^ps^^^H ■ml ^^^I ;:* '^W «> 1 ^^^^^^K' '"^ 1 ^^^^^■b^^T^ 1 4 ^^^m m a ) What the War of 181 2 Demonstrated (same) Battle between the Constitution and the Guerriere (same) John Adams i 735-1826 127 At the French Court (< Diary >) Character of Franklin (Letter to the Boston Patriot) John Quincy Adams i 767-1848 135 Letter to his Father, at the Age of Ten From the Memoirs, at the Age of Eighteen From the Memoirs, Jan. 14, 1831; June 7, 1833; Sept. 9, 1833 The Mission of America (Fourth of July Oration, 1821) The Right of Petition (Speech in Congress) Nullification (Fourth of July Oration, 1831) Sarah Flower Adams 1805-1848 146 He Sendeth Sun, He Sendeth Shower Nearer, My God, to Thee Joseph Addison 1672-1719 149 BY HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE Sir Roger de Coverley at the Play (The Spectator) Visit to Sir Roger de Coverley (same) Vanity of Human Life (same) Essay on Fans (same) Hymn, ) Mark Akenside From the Epistle to Curio Aspirations after the Infinite (< Pleasures of the Imagina- tion >) On a Sermon against Glory Pedro Antonio de Alarc6n 1833-1891 263 A Woman Viewed from Without (*The Three-Cornered Hat>) How the Orphan Manuel gained his Sobriquet (^ The Child of the BalP) ALCiEUS Sixth Century B. C. 269 The Palace The Storm A Banquet Song The Poor Fisherman An Invitation The State Poverty BaltAzar de AlcAzar i53o?-i6o6 273 Sleep The Jovial Supper Alciphron Second Century 276 BY HARRY THURSTON PECK From a Mercenary Girl — Petala to Simalion Pleasures of Athens — Euthydicus to Epiphanio From an Anxious Mother — Phyllis to Thrasonides From a Curious Youth — Philocomus to Thestylus From a Professional Diner-out — Capnosphrantes to Aris tomachus Unlucky Luck — Chytrolictes to Patellocharon Alcman Seventh Century B. C. 282 Poem on Night Louisa May Alcott 1832-1888 283 The Night Ward (< Hospital Sketches >) Amy's Valley of Humiliation (< Little Women*) Thoreau's Flute (Atlantic Monthly) Song from the Suds (< Little Women*) lived page Alcuin 735?-8o4 . 296 BY WILLIAM H. CARPENTER On the Saints of the Church at York () Alfred's Preface to the Version of Pope Gregory's * Pas- toral Care* Blossom Gatherings from St. Augustine Where to Find True Joy () A Sorrowful Fytte (same) Charles Grant Allen 1841-1899 399 The Coloration of Flowers (* The Colors of Flowers ') Among the Heather (< The Evolutionist at Large >) The Heron's Haunt (< Vignettes from Nature >) James Lane Allen 1850- 409 A Courtship () Old King Solomon's Coronation (< Flute and Violin >) William Allingham i 828-1 889 428 The Ruined Chapel The Fairies The Winter Pear Robin Redbreast O Spirit of the Summer-time An Evening The Bubble Daffodil St. Margaret's Eve Lovely Mary Donnelly Karl Jonas Ludvig Almquist i 793-1866 439 Characteristics of Cattle A New Undine (from *The Book of the Rose*) God's War Johanna Ambrosius 1854- 446 A Peasant's Thoughts Do Thou Love, Too! Struggle and Peace Invitation Edmondo de Amicis 1846- 453 The Light (< Constantinople *) Resemblances (same) Birds (same) Cordova (^ Spain >) The Land of Pluck (< Holland and Its People >) The Dutch Masters (same) vu Henri Fri^d^ric Amiel LIVED 1821-1881 PAGE 479 BY RICHARD BURTON Extracts from Amiel's Journal: Christ's Real Message Duty Joubert Greeks vs. Modems Nature, and Teutonic and Scandinavian Poetry Training of Children Wagner's Music Secret of Remaining Young Results of Equality View-Points of History Introspection and Schopen- hauer Music and the Imagination Love and the Sexes Fundamentals of Religion Dangers from Decay of Ear- nestness Woman's Ideal the Commu- nity's Fate French Self-Consciousness Frivolous Art Critical Ideals The Best Art The True Critic Spring — Universal Religion Introspective Meditations Destiny (just before death) Anacreon B. C. 562 ?-477 Drinking The Grasshopper Age The Swallow The Epicure The Poet's Choice Gold Drinking A Lover's Sigh 49- Hans Christian Andersen 1805-1875 500 BY BENJAMIN W. WELLS The Steadfast Tin Soldier The Teapot The Ugly Duckling What the Moon Saw The Lovers The Snow Queen The Nightingale The Market Place at Odense (< Story of My X,ife >) The Andersen Jubilee at Odense (same) < Miserere* in the Sixtine Chapel ( The Fortunes of Men Deor's Lament From < Judith > From The Fight at Maldon The Seafarer Caedmon's Inspiration From the ^Chronicle* Gabriele d'Annunzio 1864- 574 The Drowned Boy () To an Impromptu of Chopin (same) India Antar About 550-615 586 BY EDWARD S. HOLDEN The Valor of Antar Lucius Apuleius Second Century 597 The Tale of Aristomenes, the Commercial Traveler (< The Metamorphoses >) The Awakening of Cupid (same) CHARLES DUDLEY WARiNER (1829-1900) AN APPRECIATION Charles Dudley Warner was not only an accomplished writer: he was also a representative man of letters. The interests of literature were as dear to him as his own interests, and he cared more for the expression of the life of the country in books of superior insight and quality than for personal success. He not only enriched American literature with his various and delightful gifts of humor, sentiment, wit, observation and style, but he strove with pen and voice to advance its interests and increase its authority. In the range of his interests, the dignity of his life and the charm of his manner he was a representative of all that was best in American life. His ancestry was of the best, for he came of good New England stock. He was bom on the 12th day of September, 1829, in Plainfield, a small Massachusetts village; his father being one of the largest farmers and the owner of the best library in the section. In a characteristic essay Mr. Warner has left a very intimate impression of a New England child- hood, and has interpreted the simplicity, domesticity, integrity and manly independence of the best New England character. When the time for entering college came, Mr. Warner chose one of the best-known institutions of central New York; a college which has put a distinctive stamp upon a large number of men of ability in different walks of life. Life at Clinton in those days was very simple, and the college endowments were small, but there were competent teachers and there was enthusiasm among the best students for the best things in thought and life. After his graduation from Hamilton College in 1851, Mr. Warner joined a surveying party and made intimate acquaintance with out-of- doors life in Missouri. This excursion into what was then a compara- tively new section of country was succeeded by attendance on the Law department of the University of Pennsylvania. Many American writers have found their way into literature by way of the Lav. The sign *W. C. Bryant, Att'y at Law," once hung on the main street of a New (a) CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER England village, and Lowell humorously declared that to him law meant an office and nothing more. Graduating in 1856, Mr. Warner began the practice of his profession in Chicago, and for four years en- deavored to reconcile himself to the work of an uncongenial occupation. At the end of that time, having discovered the real bent of his mind, he wisely gave up the struggle to do work for which he was not adapted, came East and secured a position on the ®Press* of Hartford, Conn. In 1867, when the "Press* was merged in the *Courant,* he became, with his classmate and friend, Senator Joseph R. Hawley, co-editor and proprietor of a newspaper which soon became one of the foremost jour- nals in the country. Mr. Warner was indefatigable in whatever he undertook, and his work on the "Courant* was both enthusiastic and intelligent. From the very beginning he gave his editorial writing the utmost care and thought, and the high standard of literary excellence to which he held himself became the rule of his journal. A close observer and keen student of men, full of interest in everything characteristic of life in manners, habit and dress, Mr. Warner was pre- destined to be a critic of life as well as of books, and, therefore, to be a great traveler. The first of his many long journeys was made in 1868, and his reports of the countries he visited were so full of delicate observation, humorous comment and charming description that they attracted wide attention. He became, in time, one of the most delightful and popular writers of travel in our literature. Mr. Warner was also a lover of nature, with the keenest enjoyment of out-of-door life ; and it was these tastes, with his charming humor, which first gave him reputation. *My Summer In a Garden,* which was publish- ed in 1870, was pervaded by his delightful personality. It had the charm of personal narration, the atmosphere of a New England garden, and an easy flow of witty comment and reflection. It gave its author a wide popular reputation and it marked the beginning of a literary career singularly successful and harmonious. His audience secured and his art thoroughly mastered, Mr. Warner became a prolific writer, and to the year of his death essays, sketches of travel, literary papers, biography, novels, discussions of political, social and educational questions came from his hand in long and fruitful succession. It was predestined that he should be the biographer of Irving, i'or he was in the direct line of succession from the author of *The Sketch Book.* He had the same catholicity of taste, urbanity of manner and CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER C charming combination of sentiment and humor. But he lived in a larger world than that in which Irving worked, and his interests were wider. He cared more for public affairs, and was more deeply concerned with public interests. He was a devout and ardent American, but the America he loved was not the country to which many Americans devote themselves; it was the America of intellectual and spiritual opportunity, of the open door to self -development, of the free, brave, simple, genuine life of self-respecting independence. Mr. Warner became not only a popular writer, but a high-minded and loyal representative of American literature ; standing resolutely and con- spicuously for its great importance to the country, for its ethical respon- sibilities, and for the solidarity of its interests. He was a born lover of the best, and a bom hater of the mediocre, the vulgar, and the cheap. A strain of high breeding showed itself in his standards, his ideals, his code of manners. In political, artistic, and social life he resolutely pur- sued those things which make for honor, for dignity, and for richness of life. He was the unrelenting enemy of everything which lowers the standards of life; no man in our generation has more quietly but more effectively protested against that which is sordid and demoralizing in popular standards of success than Mr. Warner. He was not by nature a novelist, but his observations of social life were so keen, his insight into character so sure, his knowledge of life so broad, that when he took up fiction he put into it a wisdom of experience, a delicacy of characteriza- tion, and a justness of judgment, combined with his delightful style, which gave his stories great attractiveness. That which was most notice- able in them, however, was the clear perception of the reflex influence of ethical standards on manners. *A Little Journey in the World," *The Golden House,* and ''That Fortune" were close studies of the deterioration in character and manners which overtakes those who sell "themselves for success, and who are corrupted by the material returns of prosperity. For more than a quarter of a century, during one of the critical periods in the history of the American people, Mr. Warner was a teacher of ethics, of sound taste, of genuine patriotism and of liberal culture, of exceptional influence and importance. He was deeply interested in many movements which had for their object the betterment of conditions of life and the advancement of the spiritual interests of the country. At the time of his death he was President of the American Social Science Association. When the National Institute of Arts and Letters was d CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER organized, including in its membership the leading American writers, painters, sculptors and composers, he became its first President; his position, work and personal qualities pre-eminently fitting him for the place. He undertook the laborious work of editing the Library of the World's Best Literature because he was eager to put into accessible form the best that had been thought and written, and to bring within reach of every American home the inspiration, the resource and the pleasure which literature in its finest examples offers to every receptive reader. His interest in the work was deep and enthusiastic ; he gave time and strength without measure to it, and it was his steadfast endeavor to secure for the Library the co-operation of the foremost students and critics of liter- ature. Although he had been for more than a year in failing health, Mr. Warner's death at Hartford, on October 20th, 1900, was a great shock to the wide circle of those who loved and honored him. There were younger men in all parts of the country who owed much to his generous recognition and encouragement; there are innumerable readers to whom he had given stimulus, impulse and pleasure; and there were many more whom he had served without their knowledge ; for he had enriched Amer- ican life for all time by his fine intelligence, his large and generous aims, his high standards and the charm of his spirit. ^a^M^ ^ /^^U^XJ XI PREFACE Ihe plan of this Work is simple, and yet it is novel. In its dis- tinctive features it differs from any compilation that has yet been made. Its main_ purpose is to present to American households a mass of good reading. But it goes much beyond this. For in selecting this reading it draws upon all literatures of all time and of every race, and thus becomes a conspectus of the thought and intellectual evolution of man from the beginning. Another and scarcely less important purpose is the interpretation of this literature in essays by scholars and authors competent to speak with authority. The title, <» at one time it expressed the thought and feeling of a nation, or • because it has the character of universality, or because the readers of to-day will find it instructive, entertaining, or amusing. The Work aims to suit a great variety of tastes, and thus to commend itself as a household companion for any mood and any hour. There is no intention of presenting merely a mass of hi storical material however important it is in its place, which is commonly of the sort that people recommend^thers to read and doJiot^read themselves. It is not a library of reference only, but a library to be read. The selections do not represent the partialities and prejudices and culti- vation of any one person, or of a group of editors even; but, under the necessary editorial supervision, the sober judgment of almost as many minds as have assisted in the preparation of these volumes. By this method, breadth of appreciation has been sought. The arrangement is not chronological, but alphabetical, under the names of the author?, and, in some ca\,es, of literatures and special subjects. Thus, in each volume a certain variety is secured, the heaviness or sameness of a mass of antique, classical, or mediceval material is avoided, and the reader obtains a sense of the varieties and contrasts of different periods. But the work is not an encyclo- psedia, or merely a dictionary of authors. Comprehensive information as to all writers of importance may be included in a supplementary reference volume; but the attempt to quote from all would destroy the Work for reading purposes, and reduce it to a herbarium of specimens. In order to present a view of the entire literary field, and to make these volumes especially useful to persons who have not access to large libraries, as well as to treat certain literatures or subjects when the names of writers are unknown or would have no significance to the reader, it has been found necessary to make groups of certain nationalities, periods, and special topics. For instance, if the reader would like to know something of ancient and remote literatures which cannot well be treated under the alphabetical list of authors, he will find special essays by competent scholars on the Accadian- Babylonian literature, on the Egyptian, the Hindu, the Chinese, the Japanese, the Icelandic, the Celtic, and others, followed by selections many of which have been special ly translatpd for this Work In these literatures names of ascer tained a uthors are gi ven in the Index. The intentio n of th e, essays is to acquaint the reader with the spirit, purpose, and tendency of these writings, in order that he may have a comparative view of the continuity of thought and the value of V tradition in the world. Some subjects, like the Arthurian Legends, the Nibelungen Lied, the Holy Grail, Provengal Poetry, the Chansons and Romances, and the Gesta Romanorum, receive a similar treat- ment. Single poems upon which the authors' title to fame mainly rests, familiar and dear hymns, and occasional and modern verse of value, are also grouped together under an appropriate heading, with reference in the Index whenever the poet is known. It will thus be evident to the reader that the Library is fairly comprehensive and representative, and that it has an educational value, while offering constant and varied entertainment. This com- prehensive feature, which gives the Work distinction, is, however. supplemented by another of scarcely less importance; namely, the critical interpretive and biographical commen ts upon the authors and their writings and their place in literature, not by one mind, or by a small editorial staff, but by a great number of writers and scholars, specialists and literary critics, who are able to speak from knowledge and with authority. Thus the Library becomes in a way representa« tive of the scholarship and wide |udgment-of-eur own time. But the essays have another value. They give information for the guidance of the reader. If he becomes interested in any selections here given, and would like a fuller knowledge of the author's works, he can turn to the essay and find brief observations and characterizations which will assist him in making his choice of books from a library. The selections are made for household and general reading; in the belief that the best literature contains enough that is pure and ele- vating and at the same time readable, to satisfy any taste that should be encouraged. Of course selection implies choice and exclusion, it is hoped that what is given will be generally approved; yet it may well happen that some readers will miss the names of authors whom they desire to read. But this Work, like every other, has its necessary limits; and in a general compilation the classic writings, and those productions that the world has set its seal on as among the best, must predominate over contemporary literature that is still on its trial. It should be said, however, that many writers of pres- ent note and popularity are omitted simply for lack of space. The editors are compelled to keep constantly in view the wider field. The general purpose is to give only literature; and where authors are cited who are generally known as philosophers, theologians, pub- licists, or scientists, it is because they have distinct literary quality, or because their influence upon literature itself has been so profound that the progress of the race could not be accounted for without them. These volumes contain not only or mainly the literature of the past, but they aim to give, within the limits imposed by such a view, an idea of contemporary achievement and tendencies in all civilized countries. In this yiew, of the modem world the literary product of America and Great Britain occtipies the largest space. XIV It should be said that the plan of this "Work could not have been carried out without the assistance of specialists in many departments of learning, and of writers of skill and insight, both in this country and in Europe. This assistance has been most cordially given, with a full recognition of the value of the enterprise and of the aid that the Library may give in encouraging and broadening literary tastes. Perhaps no better service could be rendered the American public at this period than the offer of an opportunity for a comprehensive study of the older and the greater literatures of other nations. By this comparison it can gain a just view of its own literature, and of its possible mission in the world of letters. CJyjU. TDOOKS are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny they are ; nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that living intellect that bred them. I knoT.v they are as lively, and as vigorously productive, as those fabulous dragons teeth ; and being soivn up and do^vn, may chance to spring up armed men. And yet on the other hand, unless wariness be used, as good almost kill a man as kill a good book : who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, God's image ; but he who destroys a good book, kills rea- son itself, kills the image of God, as it were in the eye. Many a man lives a burden to the earth; but a good book is the precious life-blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life. John Mil ton. ftc^ of QOofepne . tQc to^ic^ fptftcto of tCft Conqiwft of (^e fyi^p CC/0© It) t^o iwrti^co tQio tpr* ig? , itnb? ^® ^« VdCpont cmc <8ooefcc^ of (^G)$necDit(|it«i^ %tl#l^ ftlbeiOt^ fe?^ Cof^o«/anO ^tou^^t ti| (» i^tufaCi^ni c^ %rp ci^ ^ol^fi)§^£bf^k«5ft«i) mat) anc>? gouctrr 1 > Xti?^ma^l^c p^pl»tDt5tlOctftortCC/£i;v«v l ^SBao ajpiopftca fcttec ftom put fozo? / Sin tft« ^^^"^^«^«^tM#€toe^Wfnfo CatSe of mo <^mc< (6^ ^m'Tmiff^^^^ ftywim^^tpce of t^oijcnC/and faC?m t^c B?iJ^ eo wpc^|)rc (^cm,7t tid S0twe fr cnectiCtO U)^ of fom of oaptap tBQtc6e ®ao a pt^oe of 21 cufi? t^c c^ cfpm€( /? ®i^ ^» d^mm r,f th^ pafTJestEnglipS nnntifir' ■'Gaif^ort'ii'lrrftt primed book, and mte4 in E "The- Game and Play o ich was pri? -4.' The blank space on this page was for the iiiseitip>y/by hand of an illuminated initial T. Jtpx a^mctO (0« &?^e 3rtfi6iCfeJ^ €racQ:0,anCyaGro of <8oCm ftc^ of oPoCbgne / tQc tD^K^e fpc^cto of t(jt Conqiwft of e^c fyy2f> ^n(K of 3i0cvu|aC?m/^cDnapn^n3 Omcrfc ^accce an^ no66^ fago?.^ ^ ^cmce maoe ni t^c r<^"ie nRogdmc/anO n) tOc con^wee uOiao?rtt ^nO a£fo man^ mcma^lVoue tt>cr6<'o fxi^c5? ano? foflPci) ae ^S^iT *») C^io f^oc/ae ni t§0|xirt^eot^io tgmc Outing? , JtnC)? ^® i^c %Cpant ouc <8oocfccp of (^fi)gnc conqucro^ tioit^ t§c |tfecrOt§« ^^c ff itr< cOttpi? agftd) mat) an? ma v3e t^c P?pC2 to tJnoetf ton 0? / tO^t 0^ C tBao a pzopQece fence fcoin out G):oc / S)n tOe t^mc of met fotiocij and fpia?) a6zooe nj mong partgce of t^oigcnt/and namcEg nj 7tt3a6j?c / «i fo moc^c tQot tOc p:gnceo of t^c wnoee gee tooC?) not gguc fait^ to ^le fcctc t^at (je pjcc^iD anO tau^^t ^^ic6e te curfcO anO eugP/But Or conftcagneo t^em 6p fbice and 6g f ft5ciD CD (t aUc tOar ful^cte to o6e2>c 6) Qio oommanccmcne/anO to 6g0r^ M« ti) f)io Ca®C/\J)eai) (Bmcifeo 6aO oonquctO cpccfc an5 fPa^t) cof'/ ^oc to^ic^e ^ao o pwffaunt 6pngc fe 6:oug^t a^agi) eo ^Ocw '/ faO?m t^c B?«^ CwffC/tfeOic^ t^cp 6aO CoOoe n) Co petfcTtno a6bC« on?> 0®cffg«>4ii t^c G>noe of ^ucrgC/Tl nD dicjc ?x> oiccpnc an^ c^fe ixitaav^c o moc6e tBifc mai) named WoDeftc /QPp ^^o counfciC i5? OpOc do maftc oga^i) tOc c^ucfee/and 6a6gUcd t()c ^Cp pPaoeo / an^ cCf nfci)? tOcm t^at tOc tpcaiint Cof^oe of (pcrfc Ocio? fmctoti doui) and ccftco^d^ <8cacO?e feto? gceec cnCcntc ^ maop ^rxti ooftco fo> (D wpc^rc t^em/Ttnd ®^iG?6 6? cnCcnded tlXC afouOf /^max t& fom of oaptop ^^ic^e ^ao a p:2nce of 2l«:ii6? t^c t^itdc af6?t ma^ Cornet /dm n) to t^ie oonttcc named paGjffgnc tBit^ fo grptt nom ^ 6ie of f»pB? t^at oUc t§c fonCtt ^ecouctd? ®i^ t^cm , and? ^d? (Qcnnc CoBcij 6p fo:ce a mocf;? ficongc ^^cc of t^at tbnoe nomedj 3a^»/ff com tQcno ^ dte^ ^gm tot^c^ damafi^e / ond? affic^ct^ ir ABELARD (1079— 1 142) BY THOMAS DAVIDSON [lERRE, the eldest son of Berenger and Lucie (Abelard?) wai bom at Palais, near Nantes and the frontier of Brittany, in 1079, His knightly father, having in his youth been a student, was anxious to give his family, and especially his favorite Pierre, a liberal education. The boy was accordingly sent to school, tinder a teacher who at that time was making his mark in the world, — Roscellin, the reputed father of Nominalism, As the whole import and tragedy of his life may be traced back to this man's teach- ing, and the relation which it bore to the thought of the time, we must pause to con- sider these. In the early centuries of our era, the two fundamental articles of the Gentile-Christ- ian creed, the Trinity and the Incarnation, neither of them Jewish, were formulated in terms of Platonic philosophy, of which the distinctive tenet is, that the real and eternal is the universal, not the individ- ual. On this assumption it was possible to say that the same real substance could exist in three, or indeed in any number of persons. In the case of Grod, the dogma- builders were careful to say, essence is one with existence, and there- fore in Him the individuals are as real as the universal. Platonism, having lent the formula for the Trinity, became the favorite philoso- phy of many of the Church fathers, and so introduced into Christian thought and life the Platonic dualism, that sharp distinction between the temporal and the eternal which belittles the practical life and glorifies the contemplative. This distinction, as aggravated by Neo-Platonism, further affected Eastern Christianity in the sixth century, and Western Christianity in the ninth, chiefly through the writings of (the pseudo-) Dionysius Areopagita. and gave rise to Christian mysticism. It was then erected into a rule of conduct through the efforts of Pope Gregory VII., who strove to subject practical and civil life entirely to the control of 1—2 Abelard iR ABELARD ecclesiastics and monks, standing for contemplative, supernatural life. The latter included all purely mental work, which more and more tended to concentrate itself upon religion and confine itself to the clergy. In this way it came to be considered an utter disgrace for any man engaged in mental work to take any part in the institutions of civil life, and particularly to marry. He might indeed enter into illicit relations, and rear a family of << nephews'^ and " nieces, ^^ with- out losing prestige; but to marry was to commit suicide. Such was the condition of things in the days of Abelard. But while Platonism, with its real universals, was celebrating its ascetic, unearthly triumphs in the West, Aristotelianism, which main- tains that the individual is the real, was making its way in the East. Banished as heresy beyond the limits of the Catholic Church, in the fifth and sixth centuries, in the persons of Nestorius and others, it took refuge in Syria, where it flourished for many years in the schools of Edessa and Nisibis, the foremost of the time. From these it found its way among the Arabs, and even to the illiterate Muhammad, who gave it (i) theoretic theological expression in the cxii. surah of the Koran : *^ He is One God, God the Eternal ; He neither begets nor is begotten; and to Him there is no peer,^> in which both the funda- mental dogmas of Christianity are denied, and that too on the ground of revelation; (2) practical expression, by forbidding asceticism and monasticism, and encouraging a robust, though somewhat coarse, natural life. Islam, indeed, was an attempt to rehabilitate the human. In Abelard's time Arab Aristotelianism, with its consequences for thought and life, was filtering into Europe and forcing Christian thinkers to defend the bases of their faith. Since these, so far as defensible at all, depended upon the Platonic doctrine of univer- sals, and this could be maintained only by dialectic, this science be- came extremely popular, — indeed, almost the rage. Little of the real Aristotle was at that time known in the West; but in Porphyry's Introduction to Aristotle's Logic was a famous passage, in which all the difficulties with regard to universals were stated without being solved. Over this the intellectual battles of the first age of Scholasti- cism were fought. The more clerical and mystic thinkers, like Anselm and Bernard, of course sided with Plato; but the more worldly, robust thinkers inclined to accept Aristotle, not seeing that his doctrine is fatal to the Trinity. Prominent among these was a Breton, Roscellin, the early in- structor of Abelard. From him the brilliant, fearless boy learnt two terrible lessons: (i) that universals, instead of being real substances, external and superior to individual things, are mere names (hence Nominalism) for common qualities of things as recognized by the human mind; (2) that since universals are the tools and criteria of ABfiLARD xg thought, the •human mind, in which alone these exist, is the judge of all truth, — a lesson which leads directly to pure rationalism, and indeed to the rehabilitation of the human as against the superhuman. No wonder that Roscellin came into conflict with the church author- ities, and had to flee to England. Abelard afterwards modified his nominalism and behaved somewhat unhandsomely to him, but never escaped from the influence of his teaching. Abelard was a rationalist and an asserter of the human. Accordingly, when, definitely adopting the vocation of the scholar, he went to Paris to study dialectic under 'the then famous William of Champeaux, a declared Platonist, or real- ist as the designation then was, he gave his teacher infinite trouble by his subtle objections, and not seldom got the better of him. These victories, which made him disliked both by his teacher and his fellow-pupils, went to increase his natural self-appreciation, and induced him, though a mere youth, to leave William and set up a rival school at Melun. Here his splendid personality, his confidence, and his brilliant powers of reasoning and statement, drew to him a large number of admiring pupils, so that he was soon induced to move his school to Corbeil, near Paris, where his impetuous dialectic found a wider field. Here he worked so hard that he fell ill, and was compelled to return home to his family. With them he remained for several years, devoting himself to study, — not only of dialectic, but plainly also of theology. Returning to Paris, he went to study rhet- oric under his old enemy, William of Champeaux, who had mean- while, to increase his prestige, taken holy orders, and had been made bishop of Chalons. The old feud was renewed, and Abelard, being now better armed than before, compelled his master openly to with- draw from his extreme realistic position with regard to universals, and assume one more nearly approaching that of Aristotle. This victory greatly diminished the fame of William, and in- creased that of Abelard; so that when the former left his chair and appointed a successor, the latter gave way to Abelard and became his pupil (1113). This was too much for William, who removed his successor, and so forced Abelard to retire again to Melun. Here he remained but a short time; for, William having on account of unpop- ularity removed his school from Paris Abelard returned thither and opened a school outside the city, on Mont Ste. Gepevieve. William, hearing this, returned to Paris and tried to put him down, but in vain. Abelard was completely victorious. After a time he returned once more to Palais, to see his mother, who was about to enter the cloister, as his father had done some time before. When this visit was over, instead of retvuning to Paris, to lecture on dialectic, he went to Laon to study theology under the then famous Anselm, Here, convinced of the showy superfigiality of 20 ABELARD Anselm, he once more got into difficulty, by undertaking to expound a chapter of Ezekiel without having studied it under any teacher. Though at first derided by his fellow-students, he succeeded so well as to draw a crowd of them to hear him, and so excited the envy of Anselm that the latter forbade him to teach in Laon. Abelard accordingly returned once more to Paris, convinced that he was fit to shine as a lecturer, not only on dialectic, but also on theology. And his audiences thought so also; for his lectures on Ezekiel were very popular and drew crowds. He was now at the height of his fame (1118). The result of all these triumphs over dialecticians and theo- logians was unfortunate. He not only felt himself the intellectual superior of any living man, which he probably was, but he also began to look down upon the current thought of his time as obsolete and unworthy, and to set at naught even current opinion. He was now on the verge of forty, and his life had so far been one of spot- less purity; but now, under the influence of vanity, this too gave way. Having no further conquests to make in the intellectual world, he began to consider whether, with his great personal beauty, manly bearing, and confident address, he might not make conquests in thje social world, and arrived at the conclusion that no woman could reject him or refuse him her favor. It was just at this unfortunate juncture that he went to live in the house of a certain Canon Fulbert, of the cathedral, whose brilliant niece, Heloise, had at the age of seventeen just returned from a convent at Argenteuil, where she had been at school. Ful- bert, who was proud of her talents, and glad to get the price of Abelard's board, took the latter into his house and intrusted him with the full care of Heloise's further education, telling him even to chastise her if necessary. So complete was Fulbert's confidence in Abelard, that no restriction was put upon the companionship of teacher and pupil. The result was that Abelard and Heloise, both equally inexperienced in matters of the heart, soon conceived for each other an overwhelming passion, comparable only to that of Faust and Gretchen. And the result in both cases was the same. Abelard, as a great scholar, could not think of marriage; and if he had, Heloise would have refused to ruin his career by marrying him. So it came to pass that when their secret, never very carefully guarded, became no longer a secret, and threatened the safety of Heloise, the only thing that her lover could do for her was to carry her off secretly to his home in Palais, and place her in charge of his sister. Here she remained until the birth of her child, which received the name of Astralabius, Abelard meanwhile continuing his work in Paris. And here all the nobility of his character comes out. Though Fulbert and ABfiLARD 21 his friends were, naturally enough, furious at what they regarded as his utter treachery, and though they tried to murder him, he pro- tected himself, and as soon as Heloise was fit to travel, hastened to Palais, and insisted upon removing her to Paris and making her his lawful wife. HeloTse used every argument which her fertile mind could suggest to dissuade him from a step which she felt must be his ruin, at the same time expressing her entire willingness to stand in a less honored relation to him. But Abelard was inexorable. Taking her to Paris, he procured the consent of her relatives to the marriage (which they agreed to keep secret), and even their presence at the ceremony, which was performed one morning before daybreak, after the two had spent a night of vigils in the church. After the marriage, they parted and for some time saw little of each other. When Heloise's relatives divulged the secret, and she was taxed with being Abelard's lawful wife, she *^ anathematized and swore that it was absolutely false." As the facts were too patent, however, Abelard removed her from Paris, and placed her in the convent at Argenteuil, where she had been educated. Here she assumed the garb of a novice. Her relatives, thinking that he must have done this in order to rid himself of her, furiously vowed ven- geance, which they took in the meanest and most brutal form of personal violence. It was not a time of fine sensibilities, justice, or mercy ; but even the public of those days was horrified, and gave expression to its horror. Abelard, overwhelmed with shame, despair, and remorse, could now think of nothing better than to abandon the world. Without any vocation, as he well knew, he assumed the monkish habit and retired to the monastery of St. Denis, while Heloise, by his order, took the veil at Argenteuil. Her devotion and heroism on this occasion Abelard has described in touching terms. Thus supernaturalism had done its worst for these two strong, impetuous human souls. If Abelard had entered the cloister in the hope of finding peace, he soon discovered his mistake. The dissolute life of the monks utterly disgusted him, while the clergy stormed him with petitions to continue his lectures. Yielding to these, he was soon again sur- rounded by crowds of students — so great that the monks at St. Denis were glad to get rid of him. He accordingly retired to a lonely cell, to which he was followed by more admirers than could find shelter or food. As the schools of Paris were thereby emptied, his rivals did everything in their power to put a stop to his teaching, declaring that as a monk he ought not to teach profane science, nor as a lay- man in theology sacred science. In order to legitimatize his claim to teach the latter, he now wrote a theological treatise, regarding which he savs : — 22 ABELARD < because they kept asking for human and philosophic reasons, and demanding rather what could be understood than what could be said, declaring that the mere utterance of words was useless unless followed by understanding; that nothing could be believed that was not first understood, and that it was ridiculous for any one to preach what neither he nor those he taught could comprehend, God him- self calling such people blind leaders of the blind. » Here we have Abelard's central position, exactly the opposite to that of his realist contemporary, Anselm of Canterbury, whose prin- ciple was << Credo ut intelligam'^ (I believe, that I may understand). We must not suppose, however, that Abelard, with his rationalism, dreamed of undermining Christian dogma. Very far from it! He believed it to be rational, and thought he could prove it so. No won- der that the book gave offense, in an age when faith and ecstasy were placed above reason. Indeed, his rivals could have wished for nothing better than this book, which gave them a weapon to use against him. Led on by two old enemies, Alberich and Lotulf, they caused an ecclesiastical council to be called at Soissons, to pass judg- ment upon the book (1121). This judgment was a foregone conclusion, the trial being the merest farce, in which the pursuers were the judges, the Papal legate allowing his better reason to be overruled by their passion. Abelard was condemned to burn his book in public, and to read the Athanasian Creed as his confession of faith (which he did in tears), and then to be confined permanently in the monastery of St. Medard as a dangerous heretic. His enemies seemed to have triumphed and to have silenced him forever. Soon after, however, the Papal legate, ashamed of the part he had taken in the transaction, restored him to liberty and allowed him to return to his own monastery at St. Denis. Here once more his rationalistic, critical spirit brought him into trouble with the big- oted, licentious monks. Having maintained, on the authority of Beda, that Dionysius, the patron saint of the monastery, was bishop of Cor- inth and not of Athens, he raised such a storm that he was forced to flee, and took refuge on a neighboring estate, whose proprietor, Count Thibauld, was friendly to him. Here he was cordially received by the monks of Troyes, and allowed to occupy a retreat belonging to them. After some time, and with great difficulty, he obtained leave from the abbot of St. Denis to live where he chose, on condition of not joining any other order. Being now practically a free man, he retired to a lonely spot near Nogent-sur-Seine, on the banks of the Ardusson. There, having received a erift of a piece of land, he estab- ABfiLARD 23 lished himself along with a friendly cleric, building a small oratory of clay and reeds to the Holy Trinity. No sooner, however, was his place of retreat known than he was followed into the wilderness by hosts of students of all ranks, who lived in tents, slept on the ground, and underwent every kind of hardship, in order to listen to him (1123). These supplied his wants, and built a chapel, which he dedicated to the ^* Paraclete,*^ — a name at which his enemies, furious over his success, were greatly scandalized, but which ever after designated the whole establishment. So incessant and unrelenting were the persecutions he suffered from those enemies, and so deep his indignation at their baseness, that for some time he seriously thought of escaping beyond the bounds of Christendom, and seeking refuge among the Muslim. But just then (1125) he was offered an important position, the abbotship of the monastery of St. Gildas-de-Rhuys, in Lower Brittany, on the lonely, inhospitable shore of the Atlantic. Eager for rest and a posi- tion promising influence, Abelard accepted the offer and left the Par- aclete, not knowing what he was doing. His position at St. Gildas was little less than slow martyrdom. The country' was wild, the inhabitants were half barbarous, speaking a language unintelligible to him ; the monks were violent, unruly, and dissolute, openly living with concubines; the lands of the monastery were subjected to intolerable burdens by the neighboring lord, leav- ing the monks in poverty and discontent. Instead of finding a home of God-fearing men, eager for enlightenment, he found a nest of greed and corruption. His attempts to introduce discipline, or even decency, among his ^^sons,'* only stirred up rebellion and placed his life in dan- ger. Many times he was menaced with the sword, many times with poison. In spite of all that, he clung to his office, and labored to do his duty. Meanwhile the jealous abbot of St. Denis succeeded in establishing a claim to the lands of the convent at Argenteuil, — of which Heloise, long since famous not only for learning but also for saintliness, was now the head, — and she and her nuns were violently evicted and cast on the world. Hearing of this with indignation, Abelard at once offered the homeless sisters the deserted Paraclete and all its belongings. The offer was thankfully accepted, and Helo- ise with her family removed there to spend the remainder of her life. It does not appear that Abelard and Heloise ever saw each other at this time, although he used every means in his power to provide for her safety and comfort. This was in 11 29. Two years later the Para- clete was confirmed to Heloise by a Papal bull. It remained a con- vent, and a famous one, for over six hundred years. After this Abelard paid several visits to the convent, which he justly regarded as his foundation, in order to arrange a rule of life 24 ABfiLARD for its inmates, and to encourage them in their vocation. Although on these occasions he saw nothing of HeloTse, he did not escape the malignant suspicions of the world, nor of his own flock, which now became more unruly than ever, — so much so that he was compelled to live outside the monastery. Excommunication was tried in vain, and even the efforts of a Papal legate failed to restore order. For Abelard there was nothing but «fear within and conflict without. >^ It was at this time, about 1132, that he wrote his famous the theological text-book of the schools for hundreds of years; and Arnold of Brescia, one of the noblest cham- pions of human liberty, though condemned and banished by the second Council of the Lateran. The best biography of Abelard is that by Charles de Remusat (2 vols., 8vo, Paris, 1845). See also, in English, Wight's < Abelard and Eloise^ (New York, 1853), HfiLOi'SE TO ABELARD A LETTER of yours sent to a friend, best beloved, to console him in affliction, was lately, almost by a chance, put into my hands. Seeing- the superscription, guess how eagerly I seized it ! I had lost the reality ; I hoped to draw some comfort from this faint image of you. But alas! — for I well remember — every line was written with gall and wormwood. How you retold our sorrowful history, and dwelt on your inces- sant afflictions! Well did you fulfill