loose rein was given to the trouvere's fancy. Conse- quently, we have such delightfully naive portraits as those of the Roland (1217 ; 1917-19 ; 1932-34), Les Narlonnais (3803-8), Gaufrey (p. 90), and Couronnement de Louis (504-510). In these latter a purely conventional portrait of bigness, blackness and fierceness has been evolved as a grotesque embellishment of the poem. Without falling into this comical exaggeration, the French poets were incapable of depicting the Saracen warrior in any different guise from that of the Christian knight. He fought in the same way, his standards of conduct were the same. The poet knew no type of warrior except that which he saw about him ; so he contented himself vrith crj'ing of a sympathetic Saracen hero: "Deus! quels vassals, s' oilst chrestientet!" Roland, 3164. After having remarked the very slight artistic use made of the Moors in the two great heroic poems of mediaeval Spain, we turn next to the roinances, or popular ballads, composed, as we have them, from the fifteenth to the seventeenth century. Few questions are more intricate than the origin of many of these romances. They have been variously classified: chronologically according to their supposed antiquity, chronologically according to the antiquity of the subjects of which they treat, and thirdly according to the nature of the genre, — such as historical, romantic, chevaleresque, burlesque, etc. In any system THE MOORS IN SPANISH POPULAR POETRY. 28'7 of arrangement many escape from all categories and remain without any certain indication of tlieir pedigree. We may, however, summarize what has been written as to the development of the romances. There are three great periods of bloom. The first dates from the earliest expression of the Spanish people in the vulgar tongue, when ballads were sung by the people and for the people. This period closed before 1200, and from it we have no remains except as they are incorporated in later and more artistic poetry and in the prose chronicles. The second period is that of the popular poets, — the juglares by pro- fession, who sang for the people in more ambitious strain the same songs of national heroes. To these were added, without much regard for chronology or congruity, subjects borrowed from the '^matiere de France," the ''matiere de Bretag-ne," and the "matiere de Rome la grant." This period includes the fifteenth century and represents a rich midway stage between the really popular expression of the first period and the thoroughly artificial and con- ventional ballad poetry of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. In this last period, where we meet the work of Sepulveda, Laso de la Vega, Timoneda, and even Gongora, cultivated society has taken up the old popular material and clothed it now in a new travestied dress, now in a dress of pseudo-antiquity which it is not always easy to distinguish from the genuine article. The great anonymous ballad collections of 1510, 1550 and 1593 con- tain the meat of this period, to which must be added the artistic imitations and the rifacimenti of such poets as have just been mentioned. From Duran's enormous collection of almost two thou- sand romances in his Romancero General of 1849, it requires an internal criticism of exceptional competence 288 WILLIAM WISTAK COMFORT. to cull with any certainty those poems which are essentially popular, and to distinguish them from those that are tainted by subjectivity and art. Ticknor says of the romances: "Few can be found alluding to known events or to personages that occur before the period immediately preceding the fall of Granada ; and even in these few the proofs of a more recent and Christian character are abundant."^^ Wolf, too, maintains that the surest antiquity may be claimed for those relating to wars with the Moors during the second half of the fifteenth century ; and, though these contain features which go back to early times, they hardly antedate in their present form the sixteenth century.'^ We have hesitated over what method to pursue in bringing the Moors into the foreground from this vast body of material where they occur at every step. Duran's division, painstaking and conscientious though it bo, helps us little for our present purpose. W^e have decided at last to adopt what is perhaps the most evident plan : that is, to study the Moors first in the poems where they are only incidental, and then to take up the great body of poems in which they are the chief dramalis per- sonae. After the adoption of this division, it was found that the romances divide themselves chronologically upon somewhat the same lines. That is, that the ballads in which the Moors are incidentally treated are relatively early and have some pretentions to historic reliability, while those which present the Moors as an end in them- selves are late, artificial and romantic. These last will appropriately conclude our study with some interesting evidence bearing upon the ultimate invasion of Spanish " History of Spanish Literature, v. I, p. 156. ^' Cf. Sludien zur GescJiichte der spanischen und portuguesischen Literaiur, pp. 469, 460. THE MOORS IN SPANISH POPULAR POETRY. 