that promise to your friend, 28 ABfiLARD that, in comparison with your own, his misfortunes should seem but as trifles. You recalled the persecutions of your masters, the cruelty of my uncle, and the fierce hostility of your fellow-pupils, Albericus of Rheims, and Lotulphus of Lombardy — how through their plottings that glorious book your Theology was burned, and you confined and disgraced — you went on to the machinations of the Abbot of St. Denys and of your false brethren of the con- vent, and the calumnies of those wretches, Norbert and Bernard, who envy and hate you. It was even, you say, imputed to you as an offense to have given the name of Paraclete, contrary to the common practice, to the Oratory you had founded. The persecutions of that cruel tyrant of St. Gildas, and of those execrable monks, — monks out of greed only, whom notwith- standing you call your children, — which still harass you, close the miserable history. Nobody could read or hear these things and not be moved to tears. What then must they mean to me ? We all despair of your life, and our trembling hearts dread to hear the tidings of your murder. For Christ's sake, who has thus far protected you, — write to us, as to His handmaids and yours, every circumstance of your present dangers. I and my sisters alone remain of all who were your friends. Let us be sharers of your joys and sorrows. Sympathy brings some relief, and a load laid on many shoulders is lighter. And write the more surely, if your letters may be messengers of joy. Whatever mes- sage they bring, at least they will show that you remember us. You can write to comfort your friend: while you soothe his wounds, you inflame mine. Heal, I pray you, those you yourself have made, you who bustle about to cure those for which you are not responsible. You cultivate a vineyard you did not plant, which grows nothing. Give heed to what you owe your own. You who spend so much on the obstinate, consider what you owe the obedient. You who lavish pains on your enemies, reflect on what you owe your daughters. And, counting nothing else, think how you are bound to me! What you owe to all devoted women, pay to her who is most devoted. You know better than I how many treatises the holy fathers of the Church have written for our instruction; how they have labored to inform, to advise, and to console us. Is my ignorance to suggest knowledge to the learned Abelard ? Long ago, indeed, your neglect astonished me. Neither religion, nor love of me, nor the example of the holy fathers, moved you to tr}^ to fix my I ABELARD 20 struggling soul. Never, even when long grief had worn me down, did you come to see me, or send me one line of comfort, — me, to whom you were bound by marriage, and who clasp you about with a measureless love ! And for the sake of this love have I no right to even a thought of yours ? You well know, dearest, how much I lost in losing you, and that the manner of it put me to double torture. You only can comfort me. By you I was wounded, and by you I must be healed. And it is only you on whom the debt rests. I have obeyed the last tittle of your commands; and if you bade me, I would sacrifice my soul. To please you my love gave up the only thing in the universe it valued — the hope of your presence — and that forever. The instant I received your commands I quitted the habit of the world, and denied all the wishes of my nature. I meant to give up, for your sake, whatever I had once a right to call my own, God knows it was always you, and you only that I thought of. I looked for no dowr}% no alliance of marriage. And if the name of wife is holier and more exalted, the name of friend always remained sweeter to me, or if you would not be angry, a meaner title; since the more I gave up, the less should I injure your present reno\vn, and the more deserve your love. Nor had you yourself forgotten this in that letter which I recall. You are ready enough to set forth some of the reasons which I used to you, to persuade you not to fetter your freedom, but you pass over most of the pleas I made to withhold you from our ill-fated wedlock. I call God to witness that if Augustus, ruler of the world, should think me worthy the honor of marriage, and settle the whole globe on me to rule forever, it would seem dearer and prouder to me to be called your mistress than his empress. Not because a man is rich or powerful is he better : riches and power may come from luck, constancy is from virtue. / hold that woman base who weds a rich man rather than a poor one, and takes a husband for her own gain. Whoever marries with such a motive — why, she will follow his prosperity rather than the man, and be willing to sell herself to a richer suitor. That happiness which others imagine, best beloved, I experi- enced. Other women might think their husbands perfect, and be happy in the idea, but I knew that you were so and the universe knew the same. What philosopher, what king, could rival your 3° ABELARD fame ? What village, city, kingdom, was not on fire to see you ? When you appeared in public, who did not run to behold you ? Wives and maidens alike recognized your beauty and grace. Queens envied HdloYse her Abelard. Two gifts you had to lead captive the proudest soul, your voice that made all your teaching a delight, and your singing, which was like no other. Do you forget those tender songs you wrote for me, which all the world caught up and sang, — but not like you, — those songs that kept your name ever floating in the air, and made me known through many lands, the envy and the scorn of women ? What gifts of mind, what gifts of person glorified you ! Oh, my loss ! Who would change places with me now ! And you know, Abelard, that though I am the great cause of your misfortunes, I am most innocent. For a consequence is no part of a crime. Justice weighs not the thing done, but the intention. And how pure was my intention toward you, you alone can judge. Judge me ! I will submit. But how happens it, tell me, that since my profession of the life which you alone determined, I have been so neglected and so forgotten that you will neither see me nor write to me ? Make me understand it, if you can, or I must tell you what everybody says : that it was not a pure love like mine that held your heart, and that your coarser feeling vanished with absence and ill-report. Would that to me alone this seemed so, best beloved, and not to all the world ! Would that I could hear others excuse you, or devise excuses myself ! The things I ask ought to seem very small and easy to you. While I starve for you, do, now and then, by words, bring back your presence to me ! How can you be generous in deeds if you are so avaricious in words ? I have done everything for your sake. It was not religion that dragged me, a young girl, so fond of life, so ardent, to the harshness of the convent, but only your command. If I deserve nothing from you, how vain is my labor ! God will not recompense me, for whose love I have done nothing. When you resolved to take the vows, I followed, — rather, I ran before. You had the image of Lot's wife before your eyes ; you feared I might look back, and therefore you deeded me to God by the sacred vestments and irrevocable vows before you took them yourself. For this, I own, I grieved, bitterly ashamed that I coi;lJ depend on you so little, when I would lead or follow ABELARD 31 you straig-ht to perdition. For my soul is always with you and no longer mine own. And if it is not with you in these last wretched years, it is nowhere. Do receive it kindly. Oh, if only you had returned favor for favor, even a little for the much, v/ords for things ! Would, beloved, that your affection would not take my tenderness and obedience always for granted ; that it might be more anxious ! But just because I have poured out all I have and am, you give tne nothing. Remember, oh, remember how much you owe ! There was a time when people doubted whether I had given you all my heart, asking nothing. But the end shows how I began. I have denied myself a life which promised at least peace and work in the world, only to obey your hard exactions. I have kept back nothing for myself, except the comfort of pleasing you. How hard and cruel afe you then, when I ask so little and that little is so easy for you to give ! In the name of God, to whom you are dedicate, send me some lines of consolation. Help me to leam obedience ! When you wooed me because earthly love was beautiful, you sent me letter after letter. With your divine singing every street and house echoed my name ! How much more ought you now to persuade to God her whom then you turned from Him ! Heed what I ask ; think what you owe. I have written a long letter, but the ending shall be short. Farewell, darling ! ABfiLARD'S ANSWER TO HELOISE To Hiloise, his best beloved Sister in Christ, Abe'lard, her Brother in Him: IF, SINCE we resigned the world I have not written to you, it was because of the high opinion I have ever entertained of your wisdom and prudence. How could I think that she stood in need of help on whom Heaven had showered its best gifts ? You were able, I knew, by example as by word, to instruct the igno- rant, to comfort the timid, to kindle the lukewarm. When prioress of Argenteuil, you practiced all these duties-, and if you give the same attention to your daughters that you then gave to your sisters, it is enough. All my exhortations would be needless. But if, in your humility, you think otherwise, and if my words can avail you anything, tell me on what subjects yon would have me write, and as God shall direct me I will instruct 32 ABfiLARD you. I thank God that the constant dangers to which I am exposed rouse your sympathies. Thus I may hope, under the divine protection of your prayers, to see Satan bruised under my feet. Therefore I hasten to send you the form of prayer you beseech of me — you, my sister, once dear to me in the world, but now far dearer in Christ. Offer to God a constant sacrifice of prayer. Urge him to pardon our great and manifold sins, and to avert the dangers which threaten me. We know how powerful before God and his saints are the prayers of the faithful, but chiefly of faithful ^women for their friends, and of wives for their husbands. The Apostle admonishes us to pray without ceasing. But I will not insist on the supplications of your sister- hood, day and night devoted to the service of their Maker; to you only do I turn. I well know how powerful your intercession may be. I pray you, exert it in this my need. In your prayers, then, ever remember him who, in a special sense, is yours. Urge your entreaties, for it is just that you should be heard. An equi- table judge cannot refuse it. In former days, you remember, best beloved, how fervently you recommended me to the care of Providence. Often in the day you uttered a special petition. Removed now from the Para- clete, and surrounded by perils, how much greater my need ! Con- vince me of the sincerity of your regard, I entreat, I implore you. [The Prayer :] <* O God, who by Thy servant didst here assem- ble Thy handmaids in Thy Holy Name, grant, we beseech Thee, that he be protected from all adversity, and be restored safe to us. Thy handmaids.*^ If Heaven permit my enemies to destroy me, or if I perish by accident, see that my body is conveyed to the Paraclete. There, my daughters, or rather my sisters in Christ, seeing my tomb, will not cease to implore Heaven for me. No resting-place is so safe for the grieving soul, forsaken in the wilderness of its sins, none so full of hope as that which is dedicated to the Paraclete — that is, the Comforter. Where could a Christian find a more peaceful grave than in the society of holy women, consecrated by God ? They, as the Gospel tells us, would not leave their divine Master; they em- balmed His body with precious spices; they followed Him to the tomb, and there they held their vigil. In return, it was to them that the angel of the resurrection appeared for their consolation. ab6lard 23 Finally, let me entreat yon that the solicitude you now too strongly feel for my life you will extend to the repose of my soul. Carry into my grave the love yoif showed me when alive; that is, never forget to pray Heaven for me. Long life, farewell! Long life, farewell, to your sisters also! Remember me, but let it be in Christ! Translated for the < World's Best Literature.* THE VESPER HYMN OF ABELARD ^ OH, WHAT shall be, oh, when shall be that holy Sabbath day. Which heavenly care shall ever keep and celebrate alway, When rest is found for weary limbs, when labor hath reward, When everything forevermore is joyful in the Lord? The true Jerusalem above, the holy town, is there, Whose duties are so full of joy, whose joy so free from care; Where disappointment cometh not to check the longing heart. And where the heart, in ecstasy, hath gained her better part. O glorious King, O happy state, O palace of the blest! O sacred place and holy joy, and perfect, heavenly rest! To thee aspire thy citizens in glory's bright array. And what they feel and what they know they strive in vain to say. For while we wait and long for home, it shall be ours to raise Our songs and chants and vows and prayers in that dear coun- try's praise; And from these Babylonian streams to lift our weary eyes, And view the city that we love descending from the skies. There, there, secure from every ill, in freedom we shall sing The songs of Zion, hindered here by days of suffering. And unto Thee, our gracious Lord, our praises shall confess That all our sorrow hath been good, and Thou by pain canst bless. There Sabbath day to Sabbath day sheds on a ceaseless light, Eternal pleasure of the saints who keep that Sabbath bright; Nor shall the chant ineffable decline, nor ever cease. Which we with all the angels sing in that sweet realm of peace. Translation of Dr. Samuel W. Duffield. 1—3 34 EDMOND ABOUT (1828-1885) Urly in the reign of Louis Napoleon, a serial story called < Tolla, * a vivid study of social life in Rome, delighted the readers of the Revue des Deux Mondes. When published in book form in 1855 it drew a storm of opprobrium upon its young author, who was accused of offering as his own creation a translation of the Italian work at the Theatre Frangaise and * Gaetena * at the Odeon, renounced the theatre. Indeed, his power is in odd conceptions, in the covert laugh and humorous suggestion of the phrasing, rather than in plot or characterization. He will always be best known for the tales and novels in that thoroughly French style — clear, concise, and witty — which in 1878 elected him president of the Societe des Gens de Lettres, and in 1884 won him a seat in the Academy. About wrote a number of novels, most of them as well known in translation to English and American readers as to his French audience. The bright stories originally published in the Moniteur, afterward collected with the title * Les Mariages de Paris, ^ had a con- spicuous success, and were followed by a companion volume, (The Story of an Honest Man), is in quite another vein, a charming picture of bourgeois virtue in revolutionary days. < Madelon > and < La Vielle Roche > (The Old School) are also popular. French critics have not found much to say of this non-evolutionist of letters, who is neither pure realist nor pure romanticist, and who has no new theory of art. Some, indeed, may have scorned him for 36 EDMONt> ABOUT the wise taste which refuses to tread the debatable ground common to French fiction. But the reading public has received him with less conscious analysis, and has delighted in him. If he sees only what any clever man may see, and is no profound psychologist, yet he tells what he sees and what he imagines with delightful spirit and delightful wit, and tinges the fabric of his fancy with the ever-chan- ging colors of his own versatile personality, fanciful suggestions, homely realism, and bright antithesis. Above all, he has the great gift of the story-teller. THE CAPTURE From iust than those of his comrades. He leaned toward us from the height of his tall figure, and examined us so closely that I felt t^e g^razing of his mous- tachios. You would have pronounced h'm a tiger, who smells of his prey before tasting it. When his curiosity was satisfied, he said to Dimitri, " Empty your pocketf> ' * Dimitri did not give him cause Vj repeat the order: he threw down before him a knife, a tobacjo-pouch, and three Mexican dollars, which compose a sura o^ a^jout sixteen francs. *^ Is that all ? ** demande'l 'ihe brigand. *Yes, brother." * You are the servant ? «Yes, brother." "Take back one dollar You must not return to the city Arithout money." Dimitri haggled. *' Vcd could well allow me two, " said he : * I bp.ve two horses below; they, are hired from the riding-school; I .•ihall have to pay for ♦^he day." "You will ex-p]'\vi to Zimmerman that we have taken your Honey from you." " And if he w'.shes to be paid, notwithstanding ? " "An'iwer that he is lucky enough to see his horses again." " He knows very well that you do not take horses. What •vould you do with them in the mountains ? " " Enough ! What is this big raw-boned animal next you ? " I answered for myself: "An honest German, whose spoils will -c»ot enrich you." "You speak Greek well. Empty your pockets." I deposited on the road a score of francs, my tobacco, my pipe, and my handkerchief. " What is that ? " asked the grand inquisitor. "A handkerchief." " For what purpose ? " "To wipe my nose." " Why did you tell me that you were poor ? It is only milords who wipe their noses with handkerchiefs. Take off the box which you have behind your back. Good ! Open it ! " 38 EDMOND ABOUT My box contained some plants, a book, a knife, a little pack- age of arsenic, a gourd nearly empty, and the remnants of my breakfast, which kindled a look of covetousness in the eyes of Mrs. Simons. I had the assurance to offer them to her before my baggage changed masters. She accepted greedily, .and began to devour the bread and meat. To my great astonishment, this act of gluttony scandalized our robbers, who murmured among them- selves the word ^* Schismatic ! ^^ The monk made half a dozen signs of the cross, according to the rite of the Greek Church. * You must have a watch, '^ said the brigand : ^* put it with the rest. » I gave up my silver watch, a hereditary toy of the weight of four ounces. The villains passed it from hand to hand, and thought it very beautiful. I was in hopes that admiration, which makes men better, would dispose them to restore me something, and I begged their chief to let me have my tin box. He imposed silence upon me roughly. ^^At least, ^* said I, **give me back two crowns for my return to the city ! '* He answered with a sardonic smile, " Yoii will not have need of them. '^ The turn of Mrs. Simons had come. Before putting her hand in her pocket, she warned our conquerors in the language of her fathers. The English is one of those rare idioms which one can speak with a mouth full. " Reflect well on what you are going to do,'' said she, in a menacing tone. "I am an Englishwoman, and English subjects are inviolable in all the countries of the world. What you will take from me will serve you little, and will cost you dear. England will avenge me, and you will all be hanged, to say the least. Now if you wish my money, you have only to speak ; but it will bum your fingers : it is English money ! '' *^ What does she say ? '' asked the spokesman of the brigands. Dimitri answered, " She says that she is English. '' *^So much the better! All the English are rich. Tell her to do as you have done.'' The poor lady emptied on the sand a purse, which contained twelve sovereigns. As her watch was not in sight, and as they made no show of searching us, she kept it. The clemency of the conquerors left her her pocket-handkerchief. Mary Ann threw down her watch, with a whole bunch of charms against the evil eye. She cast before her, by a movement full of mute grace, a shagreen bag, which she carried in her belt. The brigand opened it with the eagerness of a custom-house EDMOND ABOUT ^9 officer. He drew from it a little English dressing-case, a vial of English salts, a box of pastilles of English mint, and a hundred and some odd francs in English money. *^ Now, '^ said the impatient beauty, ^* you can let us go : we have nothing more for you.** They indicated to her, by a men- acing gesture, that the session was not ended. The chief of the band squatted down before our spoils, called "the good old man,* counted the money in his presence, and delivered to him the sum of forty-five francs. Mrs. Simons nudged me on the elbow. "You see," said she, "the monk and Dimitri have betrayed us: he is dividing the spoils with them.* " No, madam, * replied I, immediately. " Dimitri has received a mere pittance from that which they had stolen from him. It is a thing which is done everywhere. On the banks of the Rhine, when a traveler is ruined at roulette, the conductor of the game gives him something wherewith to return home.* « But the monk ? * " He has received a tenth part of the booty in virtue of an immemorial custom. Do not reproach him, but rather be thank- ful to him for having wished to save us, when his convent was interested in our capture.* This discussion was interrupted by the farewells of Dimitri. They had just set him at liberty. "Wait for me,* said I to him: "we will return together.* He shook his head sadly, and answered me in English, so as to be understood by the ladies: — "You are prisoners for some days, and you will not see Ath- ens again before paying a ransom. I am going to inform the milord. Have these ladies any messages to give me for him ? * "Tell him,* cried Mrs. Simons, "to run to the embassy, to go then to the Piraeus and find the admiral, to complain at the foreign office, to write to Lord Palmerston! They shall take us away from here by force of arms, or by public authority, but I do not intend that they shall disburse a penny for my liberty.* "As for me,* replied I, without so much passion, "I beg you to tell my friends in what hands you have left me. If some hun- dreds of drachms are necessary to ransom a poor devil of a nat- uralist, they will find them without trouble. These gentlemen of the highway cannot rate me very high. I have a mind, while you are still here, to ask them what I am worth at the lowest price. * 40 EDMOND ABOUT ^^ It would be useless, my dear Mr, Hermann ! It is not they who fix the figures of your ransom.** "And who then ? » *< Their chief, Hadgi-Stavros. » HADGI-STAVROS From THE camp of the King was a plateau, covering a surface of seven or eight hundred metres. I looked in vain for the tents of our conquerors. The brigands are not sybarites, and they sleep under the open sky on the 30th of April. I saw neither spoils heaped up nor treasures displayed, nor any of those things which one expects to find at the headquarters of a band of robbers. Hadgi-Stavros makes it his business to have the booty sold ; every man receives his pay in money, and employs it as he chooses. Some make investments in commerce, others take mortgages on houses in Athens, others buy land in their villages ; no one squanders the products of robbery. Our arrival inter- rupted the breakfast of twenty-five or thirty men, who flocked around us with their bread and cheese. The chief supports his soldiers; there is distributed to them every day one ration of bread, oil, wine, cheese, caviare, allspice, bitter olives, and meat when their religion permits it. The epicures who wish to eat mallows or other herbs are at liberty to gather delicacies in the mountains. The office of the King was as much like an office as the camp of the robbers was like a camp. Neither tables nor chairs nor movables of any sort were to be seen there. Hadgi-Stavros was seated cross-legged on a square carpet in the shade of a fir-tree. Four secretaries and two servants were grouped around him. A boy of sixteen or eighteen was occupied incessantly in filling, lighting, and cleaning the chibouk of his master. He carried in his belt a tobacco-pouch, embroidered with gold and fine mother- of-pearl, and a pair of silver pincers intended for taking up coals. Another servant passed the day in preparing cups of coffee, glasses of water, and sweetmeats to refresh the royal mouth. The secretaries, seated on the bare rock, wrote on their knees, with pens made of reeds. Each of them had at hand a long copper box containing reeds, penknife, and inkhorn. Some tin cylinders, EDMOND ABOUT 4 1 like those in which our soldiers roll up their discharges, served as a depository for the archives. The paper was not of native manufacture, and for a good reason. Every leaf bore the word BATH in capital letters. The King was a fine old man, marvelously well preserved, straight, slim, supple as a spring, spruce and shining as a new sabre. His long white moustachios hung under his chin like two marble stalactites. The rest of his face was carefully shaved, the skull bare even to the occiput, where a long tress of white hair was rolled up under his hat. The expression of his features ap- peared to me calm and thoughtful. A pair of small, clear blue eyes and a square chin announced an indomitable will. His face was long, and the position of the wrinkles lengthened it still more. All the creases of the forehead were broken in the middle, and seemed to direct themselves toward the meeting of the eyebrows ; two wide and deep furrows descended perpendicularly to the comers of the lips, as if the weight of the moustachios had drawn in the muscles of the face. I have seen a good many septuagenarians ; I have even dis- sected one who would have reached a hundred years, if the dili- gence of Osnabriick had not passed over his body : but I do not remember to have observed a more green and robust old age than that of Hadgi-Stavros. He wore the dress of Tino and of all the islands of the Archipelago. His red cap formed a large crease at its base around his forehead. He had a vest of black cloth, faced with black silk, immense blue pantaloons which con- tained more than twenty metres of cotton cloth, and great boots of Russia leather, elastic and stout. The only rich thing in his costume was a scarf embroidered with gold and precious stones, which might be worth two or three thousand francs. It inclosed in its folds an embroidered cashmere purse, a Damascus sanjar in a silver sheath, a long pistol mounted in gold and rubies, and the appropriate baton. Quietly seated in the midst of his employees, Hadgi-Stavros moved only the ends of his fingers and his lips; the lips to dic- tate his correspondence, the fingers to count the beads in his chaplet. It was one of those beautiful chaplets of milky amber which do not serve to number prayers, but to amuse the solemn idleness of the Turk. He raised his head at our approach, guessed at a glance the occurrence which had brought us there, and said to us, with a 42 EDMOND ABOUT gravity which had in it nothing ironical, « You are welcome ! Be seated. '* «Sir,» cried Mrs. Simons, «I am an Englishwoman, and — » He interrupted the discourse by making his tongue smack against the teeth of his upper jaw — superb teeth, indeed! « Presently, » said he: «I am occupied. » He uh,derstood only Greek, and Mrs. Simons knew only English ; but th^ physiognomy of the King was so speaking that the good lady comprehended easily without the aid of an interpreter. Selections from used by permission of J. E. Tilton and Company THE VICTIM From : by permission of Henry Holt, the Translator L^ON took his bunch of keys and opened the long oak box on which he had been seated. The lid being raised, they saw a g^eat leaden casket which inclosed a magnificent walnut box carefully polished on the outside, lined on the inside with white silk, and padded. The others brought their lamps and candles near, and the colonel of the Twenty-third of the line appeared as if he were in a chapel illuminated for his lying in state. One would have said that the man was asleep. The perfect preservation of the body attested the paternal care of the mur- derer. It was truly a remarkable preparation, and would have borne comparison with the finest European mummies described by Vicq d'Azyr in 1779, and by the younger Puymaurin in 1787. The part best preserved, as is always the case, was the face. All the features had maintained a proud and manly expression. If any old friend of the colonel had been at the opening of the third box, he would have recognized him at first sight. Undoubtedly the point of the nose was a little sharper, the nostrils less ex' panded and thinner, and the bridge a little more marked, than in the year 181 3. The eyelids were thinned, the lips pinched, the comers of the mouth drawn down, the cheek bones too promi- nent, and the neck visibly shrunken, which exaggerated the prom- inence of the chin and larynx. But the eyelids were closed with- out contraction, and the sockets much less hollow than one could have expected; the mouth was not at all distorted, like the mouth EDMOND ABOUT 43 of a corpse; the skin was slightly wrinkled, but had not changed color, — it had only become a little more transparent, showing after a fashion the color of the tendons, the fat, and the muscles, wherever it rested directly upon them. It also had a rosy tint which is not ordinarily seen in embalmed corpses. Dr. Martout explained this anomaly by saying that if the colonel had actually been dried alive, the globules of the blood were not decomposed, but simply collected in the capillary vessels of the skin and sub- jacent tissues, where they still preserved their proper color, and could be seen more easily than otherwise on account of the semi- transparency of the skin. The uniform had become much too large, as may be readily understood, though it did not seem at a casual glance that the members had become deformed. The hands were dry and angu- lar, but the nails, although a little bent inward toward the root, had preserved all their freshness. The only very noticeable change was the excessive depression of the abdominal walls, which seemed crowded downward to the posterior side; at the right, a slight elevation indicated the place of the liver. A tap of the finger on the various parts of the body produced a sound like that from dry leather. While Leon was pointing out these details to his audience and doing the honors of his mummy, he awk- wardly broke off the lower part of the right ear, and a little piece of the colonel remained in his hand. This trifling accident might have passed unnoticed had not Clementine, who followed with visible emotion all the movements of her lover, dropped her candle and uttered a cry of affright. All gathered around her. Leon took her in his arms and carried her to a chair. M. Re- nault ran after salts. She was as pale as death, and seemed on the point of fainting. She soon recovered, however, and reas- sured them all by a charming smile. ^^ Pardon me,^^ she said, "for such a ridiculous exhibition of terror; but what Monsieur L^on was saying to us — and then—- that figure which seemed sleeping — it appeared to me that the poor man was going to open his mouth and cry out, when he was injured. ^^ Leon hastened to close the walnut box, while M. Martout picked up the piece of ear and put it in his pocket. But Cle- mentine, while continuing to smile and make apologies, was overcome by a fresh access of emotion and melted into tears. The engineer threw himself at her feet, poured forth excuses 44 EDMOND ABOUT and tender phrases, and did all he could to console her inexpli- cable grief. Clementine dried her eyes, looked prettier than ever, and sighed fit to break her heart, without knowing why. ** Beast that I am ! '* muttered Leon, tearing his hair. ^* On the day when I see her again after three years' absence, I can think of nothing more soul-inspiring than showing her mummies !^^ He launched a kick at the triple coffin of the colonel, saying, ^^ I wish the devil had the confounded colonel ! " "No!'* cried Clementine, with redoubled energy and emotion. "Do not curse him. Monsieur L^on! He has suffered so much! Ah ! poor, poor, unfortunate man ! '* Mile. Sambucco felt a little ashamed. She made excuses for her niece, and declared that never, since her tenderest childhood, had she manifested such extreme sensitiveness. . . . "This will teach us,** said the aunt, "what staying up after ten o'clock does. What! it is midnight, within a quarter of an hour! Come, my child; you will recover fast enough after you get to bed.** Clementine arose submissively; but at the moment of leaving the laboratory she retraced her steps, and with a caprice more inexplicable than her grief, she absolutely demanded to see the mummy of the colonel again. Her aunt scolded in vain; in spite of the remarks of Mile. Sambucco and all the others present, she reopened the walnut box, knelt down beside the mummy and kissed it on the forehead. "Poor man!** said she, rising. "How cold he is! Monsieur L^on, promise me that if he is dead you will have him laid in consecrated ground!** "As you please, mademoiselle. I intended to send him to the anthropological museum, with my father's permission; but you know that we can refuse you nothing.** THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY From : by permission of Henry Holt, the Translator FORTHWITH the colonel marched and opened the windows with a precipitation which upset the gazers among the crowd. "People,** said he, "I have knocked down a hundred beggarly pandours, who respect neither sex nor infirmity. For the benefit EDMOND ABOUT 45 of those who are not satisfied, I will state that I call myself Colonel Fougas of the Twenty-third. A.nd Vive VEmpe'reur ! '^ A confused mixture of plaudits, cries, laughs, and jeers an- swered this unprecedented allocution. L^on Renault hastened out to make apologies to all to whom they were due. He invited a few friends to dine the same evening with the terrible colonel, and of course he did not forget to send a special messenger to Clementine. Fougas, after speaking to the people, returned to his hosts, swinging himself along with a swaggering air, set himself astride a chair, took hold of the ends of his mustache, and said: — ^^Well! Come, let's talk this over. I've been sick, then?*^ "Very sick.** "That's incredible! I feel entirely well; I'm hungry; and more- over, while waiting for dinner I'll try a glass of your schnick.'* Mme. Renault went out, gave an order, and returned in an instant. " But tell me, then, where I am ? ** resumed the colonel. " By these paraphernalia of work, I recognize a disciple of Urania; pos- sibly a friend of Monge and Berthollet. Biit the cordial friendli- ness impressed on your countenances proves to me that you are not natives of this land of sauerkraut. Yes, I believe it from the beatings of my heart. Friends, we have the same fatherland. The kindness of your reception, even were there no other indica- tions, would have satisfied me that you are French. What acci- dents have brought you so far from our native soil ? Children of my country, what tempest has thrown you upon this inhospitable shore ? " "My dear colonel,** replied M. Nibor, "if you want to become very wise, you will not ask so many questions at once. Allow us the pleasure of instructing you quietly and in order, for you have a great many things to learn.** The colonel flushed with anger, and answered sharply: — "At all events, you are not the man to teach them to me, my little gentleman ! ** A drop of blood which fell on his hand changed the current of his thoughts. " Hold on ! ** said he : " am I bleeding 1 ** • "That will amount to nothing: circulation is re-established, and — and your broken ear — ** He quickly carried his hand to his ear, and said: — "It's certainly so. But devil take me if I recollect this acci- dent!** 46 EDMOND ABOUT ^^ I'll make you a little dressing, and in a couple of days there will be no trace of it left." * Don't give yourself the trouble, my dear Hippocrates : a pinch of powder is a sovereign cure ! " M. Nibor set to work to dress the ear in a little less military fashion. During his operations L^on re-entered. ^* Ah ! ah ! " said he to the doctor : *^ you are repairing the harm I did.» " Thunderation ! * cried Fougas, escaping from the hands of M. Nibor so as to seize L^on by the collar, <^was it you, you rascal, that hurt my ear ? " L6on was very good-natured, but his patience failed him. He pushed his man roughly aside. ^^ Yes, sir : it was I who tore your ear, in pulling it ; and if that little misfortune had not happened to me, it is certain that you would have been to-day six feet under ground. It is I who saved your life, after buying you with my money when you were not valued at over twenty-five louis. It is I who have passed three days and two nights in cramming charcoal under your boiler. It is my father who gave you the clothes you have on. You are in our house. Drink the little glass of brandy Gothon just brought you; but for God's sake give up the habit of calling me rascal, of calling my mother *Good Mother, > and of flinging our friends into the street and calling them beggarly pandours ! " The colonel, all dumfounded, held out his hand to Leon, M. Renault, and the doctor, gallantly kissed the hand of Mme, Renault, swallowed at a gulp a claret glass filled to the brim with brandy, and said, in a subdued voice: — ** Most excellent friends, forget the vagaries of an impulsive but generous soul. To subdue my passions shall hereafter be my law. After conquering all the nations in the universe, it is well to conquer one's self.** This said, he submitted his ear to M. Nibor, who finished dressing it. ^^But,** said he, summoning up his recollections, "they did not shoot me, then?" «No.» ** And I wasn't frozen to death in the tower? " «Not quite. » "Why has my uniform been t^aken off? I see! I am a pris- oner ! " EDMOND ABOUT 47 ** You are free, * *^Free! Vive VEmp^reur! But then there's not a moment to lose ! How many leagues is it to Dantzic ? * " It's very far. '^ ^* What do you call this chicken-coop of a town ? " * Fontainebleau. * *< Fontainebleau ! In France ? '' ^* Prefecture of Seine-et-Marne. We are going to introduce to you the sub-prefect, whom you just pitched into the street.*^ ^^ What the devil are your sub-prefects to me ? I have a mes- sage from the Emperor to General Rapp, and I must start this very day for Dantzic. God knows whether I'll be there in time!" ^* My poor colonel, you will arrive too late : Dantzic is given up.» " That's impossible ! Since when ? * ** About forty-six years ago." " Thunder ! I did not understand that you were — mocking me!» M. Nibor placed in his hand a calendar, and said, ^^ See for yourself! It is now the 17th of August, 1859; you went to sleep in the tower of Liebenfeld on the nth of November, 1813: there have been, then, forty-six years, within three months, during which the world has moved on without you." " Twenty-four and forty-six : but then I would be seventy years old, according to your statement!" *^Your vitality clearly shows that you are still twenty-four." He shrugged his shoulders, tore up the calendar, and said, beating the floor with his foot, ** Your almanac is a humbug ! *? M. Renault ran to his library, took up half a dozen books at Haphazard, and made him read, at the foot of the title-pages, the dates 1826, 1833, 1847, and 1858. « Pardon me!" said Fougas, burying his head in his hands. <*What has happened to me is so new! I do not think that another human being was ever subjected to such a trial, I am seventy years old!" Good Mme. Renault went and got a looking-glass from the bath-room and gave it to him, saying: — «Look!" He took the glass in both hands and was silently occupied in resuming acquaintance with himself, when a hand-organ came into the court and began playing * Partant pour la Syrie. * 48 EDMOND ABOUT Fougas threw the mirror to the ground, and cried out; — *^ What is. that you are telling me ? I hear the little song of Queen Hortense ! ** M. Renault patiently explained to him, while picking up the pieces of the mirror, that the pretty little song of Queen Hor- tense had become a national air, and even an official one, since the regimental bands had substituted that gentle melody for the fierce * Marseillaise ^ ; and that our soldiers, strange to say, had not fought any the worse for it. But the colonel had already opened the window, and was crying out to the Savoyard with the organ : — ** Eh ! Friend ! A napoleon for you if you will tell me in what year I am drawing the breath of life ! " The artist began dancing as lightly as possible, playing on his musical instrument. ^^ Advance at the order ! '* cried the colonel, " and keep that devilish machine still ! * " A little penny, my good monsieur ! * " It is not a penny that I'll give you, but a napoleon, if you'll tell what year it is.'* «Oh, but that's funny! Hi— hi— hi! » *And if you don't tell me quicker than this amounts to, I'll cut your ears off ! '* The Savoyard ran away, but he came back pretty soon, having meditated, during his flight, on the maxim *^ Nothing risk, noth« ing gain.'' ^' Monsieur, " said he, in a wheedling voice, " this is the year eighteen hundred and fifty-nine." " Good ! " cried Fougas. He felt in his pockets for money, and found nothing there. L6on saw his predicament, and flung twenty francs into the court. Before shutting the window, he pointed out, to the right, the fagade of a pretty little new building, where the colonel could distinctly read: — AUDRET ARCHITECTE MDCCCLIX A perfectly satisfactory piece of evidence, and one which did not cost twenty francs. Fougas, a little confused, pressed Leon's hand and said to him ; — EDMOND ABOUT 49 « My friend, I do not forget that Confidence is the first duty from Gratitude toward Beneficence. But tell me of our country! I tread the sacred soil where I received my being, and I am ignorant of the career of my native land. France is still the queen of the world, is she not ? * "Certainly,'* said Leon. * How is the Emperor ? * «Well.» "And the Empress?" «Very welL» « And the King of Rome ? * « The Prince Imperial ? He is a very fine child, * « How ? A fine child ! And you have the face to say that this is 1859 !» M. Nibor took up the conversation, and explained in a few words that the reigning sovereigfn of France was not Napoleon I., but Napoleon III. " But then, ** cried Fougas, " my Emperor is dead ! * «Yes.» "Impossible! Tell me anything you will but that! My Em- peror is immortal.* M. Nibor and the Renaults, who were not quite professional historians, were obliged to give him a summary of the history of our century. Some one went after a big book, written by M. de Norvins and illustrated with fine eng^ravings by Raffet. He only believed in the presence of Truth when he could touch her with his hand, and still cried out almost every moment, "That's im- possible! This is not history that you are reading to me: it is a romance written to make soldiers weep ! * This young man must indeed have had a strong and well-tem- pered soul; for he learned in forty minutes all the woful events which fortune had scattered through eighteen years, from the first abdication up to the death of the King of Rome. Less happy than his old companions in arms, he had no interval of repose between these terrible and repeated shocks, all beating upon his heart at the same time. One could have feared that the blow might prove mortal, and poor Fougas die in the first hour of his recovered life. But the imp of a fellow yielded and recovered himself in quick succession like a spring. He cried out with admiration on hearing of the five battles of the campaign in France; he reddened with grief at the farewells of Fontainebleau. 1—4 5° EDMOND ABOUT The return from the Isle of Elba transfigured his handsome and noble countenance; at Waterloo his heart rushed in with the last army of the Empire, and there shattered itself. Then he clenched his fists and said between his teeth, "If I had been there at the head of the Twenty- Third, Bliicher and Wellington would have seen another fate ! * The invasion, the truce, the martyr of St. Helena, the ghastly terror of Europe, the murder of Murat, — the idol of the cavalry, — the deaths of Ney, Bruno, Mouton-Duvernet, and so many other whole-souled men whom he had known, ad- mire's, and loved, threw him into a series of paroxysms of rage; but nothing crushed him. In hearing of the death of Napoleon, he swore that he would eat the heart of England; the slow agony of the pale and interesting heir of the Empire inspired him with a passion to tear the vitals out of Austria. When the drama was over, and the curtain fell on Schonbrunn, he dashed away his tears and said, "It is well. I have lived in a moment a man's entire life. Now show me the map of France ! ** L^on began to turn over the leaves of an atlas, while M. Renault attempted to continue narrating to the colonel the history of the Restoration, and of the monarchy of 1830. But Fougas's interest was in other things. " What do I care, '^ said he, " if a couple of hundred babblers of deputies put one king in place of another? Kings! I've seen enough of them in the dirt. If the Empire had lasted ten years longer, I could have had a king for a bootblack.'* When the atlas was placed before him, he at once cried out with profound disdain, " That France ? ** But soon two tears of pitying affection, escaping from his eyes, swelled the rivers Ardeche and Gironde. He kissed the map and said, with an emotion which communicated itself to nearly all those who were present : — "Forgive me, poor old love, for insulting your misfortunes. Those scoundrels whom we always whipped have profited by my sleep to pare down your frontiers; but little or great, rich or poor, you are my mother, and I love you as a faithful son! Here is Corsica, where the giant of our age was bom; here is Toulouse, where I first saw the light; here is Nancy, where I felt my heart awakened — where, perhaps, she whom I call my ^gle waits for me still! France! Thou hast a temple in my soul; this arm is thine; thou shalt find me ever ready to shed my blood to the last drop in defending or avenging thee!'* 5« ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITER- ATURE BY CRAWFORD H. TOY [ecent discoveries have carried the beginnings of civilization farther and farther back into the remote past. Scholars are not agreed as to what region can lay claim to the greatest literary antiquity. The oldest historical records are found in Egypt and Babylonia, and each of these lands has its advocates, who claim, for it priority in culture. The data now at our command are not suf- ficient for the decision of this question. It may be doubted whether any one spot on the globe will ever be shown to have precedence in time over all others, — whether, that is, it will appear that the civili- zation of the world has proceeded from a single centre. But though we are yet far from having reached the very beginnings of culture, we know that they lie farther back than the wildest dreams of half a century ago would have imagined. Established kingdoms existed in Babylonia in the fourth millennium before the beg^inning of our era; royal inscriptions have been found which are with great probability assigned to about the year 3800 B. C. These are, it is true, of the simplest description, consisting of a few sentences of praise to a deity or brief notices of a campaign or of the building of a temple; but they show that the art of writing was known, and that the custom existed of recording events of the national history. We may thence infer the existence of a settled civilization and of some sort of literary productiveness. The Babylonian-Assyrian writings with which we are acquainted may be divided into the two classes of prose and poetry. The former class consists of royal inscriptions (relating to military campaigns and ,the construction of temples), chronological tables (eponym canons), legal documents (sales, suits, etc.), grammatical tables (paradigms and vocabularies), lists of omens and lucky and unlucky days, and letters and reports passing between kings and governors; the latter class includes cosmogonic poems, an epic poem in twelve books, detached mythical narratives, magic formulas and incantations, and prayers to deities (belonging to the ritual service of the temples). The prose pieces, with scarcely an exception, belong to the historical period, and may be dated with something like accuracy. The same thing is true of a part of the poetical material, particularly the prayers; but the 52 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE cosmogonic and other mythical poems appear to go back, at least so far as their material is concerned, to a very remote antiquity, and it is difficult to assign them a definite date. Whether this oldest poetical material belongs to the Semitic Baby- lonians or to a non-Semitic (Sumerian-Accadian) people is a question not yet definitely decided. The material which comes into consid- eration for the solution of this problem is mainly linguistic. Along with the inscriptions, which are obviously in the Semitic-Babylonian language, are found others composed of words apparently strange. These are held by some scholars to represent a priestly, cryptographic writing, by others to be true Semitic words in slightly altered form, and by others still to belong to a non-Semitic tongue. This last view supposes that the ancient poetry comes, in substance at any rate, from a non-Semitic people who spoke this tongue; while on the other hand, it is maintained that this poetry is so interwoven into Semitic life that it is impossible to regard it as of foreign origin. The majority of Semitic scholars are now of the opinion that the origin of this early literature is foreign. However this may be, it comes to us in Babylonian dress, it has been elaborated by Babylonian hands, has thence found its way into the literature of other Semitic peoples, and for our purposes may be accepted as Babylonian. In any case it carries us back to very early religious conceptions. The cosmogonic poetry is in its outlines not unlike that of Hesiod, but develops the ruder ideas at greater length. In the shortest (but probably not the earliest) form of the cosmogony, the beginning of all things is found in the watery abyss. Two abysmal power? (Tiamat and Apsu), represented as female and male, mingle their wate.s, and from them proceed the gods. The list of deities (as in the Greek cosmogony) seems to represent several dynasties, a concep- tion which may embody the belief in the gradual organization of the world. After two less-known gods, called Lahmu and Lahamu, come the more familiar figures of later Babylonian writing, Anu and Ea. At this point the list unfortunately breaks off, and the creative function which may have been assigned to the gods is lost, or has not yet been discovered. The general similarity between this account and that of Gen. i. is obvious: both begin with the abysmal chaos. Other agreements between the two cosmogonies will be pointed out below. The most interesting figure in this fragment is that of Tiamat. "We shall presently see her in the character of the enemy of the gods. The two conceptions of her do not agree together perfectly, and the priority in time must be assigned to the latter. The idea that the world of gods and men and material things issued out of the womb of the abyss is a philosophic generalization that is more naturally assigned to a period of reflection. ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 53 In the second cosmogonic poem the account is more similar to that of the second chapter of Genesis, and its present form origfinated in or near Babylon. Here we have nothing of the primeval deep, but are told how the gods made a beautiful land, with rivers and trees; how Babylon was built and Marduk created man, and the Tigris and the Euphrates, and the beasts and cities and temples. This also must be looked on as a comparatively late form of the mjrth, since its hero is Marduk, god of Babylon. As in the Bible account, men are created before beasts, and the region of their first abode seems to be the same as the Eden of Genesis. Let us now turn to the poem in which the combat between Tiamat and Marduk forms the principal feature. For some unexplained reason Tiamat rebels against the gods. Collecting her hosts, among them frightful demon shapes of all imaginable forms, she advances for the purpose of expelling the gods from their seats. The affrighted deities turn for protection to the high gods, Anu and Ea, who, how- ever, recoil in terror from the hosts of the dragon Tiamat. Anshar then applies to Marduk. The gods are invited to a feast, the situ- ation is described, and Marduk is invited to lead the heavenly hosts against the foe. He agrees on condition that he shall be clothed with absolute power, so that he shall only have to say *Let it be,* and it shall be. To this the gods assent: a garment is placed before him, to which he says "Vanish,* and it vanishes, and when he com- mands it to appear, it is present. The hero then dons his armor and advances against the enemy. He takes Tiamat and slays her, routs her host, kills her consort Kingu, and utterly destroys the rebel- lion. Tiamat he cuts in twain. Out of one half of her he forms the heavens, out of the other half the earth, and for the gods Anu and Bel and Ea he makes a heavenly palace, like the abyss itself in extent. To the great gods also he assigns positions, forms the stars, establishes the year and month and the day. At this point the his- tory is interrupted, the tablet being broken. The creation of the heavenly bodies is to be compared with the similar account in Gen. i. ; whether this poem narrates the creation of the rest of the world it is impossible to say. In this history of the rebellion of Tiamat against the gods we have a mythical picture of some natural phenomenon, perhaps of the con- flict between the winter and the enlivening sun of summer. The poem appears to contain elements of different dates. The rude char- acter of some of the procedures suggests an early time: Marduk slays Tiamat by driving the wind into her body; the warriors who accom- pany her have those composite forms familiar to us from Babylo- nian and Egyptian statues, paintings, and seals, which are the product of that early thought for which there was no essential difference 54 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE between man and beast. The festival in which the gods carouse is of a piece with the divine Ethiopian feasts of Homer. On the other hand, the idea of the omnipotence of the divine word, when Marduk makes the garment disappear and reappear, is scarcely a primitive one. It is substantially identical with the Biblical <^Let it be, and it was.* It is probable that the poem had a long career, and in success- ive recensions received the coloring of different generations. Tiamat herself has a long history. Here she is a dragon who assaults the gods; elsewhere, as we have seen, she is the mother of the gods; here also her body forms the heaven and the earth. She appears in Gen. i. 2 as the Tehom, the primeval abyss. In the form of the hostile dragon she is found in numerous passages of the Old Testa- ment, though under different names. She is an enemy of Yahwe, god of Israel, and in th*'. New Testament (Rev. xii.) the combat between Marduk and Tiamat is represented under the form of a fight between Michael and the Dragon. In Christian literature Michael has been replaced by St. George. The old Babylonian conception has been fruitful of poetry, representing, as it does, in grand form the struggle between the chaotic and the formative forces of the universe. The most considerable of the old. Babylonian poems, so far as length and literary form are concerned, is that which has been com- monly known as the Izdubar epic. The form of the name is not certain: Mr. Pinches has recently proposed, on the authority of a Babylonian text, to write it Gilgamesh, and this form has been adopted by a number of scholars. The poem (discovered by George Smith in 1872) is inscribed on twelve tablets, each tablet apparently containing a separate episode. The first tablet introduces the hero as the deliverer of his country from the Elamites, an event which seems to have taken place before 2000 B. C. Of the second, third, fourth, and fifth tablets, only frag- ments exist, but it appears that Gilgamesh slays the Elamite tyrant. The sixth tablet recounts the love of Ishtar for the hero, to whom she proposes marriage, offering him the tribute of the land. The reason he assigns for his rejection of the goddess is the number and fatal character of her loves. Among the objects of her affection were a wild eagle, a lion, a war-horse, a ruler, and a husbandman; and all these came to grief. Ishtar, angry at her rejection, complains to her father, Anu, and her mother, Anatu, and begs them to avenge her wrong. Anu creates a divine bull and sends it against Gilgamesh, who, however, with the aid of his friend Eabani, slays the bull. Ishtar curses Gilgamesh, but Eabani turns the curse against her. The seventh tablet recounts how Ishtar descends to the underworld seeking some better way of attacking the hero. The description of the Babylonian Sheol is one of the most effective portions of the ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 55 poem, and with it George Smith connects a well-known poem which relates the descent of Ishtar to the underworld. The goddess goes down to the house of darkness from which there is no exit, and demands admittance of the keeper; who, however, by command of the queen of the lower world, requires her to submit to the condi- tions imposed on all who enter. There are seven gates, at each of which he removes some portion of her ornaments and dress. Ishtar, thus unclothed, enters and becomes a prisoner. Meantime the upper earth has felt her absence. All love and life has ceased. Yielding to the persuasions of the gods, Ea sends a messenger to demand the release of the goddess. The latter passes out, receiving at each gate a portion of her clothing. This story of Ishtar's love belongs to one of the earliest stages of religious belief. Not only do the gods appear as under the control of ordinary human passions, but there is no consciousness of material difference between man and beast. The Greek parallels are familiar to all. Of these ideas we find no trace in the later Babylonian and Assyrian literature, and the poem was doubtless interpreted by the Babylonian sages in allegorical fashion. In the eighth and ninth tablets the death of Eabani is recorded, and the grief of Gilgamesh. The latter then wanders forth in search of Hasisadra, the hero of the Flood-story. After various adventures he reaches the abode of the divinized man, and from him learns the story of the Flood, which is given in the eleventh tablet. This story is almost identical with that of the Book of Genesis. The God Bel is determined to destroy mankind, and Hasisadra receives directions from Ea to build a ship, and take into it provis- ions and goods and slaves and beasts of the field. The ship is cov- ered with bitumen. The flood is sent by Shamash (the sun-god). Hasisadra enters the ship and shuts the door. So dreadful is the tempest that the gods in affright ascend for protection to the heaven of Anu. Six days the storm lasts. On the seventh comes calm. Hasisadra opens a window and sees the mountain of Nizir, sends forth a dove, which returns; then a swallow, which returns; then a raven, which does not return; then, knowing that the flood has passed, sends oat the animals, builds an altar, and offers sacrifice, over which the gods gather like flies. Ea remonstrates with Bel, and urges that here- after, when he is angry with men, instead of sending a deluge, he shall send wild beasts, who shall destroy them. Thereupon Bel makes a compact with Hasisadra, and the gods take him and his wife and people and place them in a remote spot at the mouth of the rivers. It is now generally agreed that the Hebrew story of the Flood is taken from the Babylonian, either mediately through the Canaanites (for the Babylonians had occupied Canaan before the sixteenth cen- tury B. C), or immediately during the exile in the sixth century. 56 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE The Babylonian account is more picturesque, the Hebrew more re- strained and solemn. The early polytheistic features have been excluded by the Jewish editors. In addition to these longer stories there are a number of legends of no little poetical and mythical interest. In the cycle devoted to the eagle there is a story of the struggle between the eagle and the serpent. The latter complains to the sun-god that the eagle has eaten his young. The god suggests a plan whereby the hostile bird may be caught: the body of a wild ox is to be set as a snare. Out of this plot, however, the eagle extricates himself by his sagacity. In the second story the eagle comes to the help of a woman who is struggling to bring a man-child (apparently Etana) into the world. In the third is portrayed the ambition of the hero Etana to ascend to heaven. The eagle promises to aid him in accomplishing his design. Clinging to the bird, he rises with him higher and higher toward the heavenly space, reaching the abode of Anu, and then the abode of Ishtar. As they rise to height after height the eagle describes the appearance of the world lying stretched out beneath: at first it rises like a huge mountain out of the sea; then the ocean appears as a girdle encircling the land, and finally but as a ditch a gardener digs to irrigate his land. When they have risen so high that the earth is scarcely visible, Etana cries to the eagle to stop; so he does, but his strength is exhausted, and bird and man fall to the earth. Another cycle of stories deals with the winds. The god Zu longs to have absolute power over the world. To that end he lurks about the door of the sun-god, the possessor of the tablets of fate whereby he controls all things. Each morning before beginning his journey, the sun-god steps out to send light showers over the world. Watch- ing his opportunity, Zu glides in, seizes the tablets of fate, and flies away and hides himself in the mountains. So great horror comes over the world: it is likely to be scorched by the sun-god's burning beams. Anu calls on the storm-god Ramman to conquer Zu, but he is frightened and declines the task, as do other gods. Here, unfor- tunately, the tablet is broken, so that we do not know by whom the normal order was finally restored. In the collection of cuneiform tablets disinterred at Amarna in 1887 was found the curious story of Adapa. The demigod Adapa, the son of Ea, fishing in the sea for the family of his lord, is overwhelmed by the stormy south wind and cast under the waves. In anger he breaks the wings of the wind, that it may no longer rage in the storm. Anu, informed that the south wind no longer blows, summons Adapa to his presence. Ea instructs his son to put on apparel of mourning, present himself at Ann's gate, and there make friends with the por- ters, Tammuz and Iszida, so that they may speak a word for him to ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 57 Anu; going into the presence of the royal deity, he will be offered food and drink which he must reject, and raiment and oil which he must accept. Adapa carries out the instructions of his father to the letter. Anu is appeased, but laments that Adapa, by rejecting heavenly food and drink, has lost the opportunity to become immor- tal. This story, the record of which is earlier than the sixteenth century B. C, appears to contain two conceptions : it is a mythical description of the history of the south wind, but its conclusion pre- sents a certain parallelism with the end of the story of Eden in Genesis; as there Adam, so here Adapa, fails of immortality because he infringes the divine command concerning the divine food. We have here a suggestion that the story in Genesis is one of the cycle which dealt with the common earthly fact of man's mortality. The legend of Dibbarra seems to have a historical basis. The god Dibbarra has devastated the cities of Babylonia with bloody wars. Against Babylon he has brought a hostile host and slain its people, so that Marduk, the god of Babylon, curses him. And in like manner he has raged against Erech, and is cursed by its goddess Ishtar. He is charged with confounding the righteous and unrighteous in indis- criminate destruction. But Dibbarra determines to advance against the dwelling of the king of the gods, and Babylonia is to be further desolated by civil war. It is a poetical account of devastating wars as the production of a hostile deity. It is obvious that these legends have many features in common with those of other lands, myths of conflict between wind and sun, and the ambition of heroes to scale the heights of heaven. How far these similarities are the independ- ent products of similar situations, and how far the results of loans, cannot at present be determined. The moral-religious literature of the Babylonians is not inferior in interest to the stories just mentioned. The hymns to the gods are characterized by a sublimity and depth of feeling which remind us of the odes of the Hebrew Psalter. The penitential hymns appear to contain expressions of sorrow for sin, which would indicate a high development of the religious consciousness. These hymns, apparently a part of the temple ritual, probably belong to a relatively late stage of history; but they are none the less proof that devotional feeling in ancient times was not limited to any one country. Other productions, such as the hymn to the seven evil spirits (celebrating their mysterious power), indicate a lower stage of reli- gious feeling; this is specially visible in the magic formulas, which portray a very early stratum of religious history. They recall the Shamanism of Central Asia and the rites of savage tribes; but there is no reason to doubt that the Semitic religion in its early stages contained this magic element, which is found all the world over, 58 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE Riddles and Proverbs are found among the Babylonians, as among all peoples. Comparatively few have been discovered, and these pre- sen't nothing of peculiar interest. The following may serve as speci- mens : — " What is that which becomes pregnant without conceiving, fat without eating ?>* The answer seems to be *: BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE [Hasi&:> 'Wit th«' ship according to Ea's din-f tiotK.l ' had I ' vtirht together, t gold, kin I caused to enter, when the sun the destined time brought on, o he said at even-fall: — .j,;iruction shall the heaven rain. Enter the ship and close the d- ■; With sorrow on that >' The day on which T Yet into the ship Into the har./" i gave me sr;;p wim its T s horizon rose the dark cloud } imder, > ASSymANoGLAY TABLET, ContaiA/n'T a part of the storj' of the flood, from 'tjie-^iibrarv of Assur- ba^Jpal. Found in recent explorations in A'^^^f%by{^P^' London; British Museum. Raman's s .nt. All light to darkr Brother looks not after rtr ni, r, no man for another cares. The gods in heaven r -ned, refuge they seek, Upward they > tiic Ueaven of Anu. Like a dog ii. So cower the gods tf)v the bars of heaven. Ishtar cries out in pa. " ^ the exalted goddess: — All is turned to mire. [evil. This evil to the gods la ;. to the gods foretold the This exterminating war foi^. . Against my race of mankind. Not for this bare I men that like the brood of the fishes They should fill the sea. Then wept the gods with her over the Anunnaki, In lamentation sat the gods, their lips hard pressed together. Six days and seven nights ruled wind and flood and storm. BvLt when the seventh day broke, subsided the storm, and the flood ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 71 Which raged like a mighty host, settled itself to quiet. Down went the sea, ceased storm and flood. Through the sea I rode lamenting. The upper dwellings of men were ruined, Corpses floated like trees. A window I opened, on my face the daylight fell* I shuddered and sat me down weeping, Over my face flowed my tears. I rode over regions of land, on a terrible sea. Then rose one piece of land twelve measures high. To the land Nizir the ship was steered. The mountain Nizir held the ship fast, and let it no more go. At the dawn of the seventh day I took a dove and sent it forth. Hither and thither flew the dove. No resting-place it found, back to me it came. A swallow I took and sent it forth. No resting-place it found, and back to me it came. A raven I took and sent it forth, Forth flew the raven and saw that the water had fallen. Carefully waded on but came not back. All the animals then to the four winds I sent. A sacrifice I offered. An altar I built on the mountain-top. By sevens I placed the vessels. Under them spread sweet cane and cedar. The gods inhaled the smoke, inhaled the sweet-smell- ing smoke. Like flies the gods collected over the offering. Thither then came Ishtar, Lifted on high her bow, which Anu had made: — These days I will not forget, will keep them in remem- brance. Them I will never forget. Let the gods come to the altar. But let not Bel to the altar come. Because he heedlessly wrought, the flood he brought on. To destruction my people gave over. Thither came Bel and saw the ship. Full of anger was he Against the gods and the spirits of heaven:— What soul has escaped! 72 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE In the destruction no man shall live. Then Adar opened his mouth and spake, Spake to the warlike Bel: — Who but Ea knew it ? He knew and all he hath told. Then Ea opened his mouth, Spake to the warlike Bel: — Thou art the valiant leader of the gods, Why hast thou heedlessly wrought, and brought on the flood ? Let the sinner bear his sin, the wrongdoer his wrong; Yield to our request, that he be not wholly destroyed. Instead of sending a flood, send lions that men be reduced; Instead of sending a flood, send hyenas that men be reduced; Instead of sending a flood, send flames to waste the land; Instead of sending a flood, send pestilence that men be reduced. The counsel of the great gods to him I did not impart; A dream to Hasisadra I sent, and the will of the gods he learned. Then came right reason to Bel, Into the ship he entered. Took my hand and lifted me up. Raised my wife and laid her hand in mine, To us he turned, between us he stepped. His blessing he gave. Human Hasisadra has been, But he and his wife united Now to the gods shall be raised, And Hasisadra shall dwell far off at the mouth of the streams. Then they took me and placed me Far off at the mouth of the streams. V. THE EAGLE AND THE SNAKE To Samas came the snake and said: — The eagle has come to my nest, my young are scat tered. See, O Samas, what evil he has done me. Help me, thy nest is as broad as the earth, Thy snare is like the heavens, Who can escape out of thy net? Hearing the snake's complaint, Samas opened his mouth and spake: — Get thee on thy way, go to the mountain. A wild ox shall be thy hiding-place. AGCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 73 Open his body, tear out his inward parts. Make thy dwelling within him. All the birds of heaven will descend, with them will come the eagle, Heedless and hurrying on the flesh he will swoop. Thinking of that which is hidden inside. So soon as he enters the ox, seize his wing, Tear off his wing-feathers and claws. Pull him to pieces and cast him away. Let him die of hunger and thirst. So as the mighty Samas commanded. Rose the snake, went to the mountain. There he found a wild ox. Opened his body, tore out his inward parts. Entered and dwelt within him. And the birds of heaven descended, with them came the eagle. Yet the eagle, fearing a snare, ate not of the flesh with the birds. The eagle spake to his young: — We will not fly down, nor eat of the flesh of the wild ox. An eaglet, keen of eye, thus to his father spake: — In the flesh of the ox lurks the snake [The rest is lost.] VI. THE FLIGHT OF ETANA THE priests have offered my sacrifice With joyful hearts to the gods. O Lord, issue thy command. Give me the plant of birth, show me the plant of birth. Bring the child into the world, grant me a son. Samas opened his mouth and spake to Etana: — Away with thee, go to the mountain. . . . The eagle opened his mouth and spake to Etana: — Wherefore art thou come? Etana opened his mouth and said to the eagle: — My friend, give me the plant of birth, show me the plant of birth. Bring the child into the world, grant me a son. . , • To Etana then spake the eagle: — My friend, be of good cheer. Come, let me bear thee to Anu's heaven. y4 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE On my breast lay thy breast, Grasp with thy hands the feathers of my wings, On my side lay thy side. On his breast he laid his breast, On his feathers he placed his hands, On his side laid his side. Firmly he clung, great was his weight. Two hours he bore him on high. The eagle spake to him, to Etana: — See my friend, the land, how it lies, Look at the sea, the ocean-girded, [waters. Like a mountain looks the land, the sea like petty Two hours more he bore him up. The eagle spake to him, to Etana: — See my friend the land, how it lies, The sea is like the girdle of the land. Two hours more he bore him up. The eagle spake to him, to Etana: — See my friend the land, how it lies. The sea is like the gardener's ditches. Up they rose to Ann's heaven. Came to the gate of Anu, Bel and Ea. . . . Come, my friend, let me bear thee to Ishtar, To Ishtar, the queen, shalt thou go, and dwell at her feet. On my side lay thy side. Grasp my wing-feathers with thy hands. On his side he laid his side, His feathers he grasped with his hands. Two hours he bore him on high. My friend see the land, how it lies. How it spreads itself out. The broad sea is as great as a court. Two hours he bore him on high. My friend see the land, how it lies, The land is like the bed of a garden. The broad sea is as great as a [.] Two hours he bore him on high. My friend see the land, how it lies. [Etana, frightened, begs the eagle to ascend no further; then, as it seems. the bird's strength is exhausted.] To the earth the eagle fell down Shattered upon the ground. ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE yj VII. THE GOD ZU HE SEES the badges of rule. His royal crown, his raiment divine. On the tablets of fate of the god Zu fixes his look. On the father of the gods, the god of Duranki, Zu fixes his gaze. Lust after rule enters into his soul. I will take the tablets of fate of the gods, Will determine the oracle of all the gods, Will set up my throne, all orders control. Will rule all the heavenly spirits. His heart was set on combat. [of day. At the entrance of the hall he stands, waiting the break When Bel dispensed the tender rains. Sat on his throne, put off his crown. He snatched the tablets of fate from his hands. Seized the power, the control of commands. Down flew Zu, in a mountain he hid. There was angfuish and crying. On the earth Bel poured out his wrath. Anu opened his mouth and spake. Said to the gods his children; — Who will conquer Zu? Great shall be his name among the dwellers of all lands. They called for Ramman, the mighty, Ann's son. To him g^ves Anu command: — Up, Ramman, my son, thou hero. From thine attack desist not, conquer Zu with thy weapons, [gods. That thy name may be great in the assembly of the great Among the gods thy brethren, none shall be thy equal. Thy shrines on high shall be built; Found thee cities in all the world; Thy cities shall reach to the mountain of the world; Show thyself strong for the gods, strong be thy name! To Anu his father's command Ramman answered and spake : — My father, who shall come to the inaccessible mound.' Who is like unto Zu among the gods thy sons? The tablets of fate he has snatched from his hands. Seized on the power, the control of commands. 2u has fled and hides in his mountain. [The rest is lost.] 76 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE VIII. ADAPA AND THE SOUTHWIND UNDER the water the Southwind blew him Sunk him to the home of the fishes. * O Southwind, ill hast thou used me, thy wings I will break. As thus with his mouth he spake the wings of the South- wind were broken. Seven days long the Southwind over the earth blew no more. To his messenger Ila-Abrat Anu then spake thus: — Why for seven days long Blows the Southwind no more on the earth ? His messenger Ila-Abrat answered and said: My lord, Adapa, Ea's son, hath broken the wings of the Southwind. When Anu heard these words. << Aha ! *> he cried, and went forth. [Ea, the ocean-god, then directs his son how to proceed in order to avert Anu's wrath. Some lines are mutilated.] At the gate of Anu stand. The gods Tammuz and Iszida will see thee and ask: — Why lookest thou thus, Adapa, For whom wearest thou garments of mourning ? From the earth two gods have vanished, therefore do I thus. Who are these two gods who from the earth have vanished ? At each other they will look, Tammuz and Iszida, and lament. A friendly word they will speak to Anu Anu's sacred face they will show thee. When thou to Anu comest. Food of death will be offered thee, eat not thereof. Water of death will be offered thee, drink not thereof. A garment will be offered thee, put it on. Oil will be offered thee, anoint thyself therewith. What I tell thee neglect not, keep my word in mind. Then came Anu's messenger: — The wing of the Southwind Adapa has broken, Deliver him up to me. Up to heaven he came, approached the gate of Ann. At Anu's gate Tammuz and Iszida stand, Adapa they see, and * Aha ! '* they cry. ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 77 O Adapa, wherefore lookest thou thus, For whom wearest thou apparel of mourning? From the earth two gods have vanished Therefore I wear apparel of mourning. Who are these two gods who from the earth have vanished ? At one another look Tammuz and Iszida and lament. Adapa go hence to Anu. When he came, Anu at him looked, saying, O Adapa, Why hast thou broken the Southwind's wing? Adapa answered: My lord, 'Fore my lord's house I was fishing. In the midst of the sea, it was smooth. Then the Southwind began to blow Under it forced me, to the home of the fishes I sank. [By this speech Anu's anger is turned away.] A beaker he set before him. What shall we offer him ? Food of life Prepare for him that he may eat. Food of life was brought for him, but he ate not. Water of life was brought for him, but he drank not A garment was brought him, he put it on, Oil they gave him, he anointed himself therewith. Anu looked at him and mourned: — And now, Adapa, wherefore Has thou not eaten or drunken ? Now canst thou not live forever . • « Ea, my lord, commanded me: — Thou shalt not eat nor drink. IX. PENITENTIAL PSALMS I The Suppliant: I THY servant, full of sin cry to thee. The sinner's earnest prayer thou dost accept. The man on whom thou lookest lives, Mistress of all, queen of mankind. Merciful one, to whom it is good to turn. Who acceptest the sigh of the heart. The Priest: Because his god and his goddess are angry, he cries to thee. To him turn thy face, take his hand. 78 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE The Suppliant: Beside thee there is no god to guide me. Look in mercy on me, accept my sigh, Say why do I wait so long. Let thy face be softened! How long, O my lady! May thy kindness be turned to me I Like a dove I mourn, full of sighing. The Priest: With sorrow and woe His soul is full of sighing. Tears he sheds, he pours out laments. O mother of the gods, who performest the commands of Bel Who makest the young grass sprout, queen of mankind, Creator of all, guide of every birth. Mother Ishtar, whose might no god approaches, Exalted mistress, mighty in command! A prayer I will utter, let her do what seems her good. O my lady, make me to know my doing. Food I have not eaten, weeping was my nourishment. Water I have not drunk, tears were my drink. My heart has not been joyful nor my spirits glad. Many are my sins, sorrowful my soul. O my lady, make me to know my doing. Make me a place of rest. Cleanse my sin, lift up my face. May my god, the lord of prayer, before thee set my prayer! May my goddess, the lady of supplication, before thee set my supplication ! May the storm-god set my prayer before thee! [The intercession of a number of gods is here invoked.] Let thy eye rest graciously on me. ... Turn thy face graciously to me, ... Let thy heart be gentle, thy spirit mild. ... ni O lady, in sorrow of heart sore oppressed I cry to thee. O lady, to thy servant favor show. Let thy heart be favorable, ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE yg To thy servant full of sorrow show thy pity, Turn to him thy face, accept his prayer. To thy servant with whom thou art angry graciously turn. May the anger of my lord be appeased, Appeased the god I know not! The goddess I know, the goddess I know not. The god who was angry with me, The goddess who was angry with me be appeased! The sin which I have committed I know not. May my god name a gracious name. My goddess name a gracious name, The god I know, the god I know not Name a gracious name. The goddess I know, the goddess I know not Name a gracious name! Pure food I have not eaten, Pure water I have not drunk, The wrath of my god, though I knew it not, was my food, The anger of my goddess, though I knew it not, cast me down. lord, many are my sins, great my misdeeds. [These phrases are repeated many times.] The lord has looked on me in anger. The god has punished me in wrath, The goddess was angry with me and hath brought me to sorrow. ' 1 sought for help, but no one took my hand, I wept, but no one to me came, I cry aloud, there is none that hears me. Sorrowful I lie on the ground, look not up. To my merciful god I turn, I sigh aloud, The feet of my goddess I kiss [.] To the known and unknown god I loud do sigh, To the known and unknown goddess I loud do sigh, O lord, look on me, hear my prayer, O goddess, look on me, hear my prayer. Men are perverse, nothing they know. Men of every name, what do they know? Do they good or ill, nothing they know. O lord, cast not down thy servant! 8o ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE Him, plunged into the flood, seize by the hand! The sin I have committed turn thou to favor! The evil I have done may the wind carry it away! Tear in pieces my wrong-doings like a garment! My god, my sins are seven times seven — forgive my sins! My goddess, my sins are seven times seven — forgive my sins! Known and unknown god, my sins are seven times seven — forgive my sins! Known and unknown goddess, my sins are seven times seven — forgive my sins! Forgive my sins, and I will humbly bow before thee. May the lord, the mighty ruler Adar, announce my prayer to thee! May the suppliant lady Nippur announce my prayer to thee ! May the lord of heaven and earth, the lord of Eridu, announce my prayer to thee! The mother of the great house, the goddess Damkina, announce my prayer to thee! May Marduk, the lord of Babylon, announce my prayer to thee! May his consort, the exalted child of heaven and earth, announce my prayer to thee! May the exalted minister, the god who names the good name, an- nounce my prayer to thee ! May the bride, the first-born of the god, announce my prayer to thee! May the god of storm-flood, the lord Harsaga, announce my prayer to thee! Vlay the gracious lady of the land announce my prayer to thee! X. INSCRIPTION OF SENNACHERIB (Taylor-cylinder, B.C. 701. Cf. 2 Kings xviii., xix.) SENNACHERIB, the great king, the powerful king, The king of the world, the king of Assyria, The king of the four zones. The wise shepherd, the favorite of the great gods. The protector of justice, the lover of righteousness. The giver of help, the aider of the weak, The perfect hero, the stalwart warrior, the first of princes. The destroyer of the rebellious, the destroyer of enemies — Assur, the mighty rock, a kingdom without rival has granted me, ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE gj Over all who sit on sacred seats he has exalted my arms, From the upper sea of the setting sun To the lower sea of the rising sun. All the blackheaded people he has cast beneath my feet, The rebellious princes shun battle with me. They forsook their dwellings; like a falcon Which dwells in the clefts, they fled alone to an inaccessi- ble place. To the city of Ekron I went. The governors and princes who had done evil I slew, I bound their corpses to poles around the city. The inhabitants of the city who had done evil I reckoned as spoil ; To the rest who had done no wrong I spoke peace. Padi, their king, I brought from Jerusalem, King over them I made him. The tribute of my lordship I laid upon him, Hezekiah of Judah, who had not submitted to me. Forty-six of his strong cities, small cities without number, I besieged. Casting down the walls, advancing engines, by assault I took them. Two hundred thousand, one hundred and fifty men and women, young and old, Horses, mules, asses, camels, oxen, sheep, I brought out and reckoned as spoil. Hezekiah himself I shut up like a caged bird In Jerusalem, his royal city, The walls I fortified against him, Whoever came out of the gates I turned him back. His cities which I had plundered I divided from his land And gave them to Mitinti, king of Ashdod, To Padi, king of Ekron, and to Silbal, king of Gaza. To the former tribute paid yearly I added the tribute of alliance of my lordship and Laid that upon him. Hezekiah himself Was overwhelmed by the fear of the brightness of my lord- ship. The Arabians and his other faithful warriors Whom, for the defence of Jerusalem, his royal city, He had brought in, fell into fear. With thirty talents of gold and eight hundred talents of silver, precious stones, 1—6 82 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE Couches of ivory, thrones of ivory, And his daughters, his women of the palace. The young men and the young women, to Nineveh, the city of my lordship, I caused to be brought after me, and he sent his ambassadors To give tribute and to pay homage. XI. INVOCATION TO THE GODDESS BELTIS To Beltis, the great Lady, chief of heaven and earth. Queen of all the gods, mighty in all the lands. Honored is her festival among the Ishtars. She surpasses her offspring in power. She, the shining one, like her brother, the sun, Enlightens Heaven and earth. Mistress of the spirits of the underworld, First-born of Anu, great among the gods, Ruler over her enemies, The seas she stirs up. The wooded mountains tramples under foot. Mistress of the spirits of upper air. Goddess of battle and fight. Without whom the heavenly temple None would render obedience, She, the bestower of strength, grants the desire of the faithful. Prayers she hears, supplication receives, entreaty accepts. Ishtar, the perfect light, all-powerful. Who enlightens Heaven and earth. Her name is proclaimed throughout all the lands, Esarhaddon, king of lands, fear not. To her it is good to pray. XII. ORACLES OF ISHTAR OF ARBELA (B.C. 680-668) ESARHADDON, king of lands, fear not. The lord, the spirit who speaks to thee v I speak to him, I have not kept it back. Thine enemies, like the floods of Sivan Before thee flee perpetually. I the great goddess, Ishtar of Arbela Have put thine enemies to flight. ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 83 Where are the words I spake to thee ? Thou hast not trusted them. I, Ishtar of Arbela, thy foes Into thy hands I give In the van and by thy side I go, fear not In the midst of thy princes thou art. In the midst of my host I advance and rest. O Esarhaddon, fear not. Sixty great gods are with me to guard thee. The Moon-god on thy right, the Sun-god on thy left. Around thee stand the sixty great gods. And make the centre firm. Trust not to man, look thou to me Honor me and fear not. To Esarhaddon, my king. Long days and length of years I give. Thy throne beneath the heavens I have established; In a golden dwelling thee I will guard in heaven Guard like the diadem of my head. The former word which I spake thou didst not trust. But trust thou now this later word and glorify me, "When the day dawns bright complete thy sacrifice. Pure food thou shalt eat, pure waters drink, In thy palace thou shalt be pure. Thy son, thy son's son the kingdom By the blessing of Nergal shall rule. XIII. AN ERECHITE'S LAMENT How long, O my Lady, shall the strong enemy hold thy sanctuary ? There is want in Erech, thy principal city; Blood is flowing like water in Eulbar, the house ot thy oracle; He has kindled and poured out fire like hailstones on all thy lands. My Lady, sorely am I fettered by misfortune; My Lady, thou hast surrounded me, and brought me to grief. The mighty enemy has smitten me down like a single reed. Not wise myself, I cannot take counsel; I mourn day and night like the fields. I, thy servant, pray to thee. Let thy heart take rest, let thy disposition be softened. y 84 ABIGAIL ADAMS (1744-1818) BY LUCIA GILBERT RUNKLE i^HE Constitution of the State of Massachusetts, adopted in the year 1780, contains an article for the Encouragement of Literature, which, it declares, should be fostered because its influence is ^Ho countenance and inculcate the principles of humanity and general benevolence, public and private charity, industry and fru- gality, honesty and punctuality in dealings, sincerity and good humor, and all social affections and generous sentiments among the people.''' In these words, as in a mirror, is reflected the Massachusetts of the eighteenth century, where households like the Adamses', the Warrens', the Otises', made the standard of citizenship. Six years before this remarkable document was framed, Abigail Adams had written to her husband, then engaged in nation- making in Philadelphia : — "I most sincerely wish that some more liberal plan might be laid and executed for the benefit of the rising generation, and that our new Constitution may be distinguished for en- couraging learning and virtue.