289 lyric poetry by the exaggerations of that Orientalismus which was the Moors' revenge for their banishment from Spain. The oldest romatices, at least in their inspiration if not in their final version, are those of the reconquest, such as those dealing with the Cid, Fernan Gonzalez, Bernardo del Carpio and the Seven Infantes de Lara, — all standard subjects of popular verse for centuries. In them we find all the essential facts narrated, as borrowed from earlier ballads and from the lengthy cronicas which stand in such close relation to the romances. In most of these ballads the attention is fixed upon the Spanish hero, and the Moors are only incidentally introduced. Hence, we find in them little to add to the primitive evidence already presented. The under-current of religious hostility is still upset by the exigencies of politics and expediency. Christians and Moors mingle fraternally in battle against some common enemy. Courteous and chivalric attentions are shown to distinguished representatives of the opposite faith. Examples of conversions become more frequent, and the rift of religious separation becomes at times well defined as an actual factor in the life of the nation and of the individual. A few instances of this evolution may be noted. They may be the literary reflection of that increasing confidence and didactic tone affected by the Spaniards about 1500 toward their weakening oppo- nents. When Mudarra, the bastard brother of the Infantes de Lara and the son of Count Gonzalo Gustios grows up and is told of the family tragedy by his Moorish mother : "Mudarra se baptiz6. Criatiano tornado habla." (No. 693, attrib. to Sepfllveda). 19 290 WILLIAM WISTAR COMFORT. In the Cid's last testament, wliicli is a late poem, he makes a bequest to "Gil Diaz tornadizo, Que de nioro & Dios volviOse." (No. 896.) We are saved an excursion afield by the Cid in a six- teenth century ballad, when he politely refuses to visit the Sultan of Persia because the latter is a Pagan, He says to the messenger: " 'Si tu Eey fuera cristiano Fuera yo a verle & su tierra.' " (No. 891.) It is a narrow escape, but happily the condition imposed was sufficient to deter him from the expedition. These are but typical of many instances where the religious dis- tinction is touched upon in individual cases. Intercourse between the sexes when separated by religion seems to have been forbidden as a theory, just as it is throughout the French epic poems. Two notable passages dealing with historical personages may be quoted, though they are of late composition. Alfonso the Fifth of Leon gives his sister in marriage to King Audalla of Toledo against her will, in return for aid against other Moorish kings. But she forbids her new spouse to approach her: "I tell you you shall not approach me, because I am a Christian and you a Moor, of another religion very different from mine. I care not for your company, and the sight of you gives me no pleasure. If you lay hands on me and from you I suffer dishonor, the angel of Jesus Christ will strike your body with his trenchant sword" (Xo. 721). In the ballad the king disregards her wishes, ia smitten with the plague, and returns her to her country, where she becomes a nun. Strange as this story may sound in its late pious setting. Dozy has found the historic THE MOORS IN SPANISH POPULAR POETRY. 291 basis for it in tlie tenth century."'^ Gabriel Lobo Laso de la Vega has treated auother episode in which figure Alfonso the Sixth and the beautiful Zaida, daughter of the king of Seville. Zaida, who has fallen in love with Alfonso by hearsay, is determined to marry him. In reply to her ardent addresses the Christian king replied ^'tliat he could not marry her, because his religion forbade him to do what she requested; but that if she would give up her own faith for a better one, he would accept her." This the Moorish maid consented to do, for one who loves knows no law. She became a Christian with great cere- mony, and became queen of Castillo, whom afterward they called the great Christian Mary (No. 913). This con- version of Saracen women had become a constant trait of romance after the doctrine of all-conquering love was firmly established in European literature. In admitting it, the poets were far enough from the facts, and we should be tempted to say that it is a sure mark of late composition, did we not recall Charlemagne's solicitude in the Roland for the conversion of Bramimunde, the captive wife of Marsile. (Roland, 3673-74). The later French poems show very artistic use of these international unions, post- poned only until the happy conversion and baptism of the Saracen maid can be effected (cf. Guillaume and Orable in the Prise d' Orange, Aiol and Mirabel in Aiol, Elie and Rosamonde in Elie de Baint-Gille, Berart and Flordepine in Gaufrey, Gui and Floripas in Fierabras, and Gerart and Malatrie in Beuves de Commarcis). The religious reconquest of the Moorish territory is more than once referred to, as it was cursorily in the Poema del Cid (see above). When under the reign of Alfonso the Sixth the city of Toledo was taken, the Chris- ^Op. cif., V. I., p. 205. 