** And he, spending his days and nights for his coun- try, sacrificing his profession, giving up the hope of wealth, writes her: — <'I believe my children will think that I might as well have labored a little, night and day, for their benefit. But I will tell them that I studied and labored to procure a free constitution of government for them to solace themselves under; and if they do not prefer this to ample fortune, to ease and elegance, they are not my children. They shall live upon thin diet, wear mean clothes, and work hard with cheerful hearts and free spirits, or they may be the children of the earth, or of no one, for me.** In old Weymouth, one of those quiet Massachusetts towns, half- hidden among the umbrageous hills, where the meeting-house and the school-house rose before the settlers' cabins were built, where the one elm-shaded main street stretches its breadth between two lines of self-respecting, isolated frame houses, each with its grassy dooryard, its lilac bushes, its fresh-painted offices, its decorous wood-pile laid ABIGAIL ADAMS ABIGAIL ADAMS 85 with architectural balance and symmetry, — there, in the dignified parsonage, on the nth of November, 1744, was born to Parson William Smith and Elizabeth his wife, Abigail, the second of three beautiful daughters. Her mother was a Quincy, of a distinguished line, and her mother was a Norton, of a strain not less honorable. Nor were the Smiths unimportant. In that day girls had little instruction. Abigail says of herself, in one of her letters: — ^*I never was sent to any school. Female educa- tion, in the best families, went no further than writing and arithmetic; in some few and rare instances, music and dancing. It was fashion- able to ridicule female learning.^* But the household was bookish. Her mother knew the * British Poets >* and all the literature of Queen Anne's Augustan age. Her beloved grandmother Quincy, at Mount Wollaston, seems to have had both learning and wisdom, and to her father she owed the sense of fun, the shrewdness, the clever way of putting things which make her letters so delightful. The good parson was skillful in adapting Scripture to special exi- gencies, and throughout the Revolution he astonished his hearers by the peculiar fitness of his texts to political uses. It is related of him that when his eldest daughter married Richard Cranch, he preached to his people from Luke, tenth chapter, forty-second verse: <^And Mary hath chosen that good part which shall not be taken away from her.** When, a year later, young John Adams came courting the brilliant Abigail, the parish, which assumed a right to be heard on the question of the destiny of the minister's daughter, grimly ob- jected. He was upright, singularly abstemious, studious; but he was poor, he was the son of a small farmer, and she was of the gentry. He was hot-headed and somewhat tactless, and offended his critics. Worst of all, he was a lawyer, and the prejudice of colonial society reckoned a lawyer hardly honest. He won this most important of his cases, however, and Parson Smith's marriage sermon for the bride of nineteen was preached from the text, < and found on him two warrants aimed at the Commonwealth. When their patriotic trust was discharged, they turned their attention to the trembling Briton. Profoundly excited and indignant though they were, they never thought of mob violence, but, true to the inherited instincts of their race, they resolved themselves into a public meeting! The hostile warrants being produced and exhibited, it was put to a vote whether they should be burned or preserved. The majority voted for burning them. Then the two hundred gathered in a circle round the single lantern, and maintained a rigid silence while the offending papers were consumed. That done — the blazing eyes in that grim circle of patriots watching the blazing writs — <* they called a vote whether they should huzza; but, it being Sunday evening, it passed in the negative!'* Only in the New England of John Winthrop and the Mathers, of John Quincy and the Adamses, would such a scene have been pos- sible: a land of self-conquest and self-control, of a deep love of the public welfare and a willingness to take trouble for a public object. A little later Mrs. Adams writes her husband that there has been a conspiracy among the negroes, though it has been kept quiet. *I wish most sincerely,** she adds, "that there was not a slave in the province. It always appeared a most iniquitous scheme to me — to fight ourselves for what we are daily robbing and plundering from those who have as good a right to freedom as we have.** Nor were the sympathies of this clever logician confined to the slaves. A month or two before the Declaration of Independence was made she writes her constructive statesman : — "I long to hear that you have declared an independence. And by the way, in the new code of laws which I suppose it will be necessary for you to make, I desire you would remember the ladies, and be more gener- ous and favorable to them than your ancestors. Do not put such un- limited power into the hands of the husbands! Remember, all men would be tyrants if they could! If particular care and attention is not paid to the ladies, we are determined to foment a rebellion, and 88 ABIGAIL ADAMS will not hold ourselves bound by any laws in which we have no voice or representation. That your sex are naturally tyrannical is a truth so thoroughly established as to admit of no dispute; but such of you as wish to be happy willingly give up the harsh title of master for the more tender and endearing one of friend. Why, then, not put it out of the power of the vicious and the lawless to use us with cruelty and indignity with impunity ? Men of sense in all ages abhor those customs which treat us only as the vassals of your sex. Regard us, then, as being placed by Providence under your protection; and in imitation of the Supreme Being, make use of that power only for our happiness,'* — a declaration of principles which the practical house- wife follows up by saying: — «I have not yet attempted making salt- petre, but after soap-making, believe I shall make the experiment. I find as much as I can do to manufacture clothing for my family, which would else be naked. I have lately seen a small manuscript describing the proportions of the various sorts of powder fit for can- non, small arms, and pistols. If it would be of any service your way, I will get it transcribed and send it to you.** She is interested in everything, and she writes about everything in the same whole-hearted way, — farming, paper money, the mak- ing of molasses from corn-stalks, the new remedy of inoculation, ^ Common Sense * and its author, the children's handwriting, the state of Harvard College, the rate of taxes, the most helpful methods of enlistment, Chesterfield's Letters, the town elections, the higher education of women, and the getting of homespun enough for Mr. Adams's new suit. She manages, with astonishing skill, to keep the household in comfort. She goes through trials of sickness, death, agonizing sus- pense, and ever with the same heroic cheerfulness, that her anxious husband may be spared the pangs which she endures. When he is sent to France and Holland, she accepts the new parting as another service pledged to her country. She sees her darling boy of ten go with his father, aware that at the best she must bear months of silence, knowing that they may perish at sea or fall into the hands of privateers; but she writes with indomitable cheer, sending the lad tender letters of good advice, a little didactic to modern taste, but throbbing with affection. <^ Dear as you are to me, ** says this tender mother, <* I would much rather you should have found your grave in the ocean you have crossed than see you an immoral, profligate, or graceless child.** It was the lot of this country parson's daughter to spend three years in London as wife of the first American minister, to see her husband Vice-President of the United States for eight years and Pres- ident for four, and to greet her son as the eminent Monroe's valued ABIGAIL ADAMS 89 Secretary of State, though she died, <' seventy-four years young," before he became President. She could not, in any station, be more truly a lady than when she made soap and chopped kindling on her Braintree farm. At Braintree she was no more simply modest than at the Court of St. James or in the Executive Mansion. Her letters exactly reflect her ardent, sincere, energetic nature. She shows a charming delight when her husband tells her that his affairs could not possibly be better managed than she manages them, and that she shines not less as a statesman than as a farmeress. And though she was greatly admired and complimented, no praise so pleased her as his declaration that for all the ingratitude, calumnies, and misunder- standings that he had endured, — and they were numberless, — her perfect comprehension of him had been his sufficient compensation. t:^^ ^^ {/tLe, 'A^ — My Dearest Friend: TO HER HUSBAND Braintree, May 24th, 1775. OUR house has been, upon this alarm, in the same scene of confusion that it was upon the former. Soldiers coming in for a lodging, for breakfast, for supper, for drink, etc. Sometimes refugees from Boston, tired and fatigued, seek an asylum for a day, a night, a week. You can hardly imagine how we live; yet — "To the houseless child of want. Our doors are open still; And though our portions are but scant. We give them with good will." My best wishes attend you, both for your health and happiness, land that you may be directed into the wisest and best measures for our safety and the security of our posterity. I wish you were nearer to us: we know not what a day will bring forth, nor what distress one hour may throw us into. Hitherto I have been able to maintain a calmness and presence of mind, and hope I shall, let the exigency of the time be what it will. Adieu, breakfast calls. Your afiEectionate Portia. 90 ABIGAIL ADAMS Weymouth, June 15th, 1775. I HOPE we shall see each other again, and rejoice together in happier days; the little ones are well, and send duty to papa. Don't fail of letting me hear from you by every opportunity. Every line is like a precious relic of the saints. I have a request to make of you; something like the barrel of sand, I suppose you will think it, but really of much more importance to me. It is, that you would send out Mr. Bass, and purchase me a bundle of pins and put them in your trunk for me. The cry for pins is so great that what I used to buy for seven shillings and sixpence are now twenty shillings, and not to be had for that. A bundle contains six thousand, for which I used to give a dollar; but if' you can procure them for fifty shillings, or three pounds, pray let me have them. I am, with the tenderest regard, Your Portia. ■'. Braintree, June i8th, 1775. My Dearest Friend : The day — perhaps the decisive day is come, on which the fate of America depends. My bursting heart must find vent at my pen. I have just heard that our dear friend. Dr. Warren, is no more, but fell gloriously fighting for his country, saying, *^ Better to die honorably in the field than ignominioiisly hang upon the gallows.^' Great is our loss. He has distinguished himself in every engagement by his' courage and fortitude, by ani- mating the soldiers, and leading them on by his own example. A particular account of these dreadful but, I hope, glorioiis days, will be transmitted you, no doubt, in the exactest manner. "The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; but the God of Israel is He that giveth strength and power unto His people. Trust in Him at all times, ye people: pour out your hearts before Him; God is a refuge for us.*^ Charlestown is laid in ashes. The battle began upon our intrenchments upon Bunker's Hill, Saturday morning about three o'clock, and has not ceased yet, and it is now three o'clock Sabbath afternoon. It is expected they will come out over the Neck to-night, and a dreadful battle must ensue. Almighty God, cover the heads of our countrymen, and be a shield to our dear friends! How many ABIGAIL ADAMS 91 have fallen we know not. The constant roar of the cannon is so distressing that we cannot eat, drink, or sleep. May we be sup- ported and sustained in the dreadful conflict. I shall tarry here till it is thought unsafe by my friends, and then I have secured myself a retreat at your brother's, who has kindly offered me part of his house. I cannot compose myself to write any further at present. I will add more as I hear further. Your Portia. Braintree, November 27th, 1775. COLONEL Warren returned last week to Plymouth, so that I shall not hear anything from you until he goes back again, which will not be till the last of this month. He damped my spirits greatly by telling me that the court had prolonged your stay another month. I was pleasing myself with the thought that you would soon be upon your return. It is in vain to repine. I hope the public will reap what I sacrifice. I wish I knew what mighty things were fabricating. If a form of government is to be established here, what one will be assumed ? Will it be left to our Assemblies to choose one ? And will not many men have many minds ? And shall we not run into dissensions among ourselves ? I am more and more convinced that man is a dangerous creat- ure; and that power, whether vested in many or a few, is ever grasping, and, like the grave, cries, ** Give, give ! ** The great fish swallow up the small ; and he who is most strenuous for the rights of the people, when vested with power, is as eager after the pre- rogatives of government. You tell me of degrees of perfection to which human nature is capable of arriving, and I believe it, but at the same time lament that our admiration should arise from the scarcity of the instances. The building up a great empire, which was only hinted at by my correspondent, may now, I suppose, be realized even by the unbelievers; yet will not ten thousand difficulties arise in the formation of it ? The reins of government have been so long slackened that I fear the people will not quietly submit to those restraints which are necessary for the peace and security of the community. If we separate from Britain, what code of laws will be established ? How shall we be governed so as to retain our liberties ? Can any government be free which is not administered 2 ABIGAIL ADAMS by general stated laws ? Who shall frame these laws ? Who will give them force and energy ? It is true, your resolutions, as a body, have hitherto had the force of laws; but will they continue to have ? When I consider these things, and the prejudices of people in favor of ancient customs and regulations, I feel anxious for the fate of our monarchy, or democracy, or whatever is to take place. 1 soon get lost in the labyrinth of perplexities; but, whatever occurs, may justice and righteousness be the stability of our times, and order arise out of confusion. Great difficulties may be sur- mounted by patience and perseverance. I believe I have tired you with politics. As to news, we have not any at all. I shudder at the approach of winter, when I think I am to remain desolate. I must bid you good-night; 'tis late for me, who am much of an invalid. I was disappointed last week in receiving a packet by post, and, upon unsealing it, finding only four newspapers. I think you are more cautious than you need be. All letters, I believe, have come safe to hand. I have sixteen from you, and wish I had as many more. Your Portia. [By permission of the family.] Braintree, April 2oth, 1777. THERE is a general cry against the merchants, against monopo- lizers, etc., who, 'tis said, have created a partial scarcity. That a scarcity prevails of every article, not only of luxury but even the necessaries of life, is a certain fact. Everything bears an exorbitant price. The Act, which was in some measure regarded and stemmed the torrent of oppression, is now no more heeded than if it had never been made. Indian com at five shil- lings; rye, eleven and twelve shillings, but scarcely any to be had even at that price; beef, eightpence; veal, sixpence and eight- pence; butter, one and sixpence; mutton, none; lamb, none; pork, none; mean sugar, four pounds per hundred; molasses, none; cotton-wool, none; New England rum, eight shillings per gallon; coffee, two and sixpence per pound; chocolate, three shillings. What can be done ? Will gold and silver remedy this evil ? By your accounts of board, housekeeping, etc., I fancy you are not better off than we are here. I live in hopes that we see the ABIGAIL ADAMS 93 most difficult time we have to experience. Why is Carolina so much better furnished than any other State, and at so reasonable prices? Your Portia. Braintree, June 8th, 1779. SIX months have already elapsed since I heard a syllable from you or my dear son, and five since I have had one single opportunity of conveying a line to you. Letters of various dates have lain months at the Navy Board, and a packet and frig- ate, both ready to sail at an hour's warning, have been months waiting the orders of Congress. They no doubt have their rea- sons, or ought to have, for detaining them. I must patiently wait their motions, however painful it is; and that it is so, your own feelings will testify. Yet I know not but you are less a sufferer than you would be to hear from us, to know our distresses, and yet be unable to relieve them. The universal cry for bread, to a humane heart, is painful beyond description, and the great price demanded and given for it verifies that pathetic passage of Sacred Writ, **A11 that a man hath will he give for his life.* Yet He who miraculously fed a multitude with five loaves and two fishes has graciously interposed in our favor, and delivered many of the enemy's supplies into our hands, so that our distresses have been mitigated. I have been able as yet to supply my own family, sparingly, but at a price that would astonish you. Com is sold at four dollars, hard money, per bushel, which is equal to eighty at the rate of exchange. Labor is at eight dollars per day, and in three weeks it will be at twelve, it is probable, or it will be more stable than anything else. Goods of all kinds are at such a price that I hardly dare mention it. Linens are sold at twenty dollars per yard; the most ordinary sort of calicoes at thirty and forty; broadcloths at forty pounds per yard; West India goods full as high; molasses at twenty dollars per gallon; sugar, four dollars per pound; Bohea tea at forty dollars; and our own produce in proportion; butch- er's meat at six and eight shillings per pound; board at fifty and sixty dollars per week; rates high. That, I suppose, you will re- joice at; so would I, did it remedy the evil. I pay five hundred dollars, and a new Continental rate has just appeared, my pro- portion of which will be two hundred more. I have come to this determination, — to sell no more bills, unless I can procure hard 94 ABIGAIL ADAMS money for them, although I shall be obliged to allow a discount. If I 5ell for paper, I throw away more than half, so rapid is the depreciation; nor do I know that it will be received long. I sold a bill to Blodget at five for one, which was looked upon as high at that time. The week after I received it, two emissions were taken out of circulation, and the greater part of what I had proved to be of that sort; so that those to whom I was indebted are obliged to wait, and before it becomes due, or is exchanged, it will be good for — as much as it will fetch, which will be noth- ing, if it goes on as it has done for this three months past. I will not tire your patience any longer. I have not drawn any further upon you. I mean to wait the return of the Alliance, which with longing eyes I look for. God grant it may bring me comfortable tidings from my dear, dear friend, whose welfare is so essential to my happiness that it is entwined around my heart, and cannot be impaired or separated from it without rend- ing it asunder. . . . I cannot say that I think our affairs go very well here. Our currency seems to be the source of all our evils. We cannot fill up our Continental army by means of it. No bounty will prevail with them. What can be done with it ? It will sink in less than a year. The advantage the enemy daily gains over us is owing to this. Most truly did you prophesy, when you said that they would do all the mischief in their power with the forces they had here. My tenderest regards ever attend you. In all places and situ- ations, know me to be ever, ever yours. AuTEUiL, 5th September, 1784. My Dear Sister : ' AUTEUIL is a village four miles distant from Paris, and one from Passy. The house we have taken is large, commodious, and agreeably situated near the woods of Boulogne, which belong to the King, and which Mr. Adams calls his park, for he walks an hour or two every day in them. The house is much larger than we have need of; upon occasion, forty beds may be made in it. I fancy it must be very cold in winter. There are few houses with the privilege which this enjoys, that of having the salon, as it is called, the apartment where we receive com- pany, upon the first floor. This room is very elegant, and about ABIGAIL ADAMS 95 a third larger than General Warren's hall. The dining-room is upon the right hand, and the salon upon the left, of the entry, which has large glass doors opposite to each other, one opening into the court, as they call it, the other into a large and beauti- ful garden. Out of the dining-room you pass through an entry into the kitchen, which is rather small for so large a house. In this entry are stairs which you ascend, at the top of which is a long gallery fronting the street, with six windows, and opposite to each window you open into the chambers, which all look into the garden. But with an expense of thirty thousand livres in looking- glasses, there is no table in the house better than an oak board, nor a carpet belonging to the house. The floors I abhor, made of red tiles in the shape of Mrs. Quincy's floor-cloth tiles. These floors will by no means bear water, so that the method of clean- ing them is to have them waxed, and then a manservant with foot brushes drives round your room, dancing here and there like a Merry Andrew, This is calculated to take from your foot every atom of dirt, and leave the room in a few moments as he found it. The house must be exceedingly cold in winter. The dining- rooms, of which you make no other use, are laid with small stones, like the red tiles for shape and size. The servants' apart- ments are generally upon the first floor, and the stairs which you commonly have to ascend to get into the family apartments are so dirty that I have been obliged to hold up my clothes as though I was passing through a cow-yard. I have been but little abroad. It is customary in this country for strangers to make the first visit. As I cannot speak the lan- guage, I think I should make rather an awkward figure. I have dined abroad several times with Mr. Adams's particular friends, the Abbes, who are very polite and civil, — three sensible and worthy men. The Abbe de Mably has lately published a book, which he has dedicated to Mr. Adams. This gentleman is nearly eighty years old; the Abbe Chalut, seventy-five; and Amoux about fifty, a fine sprightly man, who takes great pleasure in obliging his friends. Their apartments were really nice. I have dined once at Dr. Franklin's, and once at Mr. Barclay's, our con- sul, who has a very agreeable woman for his wife, and where I feel like being with a friend. Mrs. Barclay has assisted me in my purchases, gone with me to different shops, etc. To-morrow I am to dine at Monsieur Grand's; but I have really felt so g6 ABIGAIL ADAMS happy within doors, and am so pleasingly situated, that I have had little inclination to change the scene. I have not been to one public amusement as yet, not even the opera, though we have one very near us. You may easily suppose I have been fully employed, beginning housekeeping anew, and arranging my family to our no small expenses and trouble; for I have had bed-linen and table-linen to purchase and make, spoons and forks to get made of silver, — three dozen of each, — besides tea furniture, china for the table, servants to procure, etc. The expense of living abroad I always supposed to be high, but my ideas were nowise adequate to the thing. I could have furnished myself in the town of Boston with everything I have, twenty or thirty per cent, cheaper than I have been able to do it here. Everything which will bear the name of elegant is imported from England, and if you will have it, you must pay for it, duties and all. I cannot get a dozen handsome wineglasses under three guineas, nor a pair of small decanters for less than a guinea and a half. The only gauze fit to wear is English, at a crown a yard; so that really a guinea goes no further than a copper with us. For this house, garden, stables, etc., we give two hundred guineas a year. Wood is two guineas and a half per cord; coal, six livres the basket of about two bushels; this article of firing we calculate at one hundred guineas a year. The difference between coming upon this negotiation to France, and remaining at the Hague, where the house was already fur- nished at the expense of a thousand pounds sterling, will increase the expense here to six or seven hundred guineas; at a time, too, when Congress has cut off five hundred guineas from what they have heretofore given. For our coachman and horses alone (Mr. Adams purchased a coach in England) we give fifteen guineas a month. It is the policy of this country to oblige you to a certain number of servants, and one will not touch what belongs to the business of another, though he or she has time enough to per- form the whole. In the first place, there is a coachman who does not an individual thing but attend to the carriages and horses; then the gardener, who has business enough; then comes the cook; then the mattre d' hotel, — his business is to purchase articles in the family, and oversee that nobody cheats but himself; a valet de chambre, — John serves in this capacity; a femine de chambre, — Esther serves for this, and is worth a dozen others; a coiffeuse, — for this place I have a French girl about nineteen, whom T have ABIGAIL ADAMS 97 been upon the point of turning away, because madam will not brush a chamber: "it is not de fashion, it is not her business.** I would not have kept her a day longer, but found, upon inquiry, that I could not better myself, and hair-dressing here is very expensive unless you keep such a madam in the house. She sews tolerably well, so I make her as useful as I can. She is more particularly devoted to mademoiselle. Esther diverted me yesterday evening by telling me that she heard her go muttering by her chamber door, after she had been assisting Abby in dress- ing. *Ah, mon Dieu, 'tis provoking** — (she talks a little Eng- lish). — "Why, what is the matter, Pauline: what is provoking?** — "Why, Mademoiselle look so pretty, I so mauvais.''* There is another indispensable servant, who is called a frotteur: his busi- ness is to rub the floors. We have a servant who acts as ntaitre d'hotel, whom I like at present, and who is so very gracious as to act as footman too, to save the expense of another servant, upon condition that we give him a gentleman's suit of clothes in lieu of a livery. Thus, with seven servants and hiring a charwoman upon occasion ot company, we may possibly make out to keep house; with less, we should be hooted at as ridiculous, and could not entertain any company. To tell this in our own country would be considered as extravagance; but would they send a person here in a public char- acter to be a public jest ? At lodgings in Paris last year, during Mr. Adams's negotiation for a peace, it was as expensive to him as it is now at housekeeping, without half the accommodations. Washing is another expensive article: the servants are all allowed theirs, besides their wages; our own costs us a guinea a week. I have become steward and bookkeeper, determined to know with accuracy what our expenses are, to prevail with Mr. Adams to return to America if he finds himself straitened, as I think he must be. Mr. Jay went home because he could not support his family here with the whole salary; what then can be done, curtailed as it now is, with the additional expense ? Mr. Adams is determined to keep as little company as he possibly can; but some entertainments we must make, and it is no unusual thing for them to amount to fifty or sixty guineas at a time. More is to be performed by way of negotiation, many times, at one of these entertainments, than at twenty serious con« versations; but the policy of our country has been, and still is, to be penny-wise and pound-foolish. We stand in sufficient 1—7 98 ABIGAIL ADAMS need of economy, and in the curtailment of other salaries I suppose they thought it absolutely necessary to cut off their foreign ministers. But, my own interest apart, the system is bad; for that nation which degrades their own ministers by obliging them to live in narrow circumstances, cannot expect to be held in high estimation themselves. We spend no evenings abroad, make no suppers, attend very few public entertainments, — or specta- cles, as they are called, — and avoid every expense that is not held indispensable. Yet I cannot but think it hard that a gentle- man who has devoted so great a part of his life to the servdce of the public, who has been the means, in a great measure, of procuring such extensive territories to his country, who saved their fisheries, and who is still laboring to procure them further advan- tages, should find it necessary so cautiously to calculate his pence, for fear of overrunning them. I will add one more expense. There is now a court mourning, and every foreign minister, with his family, must go into mourning for a Prince of eight years old, whose father is an ally to the King of France. This mourning is ordered by the Court, and is to be worn eleven days only. Poor Mi*. Jefferson had to hie away for a tailor to get a whole black- silk suit made up in two days; and at the end of eleven days, should another death happen, he will be obliged to have a new suit of mourning, of cloth, because that is the season when silk must be left off. We may groan and scold, but these are expenses which cannot be avoided; for fashion is the deity every one worships in this country, and from the highest to the lowest, you must submit. Even poor John and Esther had no comfort among the servants, being constantly the subjects of ridicule, until we were obliged to direct them to have their hair dressed. Esther had several crying fits upon the occasion, that she should be forced to be so much of a fool; but there was no way to keep them from being trampled upon but this, and now that they are a la mode de Paris, they are much respected. To be out of fashion is more criminal than to be seen in a state of nature, to which the Parisians are not averse. AuTEuiL, ^EAR Paris, loth May, 1:785, DID you ever, my dear Betsey, see a person in real life such as your imagination formed of Sir Charles Grandison ? The Baron de Stael, the Swedish Ambassador, comes nearest to that character, in his manners and personal appearance, of any ABIGAIL ADAMS 99 gentleman I ever saw. The first time I saw him I was prejudiced in his favor, for his countenance commands your good opinion: it is animated, inteUigent, sensible, affable, and without being per- fectly beautiful, is most perfectly agreeable; add to this a fine figfure, and who can fail in being charmed with the Baron de Stael ? He lives in a grand hotel, and his suite of apartments, his furniture, and his table, are the most elegant of anything I have seen. Although you dine iipon plate in every noble house in France, I cannot say that you may see your face in it; but here the whole furniture of the table was burnished, and shone with regal splendor. Seventy thousand livres in plate will make no small figure; and that is what his Majesty gave him. The dessert was served on the richest china, with knives, forks, and spoons of gold. As you enter his apartments, you pass through files of servants into his ante-chamber, in which is a throne covered with green velvet, upon which is a chair of state, over which hangs the picture of his royal master. These thrones are common to all ambassadors of the first order, as they are immediate representa- tives of the king. Through this ante-chamber you pass into the grand salon, which is elegantly adorned with architecture, a beauti- ful lustre hanging from the middle. Settees, chairs, and hangings of the richest silk, embroidered with gold; marble slabs upon fluted pillars, round which wreaths of artificial flowers in gold entwine. It is usual to find in all houses of fashion, as in this, several dozens of chairs, all of which have stuffed backs and cushions, standing in double rows round the rooms. The dining- room was equally beautiful, being hung with Gobelin tapestry, the colors and figures of which resemble the most elegant painting. In this room were hair-bottom mahogany-backed chairs, and the first I have seen since I came to France. Two small statues of a Venus de Medicis, and a Venus de (ask Miss Paine for the other name), were upon the mantelpiece. The latter, however, was the most modest of the kind, having something like a loose robe thrown partly over her. From the Swedish Ambassador's we went to visit the Duchess d'EnviUe, who is mother to the Duke de Rochefoucault. We found the old lady sitting in an easy- chair; around her sat a circle of Academicians, and by her side a young lady. Your uncle presented us, and the old lady rose, and, as usual, gave us a salute. As she had no paint, I could put up with it; but when she approached your cousin I could think of nothing but Death taking hold of Hebe. The duchess is near lOO ABIGAIL ADAMS eigfhty, veiy tall and lean. She was dressed in a silk chemise, with very large sleeves, coming half-way down her arm, a large cape, no stays, a black-velvet girdle round her waist, some very rich lace in her chemise, round her neck, and in her sleeves; but the lace was not sufficient to cover the upper part of her neck, which old Time had harrowed; she had no cap on, but a little gauze bonnet, which did not reach her ears, and tied under her chin, her venerable white hairs in full view. The dress of old women and young girls in this country is detestable, to speak in the French style; the latter at the age of seven being clothed exactly like a woman of twenty, and the former have such a fan- tastical appearance that I cannot endure it. The old lady has all the vivacity of a young one. She is the most learned woman in France; her house is the resort of all men of literature, with whom she converses upon the most abstruse subjects. She is of one of the most ancient, as well as the richest families in the kingdom. She asked very archly when Dr. Franklin was going to America. Upon being told, says she, *I have heard that he is a prophet there ; " alluding to that text of Scripture, ** A prophet is not without honor," etc. It was her husband who commanded the fleet which once spread such terror in our country. TO HER SISTER London, Friday, 24th July 1784. My Dear Sister: I AM not a little surprised to find dress, unless upon public occas- ions, so little regarded here. The gentlemen are very plainly dressed, and the ladies much more so than with us. 'Tis true, you must put a hoop on and have your hair dressed; but a com- mon straw hat, no cap, with only a ribbon upon the crown, is thought dress sufficient to go into company. Muslins are much in taste; no silks but lutestrings worn; but send not to London for any article you want: you may purchase anything you can name much lower in Boston. I went yesterday into Cheapside to pur- chase a few articles, but found everything higher than in Boston. Silks are in a particular manner so; they say, when they are exported, there is a drawback upon them, which makes them lower with us. Our country, alas, our country! they are extrava- gant to astonishment in entertainments compared with what Mr. Smith and Mr. Storer tell me of this. You will not find at a ABIGAIL ADAMS lOt gentleiiian's table more than two dishes oi meat, though invited sevend days beforehand. Mis. Atkinson went out with me yes- terday, and Mis. Hay, to the shops. I returned and dined with Mis. AtJanson, by her invitation the evening before, in company with Mr. Smith, Mrs. Hay, Mr. Appleton. We had a tnrbot, a soap, and a roast 1^ of lamb, with a cherry pie. . . . The wind has prevented the arrival of the post. The dty of London is pleasanter than I expected; the buildings more regu- lar, the streets much wider, and more snndiine than I thought to have found: but this, they tell me, is the pleasantest season to be in the dty. At my lodgfings I am as quiet as at any place in Bos- ton; nor do I feel as if it could be any other place than Boston. Dr. Qaik visits us every day; says he cannot feel at home any- where else: declares he has not seen a handsome woman since he came into the city; that every old woman looks like Mrs. H , and every young one like — like the D — L They paint here nearly as much as in France, but with more ait. The head-dress disfig- ures them in the eyes ci an. American. I have seen many ladies, but not one elegant one since I came; there is not to me that neatness in their appearance whidi yon see in our ladies. The American ladies are much admired here by the gen- tlranen, I am told, and in truth I wonder not at it. Oh, my country, my country! preserve, preserve the little purity and snnplicity ci manners you yet possess. Believe me, they are jewels of inestimable value; the softness, peculiarly characteristic ci our sex, and which is so pleasing to the gentlemen, is wholly laid aside here for the masculine attire and manners of Amazonians. LosTDOX, Bath Hotel, West3co?stek, 34th June, 1785. Afy Dear Sister: I HAVE been here a month without writing a single Hne to my American friends. On or about the twenty-eighth of May we reached London, and expected to have gone into our old quiet lodgings at the Adelphi; but we found every hotel fnlL The sit- ting of Parliament, the birthday of the King, and the famotts celebration of the muac of Handel, at Westminster Abbey, had drawn together such a concourse of people that we were glad to get into lodgings at the moderate price of a guinea per day, for two rooms and two chambers, at the Bath Hotel, Westminster, Piocadilty. where we yet are. This being the Court end of the I02 ABIGAIL ADAMS city, it is the resort of a vast concourse of carriages. It is too public and noisy for pleasure, but necessity is without law. The ceremony of presentation, upon one week to the King, and the next to the Queen, was to take place, after which I was to pre- pare for mine. It is customary-, upon presentation, to receive visits from all the foreign ministers; so that we could not exchange our lodgings for more private ones, as we might and should, had we been only in a private character. The foreign ministers and sev- eral English lords and earls have paid their compliments here, and all hitherto is civil and polite. I was a fortnight, all the time I could get, looking at different houses, but could not find any one fit to inhabit under j^2oo, beside the taxes, which mount up to ;,^5o or ;^6o. At last my good genius carried me to one in Grosvenor Square, which was not let, because the person who had the care of it could let it only for the remaining lease, which was" one year and three-quarters. The price, which is not quite two hundred pounds, the situation, and all together, induced us to close the bargain, and I have prevailed upon the person who lets it to paint two rooms, which will put it into decent order; so that, as soon as oar furniture comes, I shall again commence house- keeping. Living at a hotel is, I think, more expensive than housekeeping, in proportion to what one has for his money. We have never had more than two dishes at a time upon our table, and have not pretended to ask any company, and yet we live at a greater expense than twenty-five guineas per week. The wages of servants, horse hire, house rent, and provisions are mucli dearer here than in France. Servants of various sorts, and for different departments, are to be procured; their characters are to be inquired into, and this I take upon me, even to the coachman. You can hardly form an idea how much I miss my son on this, as well as on many other accounts; but I cannot bear to trouble Mr. Adams with anything of a domestic kind, who, from morning until evening, has sufficient to occupy all his time. You can have no idea of the petitions, letters, and private applications for assistance, which crowd our doors. Every person represents his case as dismal. Some may really be objects of compassion, and some we assist; but one must have an inexhaustible purse to supply them all. Besides, there are so many gross impositions practiced, as we have found in more instances than one, that it would take the whole of a person's time to trace all their stories. Many pretend to have been American soldiers, some have served ABIGAIL ADAMS 103 as officers. A most glaring instance of falsehood, however, Colonel Smith detected in a man of these pretensions, who sent to Mr. Adams from the King's Bench prison, and modestly desired five guineas; a qualified cheat, but evidently a man of letters and abilities: but if it is to continue in this way, a galley slave would have an easier task. The Tory venom has begun to spit itself forth in the public papers, as I expected, bursting with envy that an American min- ister should be received here with the same marks of attention, politeness, and civility, which are shown to the ministers of any other power. When a minister delivers his credentials to the King, it is always in his private closet, attended only by the Minister for Foreign Affairs, which is called a private audience, and the minister presented makes some little address to his Majesty, and the same ceremony to the Queen, whose reply was in these words : " Sir, I thank you for your civility to me and my family, and I am glad to see you in this country ; * then she very politely inquired whether he had got a house yet. The answer of his Majesty was much longer; but I am not at liberty to say more respecting it, than that it was civil and polite, and that his Majesty said he was glad the choice of his country had fallen upon him. The news-liars know nothing of the matter; they represent it just to answer their purpose. Last Thursday, Colonel Smith was presented at Court, and to-morrow, at the Queen's circle, my ladyship and your niece make our compli- ments. There is no other presentation in Europe in which I should feel as much as in this. Your own reflections will easily suggest the reasons. I have received a very friendly and polite visit from the Countess of Effingham. She called, and not finding me at home, left a card. I returned her visit, but was obliged to do it by leav- ing my card too, as she was gone out of town; but when her ladyship returned, she sent her compliments and word that if agreeable she would take a dish of tea with me, and named her day. She accordingly came, and appeared a very polite, sensible woman. She is about forty, a good person, though a little mas- culine, elegant in her appearance, very easy and social. The Earl of Effingham is too well remembered by America to need any particular recital of his character. His mother is first lady to the Queen. When her ladyship took leave, she desired I would let her know the day I would favor her with a visit, as she should be t04 ABIGAIL ADAMS loath to be absent. She resides, in summer, a little distance from town. The Earl is a member of Parliament, which obliges him now to be in town, and she usually comes with him, and resides at a hotel a little distance from this. I find a good many ladies belonging to the Southern States here, many of whom have visited me; I have exchanged visits with several, yet neither of us have met. The custom is, how- ever, here much more agreeable than in France, for it is as with us: the stranger is first visited. The ceremony of presentation here is considered as indispens- able. There are four minister-plenipotentiaries' ladies here; but one ambassador, and he has no lady. In France, the ladies of ambassadors only are presented. One is obliged here to attend the circles of the Queen, which are held in summer once a fortnight, but once a week the rest of the year; and what renders it exceed- ingly expensive is, that you cannot go twice the same season in the same dress, and a Court dress you cannot make use of any- where else. I directed my mantuamaker to let my dress be ele- gant, but plain as I could possibly appear, with decency; accord- ingly, it is white lutestring, covered and full trimmed with white crape, festooned with lilac ribbon and mock point lace, over a hoop of enormous extent; there is only a narrow train of about three yards in length to the gown waist, which is put into a rib- bon upon the left side, the Queen only having her train borne. Ruffle cuffs for married "ladies, treble lace lappets, two white plumes, and a blond lace handkerchief. This is my rigging. I should have mentioned two pearl pins in my hair, earrings and necklace of the same kind. Thursday Morning. My head is dressed for St. James's, and in my opinion looks very tasty. While my daughter's is undergoing the same opera- tion, I set myself down composedly to write you a few lines. *Well,'* methinks I hear Betsey and Lucy say, "what is cousin's dress ? *^ White, my dear girls, like your aunt's, only differently trimmed and ornamented: her train being wholly of white crape, and trimmed with white ribbon; the petticoat, which is the most showy part of the dress, covered and drawn up in what are called festoons, with light wreaths of beautiful flowers; the sleeves white crape, drawn over the silk, with a row of lace round the sleeve near the shoulder, another half-way down the arm, and a third upon the top of the ruffle, a little flower stuck between- a kind ABIGAIL ADAMS 105 of hat-cap, with three large feathers and a bunch of flowers; a wreath of flowers upon the hair. Thus equipped, we go in our own carriage, and Mr. Adams and Colonel Smith in his. But I must quit my pen to put myself in order for the ceremony, which begins at two o'clock. When I return, I will relate to you my reception; but do not let it circulate, as there may be persons eager to catch at everything, and as much given to misrepresent- ation as here. I would gladly be excused the ceremony. Friday Morning. Congratulate me, my dear sister: it is over. I was too much fatigued to write a line last evening. At two o'clock we went to the circle, which is in the drawing-room of the Queen. We passed through several apartments, lined as usual with specta- tors upon these occasions. Upon entering the ante-chamber, the Baron de Lynden, the Dutch Minister, who has been often here, came and spoke with me. A Count Sarsfield, a French noble- man, with whom I was acquainted, paid his compliments. As I passed into the drawing-room, Lord Carmarthen and Sir Clement Cotterel Dormer were presented to me. Though they had been several times here, I had never seen them before. The Swedish and the Polish Ministers made their compliments, and several other gentlemen; but not a single lady did I know until the Countess of Effingham came, who was very civil. There were three young ladies, daughters of the Marquis of Lothian, who were to be presented at the same time, and two brides. We were placed in a circle round the drawing-room, which was very full; I believe two hundred persons present. Only think of the task! The royal family have to go round to every person and find small talk enough to speak to them all, though they very prudently speak in a whisper, so that only the person who stands next to you can hear what is said. The King enters the room and goes round to the right; the Queen and Princesses to the left. The lord-in -waiting presents you to the King; and the lady-in-waiting does the same to her Majesty. The King is a personable man; but, my dear sister, he has a certain countenance, which you and I have often remarked: a red face and white eyebrows. The Queen has a similar countenance, and the numerous royal family confirm the observation. Persons are not placed according to their rank in the drawing-room, but promiscuously; and when the King comes in. he takes persons as they stand. When he came lo6 ABIGAIL ADAMS to me, Lord Onslow said, <* Mrs. Adams; '^ upon which I drew off my right-hand glove, and his Majesty saluted my left cheek; then asked me if I had taken a walk to-day. I could have told his Majesty that I had been all the morning preparing to wait upon him ; but I replied, " No, Sire. " ^* Why, don't you love walking ? *^ says he. I answered that I was rather indolent in that respect. He then bowed, and passed on. It was more than two hours after this before it came to my turn to be presented to the Queen. The circle was so large that the company were four hours stand- ing. The Queen was evidently embarrassed when I was presented to her. I had disagreeable feelings, too. She, however, said, " Mrs. Adams, have you got into your house? Pray, how do you like the situation of it ? ** While the Princess Royal looked com- passionate, and asked me if I was not much fatigued; and ob- served, that it was a very full drawing-room. Her sister, who came next, Princess Augusta, after having asked your niece if she was ever in England before, and her answering ^' Yes, " inquired of me how long ago, and supposed it was when she was very young. All this is said with much affability, and the ease and freedom of old acquaintance. The manner in which they make their tour round the room is, first, the Queen, the lady-in-waiting behind her, holding up her train; next to her, the Princess Royal: after her, Princess Augusta, and their lady-in-waiting behind them. They are pretty, rather than beautiful; well-shaped, fair complex ions, and a tincture of the King's countenance. The two sisters look much alike; they were both dressed in black and silver silk, with silver netting upon the coat, and their heads full of diamond pins. The Queen was in purple and silver. She is not well shaped nor handsome. As to the ladies of the Court, rank and title may compensate for want of personal charms; but they are, in general, very plain, ill-shaped, and ugly; but don't you tell any- body that I say so. If one wants to see beauty, one must go to Ranelagh; there it is collected, in one bright constellation. There were two ladies very elegant, at Court, — Lady Salisbury and Lady Talbot; but the observation did not in general hold good that fine feathers make fine birds. I saw many who were vastly richer dressed than your friends, but I will venture to say that I saw none neater or more elegant: which praise I ascribe to the taste of Mrs. Temple and my mantuamaker; for, after having declared that I would not have any foil or tinsel about me, <-hey fixed upon the dress I have described. ABIGAIL ADAMS I07 [Inclosure to her niece] My Dear Betsey: I BELIEVE I once promised to give you an account of that kind of visiting called a ladies' rout. There are two kinds; one where a lady sets apart a particular day in the week to see company. These are held only five months in the year, it being quite out of fashion to be seen in London during the summer. When a lady returns from the country she goes round and leaves a card with all her acquaintance, and then sends them an invita- tion to attend her routs during the season. The other kind is where a lady sends to you for certain evenings, and the cards are always addressed in her own name, both to gentlemen and ladies. The rooms are all set open, and card tables set in each room, the lady of the house receiving her company at the door of the draw- ing-room, where a set number of courtesies are given and received, with as much order as is necessary for a soldier who goes through the different evolutions of his exercise. The visitor then proceeds into the room without appearing to notice any other person, and takes her seat at the card table. *Nor can the muse her aid impart. Unskilled in all the terms of art. Nor in harmonious numbers put The deal, the shuffle, and the cut. Go, Tom, and light the ladies up. It must be one before we sup." At these parties it is usual for each lady to play a rubber, as it is termed, when you must lose or win a few guineas. To give each a fair chance, the lady then rises and gfives her seat to another set. It is no unusual thing to have your rooms so crowded that not more than half the company can sit at once, yet this is called society and polite life. They treat their com- pany with coffee, tea, lemonade, orgeat, and cake. I know' of but one agreeable circumstance attending these parties, which is, that you may go away when you please without disturbing any- body. I was early in the winter invited to Madame de Pinto's, the Portuguese Minister's. I went accordingly. There were about two hundred persons present. I knew not a single lady but by sight, having met them at Court; and it is an established rule, though you were to meet as often as three nights in the week, never to speak together, or know each other unless particularly Io8 ABIGAIL ADAMS introduced. I was, however, at no loss for conversation, Madame de Pinto being very polite, and the foreign ministers being the most of them present, who had dined with ns, and to whom I had been early introduced. It being Sunday evening, I declined playing cards; indeed, I always get excused when I can. And Heaven forbid I should « Catch the manners living as they rise.** Yet I must submit to a party or two of this kind. Having attended several, I must return the compliment in the same way. Yesterday we dined at Mrs. Paradice's. I refer you to Mr. Storer for an account of this family. Mr. Jefferson, Colonel Smith, the Prussian and Venetian ministers, were of the com- pany, and several other persons who were strangers. At eight o'clock we returned home in order to dress ourselves for the ball at the French Ambassador's, to which we had received an invi- tation a fortnight before. He has been absent ever since our arrival here, till three weeks ago. He has a levee every Sunday evening, at which there are usually several hundred persons. The Hotel de France is beautifully situated, fronting St. James's Park, one «nd of the house standing upon Hyde Park. It is a most superb building. About half -past nine we went, and found some company collected. Many very brilliant ladies of the first distinction were present. The dancing commenced about ten, and the rooms soon filled. The room which he had built for this purpose is large enough for five or six hundred persons. It is most elegantly decorated, hung with a gold tissue, ornamented with twelve brilliant cut lustres, each containing twenty-four candles. At one end there are two large arches; these were adorned with wreaths and bunches of artificial flowers upon the walls; in the alcoves were cornucopise loaded with oranges, sweet- meats, and other trifles. Coffee, tea, lemonade, orgeat, and so forth, were taken here by every person who chose to go for them. There were covered seats all around the room for those who chose to dance. In the other rooms, card tables, and a large faro table, were set; this is a new kind of game, which is much practiced here. Many of the company who did not dance retired here to amuse themselves. The whole style of the house and furniture is such as becomes the ambassador from one of the first monarchies in Europe. He had twenty thousand guineas allowed him in the first instance to furnish his house, and an ABIGAIL ADAMS 109 annual salary of ten thousand more. He has agreeably blended the magnificence and splendor of France with the neatness and elegance of England. Your cousin had unfortunately taken a cold a few days before, and was very unfit to go out. She appeared so unwell that about one we retired without staying for supper, the sight of which only I regretted, as it was, in style, no doubt, superior to anything I have seen. The Prince of Wales came about eleven o'clock. Mrs. Fitzherbert was also present, but I could not distinguish her. But who is this lady? methinks I hear you say. She is a lady to whom, against the laws of the realm, the Prince of Wales is privately married, as is universally believed. She appears with him in all public parties, and he avows his marriage wherever he dares. They have been the topic of conversation in all companies for a long time, and it is now said that a young George may be expected in the course of the summer. She was a widow of about thirty-two years of age, whom he a long time persecuted in order to get her upon his own terms; but finding he could not succeed, he quieted her conscience by matrimony, which, however valid in the eye of heaven, is set aside by the laws of the land, which forbids a prince of the blood to marry a subject. As to dresses, I beHeve I must leave them to be described to your sister. I am sorry I have nothing better to send you than a sash and a Vandyke ribbon. The narrow is to put round the edge of a hat, or you may trim whatever you please with it. ttc HENRY ADAMS (1838-) IHE gifts of expression and literary taste which have always characterized the Adams family are most prominently rep- resented by this historian. He has also its great memory, power of acquisition, intellectual independence, and energy of nature. The latter is tempered in him with inherited self-control, the mod- eration of judgment bred by wide historical knowledge, and a pervas- ive atmosphere of literary good-breeding which constantly substitutes allusive irony for crude statement, the rapier for the tomahawk. Henry Adams is the third son of Charles Francis Adams, Sr., — the able Minister to England during the Civil War, — and grandson of John Quincy Adams. He was born in Boston, February i6th, 1838, graduated from Harvard in 1858, and served as private secretary to his father in England. In 1870 he became editor of the North American Review and Professor of History at Harvard, in which place he won wide repute for originality and power of inspiring enthusiasm for research in his pupils. He has written several essays and books on historical subjects, and edited others, — * Essays on Anglo-Saxon Law* (1876), < Documents Relating to New England Fed- eralism' (1877). : copyright 1890, by Charles Scribner's Sons THfe American declaration of war against England, July i8th, 18 1 2, annoyed those European nations that were gathering their utmost resources for resistance to Napoleon's attack. Russia could not but regard it as an unfriendly act, equally bad for political and commercial interests. Spain and Portugal, whose armies were fed largely if not chiefly on American grain imported by British money under British protection, dreaded to see their supplies cut off. Germany, waiting only for strength to recover her freedom, had to reckon against one more element in Napo- leon's vast military resources. England needed to make greater efforts in order to maintain the advantages she had gained in Russia and Spain. Even in America no one doubted the earnest- ness of England's wish for peace; and if Madison and Monroe insisted on her acquiescence in their terms, they insisted because they believed that their military position entitled them to expect it. The reconquest of Russia and Spain by Napoleon, an event almost certain to happen, could hardly fail to force from England the concessions, not in themselves unreasonable, which the United States required. This was, as Madison to the end of his life maintained, ^*a fair calculation ; * but it was exasperating to England, who thought that America ought to be equally interested with Europe in over- throwing the military despotism of Napoleon, and should not con- spire with him for gain. At first the new war disconcerted the feeble Ministry that remained in office on the death of Spencer Perceval: they counted on preventing it, and did their utmost to stop it after it was begun. The tone of arrogance which had so long characterized government and press disappeared for the moment. Obscure newspapers, like the London Evening Star, still sneered at the idea that Great Britain was to be <* driven from the proud pre-eminence which the blood and treasure of her sons have attained for her among the nations, by a piece of striped bunting flying at the mastheads of a few fir-built frigates, manned by a handful of bastards and outlaws,* — a phrase which had great success in America, — but such defiances expressed a temper studiously held in restraint previous to the moment when the war was seen to be inevitable. . , . HENRY ADAMS ,1- , The realization that no escape could be found from an Ameri- can war was forced on the British public at a moment of much discouragement. Almost simultaneously a series of misfortunes occurred which brought the stoutest and most intelligent English- men to the verge of despair. In Spain Wellington, after win- ning the battle of Salamanca in July, occupied Madrid in August, and obliged Soult to evacuate Andalusia; but his siege of Burgos failed, and as the French generals concentrated their scattered forces, Wellington was obliged to abandon Madrid once more. October 21st he was again in full retreat on Portugal. The apparent failure of his campaign was almost simultaneous with the apparent success of Napoleon's; for the Emperor entered Moscow September 14th, and the news of th.'s triumph, probably decisive of Russian submission, reached England about Octo- ber 3d. Three days later arrived intelligence of William Hull's surrender at Detroit; but this success was counterbalanced by simultaneous news of Isaac Hull's startling capture of the Guer- Tihre, and the certainty of a prolonged war. In the desponding condition of the British people, — with a de- ficient harvest, bad weather, wheat at nearly five dollars a bushel, and the American supply likely to be cut off; consols at 57/^, gold at thirty per cent, premium; a Ministry without credit or authority, and a general consciousness of blunders, incompetence, and corruption, — every new tale of disaster sank the hopes of England and called out wails of despair In that state of mind the loss of the Guerriere assumed portentous dimensions. The Times was especially loud in lamenting the capture: — <*We witnessed the gloom which that event cast over high and honorable minds. . . . Never before in the history of the world did an English frigate strike to an American; and though we cannot say that Captain Dacres, under all circumstances, is punishable for this act, yet we do say there are commanders in the English navy who would a thousand times rather have gone down with their colors flying, than have set their fellow sailors so fatal an example.® No country newspaper in America, railing at Hull's coward- ice and treachery, showed less knowledge or judgment than the London Times, which had written of nothing but war since its name had been known in England. Any American could have assured the English press that British frigates before the Guer- riere had struck to American; and even in England men had not forgotten the name of the British frigate Serapis, or that of the American captain Paul Jones. Yet the Times's ignorance was less 1—8 -lif4 HENRY ADAMS unreasonable than its requirement that Dacres should have gone down with his ship, — a cry of passion the more unjust to Dacres because he fought his ship as long as she could float. Such sensitiveness seemed extravagant in a society which had been hardened by centuries of warfare; yet the Times reflected fairly the feelings of Englishmen. George Canning, speaking in open Parliament not long afterward, said that the loss of the Guerri- ere and the Macedonian produced a sensation in the country scarcely to be equaled by the most violent convulsions of nature. ** Neither can I agree with those who complain of the shock of consternation throughout Great Britain as having been greater than the occasion required. ... It cannot be too deeply felt that the sacred spell of the invincibility of the British navy was broken by those unfortunate captures.'* Of all spells that could be cast on a nation, that of believing itself invincible was perhaps the one most profitably broken; but the process of recovering its senses was agreeable to no nation, and to England, at that moment of distress, it was as painful as Canning described. The matter was not mended by the Courier and Morning Post, who, taking their tone from the Admiralty, complained of the enormous superiority of the American frigates, and called them " line-of- battle ships in disguise. '* Certainly the American forty-four was a much heavier ship than the British thirty-eight, but the difference had been as well known in the British navy before these actions as it was afterward; and Cap- tain Dacres himself, the Englishman who best knew the relative force of the ships, told his court of inquiry a different story: — " I am so well aware that the success of my opponent was owing to fortune, that it is my earnest wish, and would be the happiest period of my life, to be once more opposed to the Constitution, with them [the old crew] under my command, in a frigate of similar force with the Guerriere. '* After all had been said, the unpleasant result remained that in future, British frigates, like other frigates, could safely fight only their inferiors in force. What applied to the Guerriere and Macedonian against the Con- stitution and United States, where the British force was inferior, applied equally to the Frolic against the Wasp, where no inferi- ority could be shown. The British newspapers thenceforward admitted what America wished to prove, that, ship for ship, British were no more than the equals of Americans. Society soon learned to take a more sensible view of the sub- ject; but as the first depression passed away, a consciousness of HENRY ADAMS „. personal wrong took its place. The United States were supposed to have stabbed England in the back at the moment when her hands were tied, when her existence was in the most deadly peril and her anxieties were most heavy. England never could forgive treason so base and cowardice so vile. That Madison had been from the first a tool and accomplice of Bonaparte was thence- forward so fixed an idea in British history that time could not shake it. Indeed, so complicated and so historical had the causes of war become that no one even in America could explain or understand them, while Englishmen could see only that America required England as the price of peace to destroy herself by abandoning her naval power, and that England preferred to die fighting rather than to die by her own hand. The American party in England was extinguished; no further protest was heard against the war; and the British people thought moodily of revenge. This result was unfortunate for both parties, but was doubly unfortunate for America, because her mode of making the issue told in her enemy's favor. The same impressions which silenced in England open sympathy with America, stimulated in America acute sympathy with England. Argument was useless against people in a passion, convinced of their own injuries. Neither Englishmen nor Federalists were open to reasoning. They found their action easy from the moment they classed the United States as an ally of France, like Bavaria or Saxony; and they had no scruples of conscience, for the practical alliance was clear, and the fact proved sufficiently the intent. The loss of two or three thirty-eight -gun frigates on the ocean was a matter of trifling consequence to the British govern- ment, which had a force of four ships-of-the-line and six or eight frigates in Chesapeake Bay alone, and which built every year dozens of ships-of-the-line and frigates to replace those lost or worn out; but although American privateers wrought more in- jury to British interests than was caused or could be caused by the American navy, the pride of England cared little about mer- cantile losses, and cared immensely for its fighting reputation. The theory that the American was a degenerate Englishman — a theory chiefly due to American teachings — lay at the bottom of British politics. Even the late British minister at Washington, Foster, a man of average intelligence, thought it manifest good taste and good sense to say of the Americans in his speech of February i8th^ 1813, in Parliament, that ** generally speaking. Ii6 HENRY ADAMS they were not a people we should be proud to acknowledge as our relations.'* Decatur and Hull were engaged in a social rather than in a political contest, and were aware that the serious work on their hands had little ' to do with England's power, but much to* do with her manners. The mortification of England at the capture of her frigates was the measure of her previous arrogance. . . . Every country must begin war by asserting that it will never give way; and of all countries England, which had waged innu- merable wars, knew best when perseverance cost more than con- cession. Even at that early moment Parliament was evidently perplexed, and would willingly have yielded had it seen means of escape from its naval fetich, impressment. Perhaps the perplexity was more evident in the Commons than in the Lords; for Castle- reagh, while defending his own course with elaborate care, visibly stumbled over the right of impressment. Even while claiming that its abandonment would have been "vitally dangerous if not fatal '* to England's security, he added that he " would be the last man in the world to underrate the inconvenience which the Americans sustained in consequence of our assertion of the right of search.** The embarrassment became still plainer when he narrowed the question to one of statistics, and showed that the whole contest was waged over the forcible retention of some eight hundred seamen among one hundred and forty-five thou- sand employed in British service. Granting the number were twice as great, he continued, " would the House believe that there was any man so infatuated, or that the British empire was driven to such straits that for such a paltry consideration as seventeen hundred sailors, his Majesty's government would needlessly irri- tate the pride of a neutral nation or violate that justice which was due to one country from another ? ** If Liverpool's argument explained the causes of war, Castlereagh's explained its inevitable result; for since the war must cost England at least 10,000,000 pounds a year, could Parliament be so infatuated as to pay 10,000 pounds a year for each American sailor detained in service, when one-tenth of the amount, if employed in raising the wages of the British sailor, would bring any required number of seamen back to their ships? The whole British navy in 181 2 cost 20,000,000 pounds; the pay-roll amounted to only 3,000,000 pounds; the common sailor was paid four pounds bounty and eighteen pounds a year, which might have been trebled at half the cost of an American war. HENRY ADAMS jjy WHAT THE WAR OF 1812 DEMONSTRATED From < History of the United States*: cop)rright i8go, by Charles Scribner's Sons PEOPLE whose chief trait was antipathy to war, and to any A system organized with miHtary energ}^, could scarcely develop great results in national administration; yet the Americans prided themselves chiefly on their political capacity. Even the war did not undeceive them, although the incapacity brought into evidence by the war was undisputed, and was most remarkable among the communities which believed themselves to be most gifted with political sagacity. Virginia and Massachusetts by turns admitted failure in dealing with issues so simple that the newest societies, like Tennessee and Ohio, understood them by instinct. That incapacity in national politics should appear as a leading trait in American character was unexpected by Americans, but might naturally result from their conditions. The better test of American character was not political but social, and was to be found not in the government but in the people. The sixteen years of Jefferson and Madison's rule furnished international tests of popular intelligence upon which Americans could depend. The ocean was the only open field for competition among nations. Americans enjoyed there no natural or artificial advantages over Englishmen, Frenchmen, or Spaniards; indeed, all these countries possessed navies, resources, and experience greater than were to be ^ found in the United States. Yet the Americans developed, in the course of twenty years, a surprising degree of skill in naval affairs. The evidence of their success was to be found nowhere so complete as in the avowals of English- men who knew best the history of naval progress. The Ameri can invention of the fast-sailing schooner or clipper was the more remarkable because, of all American inventions, this alone sprang from direct competition with Europe. During ten centuries of struggle the nations of Europe had labored to obtain superiority over each other in ship-construction; yet Americans instantly made improvements which gave them superiority, and which Europeans were unable immediately to imitate even after seeing them. Not only were American vessels better in model, faster in sailing, easier and quicker in handling, and more economical in working than the European, but they were also better equipped. The English complained as a grievance that the Americans Ii8 HENRY ADAMS adopted new and unwarranted devices in naval warfare; that their vessels were heavier and better constructed, and their missiles of unusual shape and improper use. The Americans resorted to expedients that had not been tried before, and excited a mixture of irritation and respect in the English service, until ** Yankee smartness'* became a national misdemeanor. The English admitted themselves to be slow to change their habits, but the French were both quick and scientific; yet Ameri- cans did on the ocean what the French, under stronger induce- ments, failed to do. The French privateer preyed upon British commerce for twenty years without seriously injuring it; but no sooner did the American privateer sail from French ports than the rates of insurance doubled in London, and an outcry for pro- tection arose among English shippers which the Admiralty could not calm. The British newspapers were filled with assertions that the American cruiser was the superior of any vessel of its class, and threatened to overthrow England's supremacy on the ocean. Another test of relative intelligence was furnished by the battles at sea. Instantly after the loss of the Guerriere the English discovered and complained that American gunnery was superior to their own. They explained their inferiority by the length of time that had elapsed since their navy had found on the ocean an enemy to fight. Every vestige of hostile fleets had been swept away, until, after the battle of Trafalgar, British frigates ceased practice with their guns. Doubtless the British navy had become somewhat careless in the absence of a danger- ous enemy, but Englishmen were themselves aware that some other cause must have affected their losses. Nothing showed that Nelson's line-of-battle ships, frigates, or sloops were, as a rule, better fought than the Macedonian and Java, the Avon and Reindeer. Sir Howard Douglas, the chief authority on the subject, attempted in vain to explain British reverses by the deterioration of British gunner)'-. His analysis showed only that American gunnery was extraordinarily good. Of all vessels, the sloop-of-war — on account of its smallness. its quick motion, and its more accurate armament of thirty-two-pound carronades — offered the best test of relative gunnery, and Sir Howard Douglas in commenting upon the destruction of the Peacock and Avon could only say : — "In these two actions it is clear that the fire of the British vensfels was thitrwn tb'o high, and that the ordnance HENRY ADAMS 119 of their opponents were expressly and carefully aimed at and took effect chiefly in the hull." The battle of the Hornet and Pengfiiin, as well as those of the Reindeer and Avon, showed that the excellence of American ginnery continued till the close of the war. Whether at point- blank range or at long-distance practice, the Americans used guns as they had never been used at sea before. None of the reports of former British victories showed that the British fire had been more destructive at any previous time than in 181 2, and no report of any commander since the British nav}^ existed showed so much damage inflicted on an opponent in so short a time as was proved to have been inflicted on them- selves by the reports of British commanders in the American war. The strongest proof of American superiority was given by the best British officers, like Broke, who strained ever}- nerve to maintain an equality with American gunnery. So instantaneous and energetic was the effort that according to the British historian of the war, "A British forty-six-gun frigate of 1813 was half as effective again as a British forty-six-gun frigate of 181 2;" and as he justly said, ^Hhe slaughtered crews and the shattered hulks" of the captured British ships proved that no want of their old fight- ing qualities accounted for their repeated and almost habitual mortifications. Unwilling as the English were to admit the superior skill of Americans on the ocean, they did not hesitate to admit it, in certain respects, on land. The American rifle in American hands was affirmed to have no equal in the world. This admission could scarcely be withheld after the lists of killed and wounded which followed almost every battle; but the admission served to check a wider inquiry. In truth, the rifle played but a small part in the war. Winchester's men at the river Raisin may have owed their over-confidence, as the British Forty-first owed its losses, to that weapon, and at New Orleans five or six himdred of Coffee's men, who were out of range, were armed with the rifle; but the surprising losses of the British were commonly due to artiller}- and musketry fire. At New Orleans the artillery was chiefly engaged. The artillery battle of January ist, according to British accounts, amply proved the superiority of American gunnery on that occasion, which was probably the fairest test during the war. The battle of January 8th was also chiefly an artillery battle: the main British column never arrived within fair 120 HENRY ADAMS musket range; Pakenham was killed by a grape-shot, and the main column of his troops halted more than one hundred yards from the parapet. The best test of British and American military qualities, both for men and weapons, was Scott's battle of Chippawa. Nothing intervened to throw a doubt over the fairness of the trial Two parallel lines of regular soldiers, practically equal in numbers, armed with similar weapons, moved in close order toward each other across a wide, open plain, without cover or advantage of position, stopping at intervals to load and fire, until one line broke and retired. At the same time two three-gun batteries, the British being the heavier, maintained a steady fire from posi- tions opposite each other. According to the reports, the two infantry lines in the centre never came nearer than eighty yards. Major-General Riall reported that then, owing to severe losses, his troops broke and could not be rallied. Comparison of official reports showed that the British lost in killed and wounded four hundred and sixty-nine men; the Americans, two hundred and ninety-six. Some doubts always affect the returns of wounded, because the severity of the wound cannot be known; but dead men tell their own tale. Riall reported one hundred and forty- eight killed; Scott reported sixty-one. The severity of the losses showed that the battle was sharply contested, and proved the personal bravery of both armies. Marksmanship decided the re- sult, and the returns proved that the American fire was superior to that of the British in the proportion of more than fifty per cent, if estimated by the entire loss, and of two hundred and forty-two to one hundred if estimated by the deaths alone. The conclusion seemed incredible, but it was supported by the results of the naval battles. The Americans showed superiority amounting in some cases to twice the efficiency of their enemies in the use of weapons. The best French critic of the naval war, Jurien de la Graviere, said : — " An enormous superiority in the rapidity and precision of their fire can alone explain the differ- ence in the losses sustained by the combatants.** So far from denying this conclusion, the British press constantly alleged it, and the British officers complained of it. The discovery caused great surprise, and in both British services much attention was at once directed to improvement in artillery and musketry. Noth- ing could exceed the frankness with which Englishmen avowed their inferiority, According to Sir Francis Head, " gunnery was HENRY ADAMS 121 in naval warfare in the extraordinary state of ignorance we have just described, when our lean children, the American people, taught us, rod in hand, our first lesson in the art.** The English text-book on Naval Gunnery, written by Major-General Sir How- ard Douglas immediately after the peace, devoted more attention to the short American war than to all the battles of Napoleon, and began by admitting that Great Britain had "entered with too great confidence on war with a marine much more expert than that of any of our European enemies.'* The admission appeared " objectionable ** even to the author ; but he did not add, what was equally true, that it applied as well to the land as to the sea service. No one questioned the bravery of the British forces, or the ease with which they often routed larger bodies of militia ; but . the losses they inflicted were rarely as great as those they suf- fered. Even at Bladensburg, where they met little resistance, their loss was several times greater than that of the Americans. At Plattsburg, where the intelligence and quickness of Macdonough and his men alone won the victory, his ships were in effect sta- tionary batteries, and enjoyed the same superiority in gunnery. "The Saratoga," said his official report, "had fifty-five round-shot in her hull; the Confiance, one himdred and five. The enemy's shot passed principally just over our heads, as there were not twenty whole hammocks in the nettings at the close of the action.* Th' greater skill of the Americans was not due to special training; for the British service was better trained in gunnery, as in everything else, than the motley armies and fleets that fought at New Orleans and on the Lakes. Critics constantly said that every American had learned from his childhood the use of the rifle; but he certainly had not learned to use cannon in shooting birds or hunting deer, and he knew less than the Englishman about the handling of artillery and muskets. The same intelli- gence that selected the rifle and the long pivot-gun for favorite weapons was shown in handling the carronade, and every other instrument however clumsy. Another significant result of the war was the sudden develop- ment of scientific engineering in the United States. This branch of the military service owed its efficiency and almost its existence to the military school at West Point, established in 1802. The school was at first much neglected by government. The number pf graduates before the year ,1812 was very small; but at the 122 ' HENRY ADAMS outbreak of the war the corps of engineers was already efficient. Its chief was Colonel Joseph Gardner Swift, of Massachusetts, the first graduate of the academy: Colonel Swift planned the defenses of New York Harbor. The lieutenant-colonel in 1812 ^vas Walker Keith Armistead, of Virginia, — the third graduate, who planned the defenses of Norfolk. Major William McRee, of North Carolina, became chief engineer to General Brown and constructed the fortifications at Fort Erie, which cost the British General Gordon Drummond the loss of half his army, besides the mortification of defeat. Captain Eleazer Derby Wood, of New York, constructed Fort Meigs, which enabled Harrison to defeat the attack of Proctor in May, 18 13. Captain Joseph Gilbert Totten, of New York, was chief engineer to General Izard at Plattsburg, where he directed the fortifications that stopped the advance of Prevost's great army. None of the works constructed by a graduate of West Point was captured by the enemy; and had an engineer been employed at Washington by Armstrong and Winder, the city would have been easily saved. Perhaps without exaggeration the West Point Academy might be said to have decided, next to the navy, the result of the war. The works at New Orleans were simple in character, and as far as they were due to engineering skill were directed by Major Latour, a Frenchman; but the war was already ended when the battle of New Orleans was fought. During the critical campaign of 1 8 14, the West Point engineers doubled the capacity of the little American army for resistance, and introduced a new and scientific character into American life. THE BATTLE BETWi^EN THE CONSTITUTION AND THE GUER- RIERE From < History of the United States >: copyright 1890, by Charles Scribner's Sons As Broke's squadron swept along the coast it seized whatever it met, and on July i6th caught one of President Jefferson's sixteen-gun brigs, the Nautilus. The next day it came on a richer prize. The American navy seemed ready to outstrip the army in the race for disaster. The Constitution, the best frigate in the United States service, sailed into the midst of Broke's five ships. Captain Isaac Hull, in command of the Constitution, had been detained at Annapolis shipping a new crew until July 5th, pi w o KSiiiWIIWiiiiW^.../'.:'"''.:'^!