292 WILLIAM WISTAR COMFORT. tians proceed to convert the Moorish mezquita into a church again. This they do by "cleansing it of false rites, rededicating it to God, and celebrating Mass" under the new archbishop (Xo. 911). (Cf. No. 931). But alongside of such traits as these which possess a certain color of historic reliability stand others of a purely romantic nature. Even the so-called historic ballads, dealing with the national heroes, early fell under the romantic influence. The Moors commence to appear in an ever more romantic light. For example, when the Cid was at Valencia, King Bucar comes and makes love to Urraca, the Cid's daughter. The Cid bids his daughter detain Bucar in suitable converse until he can come and administer the chastisement which such temerity deserves (No. 858). When, after the Cid's death, the Christians sally forth from Valencia to fight Bucar, in front of the Moorish host they fall in with a female warrior at the head of a hundred companions like her: "Una mora muy gallarda, Gran maestra en el tirar Con saetas del aljaba De los arcos de Turquia ; Estrella era nombrada Por la destreza que habfa En el herir de la jara."" (Xo. 901.) Elsewhere we find the romantic element softening the couA^entionally hostile relations between the two people. The Master of Calatrava, for example, assists a Moor of Granada to elope with his lady-love who was betrothed to another (Nos. 1096-99). Again, that Don Manuel Ponce de Leon, who was the doughty champion of many a single " The female Saracen warrior became a regular romantic feature of the Italian poems. THE MOOES IN SPANISH POPULAR POETRY. 293 duel upon the frontier, released liis defeated Moorish oppo- nent in order that the latter might join his sweetheart (ISTo. 1134). In hoth cases the sympathy for a lover outweighs the prescribed attitude which called for the speedy beheading of the Moor. These instances are but straws which show the turn of treatment bestowed upon the Moors in the so-called historical ballads. It is only with general tendencies that we are concerned, and to multiply quotations is needless. As Duran has noted, there is no essential difference between his late historical ballads and the romances moriscos novelescos to which we shall presently come. The latter certainl}^ affected the former. Indeed, the same known poets wrote both kinds, and the historical ballads are only historical in so far as they mention historic characters upon one side or the other. In spirit they are identical wath the avowedly romantic Moorish ballads in which the Moorish characters and colors furnish the whole interest. Before leaving the historical ballads it should be added that in their last period of bloom at the end of the sixteenth century they still present the Spanish sovereigns Charles the Fifth and Philip the Second in their historic struggle with the Turks in eastern Europe and with the corsairs upon the sea. These last ballads are simple history in poetic form, and add nothing to what has been said regarding the literary presentation of the Moors. They lead directly to the classic period of the Spanish drama in the seventeenth century, where we still find the Moors playing their ancient role, now treated historically, now romantically. We come now to the ballads in which the centre of interest shifts from the Christians to the Moors. Duran includes 243 of this class in his first volume, and calls them romances moriscos novelescos. Though some of these 294 WILLIAM WISTAK COMFORT. date from the fifteenth, century, the great majority date from the sixteenth century. Most of them are anonymous, but the work of Sepiilveda, Padilla, Laso de la Vega, Encina, Lucas Rodriguez, and even of Gongora is well rep- resented in this class. They show forth that literary tolerance and sympathy for the conquered people which is far from being equally manifested in the historic treat- ment of the scattered Moriscos by Church and State. Here war is only in the background, useful as a chance for the Moorish braves to exhibit their prowess and honors, as in a tournament, to be laid at the feet of their ladies. Indeed, Avar has now passed into the tournament stage. The array of one people against another, so familiar in the French epic and in the Italian poems, has no counter- part here. We still hear at intervals of battles and sieges of frontier towns, but the religious interest is out of it. The scene is described from the stand-point of the indi- vidual warrior, and the assets of victory are reckoned in terms of love. "We find a mixture of European chivalry with a graft of oriental coloring and Moorish names which at least sound historical. That lamentable strife in Granada between the two great factions of the Aben- cerrajes and the Cegries finds its echo all through this group of ballads. Many are the fierce jealousies and hatreds, the plots and deeds of violence which so tore the Moors apart that they became a prey for the Christian enemv, ever more consolidated. The men are shown fighting or love-making; the women appear a prey to the passion of love or jealousy. The women reprove the men for cowardice as warriors, or for boasters as lovers; the men berate the women for their fickleness. The love pas- sion is depicted as all-absorbing. ISTo division of favors is tolerated. No suggestion of oriental polygamy is to THE MOOKS IN SPAJSTISH POPULAR POETRY. 