^1:.'aiiil. HENRY ADAMS 123 the day when Broke's squadron left Halifax; then the ship got under way and stood down Chesapeake Bay on her voyage to New York. The wind was ahead and very light. Not until July loth did the ship anchor off Cape Henry lighthouse, and not till sunrise of July 12th did she stand to the eastward and northward. Light head winds and a strong current delayed her progress till July 17th, when at two o'clock in the afternoon, off Bamegat on the New Jersey coast, the lookout at the masthead discovered four sails to the northward, and two hours later a fifth sail to the northeast. Hull took them for Rodgers's squadron. The wind was light, and Hull being to windward determined to speak the nearest vessel, the last to come in sight. The afternoon passed without bringing the ships together, and at ten o'clock in the evening, finding that the nearest ship could not answer the night signal, Hull decided to lose no time in escaping. Then followed one of the most exciting and sustained chases recorded in naval history. At daybreak the next morning one British frigate was astern within five or six miles, two more were to leeward, and the rest of the fleet some ten miles astern, all making chase. Hull put out his boats to tow the Constitution; Broke summoned the boats of the squadron to tow the Shannon. Hull then bent all his spare rope to the cables, dropped a small anchor half a mile ahead, in twenty-six fathoms of water, and warped his ship along. Broke quickly imitated the device, and slowly gained on the chase. The Guerriere crept so near Hull's lee beam as to open fire, but her shot fell short. Fortunately the wind, though slight, favored Hull. All night the British and American crews toiled on, and when morning came the Belvidera, proving to be the best sailer, got in advance of her consorts, working two kedge anchors, until at two o'clock in the afternoon she tried in her turn to reach the Constitution with her bow guns, but in vain. Hull expected capture, but the Belvidera could not approach nearer without bringing her boats under the Constitution's stem guns; and the wearied crews toiled on, towing and kedging, the ships barely out of gunshot, till another morn- ing came. The breeze, though still light, then allowed Hull to take in his boats, the Belvidera being two and a half miles in his wake, the Shannon three and a half miles on his lee, and the three other frigates well to leeward. The wind freshened, and the Constitution drew ahead, until, toward seven o'clock in the evening of July igth, a heavy rain s;quall struck the ^ip, and by 124 HENRY ADAMS taking skillful advantage of it Hull left the Belvidera and Shan- non far astern; yet until eight o'clock the next morning they were still in sight, keeping up the chase. Perhaps nothing during the war tested American seamanship more thoroughly than these three days of combined skill and endurance in the face of the irresistible enemy. The result showed that Hull and the Constitution had nothing to fear in these respects. There remained the question whether the superi- ority extended to his guns; and such was the contempt of the British naval officers for American ships, that with this experi- ience before their eyes they still believed one of their thirty-eight- gun frigates to be more than a match for an American forty-four, although the American, besides the heavier armament, had proved his capacity to outsail and out-manoeuvre the Englishman. Both parties became more eager than ever for the test. For once, even the Federalists of New England felt their blood stir; for their own President and their own votes had called these frigates into existence, and a victory won by the Constitution, which had been built by their hands, was in their eyes a greater victory over their political opponents than over the British. With no half- hearted spirit the seagoing Bostonians showered well-weighed praises on Hull when his ship entered Boston Harbor, July 26th, after its narrow escape, and when he sailed again New England waited with keen interest to learn his fate. Hull could not expect to keep command of the Constitution. Bainbridge was much his senior, and had the right to a prefer- ence in active service. Bainbridge then held and was ordered to retain command of the Constellation, fitting out at the Wash- ington Navy Yard; but Secretary Hamilton, July 28th, ordered him to take command also of the Constitution on her arrival in port. Doubtless Hull expected this change, and probably the expectation induced him to risk a dangerous experiment; for without bringing his ship to the Charlestown Navy Yard, but remaining in the outer harbor, after obtaining such supplies as he needed, August 2d, he set sail without orders, and stood to the eastward. Having reached Cape Race without meeting an enemy, he turned southward, until on the night of August i8th he spoke a privateer, which told him of a British frigate near at hand. Following the privateersman's directions, the Constitution the next day, August 19th, [18 12,] at two o'clock in the afternoon, latitude 41 deg. 42 min., longitude 55 deg. 48 min., sighted the Guerriere. HENRY ADAMS X25 The meeting was welcome on both sides. Only three days before, Captain Dacres had entered on the log of a merchantman a challenge to any American frigate to meet him off Sandy Hook. Not only had the Guerriere for a long time been extremely offens- ive to every seafaring American, but the mistake which caused the Little Belt to suffer so seriously for the misfortune of being taken for the Guerriere had caused a corresponding feeling of anger in the officers of the British frigate. The meeting of Au- gust 19th had the character of a preconcerted duel. The wind was blowing fresh from the northwest, with the sea running high. Dacres backed his main topsail and waited. Hull shortened sail, and ran down before the wind. For about an hour the two ships wore and wore again, trying to get advantage of position; until at last, a few minutes before six o'clock, they came together side by side, within pistol shot, the wind almost astern, and running before it, they pounded each other with all their strength. As rapidly as the guns could be worked, the Constitution poured in broadside after broadside, double -shotted with round and grape; and without exaggeration, the echo of these guns startled the world. " In less than thirty minutes from the time we got alongside of the enemy, *^ reported Hull, ** she was left without a spar standing, and the hull cut to pieces in such a manner as to make it difficult to keep her above water. ^* That Dacres should have been defeated was not surprising; that he should have expected to win was an example of British arrogance that explained and excused the war. The length of the Constitution was one hundred and seventy-three feet, that of the Guerriere was one hundred and fifty-six feet; the extreme breadth of the Constitution was forty-four feet, that of the Guerriere was forty feet: or within a few inches in both cases. The Consti- tution carried thirty-two long twenty-four-pounders, the Guerri- ere thirty long eighteen-pounders and two long twelve-pounders; the Constitution carried twenty thirty-two-pound carronades, the Guerriere sixteen. In every respect, and in proportion of ten to seven, the Constitution was the better ship; her crew was more numerous in proportion of ten to six. Dacres knew this very nearly as well as it was known to Hull, yet he sought a duel. What he did not know was that in a still greater proportion the American officers and crew were better and more intelligent seamen than the British, and that their passionate wish to repay old scores gave them extraordinary energy. So much greater 126 HENRY ADAMS was the moral superiority than the physical, that while the Guem^re's force counted as seven against ten, her losses counted as though her force were only two against ten. Dacres's error cost him dear; for among the Guerriere's crew of two hundred and seventy-two, seventy-nine were killed or wounded, and the ship was injured beyond saving before Dacres realized his mistake, although he needed only thirty minutes of close fighting for the purpose. He never fully understood the causes of his defeat, and never excused it by pleading, as he might have done, the great superiority of his enemy. Hull took his prisoners on board the Constitution, and after blowing up the Guerrifere sailed for Boston, where he arrived on the morning of August 30th. The Sunday silence of the Puritan city broke into excitement as the news passed through the quiet streets that the Constitution was below in the outer harbor with Dacres and his crew prisoners on board. No experience of his- tory ever went to the heart of New England more directly than this victory, so peculiarly its own : but the delight was not confined to New England, and extreme though it seemed, it was still not extravagant; for however small the affair might appear on the general scale of the world's battles, it raised the United States in one half-hour to the rank of a first class Power in the world. 12^' JOHN ADAMS (1735-1826) ^OHN Adams, second President of the United States, was born at Braintree, Massachusetts, October 19th, 1735, ^^^ died there July 4th, 1826, the year after his son too was inaugu- rated President. He was the first conspicuous member of an endur- ingly powerful and individual family. The Adams race have mostly been vehement, proud, pugnacious, and independent, with hot tempers and strong wills; but with high ideals, dramatic devotion to duty, and the intense democratic sentiment so often found united with personal aristocracy of feeling. They have been men of affairs first, with large practical ability, but with a deep strain of the man of letters which in this generation has outshone the other faculties; strong-headed and hard-working students, with powerful memories and fluent gifts of expression. All these cnaracteristics went to make up John Adams; but their enumeration does not furnish a complete picture of him, or reveal the virile, choleric, masterful man. And he was far more lovable and far more popular than his equally great son, also a typical Adams, from the same cause which produced some of his worst blunders and mis- fortunes, — a generous impulsiveness of feeling which made it impos- sible for him to hold his tongue at the wrong time and place for talking. But so fervid, combative, and opinionated a man was sure to gain much more hate than love; because love results from compre- hension, which only the few close to him could have, while hate — toward an honest man — is the outcome of ignorance, which most of the world cannot avoid. Admiration and respect, however, he had from the majority of his party at the worst of times; and the best encomium on him is that the closer his public acts are examined, the more credit they reflect not only on his abilities but on his unselfish- ness. Born of a line of Massachusetts farmers, he graduated from Har- vard in 1755. After teaching a grammar school and beginning to read theology, he studied law and began practice in 1758, soon becoming a leader at the bar and in public life. In 1764 he married the noble and delightful woman whose letters furnish unconscious testimony to his lovable qualities. All through the germinal years of the Revolu- tion he was one of the foremost patriots, steadily opposing any 13^ JOHN ADAMS abandonment or compromise of essential rights. In 1765 he was counsel for Boston with Otis and Gridley to support the town's memorial against the Stamp Act. In 1766 he was selectman. In 1768 the royal government offered him the post of advocate-general in the Court of Admiralty, — a lucrative bribe to desert the opposition; but he refused it. Yet in 1770. as a matter of high professional duty, he became counsel (successfully) for the British soldiers on trial for the « Boston Massacre.'^ Though there was a present uproar of abuse, Mr. Adams was shortly after elected Representative to the General Court by more than three to one. In March, 1774, he contemplated writing the « History of the Contest between Britain and America!" On June 17th he presided over the meeting at Faneuil Hall to con- sider the Boston Port Bill, and at the same hour was elected Repre- sentative to the first Congress at Philadelphia (September i) by the Provincial Assembly held in defiance of the government. Returning thence, he engaged in newspaper debate on the political issues till the battle of Lexington. Shortly after, he again journeyed to Philadelphia to the Congress of May 5th, 1775; where he did on his own motion, to the disgust of his Northern associates and the reluctance even of the Southern- ers, one of the most important and decisive acts of the Revolution, — induced Congress to adopt the forces in New England as a national army and put George Washington of Virginia at its head, thus engaging the Southern colonies irrevocably in the war and securing the one man who could make it a success. In 1776 he was a chief agent in carrying a declaration of independence. He remained in Congress till November, 1777, as head of the War Department, very useful and laborious though making one dreadful mistake: he was largely responsible for the disastrous policy of ignoring the just claims and decent dignity of the military commanders, which lost the country some of its best officers and led directly to Arnold's treason. His reasons, exactly contrary to his wont, were good abstract logic but thorough practical nonsense. In December, 1777, he was appointed commissioner to France to succeed Silas Deane, and after being chased by an English man-of- war (which he wanted to fight) arrived at Paris in safety. There he reformed a very bad state of affairs; but thinking it absurd to keep three envoys at one court (Dr. Franklin and Arthur Lee were there before him), he induced Congress to abolish his office, and returned in 1779. Chosen a delegate to the Massachusetts constitu- tional convention, he was called away from it to be sent again to France. There he remained as Franklin's colleague, detesting and distrusting him and the French foreign minister, Vergennes, embroil- ing himself with both and earning a cordial return of his warmest JOHN ADAMS I2g dislike from both, till July, 1780. He then went to Holland as volun- teer minister, and in 1782 was formally recognized as from an inde- pendent nation. Meantime Vergennes intrigued with all his might to have Adams recalled, and actually succeeded in so tying his hands that half the advantages of independence would have been lost but for his contumacious persistence. In the final negotiations for peace, he persisted against his instructions in making the New England fish- eries an ultimatum, and saved them. In 1783 he was commissioned to negotiate a commercial treaty with Great Britain, and in 1785 was made minister to that power. The wretched state of American affairs under the Confederation made it impossible to obtain any advantages for his country, and the vindictive feeling of the English made his life a purgatory, so that he was glad to come home in 1788. In the first Presidential election of that year he was elected Vice- President on the ticket with Washington ; and began a feud with Alexander Hamilton, the mighty leader of the Federalist party and chief organizer of our governmental machine, which ended in the overthrow of the party years before its time, and had momentous personal and literary results as well. He was as good a Federalist as Hamilton, and felt as much right to be leader if he could; Hamil- ton would not surrender his leadership, and the rivalry never ended till Hamilton's murder. In 1796 he was elected President against Jefferson. His Presidency is recognized as one of the ablest and most useful on the roll; but its personal memoirs are most painful and scandalous. The cabinet were nearly all Hamiltonians, regularly laid all the ofPcial secrets before Hamilton, and took advice from him to thwart the President. They disliked Mr. Adams's overbear- ing ways and obtrusive vanity, considered his policy destructive to the party and injurious to the country, and felt that loyalty to these involved and justified disloyalty to him. Finally his best act brought on an explosion. The French Directory had provoked a war with this country, which the Hamiltonian section of the leaders and much of the party hailed with delight; but showing signs of a better spirit, Mr. Adams, without consulting his Cabinet, who he knew would oppose it almost or quite unanimously, nominated a commis- sion to frame a treaty with France. The storm of fury that broke on him from his party has rarely been surpassed, even in the case of traitors outright, and he was charged with being little better. He was renominated for President in 1800, but beaten by Jefferson, owing to the defections in his own party, largely of Hamilton's producing. The Federalist party never won another election; the Hamilton sec- tion laid its death to Mr. Adams, and American history is hot with the fires of this battle even yet. Henry Adams's great History is only a small item in the immense literature it has produced. 1-9 130 JOHN ADAMS Mr. Adams's later years were spent at home, where he was always interested in public affairs and sometimes much too free in com- ments on them; where he read immensely and wrote somewhat. He heartily approved his son's break with the Federalists on the Em- bargo. He died on the same day as Jefferson, both on the fiftieth anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. As a writer Mr. Adams's powers show best in the work which can hardly be classed as literature, — his forcible and bitter political letters, diatribes, and polemics. As in his life, his merits and defects not only lie side by side, but spring from the same source, — his vehemence, self-confidence, and impatience of obstruction. He writes impetuously because he feels impetuously. With little literary grace, he possesses the charm that belongs to clear and energetic thought and sense transfused with hot emotion. John Fiske goes so far as to say that «as a writer of English, John Adams in many respects sur- passed all his American contemporaries.'* He was by no means with- out humor, — a characteristic which shows in some of his portraits, — and sometimes realized the humorous aspects of his own intense and exaggerative temperament. His remark about Timothy Pickering, that « under the simple appearance of a bald head and straight hair, he conceals the most ambitious designs," is perfectly self-conscious in its quaint naivete. His *Life and Works,* edited by his grandson, Charles Francis Adams, Sr. , in ten volumes, is the great storehouse of his writings. The best popular account of his life is by John T. Morse, Jr., in the ^American Statesmen* series. AT THE FRENCH COURT From his Diary, June 7th, 1778, with his later comments in brackets WENT to Versailles, in company with Mr. Lee, Mr. Izard and his lady, Mr Lloyd and his lady, and Mr. Frangois. Saw the grand procession of the Knights du Saint-Esprit, or du Cordon Bleu. At nine o'clock at night went to the grand convert^ and saw the king, queen, and royal family at supper; had a fine seat and situation close by the royal family, and had a distinct and full view of the royal pair. [Our objects were to see the ceremonies of the knights, and in the evening the public supper of the royal family. The kneelings, the bows, and the courtesies of the knights, the dresses and decorations, the king seated on his throne, his JOHN ADAMS j,, investiture of a new created knight with the badges and orna- ments of the order, and his majesty's profound and reverential bow before the altar as he retired, were novelties and curiosities to me, but surprised me much less than the patience and perse- verance with which they all kneeled, for two hours together, upon the hard marble of which the floor of the chapel was made. The distinction of the blue ribbon was ver)'- dearly purchased at the price of enduring this painful operation four times in a year. The Count de Vergennes confessed to me that he was almost dead with the pain of it. And the only insinuation I ever heard, that the king was in any degree touched by the philosophy of the age, was, that he never discovered so much impatience, under any of the occurrences of his life, as in going through those tedious ceremonies of religion, to which so many hours of his life were condemned by the catholic church. The queen was attended by her ladies to the gallery opposite to the altar, placed in the centre of the seat, and there left alone by the other ladies, who all retired. She was an object too sublime and beautiful for my dull pen to describe. I leave this enterprise to Mr. Burke. But in his description, there is more of the orator than of the philosopher. Her dress was everything that art and wealth could make it. One of the maids of honor told me she had diamonds upon her person to the value of eighteen millions of livres; and I always thought her majesty much beholden to her dress. Mr. Burke saw her probably but once. I have seen her fifty times perhaps, and in all the varie- ties of her dresses. She had a fine complexion, indicating perfect health, and was a handsome woman in her face and figure. But I have seen beauties much superior, both in counte- nance and form, in France, England, and America. After the ceremonies of this institution are over, there is a collection for the poor; and that this closing scene may be as elegant as any of the former, a young lady of some of the first families in France is appointed to present the box to the knights. Her dress must be as rich and elegant, in proportion, as the Queen's, and her hair, motions, and curtsies must have as much dignity and grace as those of the knights. It was a curious entertainment to observe the easy air, the graceful bow, and the conscious dignity of the knight, in presenting his contribution; and the corresponding ease, grace, and dignity of the lady, in receiving it, were not less charming. Every muscle, nerve, an4 1^2 JOHN At)AMS fibre of both seemed perfectly disciplined to perform its func- tions. The elevation of the arm, the bend of the elbow, and every finger in the hand of the knight, in putting his louis d'ors into the box appeared to be perfectly studied, because it was perfectly natural. How much devotion there was in all this I know not, but it was a consummate school to teach the rising generation the perfection of the French air, and external polite- ness and good-breeding. I have seen nothing to be compared to it in any other country. . . . ■ At nine o'clock we went and saw the king, queen, and royal family, at the grand convert. Whether M. Frangois, a gentleman who undertook upon this occasion to conduct us, had contrived a plot to gratify the curiosity of the spectators, or whether the royal family had a fancy to see the raw American at their leisure, or whether they were willing to gratify him with a con- venient seat, in which he might see all the royal family, and all the splendors of the place, I know not; but the scheme could not have been carried into execution, certainly, without the orders of the king. I was selected, and summoned indeed, from all my company, and ordered to a seat close beside the royal family. The seats on both sides of the hall, arranged like the seats in a theatre, were all full of ladies of the first rank and fashion in the kingdom, and there was no room or place for me but in the midst of them. It was not easy to make room tor one more person. However, room was made, and I was situated between two ladies, with rows and ranks of ladies above and below me, and on the right hand and on the left, and ladies only. My dress was a decent French dress, becoming the station I held, but not to be compared with the gold, and diamonds, and embroidery, about me. I could neither speak nor under- stand the language in a manner to support a conversation, but I had soon the satisfaction to find it was a silent meeting, and that nobody spoke a word but the royal family to each other, and they said very little. The eyes of all the assembly were turned upon me, and I felt sufficiently humble and mortified, for I was not a proper object for the criticisms of such a company. I found myself gazed at, as we in America used to gaze at the sachems who came to make speeches to us in Congress; but I thought it very hard if I could not command as much power of face as one of the chiefs of the Six Nations, and therefore deter- mined that I would assume a cheerful countenance, enjoy the JOHN ADAMS ,^3 scene around me, and observe it as coolly as an astronomer con- templates the stars. Inscriptions of Fructus Belli were seen on the ceiling and all about the walls of the room, among paint- ings of the trophies of war; probably done by the order of Louis XIV., who confessed in his dying hour as his successor and exemplar Napoleon will probably do, that he had been too fond of war. The king was the royal carver for himself and all his family. His majesty ate like a king, and made a royal supper of solid beef, and other things in proportion. The queen took a large spoonful of soup, and displayed her fine person and graceful manners, in alternately looking at the company in vari- ous parts of the hall, and ordering several kinds of seasoning to be brought to her, by which she fitted her supper to her taste.] THE CHARACTER OF FRANKLIN From Letter to the Boston Patriot, May 15th, 1811 FRANKLIN had a great genius, original, sagacious, and inventive, capable of discoveries in science no less than of improve- ments in the fine arts and the mechanic arts. He had a vast imagination, equal to the comprehension of the greatest objects, and capable of a cool and steady comprehension of them. He had wit at will. He had humor that when he pleased was delicate and delightful. He had a satire that was good-natured or caustic, Horace or Juvenal, Swift or Rabelais, at his pleasure. He had talents for irony, allegory, and fable, that he could adapt with great skill to the promotion of moral and political truth. He was master of that infantine simplicity which the French call naivete, which never fails to charm in Phaedrus and La Fontaine, from the cradle to the grave. Had he been blessed with the same advantages of scholastic education in his early youth, and pursued a course of studies as unembarrassed with occupations of public and private life as Sir Isaac Newton, he might have emulated the first philosopher. Although I am not ignorant that most of his positions and hypotheses have been controverted, I cannot but think he has added much to the mass of natural knowledge, and contributed largely to the progress of the human mind, both by his own writings and by the controversies and experiments he has excited in all parts of Europe. He had abil- ities for investigating statistical questions, and in some parts of 134 JOHN ADAMS his life has written pamphlets and essays upon public topics with great ingenuity and success; but after my acquaintance with him, which commenced in Congress in 1775, his excellence as a legis- lator, a politician, or a negotiator most certainly never appeared. No sentiment more weak and superficial was ever avowed by the most absurd philosopher than some of his, particularly one that he procured to be inserted in the first constitution of Pennsyl- vania, and for which he had such a fondness as to insert it in his will. I call it weak, for so it must have been, or hypocritical; unless he meant by one satiric touch to ridicule his own republic, or throw it into everlasting contempt. I must acknowledge, after all, that nothing in life has morti- fied or grieved me more than the necessity which compelled me to oppose him so often as I have. He was a man with whom I always wished to live in friendship, and for that purpose omitted no demonstration of respect, esteem, and veneration in my power, until I had unequivocal proofs of his hatred, for no other reason under the sun but because I gave my judgment in opposition to his in many points which materially affected the interests of our country, and in many more which essentially concerned our happiness, safety, and well-being. I could not and would not sacrifice the clearest dictates of my understanding and the purest principles of morals and policy in compliance to Dr. Franklin. • »«^»^B>co«s>g><^ot^»««^>lio^«B^»<<^»oe<^t»^»«o^»cO'i^««£=>ii^»IOf>ai'«^9it<^*<<^t 135 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS (1 767-1 848) IHE chief distinction in character between John Adams and his son is the strangest one imaginable, when one remem- bers that to the fiery, combative, bristling Adams blood was added an equal strain from the gay, genial, affectionate Abigail Smith. The son, though of deep inner affections, and even hungering for good- 'will if it would come without his help, was on the surface incom- parably colder, harsher, and thornier than his father, with all the socially repellent traits of the race and none of the softer ones. The father could never control his tongue or his temper, and not always his head; the son never lost the bridle of either, and much of his ter- rible power in debate came from his ability to make others lose theirs while perfectly keeping his own. The father had plenty of warm friends and allies, — at the worst he worked with half a party: the son in the most superb part of his career had no friends, no allies, no party except the group of constituents who kept him in Congress. The father's self-confidence deepened in the son to a soli- tary and even contemptuous gladiatorship against the entire govern- ment of the country, for long years of hate and peril. The father's irritable though generous vanity changed in the son to an icy contempt or white-hot scorn of nearly all around him. The father's spasms of acrimonious judgment steadied in the son to a constant rancor always finding new objects. But only John Quincy Adams could have done the work awaiting John Quincy Adams, and each of his unamiable qualities strengthened his fibre to do it. And if a man is to be judged by his fruits, Mr. Morse is justified in saying that he was ^* not only pre-eminent in ability and acquirements, but even more to be honored for profound, immutable honesty of pur- pose, and broad, noble humanity of aims.'* It might almost be said that the sixth President of the United States was cradled in statesmanship. Born July nth, 1767, he was a little lad of ten when he accompanied his father on the French miss- ion. Eighteen months elapsed before he returned, and three months later he was again upon the water, bound once more for the French capital. There were school days in Paris, and other school days in Amsterdam and in Leyden; but the boy was only fourteen, — the ma- ture old child! — when he went to St. Petersburg as private secretary and interpreter to Francis Dana, just appointed minister plenipoten' tiary to the court of the Empress Catherine. Such was his appren- ticeship to a public career which began in earnest in 1794, and lasted, 136 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS with slight interruptions, for fifty-four years. Minister to the United Netherlands, to Russia, to Prussia, and to England; commissioner to frame the Treaty of Ghent vhich ended the war of 181 2; State Sen- ator, United States Senator; Secretary of State, a position in, which he made the treaty with Spain which conceded Florida, anj^ eiiun- ciated the Monroe Doctrine before Monroe and far more thoroughly than he; President, and then for many years Member of the National House of Representatives. — it is strange to find this man writing in his later years, " My whole life has been a succession of disappoint- ments. I can scarcely recollect a single instance of success to any- thing that I ever undertook." It is true, however, that his successes and even his glories always had some bitter ingredient to spoil their flavor. As United States Senator he was practically "boycotted,'* for years, even by his own party members, because he was an Adams. In 1807 he definitely broke with the Federalist party — for what he regarded as its slavish crouching under English outrages, conduct which had been for years estranging him — by supporting Jefferson's Embargo, as better than no show of resistance at all; and was for a generation denounced by the New England Federalists as a renegade for the sake of office and a traitor to New England. The Massachusetts Legislature practically censured him in 1808, and he resigned. His winning of the Presidency brought pain instead of pleasure : he valued it only as a token of national confidence, got it only as a minority candidate in a divided party, and was denounced by the Jacksonians as a corrupt political bargainer. And his later Congress- ional career, though his chief title to glory, was one long martyrdom (even though its worst pains were self-inflicted), and he never knew the immense victory he had actually won. The < by Charles F. Holder (New York, 1893). Complete lists of Agassiz's works are also given in these bio- graphies, and these titles show how versatile was his taste and how deep and wide his research. His principal contributions to science are in French and Latin, but his most popular books appeared in English. These include WITH what interest do we look upon any relic of early human history! The monument that tells of a civiliza- tion whose hieroglyphic records we cannot even decipher, the slightest trace of a nation that vanished and left no sign of its life except the rough tools and utensils buried in the old site of its towns or villages, arouses our imagination and excites our curiosity. Men gaze with awe at the inscription on an ancient Egyptian or Assyrian stone; they hold with reverential touch the yellow parchment-roll whose dim, defaced characters record the meagre learning of a buried nationality; and the announcement that for centuries the tropical forests of Central America have hidden within their tangled growth the ruined homes and tem- ples of a past race, stirs the civilized world with a strange, deep wonder. To me it seems, that to look on the first land that was ever lifted above the wasted waters, to follow the shore where the earliest animals and plants were created when the thought of God first expressed itself in organic forms, to hold in one's hand a bit of stone from an old sea-beach, hardened into rock thousands of centuries ago, and studded with the beings that once crept upon its surface or were stranded there by some retreating wave, is even of deeper interest to men than the relics of their own race, for these things tell more directly of the thoughts and creative acts of God. The statement that different sets of animals and plants have characterized the successive epochs is often understood as indi- cating a difference of another kind than that which distinguishes animals now living in different parts of the world. This is a mis- take. They are so-called representative types all over the globe, united to each other by structural relations and separated by specific differences of the same kind as those that unite and sep- arate animals of different geological periods. Take, for instance, mud-flats or sandy shores in the same latitudes of Europe and America: we find living on each, animals of the same structural character and of the same general appearance, but with certain specific differences, as of color, size, external appendages, etc. They represent each other on the two continents. The American wolves, foxes, bears, rabbits, are not the same as the European, 2i6 JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ but those of one continent are as true to their respective types as those of the other; under a somewhat different aspect they repre- sent the same groups of animals. In certain latitudes, or under conditions of nearer proximity, these differences may be less marked. It is well known that there is a great monotony of type, not only among animals and plants but in the human races also, throughout • the Arctic regions; and some animals character- istic of the high North reappear under such identical forms in the neighborhood of the snow-fields in lofty mountains, that to trace the difference between the ptarmigans, rabbits, and other gnawing animals of the Alps, for instance, and those of the Arctics, is among the most difficult problems of modem science. And so is it also with the animated world of past ages: in similar deposits of sand, mud, or lime, in adjoining regions of the same geological age, identical remains of animals and plants may be found; while at greater distances, but under similar cir- cumstances, representative species may occur. In very remote regions, however, whether the circumstances be similar or dis- similar, the general aspect of the organic world differs greatly, remoteness in space being thus in some measure an indication of the degree of affinity between different faunae. In deposits of different geological periods immediately following each other, we sometimes find remains of animals and plants so closely allied to those of earlier or later periods that at first sight the specific dif- ferences are hardly discernible. The difficulty of solving these questions, and of appreciating correctly the differences and simi- larities between such closely allied organisms, explains the antago- nistic views of many naturalists respecting the range of existence of animals, during longer or shorter geological periods; and the superficial way in which discussions concerning the transition of species are carried on, is mainly owing to an ignorance of the conditions above alluded to. My own personal observation and experience in these matters have led me to the conviction that every geological period has had its own representatives, and that no single species has been repeated in successive ages. The laws regulating the geographical distribution of animals, and their combination into distinct zoological provinces called fau- nae, with definite limits, are very imperfectly understood as yet; but so closely are all things linked together from the beginning till to-day, that I am convinced we shall never find the clew to their meaning till we carry on our investigations in the JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 217 past and the present simultaneously. The same principle accord- ing to which animal and vegetable life is distributed over the surface of the earth now, prevailed in the earliest geological periods. The geological deposits of all times have had their characteristic faunae under various zones, their zoological prov- inces presenting special combinations of animal and vegetable life over certain regions, and their representative types repro- ducing in different countries, but under similar latitudes, the same groups with specific differences. Of course, the nearer we approach the beginning of organic life, the less marked do we find the differences to be; and for a very obvious reason. The inequalities of the earth's surface, her mountain-barriers protecting whole continents from the Arctic winds, her open plains exposing others to the full force of the polar blasts, her snug valleys and her lofty heights, her table- lands and rolling prairies, her river-systems and her dry deserts, her cold ocean-currents pouring down from the high North on some of her shores, while warm ones from tropical seas carry their softer influence to others, — in short, all the contrasts in the external configuration of the globe, with the physical conditions attendant upon them, are naturally accompanied by a correspond- ing variety in animal and vegetable life. But in the Silurian age, when there were no elevations higher than the Canadian hills, when water covered the face of the earth with the exception of a few isolated portions lifted above the almost universal ocean, how monotonous must have been the conditions of life! And what should we expect to find on those first shores ? If we are walking on a sea-beach to-day, we do not look for animals that haunt the forests or roam over the open plains, or for those that live in sheltered valleys or in inland regions or on mountain-heights. We look for Shells, for Mussels and Barnacles, for Crabs, for Shrimps, for Marine Worms, for Star-Fishes and Sea-Urchins, and we may find here and there a fish stranded on the sand or strangled in the sea- weed. Let us remember, then, that in the Silurian period the world, so far as it was raised above the ocean, was a beach; and let us seek there for such creatures as God has made to live on seashores, and not belittle the Creative work, or say that He first scattered the seeds of life in meagre or stinted measure, because we do not find air-breathing animals when there was no fitting atmo- sphere to feed their lungs, insects with no terrestrial plants to 2l8 JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ live Upon, reptiles without marshes, birds without trees, cattle without grass, — all things, in short, without the essential con- ditions for their existence, . . . I have spoken of the Silurian beach as if there were but one, not only because I wished to limit my sketch, and to attempt at least to give it the vividness of a special locality, but also because a single such shore will give us as good an idea of the characteristic fauna of the time as if we drew our material from a wider range. There are, however, a great number of parallel ridges belonging to the Silurian and Devonian periods, running from east to west, not only through the State of New York, but far beyond, through the States of Michigan and Wisconsin into Minnesota; one may follow nine or ten such successive shores in unbroken lines, from the neighborhood of Lake Champlain to the Far West. They have all the irregularities of modem seashores, running up to form little bays here, and jutting out in promonto- ries there. . . . Although the early geological periods are more legible in North America, because they are exposed over such extensive tracts of land, yet they have been studied in many other parts of the globe. In Norway, in Germany, in France, in Russia, in Siberia, in Kamchatka, in parts of South America, — in short, wherever the civilization of the white race has extended, Silurian deposits have been observed, and everywhere they bear the same testimony to a profuse and varied creation. The earth was teeming then with life as now; and in whatever corner of its surface the geologist finds the old strata, they hold a dead fauna as numerous as that which lives and moves above it. Nor do we find that there was any gradual increase or decrease of any organic forms at the beginning and close of the successive periods. On the contrary, the opening scenes of every chapter in the world's history have been crowded with life, and its last leaves as full and varied as its first. VOICES From < Methods of Study in Natural History > THERE is a chapter in the Natural History of animals that has hardly been touched upon as yet, and that will be especially interesting with reference to families. The voices of ani- mals have a family character not to be mistaken. All the JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 21 9 Canidce bark and howl! — the fox, the wolf, the dog, have the same kind of utterance, though on a somewhat different pitch. All the bears growl, from the white bear of the Arctic snows to the small black bear of the Andes. All the cats meow, from our quiet fireside companion to the lions and tigers and panthers of the forests and jungle. This last may seem a strange assertion; but to any one who has listened critically to their sounds and analyzed their voices, the roar of the lion is but a gigantic meow, bearing about the same proportion to that of a cat as its stately and majestic form does to the smaller, softer, more peaceful aspect of the cat. Yet notwithstanding the difference in their size, who can look at the lion, whether in his more sleepy mood, as he lies curled up in the corner of his cage, or in his fiercer moments of hunger or of rage, without being reminded of a cat ? And this is not merely the resemblance of one carnivorous animal to another; for no one was ever reminded of a dog or wolf by a lion. Again, all the horses and donkeys neigh; for the bray of a donkey is only a harsher neigh, pitched on a difEerent key, it is true, but a sound of the same character — as the donkey himself is but a clumsy and dwarfish horse. All the cows low, from the buffalo roaming the prairie, the musk-ox of the Arctic ice-fields, or the yak of Asia, to the cattle feeding in our pastures. Among the birds, this similarity of voice in families is still more marked. We need only recall the harsh and noisy parrots, so similar in their peculiar utterance. Or, take as an example the web-footed family: Do not all the geese and the innumerable host of ducks quack ? Does not every member of the crow fam- ily caw, whether it be the jackdaw, the jay, or the magpie, the rook in some green rookery of the Old World, or the crow of our woods, with its long, melancholy caw that seems to make the silence and solitude deeper ? Compare all the sweet warblers of the songster family — the nightingales, the thrushes, the mocking- birds, the robins; they differ in the greater or less perfection of their note, but the same kind of voice runs through the whole group. These affinities of the vocal systems among the animals form a subject well worthy of the deepest study, not only as another character by which to classify the animal kingdom correctly, but as bearing indirectly also on the question of the origin of ani- mals. Can we suppose that characteristics like these have been 2 20 JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ communicated from one animal to another ? When we find that all the members of one zoological family, however widely gcat- tered over the surface of the earth, inhabiting different continents and even different hemispheres, speak with one voice, must we not. believe that they have originated in the places where they now occur, with all their distinctive peculiarities ? Who taught the American thrush to sing like his European relative ? He surely did not learn it from his cousin over the waters. Those who would hav^e us believe that all animals originated from com- mon centres and single pairs, and have been thence distributed over the world, will find it difficult to explain the tenacity of such characters, and their recurrence and repetition imder circum- stances that seem to preclude the possibility of any communication, on any other supposition than that of their creation in the differ- ent regions where they are now found. We have much yet to learn, from investigations of this kind, with reference not only to families among animals, but to nationalities among men also. . . . The similarity of motion in families is another subject well worth the consideration of the naturalist: the soaring of the birds of prey, — the heavy flapping of the wings in the gallinaceous birds, — the floating of the swallows, with their short cuts and an- gular turns, — the hopping of the sparrows, — the deliberate walk of the hens and the strut of the cocks, — the waddle of the ducks and geese, — the slow, heavy creeping of the land-turtle, — the graceful flight of the sea-turtle under the water, — the leaping and swim- ming of the frog, — the swift run of the lizard, like a flash of green or red light in the sunshine, — the lateral imdulation of the serpent, — the dart of the pickerel, — the leap of the trout, — the rush of the hawk-moth through the air, — the fluttering flight of the butterfly, — the quivering poise of the humming-bird, — the arrow-like shooting of the squid through the water, — the slow crawling of the snail on the land, — the sideway movement of the sand-crab, — the backward walk of the crawfish, — the almost imperceptible gliding of the sea-anemone over the rock, — the graceful, rapid motion of the Pleurobrachia^ with its endless change of curve and spiral. In short, every family of animals has its characteristic action and its peculiar voice; and yet so lit- tle is this endless variety of rhythm and cadence both of motion and sound in the organic world understood, that we lack words to express one-half its richness and beauty. JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 221 FORMATION OF CORAL REEFS From < Methods of Study in Natural History* FOR a long time it was supposed that the reef-builders inhabited very deep waters; for they were sometimes brought up upon sounding-lines from a depth of many hundreds or even thousands of feet, and it was taken for granted that they must have had their home where they were found: but the facts recently ascertained respecting the subsidence of ocean-bottoms have shown that the foundation of a coral-wall may have sunk far below the place where it was laid. And it is now proved, beyond a doubt, that no reef -building coral can thrive at a depth of more than fifteen fathoms, though corals of other kinds occur far lower, and that the dead reef-corals, sometimes brought to the surface from much greater depths, are only broken fragments of some reef that has subsided with the bottom on which it was growing. But though fifteen fathoms is the maximum depth at which any reef-builder can prosper, there are many which will not sustain even that degree of pressure; and this fact has, as we shall see, an important influence on the structure of the reel. Imagine now a sloping shore on some tropical coast descending gradually below the surface of the sea. Upon that slope, at a depth of from ten to twelve or fifteen fathoms, and two or three or more miles from the mainland, according to the shelving of the shore, we will suppose that one of those little coral animals, to whom a home in such deep waters is congenial, has established itself. How it happens that such a being, which we know is immovably attached to the ground, and forms the foundation of a solid wall, was ever able to swim freely about in the water till it found a suitable resting-place, I shall explain hereafter, when I say something of the mode of reproduction of these animals. Accept, for the moment, my unsustained assertion, and plant our little coral on this sloping shore, some twelve or fifteen fathoms below the surface of the sea. The internal structure of such a coral corresponds to that of the sea-anemone. The body is divided by vertical partitions from top to bottom, leaving open chambers between; while in the centre hangs the digestive cavity, connected by an opening in the bottom with all these chambei-s. At the top is an aperture serv- ing as a mouth, surrounded by a wreath of hollow tentacles, each 222 JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ one of which connects at its base with one of the chambers, so that all parts of the animal communicate freely with each other. But though the structure of the coral is identical in all its parts with the sea-anemone, it nevertheless presents one important difference. The body of the sea-anemone is soft, while that of the coral is hard. It is well known that all animals and plants have the power of appropriating to themselves and assimilating the materials they need, each selecting from the surrounding elements whatever contributes to its well-being. Now, corals possess in an extraor- dinary degree, the power of assimilating to themselves the lime contained in the salt water around them; and as soon as our little coral is established on a firm foundation, a lime deposit begins to form in all the walls of its body, so that its base, its partitions, and its outer wall, which in the sea-anemone remain always soft, become perfectly solid in the polyp coral, and form a frame as hard as bone. It may naturally be asked where the lime comes from in the sea which the corals absorb in such quantities. As far as the living corals are concerned the answer is easy, for an immense deal of lime is brought down to the ocean by rivers that wear away the lime deposits through which they pass. The Mississippi, whose course lies through extensive lime regions, brings down yearly lime enough tp supply all the animals living in the Gulf of Mexico. But behind this lies a question, not so easily settled, as to the origin of the extensive deposits of limestone found at the very beginning of life upon earth. This problem brings us to the threshold of astronomy; for the base of limestone is metallic in character, susceptible therefore of fusion, and may have formed a part of the materials of our earth, even in an incandescent state, when the worlds were forming. But though this investigation as to the origin of lime does not belong either to the naturalist or the geologist, its suggestion reminds us that the time has come when all the sciences and their results are so intimately connected that no one can be carried on independently of the others. Since the study of the rocks has revealed a crowded life whose records are hoarded within them, the worlc of the geologist and the naturalist has become one and the same; and at that border-land where the first crust of the earth was condensed out of the igneous mass of materials which formed its earliest condition, their investigation mingles with that of the astronomer, and we cannot trace the JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 223 limestone in a little coral without going back to the creation of our solar system, when the worlds that compose it were thrown off from a central mass in a gaseous condition. When the coral has become in this way permeated With lime, all parts of the body are rigid, with the exception of the upper margin, the stomach, and the tentacles. The tentacles are soft and waving, projected or drawn in at will; they retain their flex- ible character through life, and decompose when the animal dies. For this reason the dried specimens of corals preserved in museums do not give us the least idea of the living corals, in which every one of the millions of beings composing such a com- munity is crowned by a waving wreath of white or green or rose-colored tentacles. As soon as the little coral is fairly established and solidly attached to the ground, it begins to bud. This may take place in a variety of ways, dividing at the top or budding from the base or from the sides, till the primitive animal is surrounded by a number of individuals like itself, of which it forms the nucleus, and which now begin to bud in their turn, each one surrounding itself with a numerous progeny, all remaining, however, attached to the parent. Such a community increases till its individuals are numbered by millions, and I have myself counted no less than fourteen millions of individuals in a coral mass of Porites meas- uring not more than twelve feet in diameter. The so-called coral heads, which make the foundation of a coral wall, and seem by their massive character and regular form especially adapted to give a strong, solid base to the whole structure, are known in our classification as the Astrceans^ so named on account of the little [star-shaped] pits crowded upon their surface, each one of which marks the place of a single more or less isolated individual in such a community. Selections used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Company, Publishers. 224 AGATHIAS (536-581) jGATHiAS tells US, in his < Prooemitiin, > that he was born at Myrina, Asia Minor, that his father's name was Memnonius, and his own profession the law of the Romans and practice in courts of justice. He was born about A. D. 536, and was educated at Alexandria. In Constantinople he studied and practiced his pro- fession, and won his surname of ** Scholasticus, '^ a title then given to a lawyer. He died, it is believed, at the age of forty-four or forty-five. He was a Christian, as he testifies in his epigrams. In the sketch of his life prefixed to his works, Niebuhr collates the friendships he himself mentions, with his fellow-poet Paulus Silentiarius, with Theo- dorus the decemvir, and Macedonius the ex-consul. To these men he dedicated some of his writings. Of his works, he says in his *Prooemium> that he wrote in his youth the ^Daphniaca,* a volume of short poems in hexameters, set off with love-tales. His < Anthology,* or was a collection of poems of early writers, and also compositions of his friend Paulus Silentiarius and others of his time. A number of his epigrams, pre- served because they were written before or after his publication of the ^Cyclus,* have come down to us and are contained in the *An- thologia Graeca.* His principal work is his ^Historia,* which is an account of the conquest of Italy by Narses, of the first war between the Greeks and Franks, of the great earthquakes and plagues, of the war between the Greeks and Persians, and the deeds of Belisarius in his contest with the Huns, — of all that was happening in the world Agathias knew between 553 and 558 A. D., while he was a young man. He tells, for instance, of the rebuilding of the great Church of St. Sophia by Justinian, and he adds : — *^ If any one who happens to live in some place remote from the city wishes to get a clear notion of every part, as though he were there, let him read what Paulus [Silentiarius] has composed in hexameter verse.'* The history of Agathias is valuable as a chronicle. It shows that the writer had little knowledge of geography, and was not enough of a philosopher to look behind events and trace the causes from which they proceeded. He is merely a simple and honest writer, and his history is a business-like entry of facts. He dwells upon himself and his wishes with a minuteness that might seem self-conscious, but is really nai/; and goes so far in his outspokenness as to say that if for the sake of a livelihood he took up another profession, his taste would have led him to devote himself to the Muses and Graces. GRACE AGUILAR 225 He wrote in tlie Ionic dialect of his time. The best edition of his *HistoTia> is that of Niebuhr (1828). Those of his epigrams pre- served in the Greek anthology have not infrequently been turned into English; the happiest translation of all is that of Dryden, in his «Life of Plutarch.* ON PLUTARCH CHERONEAN Plutarch, to thy deathless praise Does martial Rome this grateful statue raise; Because both Greece and she thy fame have shar'd (Their heroes written, and their lives compar'd); But thou thyself could'st never write thy own: Their lives have parallels, but thine has none. GRACE AGUILAR (1816-1847) ^FTY years ago a Jewish writer of English fiction was a new and interesting figure in English literature. Disraeli, indeed, had flashed into the literary world with ^Coningsby,* that eloquent vindication of the Jewish race. His grandoise *Tancred* had revealed to an astonished public the strange life of the Desert, of the mysterious vastness whence swept forth the tribes who became the Moors of Spain and the Jews of Palestine. Disraeli, however, stood in no category, and established no precedent. But when Miss Aguilar's stories began to appear, they were eagerly welcomed by a public with whom she had already won reputation and favor as the defender and interpreter of her faith. The youngest child of a rich and refined household, Grace Aguilar was bom in 18 16 at Hackney, near London, of that historic strain of Spanish-Jewish blood which for generations had produced not only beauty and artistic sensibility, but intellect. Her ancestors were refugees from persecution, and m her burned that ardor of faith which persecution kindles. Fragile and sensitive, she was educated at home, by her cultivated father and mother, under whose solicitous training she developed an alarming precocity. At the age of twelve she had written a heroic I— 15 Grace Agutlar 226 '- GRACE AGUILAR drama on her favorite hero, Gustavus Vasa. At fourteen she had published a volume of poems. At twenty-four she accomplished her chief work on the Jewish religion, a book republished in America with preface and notes by a well-known rabbi. Dr. Isaac Leeser of Philadelphia. Although the orthodox priest found much in the book to criticize, he was forced to commend its ability. It insists on the importance of the spiritual and moral ' 'aspects of the faith delivered to Abraham, and deprecates a super- stitious reverence for the mere letter of the law. It presents Judaism as a religion of love, and the Old Testament as the inspiration of the teachings of Jesus. Written more than half a century ago, the book is widely read to-day by students of the Jewish religion. Four years later Miss Aguilar published *The Jewish Faith: Its Spiritual Consolation, Moral Guidance, and Immortal Hope,* and *The Women of Israel,* a series of essays on Biblical history, which was followed by < Essays and Miscellanies.* So great was the influence of her writings that the Jewesses of London gave her a public testi- monial, and addressed her as "the first woman who had stood forth as the public advocate of the faith of Israel.** While on her way to visit a brother then residing at Schwalbach, Germany, she was taken ill at Frankfurt, and died there, at the early age of thirty-one. The earliest and the best known of Miss Aguilar's novels is *Home Influence,* which rapidly passed through thirty editions, and is still a favorite book with young girls. There is little incident in the story, which is the history of the development of character in a household of six or seven young persons of very different endow- ments and tendencies. It was the fashion of the day to be didactic, and Mrs. Hamilton, from whom the *home influence** radiates, seems to the modern reader somewhat inclined to preach, in season and out of season. But the story is interesting, and the characters are dis- tinctly individualized, while at least one episode is dramatically treated. illustrates her narrative style ; that from < Woman's Friendship > her habit of disquisition ; and the passage from < Home Influence * her rendering of conversation. THE GREATNESS OF FRIENDSHIP From < Woman's Friendship > IT IS the fashion to deride woman's influence over woman, to laugh at female friendship, to look with scorn on all those who profess it; but perhaps the world at large little knows the effect of this influence, — ^how often the unformed character of a young, timid, and gentle girl may be influenced for good or evil by the power of an intimate female friend. There is always to me a doubt of the warmth, the strength, and purity of her feel- ings, when a young girl merges into womanhood, passing over the threshold of actual life, seeking only the admiration of the other sex; watching, pining, for a husband, or lovers, perhaps, and looking down on all female friendship as romance and folly. No young spirit was ever yet satisfied with the love of nature. Friendship, or love, gratifies self-love; for it tacitly acknowl- edges that we must possess some good qualities to attract beyond the mere love of nature. Coleridge justly observes, *^that it is well ordered that the amiable and estimable should have a fainter perception of their own qualities than their friends have, other- wise they would love themselves.* Now, friendship, or love, per- mits their doing this unconsciously: mutual affection is a tacit 228 GRACE AGUELAR avowal and appreciation of mutual good qualities, — perhaps friendship yet more than love, for the latter is far more an aspi- ration, a passion, than the former, and influences the permanent character much less. Under the magic of love a girl is generally in a feverish state of excitement, often in a wrong position, deeming herself the goddess, her lover the adorer; whereas it is her will that must bend to his, herself be abnegated for him. Friendship neither permits the former nor demands the latter. It influences silently, often unconsciously; perhaps its power is never known till years afterwards. A girl who stands alone, without acting or feeling friendship, is generally a cold unamiable being, so wrapt in self as to have no room for any person else, except perhaps a lover, whom she only seeks and values as offering his devotion to that same idol, self. Female friendship may be abused, may be but a name for gossip, letter-writing, romance, nay worse, for absolute evil: but that Shakespeare, the mighty wizard of human hearts, thought highly and beautifully of female friendship, we have his exquisite portraits of Rosalind and Celia, Helen and the Countess, undeniably to prove; and if he, who could portray every human passion, every subtle feeling of humanity, from the whelming tempest of love to the fiendish influences of envy and jealousy and hate; from the incompre- hensible mystery of Hamlet's wondrous spirit, to the simplicity of the gentle Miranda, the dove-like innocence of Ophelia, who could be crushed by her weight of love, but not reveal it; — if Shakespeare scorned not to picture the sweet influences of female friendship, shall women pass by it as a theme too tame, too idle for their pens ? THE ORDER OF KNIGHTHOOD From published in 1834. This describes the fortunes of a family of Yorkshire gentry in the last cen- W, Harrison Ainsworth tury ; but its real interest lies in an episode which includes certain experiences of the notorious highwayman, Dick Turpin, and his furious ride to outrun the hue and cry. Sporting England was enraptured with the dash and breathlessness of this adventure, and the novelist's fame was established. His second romance, ^Crichton,* appeared in 1836. The hero of this tale is the brilliant Scottish gentleman whose handsome person, extraordinary scholarship, great accomplishments, courage, eloquence, subtlety, and achievement gained him the sobriquet of "The Admira- ble.** The chief scenes are laid in Paris at the time of Catherine de' Medici's rule and Henry IIL's reign, when the air was full of intrigue and conspiracy, and when religious quarrels were not more bitter and dangerous than political wrangles. The inscrutable king, the devout Queen Louise of Lorraine, the scheming queen-mother, and Marguerite of Valois, half saint, half profligate, a pearl of beauty and grace; 238 ' WILLIAM HARRISON AINS WORTH Henry of Navarre, ready to buy his Paris with sword or mass; well- known great nobles, priests, astrologers, learned doctors, foreign potentates, ambassadors, pilgrims, and poisoners, — pass before the reader's eye. The pictures of student life, at a time when all the world swarmed to the great schools of Paris, serve to explain the hero and the period. When, in 1839, Dickens resigned the editorship of Bentley's Mis- cellany, Ainsworth succeeded him. "The new whip," wrote the old one afterward, "having mounted the box, drove straight to Newgate. He there took in Jack Sheppard, and Cruikshank the artist; and aided by that very vulgar but very wonderful draughtsman, he made an effective story of the burglar's and housebreaker's life." Every- body read the story, and most persons cried out against so ignoble a hero, so mean a history, and so misdirected a literary energy. The author himself seems not to have been proud of the success which sold thousands of copies of an unworthy book, and placed a dramatic version of its vulgar adventures on the stage of eight theatres at once. He turned his back on this profitable field to produce, in rapid succession, *Guy Fawkes,* a tale of the famous Gunpowder Plot; TOWARD the close of Wednesday, the 4th of February, 1579, a vast assemblage of scholars was collected before the Gothic gateway of the ancient College of Navarre. So numerous was this concourse, that it not merely blocked up the area in front of the renowned seminary in question, but extended far down the Rue de la Montagne Sainte-G^nevi^ve, in which it is situated. Never had such a disorderly rout been brought together since the days of the uproar in 1557, when the predecessors of these turbulent students took up arms, marched in a body to the Pre-aux-Clercs, set fire to three houses in the vicinity, and slew a sergeant of the guard, who vainly endeavored to restrain their fury. Their last election of a rector, Messire Adrien d'Amboise, . — pater eruditionum, as he is described in his epitaph, when the same body congregated within the cloisters of the Mathurins, and thence proceeded, in tumultuous array, to the church of Saint Louis, in the isle of the same name, — had been nothing to it. Every scholastic hive sent forth its drones. Sorbonne, and Mon- taigu, Cluny, Harcourt, the Four Nations, and a host of minor establishments — in all, amounting to forty-two — each added its swarms; and a pretty buzzing they created! The fair of Saint- Germain had only commenced the day before; but though its 340 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH festivities were to continue until Palm Sunday, and though it was the constant resort of the scholars, who committed, during their days of carnival, ten thousand excesses, it was now absolutely deserted. The Pomme-de-Pin, the Castel, the Mag-daleine, and the Mule, those *^ capital caverns, ^^ celebrated in Pantagruel's conference with the Limosin student, which has conferred upon them an immor- tality like that of our own hostel, the Mermaid, were wholly neglected; the dice-box was laid aside for the nonce; and the well-used cards were thrust into the doublets of these thirsty tipplers of the schools. But not alone did the crowd consist of the brawler, the gambler, the bully, and the debauchee, though these, it must be confessed, predominated. It was a grand medley of all sects and classes. The modest demeanor of the retiring, pale-browed stu- dent was contrasted with the ferocious aspect and reckless bearing of his immediate neighbor, whose appearance was little better than that of a bravo. The grave theologian and embryo ecclesi- astic were placed in juxtaposition with the scoffing and licentious acolyte; while the lawyer in posse, and the law-breaker in esse, were numbered among a group whose pursuits were those of vio- lence and fraud. Various as were the characters that composed it, not less diversified were the costumes of this heterogeneous assemblage. Subject to no particular regulations as to dress, or rather openly infracting them, if any such were attempted to be enforced — each scholar, to whatever college he belonged, attired himself in such garments as best suited his taste or his finances. Taking it altogether, the mob was neither remarkable for the fashion, nor the cleanliness of the apparel of its members. From Rabelais we learn that the passion of play was so strongly implanted in the students of his day, that they would frequently stake the points of their doublets at tric-trac or tron- madame; and but little improvement had taken place in their morals or manners some half-century afterward. The buckle at their girdle — the mantle on their shoulders — the shirt to their back — often stood the hazard of the die; and hence it not unfre- quently happened, that a rusty pourpoint and ragged cJiaussis were all the covering which the luckless dicers could enumerate, owing, no doubt, " to the extreme rarity and penury of money in their pouches.* WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 241 Round or square caps, hoods and cloaks of black, gray, or other sombre hue, were, however, the prevalent garb of the mem- bers of the university; but here and there might be seen some gayer specimen of the tribe, whose broad-brimmed, high-crowned felt hat and flaunting feather; whose puffed-out sleeves and exag- gerated ruff — with starched plaits of such amplitude that they had been not inappropriately named //«/^ de Saint jfean-Bapiiste, from the resemblance which the wearer's head bore to that of the saint, when deposited in the charger of the daughter of Herodias — were intended to ape the leading mode of the elegant court of their sovereign, Henri Trois. Notwithstanding its shabby appearance in detail, the general effect of this scholastic rabble was striking and picturesque. The thick mustaches and pointed beards with which the lips and chins of most of them were decorated, gave to their physiogno- mies a manly and determined air, fully borne out by their unre- strained carriage and deportment. To a man, almost all were armed with a tough vine -wood bludgeon, called in their language an estoc volant, tipped and shod with steel — a weapon fully understood by them, and rendered, by their dexterity in the use of it, formidable to their adversaries. Not a few carried at their girdles the short rapier, so celebrated in their duels and brawls, or concealed within their bosom a poniard or a two- edged knife. The scholars of Paris have ever been a turbulent and ungov. emable race; and at the period of which this history treats, and indeed long before, were little better than a licensed horde of robbers, consisting of a pack of idle and wayward youths drafted from all parts of Europe, as well as from the remoter provinces of their own nation. There was little in common between the mass of students and their brethren, excepting the fellowship resulting from the universal license in which all indulged. Hence their thousand combats among themselves — combats almost inva- riably attended with fatal consequences — and which the heads of the university found it impossible to check. / Their own scanty resources, eked out by what little they could derive from beggary or robbery, formed their chief subsistence; for many of them were positive mendicants, and were so denom- inated: and being possessed of a sanctuary within their own quarters, to which they could at convenience retire, they sub- mitted to the constraint of no laws except those enforced within I— 16 242 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH the jurisdiction of the university, and hesitated at no means of enriching themselves at the expense of their neighbors. Hence the frequent warfare waged between them and the brethren of Saint-Germain des Pr^s, whose monastic domains adjoined their territories, and whose meadows were the constant battleground of their skirmishes; according to Dulaure — ^^ presque toujour s un th^dtre de tumulte, de galanterie, de combats^ de duels, de debauches et de s^ditio?t.^'* Hence their sanguinary conflicts with the good citizens of Paris, to whom they were wholly obnoxious, and who occasionally repaid their aggressions with interest. In 1407 two of their number, convicted of assassination and robbery, were con- demned to the gibbet, and the sentence was carried into execution ; but so great was the uproar occasioned in the university by this violation of its immunities that the Provost of Paris, Guillaume de Tignonville, was compelled to take down their bodies from Mont- faucon and see them honorably and ceremoniously interred. This recognition of their rights only served to make matters worse, and for a series of years the nuisance continued unabated. It is not our purpose to record all the excesses of the uni- versity, nor the means taken for their suppression. Vainly were the civil authorities arrayed 'against them. Vainly were bulls thundered from the Vatican. No amendment was effected. The weed might be cut down, but was never entirely extirpated. Their feuds were transmitted from generation to generation, and their old bone of contention with the abbot of Saint-Germain (the Pr^-aux-Clercs) was, after an uninterrupted strife for thirty years, submitted to the arbitration of the Pope, who very equitably refused to pronounce judgment in favor of either party. Such were the scholars of Paris in the sixteenth century — such the character of the clamorous crew who besieged the por- tals of the College of Navarre. The object that summoned together this unruly multitude was, it appears, a desire on the part of the scholars to be pres- ent at a public controversy or learned disputation, then occur- ring within the great hall of the college before which they were congregated; and the disappointment caused by their finding the gates closed, and all entrance denied to them, occasioned their present disposition to riot. It was in vain they were assured by the halberdiers stationed at the gates, and who, with crossed pikes, strove to resist the onward pressure of the mob, that the hall and court were alread,v WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 243 crammed to overflowing, that there was not room even for the sole of a foot of a doctor of the faculties, and that their orders were positive and imperative that none beneath the degree of a bachelor or licentiate should be admitted, and that a troop of mar- tinets and new-comers could have no possible claim to admission. In vain they were told this was no ordinary disputation, no common controversy, where all were alike entitled to license of ingress; that the disputant was no undistinguished scholar, whose renown did not extend beyond his own trifling sphere, and whose opinions, therefore, few would care to hear and still fewer to oppugn, but a foreigner of high rank, in high favor and fashion, and not more remarkable for his extraordinary intel- lectual endowments than for his brilliant personal accompHsh- ments. In vain the trembling officials sought to clinch their arguments by stating, that not alone did the conclave consist of the chief members of the university, the senior doctors of theology, med- icine, and law, the professors of the humanities, rhetoric, and phi- losophy, and all the various other dignitaries; but that the debate was honored by the presence of Monsieur Christophe de Thou, first president of Parliament; by that of the learned Jacques Augustin, of the same name; by one of the secretaries of state and Governor of Paris, M. Ren^ de Villequier; by the ambassa- dors of Elizabeth, Queen of England, and of Philip the Second, King of Spain, and several of their suite; by Abbe de Brantome; by M. Miron, the court physician; by Cosmo Ruggieri, the Queen Mother's astrologer ; by the renowned poets and masque writers, Maitres Ronsard, Baif, and Philippe Desportes; by the well-known advocate of Parliament, Messire Etienne Pasquier: but also (and here came the gravamen of the objection to their admission) by the two especial favorites of his Majesty and lead- ers of affairs, the seigneurs of Joyeuse and D'Epemon. It was in vain the students were informed that for the pres- ervation of strict decorum, they had been commanded by the rector to make fast the gates. No excuses would avail them. The scholars were cogent reasoners, and a show of staves soon brought their opponents to a nonplus. In this line of argument they were perfectly aware of their ability to prove a major. * To the wall with them — to the wall ! " cried a hundred infu- riated voices. " Down with the halberdiers — down with the gates — down with the disputants — down with the rector himself! — 244 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH Deny our privileges! To the wall with old Adrien d'Amboise — exclude the disciples of the university from their own halls! — curry favor with the court minions! — hold a public controversy in private! — down with him! We will issue a mandamus for a new election on the spot ! ^^ Whereupon a deep groan resounded throughout the crowd. It was succeeded by a volley of fresh execrations against the rector, and an angry demonstration of bludgeons, accompanied by a brisk shower of peas from the sarbacanes. The officials turned pale, and calculated the chance of a broken neck in reversion, with that of a broken crown in immediate possession. The former being at least contingent, appeared the milder alternative, and they might have been inclined to adopt it had not a further obstacle stood in their way. The gate was barred withinside, and the vergers and bedels who had the cus- tody of the door, though alarmed at the tumult without, positively refused to unfasten it. Again the threats of the scholars were renewed, and further intimations of violence were exhibited. Again the peas rattled upon the hands and faces of the halberdiers, till their ears tingled with pain. "Prate to us of the king's favorites,** cried one of the foremost of the scholars, a youth decorated with a paper collar: "they may rule within the precincts of the Louvre, but not within the walls of the tmiversity. Maugre-bleu! We hold them cheap enough. We heed not the idle bark of these full-fed court lapdogs. What to us is the bearer of a cup and ball ? By the four Evangelists, we will have none of them here! Let the Gas- con cadet, D'Epemon, reflect on the fate of Qu^lus and Maugiron, and let our gay Joyeuse beware of the dog's death of Saint- M^grin. Place for better men — place for the schools — away with frills and sarbacanes?^ " What to us is a president of Parliament, or a governor of the city ? ** shouted another of the same gentry. " We care nothing for their ministration. We recognize them not, save in their own courts. All their authority fell to the ground at the gate of the Rue Saint Jacques, when they entered our dominions. We care for no parties. We are trimmers, and steer a middle course. We hold the Guisards as cheap as the Huguenots, and the brethren of the League weigh as little with us as the followers of Calvin. Our only sovereign is Gregory the Thirteenth, Pontiff of Rome. Away with the Guise and the Bearnaise ! ** WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 245 *Away with Henri of Navarre, if you please,*^ cried a scholar of Harcourt; "or Henri of Valois, if you Hst: but by all the saints, not with Henri of Lorraine; he is the fast friend of the true faith. No! — No! — live the Guise — live the Holy Union!** *^Away with Elizabeth of England,** cried a scholar of Cluny: * what doth her representative here ? Seeks he a spouse for her among our schools? She will have no great bargain, I own, if she bestows her royal hand upon our Due d'Anjou.** " If you value your buff jerkin, I counsel you to say nothing slighting of the Queen of England in my hearing,** returned a bluff, broad-shouldered fellow, raising his bludgeon after a men- acing fashion. He was an Englishman belonging to the Four Nations, and had a huge bull-dog at his heels. " Away with Philip of Spain and his ambassador, ** cried a Bemardin. " By the eyes of my mistress ! ** cried a Spaniard belonging to the College of Narbonne, with huge mustaches curled half-way up his bronzed and insolent visage, and a slouched hat pulled over his brow. "This may not pass muster. The representative of the King of Spain must be respected even by the Academics of Lutetia. Which of you shall gainsay me? — ha!** "What business has he here with his suite, on occasions like to the present ? ** returned the Bemardin. " Tete-Dieu! this dispu- tation is one that little concerns the interest of your politic king; and methinks Don Philip, or his representative, has regard for little else than whatsoever advances his own interest. Your ambassador hath, I doubt not, some latent motive for his present attendance in our schools.** "Perchance,** returned the Spaniard. "We will discuss that point anon.** "And what doth the pander of the Sybarite within the dusty halls of learning ? ** ejaculated a scholar of Lemoine. " What doth the jealous-pated slayer of his wife and unborn child within the reach of free-spoken voices, and mayhap of well-directed blades ? Methinks it were more prudent to tarry within the bowers of his harem, than to hazard his perfumed person among us.** " Well said, ** rejoined the scholar of Cluny — " down with Rene de Villequier, though he be Governor of Paris.** "What title hath the Abb^ de Brantome to a seat among us ? ** said the scion of Harcourt : " faith, he hath a reputation for 246 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH wit, and scholarship, and gallantry. But what is that to us? His place might now be filled by worthier men.** **And what, in the devil's name, brings Cosmo Ruggieri hither ? " asked the Bernardin. " What doth the wrinkled old dealer in the black art hope to learn from us ? We are not given to alchemy, and the occult sciences; we practice no hidden mysteries; we brew no philtres; we compound no slow poisons; we vend no waxen images. What doth he here, I say! 'Tis a scandal in the rector to permit his presence. And what if he came under the safeguard, and by the authority of his mistress, Catherine de' Medicis ! Shall we regard her passport ? Down with the heathen abb^, his abominations have been endured too long; they smell rank in our nostrils. Think how he ensnared La Mole — think on his numberless victims. Who mixed the infernal potion of Charles the Ninth ? Let him answer that. Down with the infidel — the Jew — the sorcerer! The stake were too good for him. Down with Ruggieri, I say.** "Aye, down with the accursed astrologer,** echoed the whole crew. " He has done abundant mischief in his time. A day of reckoning has arrived. Hath he cast his own horoscope ? Did he foresee his own fate ? Ha ! ha ! ** "And then the poets,** cried another member of the Four Nations — "a plague on all three. Would they were elsewhere. In what does this disputation concern them ? Pierre Ronsard, being an offshoot of this same College of Navarre, hath indubi- tably a claim upon our consideration. But he is old, and I marvel that his gout permitted him to hobble so far. Oh, the mercenary old scribbler! His late verses halt like himself, yet he lowereth not the price of his masques. Besides which, he is grown moral, and unsays all his former good things. Mort Dieu ! your superannuated bards ever recant the indiscretions of their nonage. Clement Marot took to psalm-writing in his old age. As to Bai'f, his name will scarce outlast the scenery of his ballets, his plays are out of fashion since the Gelosi arrived. He deserves no place among us. And Philip Desportes owes all his present preferment to the Vicomte de Joyeuse. However, he is not altogether devoid of merit — let him wear his bays, so he trouble us not with his company. Room for the sophisters of Narbonne, I say. To the dogs with poetry ! ** '•''Morbleu ! ** exclaimed another. " What are the sophisters of Narbonne to the decretists of the Sorbonne, who will discuss WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 247 yoti a position of Cornelius a Lapide, or a sentence of Peter Lombard, as readily as you would a flask of hippocras, or a slice of botargo. Aye, and cry transeat to a thesis of Aristotle, though it be against rule. What sayst thou, Capete ? * continued he, addressing his neighbor, a scholar of Montaigu, whose modest gray capuchin procured him this appellation: ^ Much of its thought and diction were transferred to the Ode named; but the latter by no means happily compares with the original Both versions, however, are of the same year, 1744. J THRICE has the spring beheld thy faded fame, And the fourth winter rises on thy shame. Since I exulting grasped the votive shell. In sounds of triumph all thy praise to tell; Blest could my skill through ages make thee shine. And proud to mix my memory with thine. But now the cause that waked my song before, "With praise, with triumph, crowns the toil no more. If to the glorious man whose faithful cares, Nor quelled by malice, nor relaxed by years. Had awed Ambition's wild audacious hate. And dragged at length Corruption to her fate; If every tongue its large applauses owed. And well-earned laurels every muse bestowed; If public Justice urged the high reward, And Freedom smiled on the devoted bard: Say then, — to him whose levity or lust Laid all a people's generous hopes in dust. Who taught Ambition firmer heights of power And saved Corruption at her hopeless hour. Does not each tongue its execrations owe ? Shall not each Muse a wreath of shame bestow? And public Justice sanctify the award? And Freedom's hand protect the impartial bard? There are who say they viewed without amaze The sad reverse of all thy former praise; That through the pageants of a patriot's name, They pierced the foulness of thy secret aim; Or deemed thy arm exalted but to throw The public thunder on a private foe. But I, whose soul consented to thy cause, Who felt thy genius stamp its own applause, Who saw the spirits of each glorious age Move in thy bosom, and direct thy rage, — I— 17 258 MARK AKENSIDE I scorned the ungenerous gloss of slavish minds, The owl-eyed race, whom Virtue's lustre blinds. Spite of the learned in the ways of vice, And all who prove that each man has his price, I still believed thy end was just and free; And yet, even yet believe it — spite of thee. Even though thy mouth impure has dared disclaim. Urged by the wretched impotence of shame. Whatever filial cares thy zeal had paid To laws infirm, and liberty decayed; Has begged Ambition to forgive the show; Has told Corruption thou wert ne'er her foe; Has boasted in thy country's awful ear. Her gross delusion when she held thee dear; How tame she followed thy tempestuous call. And heard thy pompous tales, and trusted all — Rise from your sad abodes, ye curst of old For laws subverted, and for cities sold! Paint all the noblest trophies of your guilt, The oaths you perjured, and the blood you spilt; Yet must you one untempted vileness own. One dreadful palm reserved for him alone: With studied arts his country's praise to spurn, To beg the infamy he did not earn, To challenge hate when honor was his due. And plead his crimes where all his virtue knew. When they who, loud for liberty and laws, In doubtful times had fought their country's causC; When now of conquest and dominion sure, They sought alone to hold their fruit secure; When taught by these. Oppression hid the face, To leave Corruption stronger in her place, By silent spells to work the public fate. And taint the vitals of the passive state, Till healing Wisdom should avail no more. And Freedom loath to tread the poisoned shore : Then, like some guardian god that flies to save The weary pilgrim from an instant grave. Whom, sleeping and secure, the guileful snake Steals near and nearer thro' the peaceful brake,— Then Curio rose to ward the public woe. To wake the heedless and incite the slow. MARK AKENSIDE Against Corruption Liberty to arm. And quell the enchantress by a mightier charm. Lo! the deciding hour at last appears; The hour of every freeman's hopes and fears! See Freedom mounting her eternal throne. The sword submitted, and the laws her own! See! public Power, chastised, beneath her stands. With eyes intent, and uncorrupted hands! See private life by wisest arts reclaimed! See ardent youth to noblest manners framed! See us acquire whate'er was sought by you. If Curio, only Curio will be true. 