295 be found. ^^ One must be off with the old before one is on with the new. The lovers communicate over the bal- conies, or, Avhen separated, by letters. That extreme sus- ceptibility and suspicion wbicli mark the love passion among the hot-blooded races is everywhere uppermost. Yet there is nowhere a suggestion of the carnal, which is more than can be said of the Italian romances. The relation between the sexes before marriage is altogether above reproach. What these rites of marriage are, we are not told. The disposal of the woman is in the hands of her father or of the king. To interfere with the wishes of the king entails banishment from the court and exposure of the lovers to all the pains and torments of enforced separation. Inasmuch as these romantic ballads deal chiefly with the period of the frontier wars, the taking of Granada and the occasional early insurrections of the Moriscos, the taking of captives is frequently mentioned. The beauty of the ballads dealing with the Christian Moriana and the Moor Galvan are, perhaps, the most artistic and among the oldest of the genre. The setting of the game of drafts between the rich Moor and his unwilling captive is in the best ballad style: "Moriana en im Castillo Juega con el more Galvane; Juegan los dos a las tablas Por mayor placer tomare. Cada vez qu'ol moro pierde Bien perdfa una cibdade; **We can recall no reference in popular literature to polygamy among the Saracens, except that in the Chanson d'Antioche V, 42, where the crusade against the Christians is preached: " 'Bien peut avoir dis femes cil qui or cine en a, On quinze ou vint ou trente, ou tout com lui plaira.' " 296 WILLIAM WISTAK COMFOET. Cuando Moriana pierde La niano le da a besare. Del placer qu'el moro toma Adormescido se cae. Por aquellos altos montes Caballero vio asoinare: Llorando viene y gimiendo, Las Unas corriendo sangre De aniores de Moriana Hija del rev ]Moriane. Captivaronla los inoros La maiiana de Sant Juane, Cogiendo rosas y flores En la liuerta de su padre." (No. 7.) Exterior description, indeed, is the special charm of the Moorish romances J rather than any light they throw upon the personal character of the Moors. The coloring, so long as it is not overdone, is very pleasing, and helps ns to people in imagination the groves and gardens of Granada, the courts and baths of the Alhambra and Gen- eralife, the banks of the Genii and the green stretches of the great vega. Is it asserting too much, to say that the Moorish joy in Nature's beauty happily inspired the Spanish poets, sons of a harsher clime, and gave them an inheritance of feeling for the out-door world which succeeding generations of Spanish lyrists have never lost ? There is, then, no essential difference between the Moorish ballads and the contemporary ballads dealing with other personages, save the oriental coloring conventionally employed in the former. Tournaments, duels, love-mak- ing with the inevitable quarrels and reconciliations, — all these developed that pundonor among the Moors of the ballads as among the Spaniards. At a time when the Moriscos were leading a sorry existence in exile from their old homes, the Spanish poets were representing them as riding about on proud chargers, adorned with orna- THE MOORS IN SPANISH POPULAK POETRY. 297 mented armor, courting their sweetliearts, and vowing their nndying devotion in a setting of oriental wealth and inagnihcence. The whole thing is artificial, conventional, and contrary to the real estate of the Moors, as the Chris- tian poets must have very well known. The question arises, then, why did the Spaniards make out the Moors to be leading a chivalrous existence in the sixteenth century just like themselves ? As Duran has pointed out, it became a conventional trick of such poets as we have mentioned to sing their loves in oriental imagery. The Fatimas, the Zaidas, the Vindarajas, the Boabdils, the Zaides, the Audallas, Gazuls and Tarfes of this poetry stand for the less romantic names of the actual Christian lovers. The situation is in no wise different, nor is any effort made to differentiate the exterior of the personages. The vogue for Moorish scenery and local color had come in with the beginning of the sixteenth century, as the Moorish peril had ceased to be a constant threat within the country. This is not the place to mention individual ballads of great beauty. But it may be stated in a general way that this numerous class of romantic Moorish ballads yields us no matter for this study beyond the totally false historical aspect under which the Moors are por- trayed. If the Spanish poets tried to do so, they failed to give us the domestic and intimate life of the Moors among; themselves. Take away the Moorish names and the conventional colors of oriental chivalry, and we have left the Spaniards of the comedias de capa y espada. The constantly recurring words in the Moorish romances are the identical ear-marks of the later Spanish comedias: celos, penas, pundonor, cuidados, contentos, retratos, etc. One is surprised that the n\ysterious life of the harem had no charm for the Christian poets. As has been said, 298 WILLIAM WISTAR COMFOKT. there is no attempt to describe it. The Moorish women deport themselves exactly as their Christian sisters. They employ their time in making favors for their lovers, in discussing their merits, in writing love-notes, in quarreling and making up. They are even fair of hair and Avhite of skin, — a fact which shows how completely the conven- tional Spanish type of beauty was imposed upon the Moors. A Moor sings of his lady : "Ay bella Soitana mia ! Ay mi rostro delicado! Ay bellos cabellos de oro, Que me tienen enlazado!" (No. 165.) The three most beautiful maidens in Granada are thus described : "Tiene F&tima en los ojos Paralsos de las almas, Y en sus rubios cabellos El rico metal de Arabia, En cuyos lazes aSuda Las almas mSs libertadas. Tiene Jarifa la frente De un liso marfil sacada, Con sus mejillas hermosas, Y sus labios de esearlata: Son las manos de crista!, Nieve el pecho y la garganta, Adonde el fuego de amor Invisiblemente abrasa ; Y aunque en su comparacion Es algo morena Zara, En discreci6n y donaire A las demSs aventaja, Que la flor de la hermosura En breve tiempo se pasa, Y es don que jamfis se pierde La discreci6n y la gracia."" (No. 76.) ^ For the fair type of Saracen beauty cf. Enfances Ogier, 1470 f.; 4245; Beuves de Commarcis, 715; Oerusalemme Liberata, IV, 24 f.; VI, 92; VII, 7; XVII, 26. THE MOOES IN SPANISH POPULAR POETRY. 299 Thus, superficial description triumphed over any satis- factory detail of observation, and we fall into the deplor- able taste of the latest Moorish ballads, where the fair women are comj^ared with Venus, Juno and Diana (cf. ISTo. 77). In this train pass by the god of Love, the Muses of Parnassus (ISTo. 77), and the whole motley crew^ of Renaissance mythology. This incongruous migration of the gods and goddesses to Moorish Spain is especially noticeable after the favor of the Orlando Furioso caused it to be imitated in Spain. Duran prints thirty-three of these ballads taken, in almost all cases, from the Orlando Furioso. Here we meet Sacripante, Eugero, Angelica, Mandricardo, Roldan, Bradamante and the rest, all faith- fully transplanted from the Italian poem, and with the romance and mystery of Ariosto and Dore still clinging to their garments. And thus in the strange irony of literary history, we have completed the circle. How far we have got from the Moors of Granada and Valencia ! We have followed them from Spain to France, from France to Italy, and from Italy to Spain again. Such has been the course of the literary current which we have been following. There is no more curious spectacle in literary history than that afforded by the Spanish poets of 1600 going for their Moors to the Italian poem of Ariosto. The reason, of course, is that Ariosto was admitted then, as he is admitted now, to have given in his poem the final word of the artist on the mediaeval strife between the two Religions. When the Spaniards talked about the Moors in poetry in 1600 they Avanted art and color, — not truth. Yet it is not to be supposed that all were so blind as not to realize how far astray the poets had wandered from the Moors as they actually were in sixteenth century Spain. This brings us to our last division, — that of the 300 WILLIAM WISTAK COMFORT. romances rnoriscos satiricos. These ballads give grateful reading, indeed, to one who has made his weary way through the preceding mass of false coloring and charac- terization. One is quite in the mood for a dash of satire. The contemporary poets are berated by these patriotic iconoclasts for deserting the old traditional heroes : '"Los Sanehos, y los de Lara, Que es de ellos? y que es del Cid? Tanlo olvido a gloria tanta!" (No. 244.) Another says more forciblv than elee'antlv: "VAyase con Dios Gazul, Lleve el diablo ft Celindaja Ha venido & su noticia Que hay cristianos en Espafia ? Est fin Fatinia y Jarifa Vendieiido liigos y pasas, Y cuenta Lagarto Hernandez Que danzan en el Alhaiubra! Y al Cegri, que fon dos asnos De echar agua no se cansa, El otro disciplinante Pintale rompiendo lanzas!" (No. 245) In another ballad a different form of satire is employed. Here it is the Moors themselves who resent the insults done them by the Christian poets. The angry Muza sallies forth from the Tower of Comares with dra^^^l sword, not to kill the Abencerraje, "Mas por vengar el ultraje, Que le hacen los poetas En canciones y romances 'Que me dvielen ya los lomos De andar cargado de trajes, Que los poetas novicios Se desvelan en sacarme, Conipuesto de mas colores Que tapete de Levante Pues me pintan, ya de verde, Ya de bianco, rojo y jalde'." (No. 253.) '^j THE MOOKS IN SPANISH POPULAR POETRY. 301 Speaking of the poets' treatment of the Moors, another satirist exclaims : "Para qu6 los entapizan Y los cubren de gualdrapas • De alamares, rapacejos, De listones, borlas, bandas? Dejenlos a los cuitados, Que se quejan que los cansaii, Y que a caballo los suben Cargados de eiupresas varias." (No. 256.) Instead of such fanciful descriptions, says the satirist, it would be more proper to show them in tlieir humble employments to which their masters had subjected them and of which this same ballad makes mention. This was the literary triumph of the defeated and despised Moors. They had so invaded the romantic poetry of the sixteenth century that the very Christian poets themselves were compelled to cry ''^Enough !" A single ballad defends the presence of the Moors, and from it an interesting suggestion may be drawn : "No es bieii que el Cid, ni Bernardo, Ni un Diego Ordonez de Lara, Un valiente Arias Gonzalo, Un famoso Eodrigo Arias, Cuyas obras de ordinario Eran correr las campaQas, Entren & danzar compuestos Entre el amor y las damas : A Muza le esta bien esto, A Arbolan y C4aliana, A los Cegries y Aliatares, Que sieinpre de amor trataban." (No. 246.) This leads us to believe that when love and gallantry were in question the oriental color and Moorish setting were de rigeur, and meant no disrespect to the national heroes. In o 02 WILLIAM WISTAK COMFOET. fact, in the romances moriscos it is all tournaments and love-making; whereas in the ballads about the national heroes we are much more likely to find vigor and vitality. This handful of satiric ballads really brings us back to healthy reality after all the flights of -romance, the theatri- cal pageantry of gaily decked Moors, of which we have been reading. The satire, with its return to the reality of the Cid and Fernan Gongalez, dealt a death-blow to the Moors of romance. The next stage takes the Moors beyond the sphere of our study, quite out of anonymous literature. Once the trenchant pen of Cervantes had exposed the disgraceful spectacle of the subjects of a mighty Christian sovereign allowed to lie in the chains of the Berbery corsairs, we have to deal with personal authorship in a new sense. Cervantes was an agitator, and he \vi'ote as an eye-witness of the atrocities conmiitted and endured in Algiers. In his realistic comedias and novelas we may read of the burning shame which he felt for Christendom temporizing with the Infidels, and which led him to favor the cruel exile of the imhappy Moriscos by Philip the Third in 1610. Such M^ere the literary vicissitudes through which the Moors passed from the time of their first appearance in popular poetry until the political crusade of the seven- teenth century drove their unhappy descendants from Spain. We cannot but feel that the Christian poets missed an opportunity. They have really told us little that is reliable about their Infidel neighbors. In all but the romances moriscos they are treated objectively, with but little attempt to penetrate the secrets of their strange civilization. When they tried to describe them subjec- tively, the poets totally missed the Moorish personality, and contented themselves with a conventional atmosphere of THE MOORS IN SPANISH POPULAR POETRY. 303 Orientalismus which thej threw about the Paynini chivah-y. Enough has been said to outline the treatment accorded to the Saracens at the hands of the mediaeval popular poets of southern Europe. Occasional descendants of the hordes that overran southern Europe penetrated into Eng- land, where the ''unspeakable Turk" looks strange in a popular ballad or in an Elizabethan play. But after the period where we have dropped him, the Saracen passed from popular into historical literature. Travelers, novel- ists and dramatists continue to give us tho corsairs and Turks of their own times. But the popular mediaeval legend of the IMoors is at an end, and with it our subject. J UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY This book is DUE on the last date stamped below ^^ APR 8 -1935 APR 2 2 10''^ m\ 1 2 1980 JAN 2 ^9^ V.O-URL m"^ 6\^'^ ^^U)-\i^v^ JAW to MftR 8 i^ .f^ .ff'"^» 7072 » FEB 1 zhZ 231972 |» OCT 2 9 Ji«i l\"\' av^ R&iY LOANS ^e^e»^r™t 15 19711 I THREE WEEKS FROM DJVTE OF REdOPl Form L-9-1 5)0-3, '34 J ' FEB 4 1972 Thfw wwkc from Mi oT U6Xjw-a/-^^ I <_< I ^. FEB 1 8 72 000 577 682 PLEASf DO NOT REMOVE S3B THIS BOOK GARD^ ^^t^RARYQ<- ^A ^m\m-i^'^ University Research Library 1 > 1- r- z c Z CD r»i 71 < o r ■o -t 8 ■0 • > c H X o a) f