'Twas then — O shame! O trust how ill repaid I O Latium, oft by faithless sons betrayed! — 'Twas then — What frenzy on thy reason stole? What spells unsinewed thy determined soul? — Is this the man in Freedom's cause approved? The man so great, so honored, so beloved? This patient slave by tinsel chains allured? This wretched suitor for a boon abjured? This Curio, hated and despised by all? Who fell himself to work his country's fall? O lost, alike to action and repose! Unknown, unpitied in the worst of woes! With all that conscious, undissembled pride. Sold to the insults of a foe defied! With all that habit of familiar fame, Doomed to exhaust the dregs of life in shame! The sole sad refuge of thy baffled art To act a stateman's dull, exploded part, Renounce the praise no longer in thy power. Display thy virtue, though without a dower. Contemn the giddy crowd, the vulgar wind. And shut thy eyes that others may be blind. O long revered, and late resigned to shame! If this uncourtly page thy notice claim When the loud cares of business are withdrawn, Nor well-drest beggars round thy footsteps fawn; 259 260 MARK AKENSIDE In that still, thoughtful, solitary hour. When Truth exerts her unresisted power, Breaks the false optics tinged with fortune's glare. Unlocks the breast, and lays the passions bare: Then turn thy eyes on that important scene, And ask thyself — if all be well within. Where is the heart-felt worth and weight of soul. Which labor could not stop, nor fear control ? Where the known dignity, the stamp of awe. Which, half abashed, the proud and venal saw? Where the calm triumphs of an honest cause ? Where the delightful taste of just applause ? Where the strong reason, the commanding tongue, On which the Senate fired or trembling hung! All vanished, all are sold — and in their room. Couched in thy bosom's deep, distracted gloom. See the pale form of barbarous Grandeur dwell, Like some grim idol in a sorcerer's cell! To her in chains thy dignity was led; At her polluted shrine thy honour bled; With blasted weeds thy awful brow she crowned. Thy powerful tongue with poisoned philters bound, That baffled Reason straight indignant flew. And fair Persuasion from her seat withdrew: For now no longer Truth supports thy cause; No longer Glory prompts thee to applause; No longer Virtue breathing in thy breast. With all her conscious majesty confest. Still bright and brighter wakes the almighty flame. To rouse the feeble, and the willful tame. And where she sees the catching glimpses roll. Spreads the strong blaze, and all involves the soul; But cold restraints thy conscious fancy chill. And formal passions mock thy struggling will; Or, if thy Genius e'er forget his chain. And reach impatient at a nobler strain, Soon the sad bodings of contemptuous mirth Shoot through thy breast, and stab the generous birth-. Till, blind with smart, from truth to frenzy tost, And all the tenor of thy reason lost. Perhaps thy anguish drains a real tear; While some with pity, some with laughter hear. MARK AKENSIDE 261 Ye mighty foes of liberty and rest, Give way, do homage to a mightier guest! Ye daring spirits of the Roman race, See Curio's toil your proudest claims eflPiace! — Awed at the name, fierce Appius rising bends, And hardy Cinna from his throne attends: *He comes,* they cry, "to whom the fates assigned With surer arts to work what we designed. From year to year the stubborn herd to sway. Mouth all their wrongs, and all their rage obey; Till owned their guide, and trusted with their power. He mocked their hopes in one decisive hour; Then, tired and yielding, led them to the chain, And quenched the spirit we provoked in vain.* But thou, Supreme, by whose eternal hands Fair Liberty's heroic empire stands; Whose thunders the rebellious deep control. And quell the triumphs of the traitor's soul, O turn this dreadful omen far away! On Freedom's foes their own attempts repay; Relume her sacred fire so near suppressed. And fix her shrine in every Roman breast: Though bold corruption boast around the land, "Let virtue, if she can, my baits withstand!* Though bolder now she urge the accursed claim. Gay with her trophies raised on Curio's shame; Yet some there are who scorn her impious mirth. Who know what conscience and a heart are worth. ASPIRATIONS AFTER THE INFINITE From < Pleasures of the Imagination > WHO that, from Alpine heights, his laboring eye Shoots round the wide horizon, to survey Nilus or Ganges rolling his bright wave Thro' mountains, plains, thro' empires black with shade, And continents of sand, will turn his gaze To mark the windings of a scanty rill That murmurs at his feet? The high-born soul Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring wing Beneath its native quarry. Tired of earth And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft Through fields of air; pursues the flying storm; 262 ' MARK AKENSIDE Rides on the volleyed lightning through the heavens; Or, yoked with whirlwinds and the northern blast, Sweeps the long tract of day. Then high she soars The blue profound, and, hovering round the sun. Beholds him pouring the redundant stream Of light; beholds his unrelenting sway Bend the reluctant planets to absolve The fated rounds of Time. Thence, far effused, She darts her swiftness up the long career Of devious comets; through its burning signs Exulting measures the perennial wheel Of Nature, and looks back on all the stars, Whose blended light, as with a milky zone. Invests the orient. Now, amazed she views The empyreal waste, where happy spirits hold Beyond this concave heaven, their calm abode; And fields of radiance, whose unfading light Has traveled the profound six thousand years, Nor yet arrived in sight of mortal things. Even on the barriers of the world, untired She meditates the eternal depth below; Till half-recoiling, down the headlong steep She plunges; soon o'erwhelmed and swallowed up In that immense of being. There her hopes Rest at the fated goal. For from the birth Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said. That not in humble nor in brief delight, Nor in the fading echoes of Renown, Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap, The soul should find enjoyment: but from these Turning disdainful to an equal good. Through all the ascent of things enlarge her view, Till every bound at length should disappear, And infinite perfection close the scene. ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY COME then, tell me, sage divine, Is it an offense to own That our bosoms e'er incline Toward immortal Glory's throne ? For with me nor pomp nor pleasure, Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure. PEDRO ANTONIO DE ALARCON 263 So can Fancy's dream rejoice, So conciliate Reason's choice, As one approving word of her impartial voice. If to spurn at noble praise Be the passport to thy heaven. Follow thou those gloomy ways: No such law to me was given. Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me Faring like my friends before me; Nor an holier place desire Than Timoleon's arms acquire, And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre. PEDRO ANTONIO DE ALARCON (1833-1891) Jhis novelist, poet, and politician was bom at Guadix, in Spain, near Granada, March loth, 1833, and received his early train- ing in the seminary of his native city. His family destined him for the Church; but he was averse to that profession, subse- quently studied law and modern languages at the University of Granada, and took pains to cultivate his natural love for literature and poetry. In 1853 he established at Cadiz the literary review Eco del Occidente (Echo of the West). Greatly interested in politics, he joined a democratic club with headquarters at Madrid. During the revolution of 1854 he published El Latigo (The Whip), a pamphlet in which he satirized the government. The spirit of adventure being always strong in him, he joined the African campaign under O'Don- nell in 1859. His next occupation was the editorship of the journals La Epoca and La Politica. Condemned to a brief period of exile as one of the signers of a protest of Unionist deputies, he passed this time in Paris. Shortly after his return he became involved in the revolution of 1868, but without incurring personal disaster. After Alfonso XII. came to the throne in 1875, he was appointed Councilor of State. It was in the domain of letters, however, and more especially as a novelist, that he won his most enduring laurels. In 1855 he produced (The Child of the Ball), thought by many to be his masterpiece; THE last and perhaps the most powerful reason which the quality of the city — clergy as well as laymen, beginning • with the bishop and the corregidor — had for visiting the mill so often in the afternoon, was to admire there at leisure one of the most beautiful, graceful, and admirable works that ever left the hands of the Creator: called Seiia [Mrs.] Frasquita. Let us begin by assuring you that Seiia Frasquita was the lawful spouse of Uncle Luke, and an honest woman; of which fact all the illustrious visitors of the mill were well aware. Indeed, none of them ever seemed to gaze on her with sinful eyes or doubtful purpose. They all admired her, indeed, and sometimes paid her compliments, — the friars as well as the cavaliers, the prebend- aries as well as the magistrate, — as a prodigy of beauty, an honor to her Creator, and as a coquettish and mischievous sprite, who innocently enlivened the most melancholy of spirits. ® She is a handsome creature,** the most virtuous prelate used to say. «She looks like an ancient Greek statue.* remarked a learned PEDRO ANTONIO DE ALARCON 265 advocate, who was an Academician and corresponding member on history. " She is the very image of Eve, ** broke forth the prior of the Franciscans. ** She is a fine woman, '* exclaimed the colonel of militia. ^^ She is a serpent, a witch, a siren, an imp, * added the corregidor. "But she is a good woman, an angel, a lovely creat- ure, and as innocent as a child four years old," all agreed in saying on leaving the mill, crammed with grapes or nuts, on their way to their dull and methodical homes. This four-year-old child, that is to say, Frasquita, was nearly thirty years old, and almost six feet high, strongly built in pro- portion, and even a little stouter than exactly corresponded to her majestic figure. She looked like a gigantic Niobe, though she never had any children; she seemed like a female Hercules, or like a Roman matron, the sort of whom there are still copies to be seen in the Rioni Trastevere. But the most striking feature was her mobility, her agility, her animation, and the grace of her rather large person. For resemblance to a statue, to which the Academician com- pared her, she lacked statuesque repose. She bent her body like a reed, or spun around like a weather-vane, or danced like a top. Her features possessed even greater mobility, and in consequence were even less statuesque. They were lighted up beautifully by five dimples: two on one cheek, one on the other, another very small one near the left side of her roguish lips, and the last — and a very big one — in the cleft of her rounded chin. Add to these charms her sly or roguish glances, her pretty pouts, and the various attitudes of her head, with which she emphasized her talk, and you will have some idea of that face full of vivacity and beauty, and always radiant with health and happiness. Neither Uncle Luke nor Seiia Frasquita was Andalusian by birth: she came from Navarre, and he from Murcia. He went to the city of when he was but fifteen years old, as half page, half servant of the bishop, the predecessor of the present incumbent of that diocese. He was brought up for the Church by his patron, who, perhaps on that account, so that he might not lack competent maintenance, bequeathed him the mill in his will. But Uncle Luke, who had received only the lesser orders when the bishop died, cast off his ecclesiastical garb at once and enlisted as a soldier; for he felt more anxious to see the world and to lead a life of adventure than to say mass or grind com. He went through the campaign of the Western Provinces in 1793, as the orderly of the brave General Ventura Caro; he was 266 PEDRO ANTONIO DE ALARCON present at the siege of the Castle of Pinon, and remained a long time in the Northern Provinces, when he finally quitted the serv- ice. In Estella he became acquainted with Sena Frasquita, who was then simply called Frasquita; made love to her, married her, and carried her to Andalusia to take possession of the mill, where they were to live so peaceful and happy during the rest of their pilgrimage through this vale of tears. When Frasquita was taken from Navarre to that lonely place she had not yet acquired any Andalusian ways, and was very different from the countrywomen in that vicinity. She dressed with greater simplicity, greater freedom, grace, and elegance than they did. She bathed herself oftener; and allowed the sun and air to caress her bare arms and uncovered neck. To a cer- tain extent she wore the style of dress worn by the gentlewomen of that period; like that of the women in Goya's pictures, and somewhat of the fashion worn by Queen Maria Louisa: if not exactly so scant, yet so short that it showed her small feet, and the commencement of her superb limbs; her bodice was low, and round in the neck, according to the style in Madrid, where she spent two months with her Luke on their way from Navarre to Andalusia. She dressed her hair high on the top of her head, displaying thus both the graceful curve of her snowy neck and the shape of her pretty head. She wore earrings in her small ears, and the taper fingers of her rough but clean hands were covered with rings. Lastly, Frasquita's voice was as sweet as a flute, and her laugh was so merry and so silvery it seemed like the ringing of bells on Saturday of Glory or Easter Eve. HOW THE ORPHAN MANUEL GAINED HIS SOBRIQUET From THE unfortunate boy seemed to have turned to ice from the cruel and unexpected blows of fate; he contracted a death- like pallor, which he never again lost. No one paid any attention to the unhappy child in the first moments of his anguish, or noticed that he neither groaned, sighed, nor wept. When at last they went to him they found him convulsed and rigid, like a petrifaction of grief; although he walked about, heard and saw, and covered his wounded and dying father with kisses. But he shed not a single tear, either during the death PEDRO ANTONIO DE ALARCON 267 agony of that beloved being, when he kissed the cold face after it was dead, or when he saw them carr}^ the body away forever; nor when he left the house in which he had been bom, and found himself sheltered by charity in the house of a stranger. Some praised his courage, others criticized his callousness. Mothers pitied him profoundly, instinctively divining the cruel tragedy that was being enacted in the orphan's heart for want of some tender and compassionate being to make him weep by weeping with him. Nor did Manuel utter a single word from the moment he saw his beloved father brought in dying. He made no answer to the affectionate questions asked him by Don Trinidad after the latter had taken him home ; and the sound of his voice was never heard during the first three years which he spent in the holy company of the priest. Everybody thought by this time that he would remain dumb forever, when one day, in the church of which his protector was the priest, the sacristan observed him standing before a beautiful image of the *' Child of the Ball, '* and heard him saying in melancholy accents: — * Child Jesus, why do you not speak either ? ^* Manuel was saved. The drowning boy had raised his head above the engulfing waters of his grief. His life was no longer in danger. So at least it was believed in the parish. . . . Toward strangers — from whom, whenever they came in con- tact with him, he always received demonstrations of pity and kindness — the orphan continued to maintain the same glacial reserve as before, rebuffing them with the phrase, stereotyped on his disdainful lips, ^* Let me alone, now ; ** having said which, in tones of moving entreaty, he would go on his way, not with- out awakening superstitious feelings in the minds of the persons whom he thus shunned. Still less did he lay aside, at this saving crisis, the profound sadness and precocious austerity of his character, or the obstinate persistence with which he clung to certain habits. These were limited, thus far, to accompanying the priest to the church; gathering flowers or aromatic herbs to adorn the image of the ** Child of the Ball, ^* before which he would spend hour after hour, plunged in a species of ecstasy; and climbing the neighbor- ing mountain in search of those herbs and flowers, when, owing to the severity of the heat or cold, they were not to be found in the fields. 268 PEDRO ANTONIO DE ALARCON This adoration, while in consonance with the religious prin- ciples instilled into him from the cradle by his father, greatly exceeded what is usual even in the most devout. It was a fraternal and submissive love, like that which he had entertained for his father; it was a confused mixture of familiarity, pro- tection, and idolatry, very similar to the feeling which the mothers of men of genius entertain for their illustrious sons; it was the respectful and protecting tenderness which the strong warrior bestows on the youthful prince; it was an identification of himself with the image; it was pride; it was elation as for a personal good. It seemed as if this image symbolized for him his tragic fate, his noble origin, his early orphanhood, his poverty, his cares, the injustice of men, his solitary state in the world, and perhaps too some presentiment of his future sufferings. Probably nothing of all this was clear at the time to the mind of the hapless boy, but something resembling it must have been the tumult of confused thoughts that palpitated in the depths of that childlike, unwavering, absolute, and exclusive devotion. For him there was neither God nor the Virgin, neither saints nor angels; there was only the "Child of the Ball,* not with relation to any profound mystery, but in himself, in his present form, with his artistic figure, his dress of gold tissue, his crown of false stones, his blonde head, his charming countenance, and the blue-painted globe which he held in his hand, and which was surmounted by a little silver-gilt cross, in sign of the redemption of the world. And this was the cause and reason why the acolytes of Santa Maria de la Cabeza first, all the boys of the town afterward, and finally the more respectable and sedate persons, bestowed on Manuel the extraordinary name of "The Child of the Ball*: we know not whether by way of applause of such vehement idolatry, and to commit him, as it were, to the protection of the Christ- Child himself; or as a sarcastic antiphrasis, — seeing that this appellation is sometimes used in the place as a term of compar- ison for the happiness of the very fortunate; or as a prophecy of the valor for which the son of Venegas was to be one day celebrated, and the terror he was to inspire, — since the most hyperbolical expression that can be employed in that district, to extol the bravery and power of any one, is to say that "he does not fear even the < Child of the Ball.^* Selections used by permission of Cassell Publishing Company 269 ALC/EUS (Sixth Century B.C.) jLC^us, a contemporary of the more famous poet whom he addressed as "violet-crowned, pure, sweetly-smiling Sappho,* was a native of Mitylene in Lesbos. His period of work fell probably between 610 and 580 B. C. At this time his native town was disturbed by an unceasing contention for power between the aristocracy and the people; and Al- casus, through the vehemence of his zeal and bis ambition, was among the leaders of the warring faction. By the accidents of birth and education he was an aristo- crat, and in politics he was what is now called a High Tory. With his brothers, Cicis and Antimenidas, two influential young nobles as arrogant and haughty as himself, he resented and opposed the slightest concession to democracy. He was a stout soldier, but he threw away his arms at Ligetum when he saw that his side was beaten, and afterward wrote a poem on this performance, apparently not in the least mortified by the recollection. Horace speaks of the matter, and laughingly con- fesses his own like misadventure. When the kindly Pittacus was chosen dictator, he was compelled to banish the swashbuckling brothers for their abuse of him. But when Alcaeus- chanced to be taken prisoner, Pittacus set him free, remarking that "forgiveness is better than revenge.'* The irrecon- cilable poet spent his exile in Egypt, and there he may have seen the Greek oligarch who lent his sword to Nebuchadnezzar, and whom he greeted in a poem, a surviving fragment of which is thus para- phrased by John Addington Symonds: — From the ends of the earth thou art come Back to thy home; The ivory hilt of thy blade With gold is embossed and inlaid; Since for Babylon's host a great deed Thou didst work in their need. Slaying a warrior, an athlete of might. Royal, whose height Lacked of five cubits one span — A terrible man. Algous 270 ALC^US Alcaeus is reputed to have been in love with Sappho, the glorious, but only a line or two survives to confirm the tale. Most of his lyrics, like those of his fellow-poets, seem to have been drinking songs, combined, says Symonds, with reflections upon life, and appropriate descriptions of the different seasons. <*No time was amiss for drinking, to his mind: the heat of summer, the cold of winter, the blazing dog-star and the driving tempest, twilight with its cheerful gleam of lamps, mid-day with its sunshine — all suggest reasons for indulging in the cup. Not that we are justified in fancying Alcaeus a mere vulgar toper: he retained -^olian sumptu- ousness in his pleasures, and raised the art of drinking to an aesthetic attitude. ^^ Alcaeus composed in the ^olic dialect; for the reason, it is said, that it was more familiar to his hearers. After his death his poems were collected and divided into ten books. Bergk has included the fragments — and one of his compositions has come down to us entire — in his ^Poetae Lyrici Grsci.^ His love of political strife and military glory led him to the composition of a class of poems which the ancients called < Stasiotica * (Songs of Sedition). To this class belong his descriptions of the furnishing of his palace, and many of the fragments preserved to us. Besides those martial poems, he composed hymns to the gods, and love and convivial songs. His verses are subjective and impassioned. They are outbursts of the poet's own feeling, his own peculiar expression toward the world in which he lived; and it is this quality that gave them their strength and their celebrity. His metres were lively, and the care which he expended upon his strophes has led to the naming of one metre the < Alcaic* Horace testifies (Odes ii. 13, ii. 26, etc.), to the power of his master. The first selection following is a fragment from his < Stasiotica.* It is a description of the splendor of his palace before *the work of war began.* THE PALACE FROM roof to roof the spacious palace halls Glitter with war's array; With burnished metal clad, the lofty walls Beam like the bright noonday. There white-plumed helmets hang from many a nail. Above, in threatening row; Steel-garnished tunics and broad coats of mail Spread o'er the space below. ALC^US 271 Chalcidian blades enow, and belts are here. Greaves and emblazoned shields; Well-tried protectors from the hostile spear. On other battlefields. With these good helps our work of war's begun. With these our victory must be won. Translation of Colonel Mure. A BANQUET SONG THE rain of Zeus descends, and from high heaven A storm is driven: And on the running water-brooks the cold Lays icy hold; Then up: beat down the winter; make the fire Blaze high and higher; Mix wine as sweet as honey of the bee Abundantly ; Then drink with comfortable wool around Your temples bound. We must not yield our hearts to woe, or wear With wasting care; For gfrief will profit us no whit, my friend. Nor nothing mend; But this is our best medicine, with wine fraught To cast out thought. Translation of J. A. Syraonds. AN INVITATION . WHY wait we for the torches' lights? Now let us drink while day invites. In mighty flagons hither bring The deep-red blood of many a vine. That we may largely quaff, and sing The praises of the god of wine. The son of Jove and Semele. Who gave the jocund grape to be A sweet oblivion to our woes. Fill, fill the goblet — one and two: Let every brimmer, as it flows. In sportive chase, the last pursue. Translation of Sir William Jones. 2 72 ALC^US THE STORM NOW here, now there, the wild waves sweep, Whilst we, betwixt them o'er the deep, In shatter'd tempest-beaten bark, With laboring ropes are onward driven, The billows dashing o'er our dark Upheaved deck — in tatters riven Our sails — whose yawning rents between The raging sea and sky are seen. Loose from their hold our anchors burst, And then the third, the fatal wave Comes rolling onward like the first, And doubles all our toil to save. Translation of Sir William Jones. THE POOR FISHERMAN THE fisher Diotimus had, at sea And shore, the same abode of poverty — His trusty boat; — and when his days were spent. Therein self-rowed to ruthless Dis he went; For that, which did through life his woes beguile. Supplied the old man with a funeral pile. Translation of Sir William Jones. THE STATE WHAT constitutes a State ? Not high-raised battlement, or labored mound. Thick wall or moated gate; Not cities fair, with spires and turrets crown'd; No: — Men, high-minded men. With powers as far above dull brutes endued In forest, brake or den. As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude: — Men who their duties know. But know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain; Prevent the long-aimed blow, And crush the tyrant, while they rend the chain. Translation of Sir William JoneSc BALTAZAR DE ALCAZAR ^73 POVERTY THE worst of ills, and hardest to endure, Past hope, past cure. Is Penury, who, with her sister-mate Disorder, soon brings down the loftiest state, And makes it desolate. This truth the sage of Sparta told, Aristodemus old, — "Wealth makes the man.** On him that's poor. Proud worth looks down, and honor shuts the door. Translation of Sir William Jones. BALTAZAR DE ALCAZAR (1530?-! 606) [LTHOUGH little may be realized now of Alcazar's shadowy per< sonality, there is no doubt that in his own century he was widely read. Born of a very respectable family in Seville, either in 1530 or 1531. he first appears as entering the Spanish navy, and participating in several battles on the war galleys of the Mar- quis of Santa Cruz. It is known that for about twenty years he was alcalde or mayor at the Molares on the outskirts of Utrera, — an important local functionary, a practical man interested in public affairs. But, on the whole, his seems to have been a strongly artistic nature; for he was a musician of repute, skillful too at painting, and above all a poet. As master and model in metrical composition he chose Martial, and in his epigrammatic turn he is akin to the great Latin poet. He was fond of experimenting in Latin lyrical forms, and wrote many madrigals and sonnets. They are full of vigorous thought and bright satire, of playful malice and epicurean joy in life, and have always won the admiration of his fellow-poets. As has been said, they show a fine taste, quite in advance of the age. Cervantes, his greater contemporary, acknowledged his power with cordial praise in the Canto de Caliope. The * witty Andalusian" did not write voluminously. Some of his poems still remain in manuscript only. Of the rest, comprised in one small volume, perhaps the best known are ^ The Jovial Supper, * : by permission of Houghton, MiflSin and Company THE JOVIAL SUPPER IN Jaen, where I reside. Lives Don Lopez de Sosa; And I will tell thee, Isabel, a thing The most daring that thou hast heard of him. baltAzar de alcazar 375 This gentleman had A Portuguese serving man . . . However, if it appears well to you, Isabel, Let us first take supper. We have the table ready laid, As we have to sup together; The wine-cups at their stations Are only wanting to begin the feast. Let us commence with new, light wine, And cast upon it benediction; I consider it a matter of devotion To sign with cross that which I drink. Be it or not a modern invention, By the living God I do not know; But most exquisite was The invention of the tavern. Because, I arrive thirsty there, I ask for new-made wine. They mix it, give it to me, I drink, I pay for it, and depart contented. That, Isabel, is praise of itself. It is not necessary to laud it. I have only one fault to find with it. That is — it is finished with too much haste. But say, dost thou not adore and prize The illustrious and rich black pudding? How the rogue tickles! It must contain spices. How it is stuffed with pine nuts! But listen to a subtle hint. You did not put a lamp there ? How is it that I appear to see two ? But these are foolish questions, Already know I what it must be: It is by this black draught That the number of lamps accumulates. [The several courses are ended, and the jovial diner resolves to finish his story.] And now, Isabel, as we have supped So well, and with so much enjoyment. 2^6 ALCIPHRON It appears to be but right To return to the promised tale. But thou must know, Sister Isabel, That the Portuguese fell sick . . Eleven o'clock strikes, I go to sleep. Wait for the morrow. ALCIPHRON (Second Century A. D.) BY HARRY THURSTON PECK [N THE history of Greek prose fiction the possibilities of the epistolary form were first developed by the Athenian teacher of rhetoric, Alciphron, of whose life and personality noth- ing is known except that he lived in the second century A. D., — a contemporary of the great satirical genius Lucian. Of his writings we now possess only a collection of imaginary letters, one hundred and eighteen in number, arranged in three books. Their value depends partly upon the curious and interesting pictures given in them of the life of the post-Alexandrine period, especially of the low life, and partly upon the fact that they are the first successful attempts at character-drawing to be found in the history of Greek prose fiction. They form a connecting link between the novel of pure incident and adventure, and the more fully developed novel which combines incident and adventure with the delineation of char- acter and the study of motive. The use of the epistolary form in fictitious composition did not, to be sure, originate with Alciphron,- for we find earlier instances in the imaginary love-letters composed in verse by the Roman poet, Ovid, under the names of famous women of early legend, such as those of CEnone to Paris (which suggested a beautiful poem of Tennyson's), Medea to Jason, and many others. In these one finds keen insight into character, espe- cially feminine character, together with much that is exquisite in fancy and tender in expression. But it is to Alciphron that we owe the adaptation of this form of composition to prose fiction, and its employment in a far wider range of psychological and social obser- vation. The life whose details are given us by Alciphron is the life of contemporary Athens in the persons of its easy-going population. The writers whose letters we are supposed to- read in reading Alciphron are peasants, fishermen, parasites, men-about-town, and ALCIPHRON 277 courtesans. The language of the letters is neat, pointed, and appro priate to the person who in each case is supposed to be the writer; and the details are managed with considerable art. Alciphron effaces all impression of his own personality, and is lost in the characters who for the time being occupy his pages. One reads the letters as he would read a genuine correspondence. The illusion is perfect, and we feel that we are for the moment in the Athens of the third century before Christ; that we are strolling in its streets, visiting its shops, its courts, and its temples, and that we are getting a whiff of the ^gean, mingled with the less savory odors of the markets and of the wine-shops. We stroll about the city elbowing our way through the throng of boatmen, merchants, and hucksters. Here a barber stands outside his shop and solicits custom ; there an old usurer with pimply face sits bending over his accounts in a dingy little office; at the corner of the street a crowd encircles some Cheap Jack who is showing off his juggling tricks at a small three-legged table, making sea-shells vanish out of sight and then taking them from his mouth. Drunken soldiers pass and repass, talking bois- terously of their bouts and brawls, of their drills and punishments, and the latest news of their barracks, and forming a striking contrast to the philosopher, who, in coarse robes, moves with supercilious look and an affectation of deep thought, in silence amid the crowd that jostles him. The scene is vivid, striking, realistic. Many of the letters are from women ; and in these, especially, Alciphron reveals the daily life of the Athenians. We see the demi- monde at their toilet, with their mirrors, their powders, their enamels and rouge-pots, their brushes and pincers, and all the thousand and one accessories. Acquaintances come in to make a morning call, and we hear their chatter, — Thais and Megara and Bacchis, Hermione and Myrrha. They nibble cakes, drink sweet wine, gossip about their respective lovers, hum the latest songs, and enjoy themselves with perfect abandon. Again we see them at their evening rendezvous, at the banquets where philosophers, poets, sophists, painters, artists of every sort, — in fact, the whole Bohemia of Athens, — gather round them. We get hints of all the stages of the revel, from the sparkling wit and the jolly good- fellowship of the early evening, to the sodden disgust that comes with daybreak when the lamps are poisoning the fetid air and the remnants of the feast are stale. We are not to look upon the letters of Alciphron as embodying a literary unity. He did not attempt to write one single symmetrical epistolary romance; but the individual letters are usually slight sketches of character carelessly gathered together, and deriving their greatest charm from their apparent spontaneity and artlessness. ALCIPHRON Many of them are, to be sure, unpleasantly cynical, and depict the baser side of human nature; others, in their realism, are essentially commonplace; but some are very prettily expressed, and show a brighter side to the picture of contemporary life. Those especially which are supposed to pass between Menander, the famous comic poet, and his mistress Glycera, form a pleasing contrast to the greed and cynicism of much that one finds in the first book of the epistles; they are true love-letters, and are untainted by the slightest sug- gestion of the mercenary spirit or the veiled coarseness that makes so many of the others unpleasant reading. One letter (i. 6) is interesting as containing the first allusion found in literature to the familiar story of Phryne before the judges, which is more fully told in Athenasus. The imaginary letter was destined to play an important part in the subsequent history of literature. Alciphron was copied by Aristaenetus, who lived in the fifth century of our era, and whose letters have been often imitated in modern times, and by Theophy- lactus, who lived in the seventh century. In modern English fiction the epistolary form has been most successfully employed by Rich- ardson, Fanny Burney, and, in another genre, by Wilkie Collins. The standard editions of Alciphron are those of Seller (Leipzig, 1856) and of Hercher (Paris, 1873), the latter containing the Greek text with a parallel version in Latin. The letters have not yet been translated into English. The reader may refer to the chapter on Alciphron in the recently published work of Salverte, i. 36. THE PLEASURES OF ATHENS EUTHYDICUS TO EPIPHANIO BY ALL the gods and demons, I beg you, dear mother, to leave your rocks and fields in the country, and before you die, discover what beautiful things there are in town. Just think what you are losing, — the Haloan Festival and the Apaturian Festival, and the Great Festival of Bacchus, and especially the Thesmophorian Festival, which is now going on. If you would only hurry up, and get here to-morrow morning before it is day- light, you would be able to take part in the affair with the other Athenian women. Do come, and don't put it off, if you have any regard for my happiness and my brothers'; for it's an awful thing to die without having any knowledge of the city. That's the life of an ox; and one that is altogether unreasonable. Please excuse me, mother, for speaking so freely for your own good. After all, one ought to speak plainly with everybody, and espe^ cially with those who are themselves plain speakers. From the iii. 39. 28o ' ALCIPHRON FROM AN ANXIOUS MOTHER PHYLLIS TO THRASONIDES IF YOU only would put up with the country and be sensible, and do as the rest of us do, my dear Thrasonides, you would offer ivy and laurel and myrtle and flowers to the gods at the proper time; and to us, your parents, you would give wheat and wine and a milk-pail full of the new goat's-milk. But as things are, you despise the country and farming, and are fond only of the helmet-plumes and the shield, just as if you were an Acamanian or a Malian soldier. Don't keep on in this way, my son; but come back to us and take up this peaceful life of ours again (for farming is perfectly safe and free from any danger, and doesn't require bands of soldiers and strategy and squad- rons), and be the stay of our old age, preferring a safe life to a risky one. From the iii. i6. FROM A CURIOUS YOUTH PHILOCOMUS TO THESTYLUS SINCE I have never yet been to town, and really don't know at all what the thing is that they call a city, I am awfully anx- ious to see this strange sight, — men living all in one place, — and to learn about the other points in which a city differs from the country. Consequently, if you have any reason for going to town, do come and take me with you. As a matter of fact, I am sure there are lots of things I ought to know, now that my beard is beginning to sprout; and who is so able to show me the city as yourself, who are all the time going back and forth to the town ? From the iii. 31. FROM A PROFESSIONAL DINER-OUT CAPNOSPHRANTES TO ARISTOMACHUS I SHOULD like to ask my evil genius, who drew me by lot as his own particular charge, why he is so malignant and so cruel as to keep me in everlasting poverty; for if no one happens to invite me to dinner I have to live on greens, and to eat acorns and to fill my stomach with water from the hydrant. Now, as ALCIPHRON 281 long as my body was able to put up with this sort of thing, and my time of life was such as made it proper for me to bear it, I could get along with them fairly well; but now that my hair is growing gray, and the only outlook I have is in the direction of old age, what on earth am I going to do ? I shall really have to get a rope and hang myself unless my luck changes. However, even if fortune remains as it is, I shan't string myself up before I have at least one square meal; for before very long, the wed- ding of Charitus and Leocritis, which is going to be a famous affair, will come off, to which there isn't a doubt that I shall be invited, — either to the wedding itself or to the banquet after- ward. It's lucky that weddings need the jokes of brisk fellows like myself, and that without us they would be as dull as gather- ings of pigs rather than of human beings! From the iii. 49. P UNLUCKY LUCK CHYTROLICTES TO PATELLOCHARON ERHAPS you would like to know why I am complaining so. and how I got my head broken, and why I'm going around with my clothes in tatters. The fact is I swept the board at gambling: but I wish I hadn't; for what's the sense in a feeble fellow like me running up against a lot of stout young men ? You see, after I scooped in all the money they put up, and they hadn't a cent left, they all jumped on my neck, and some of them punched me, and some of them stoned me, and some of them tore my clothes off my back. All the same, I hung on to the money as hard as I could, because I would rather die than give up anything of theirs I had got hold of; and so I held out bravely for quite a while, not giving in when they struck me, or even when they bent my fingers back. In fact, I was like some Spartan who lets himself be whipped as a test of his endurance: but unfortunately it wasn't at Sparta that I was doing this thing, but at Athens, and with the toughest sort of an Athenian gam- bling crowd; and so at last, when actually fainting, I had to let the rufhans rob me. They went through my pockets, and after they had taken everything they could find, they skipped. After all, I've come to the conclusion that it's better to live without money than to die with a pocket full of it. From the ^Epistolae,* iii. 54. 282 ALCMAN (Seventh Century B. C. ) 3CCORDING to legend, this illustrious Grecian lyric poet was born in Lydia, and taken to Sparta as a slave when very young, but emancipated by his master on the discovery of his poetic genius. He flourished probably between 670 and 630, dur- ing the peace following the Second Messenian War, It was that remarkable period in which the Spartans were gathering poets and musicians from the outer world of liberal accomplishment to educate their children; for the Dorians thought it beneath the dignity of a Dorian citizen to practice these things themselves. His poetic remains indicate a social freedom at this period hardly in keeping with the Spartan rigor alleged to have been practiced without break from the ancient time of Lycurgus; perhaps this com- munal asceticism was really a later growth, when the camp of mili- tant slave-holders saw their fibre weakening under the art and luxury they had introduced. He boasts of his epicurean appetite; with evident truthfulness, as a considerable number of his extant frag- ments are descriptions of dishes. He would have echoed Sydney Smith's — «Fate cannot harm me — I have dined to-day. » In a poem descriptive of spring, he laments that the season affords but a scanty stock of his favorite viands. The Alexandrian grammarians put Alcman at the head of the lyric canon; perhaps partly because they thought him the most ancient, but he was certainly much esteemed in classic times, ^lian says his songs were sung at the first performance of the gymnopasdia at Sparta in 665 B. C, and often afterward. Much of his poetry was erotic; but he wrote also hymns to the gods, and ethical and philo- sophic pieces. His ^Parthenia,^ which form a distinct division of his writings, were songs sung at public festivals by, and in honor of, the performing chorus of virgins. The subjects were either religious or erotic. His proverbial wisdom, and the forms of verse which he often chose, are reputed to have been like Pindar's. He said of him- self that he sang like the birds, — that is, was self-taught. He wrote in the broad Spartan dialect with a mixture of the uEolic, and in various metres. One form of hexameter which he invented was called Alcmanic after him. His poems were compre- hended in six books. The scanty fragments which have survived are included in Bergk's ^Poetae Lyrici Graeci^ (1878). The longest was found in 1855 by M. Mariette, in a tomb near the second pyramid. LOUISA MAY ALCOTT 283 It is a papyrus fragment of three pages, containing a part of his hymn to the Dioscuri, much mutilated and difficult to decipher. His descriptive passages are believed to have been his best. The best known and most admired of his fragments is his beautiful description of night, which has been often imitated and paraphrased. NIGHT OVER the drowsy earth still night prevails; Calm sleep the mountain tops and shady vales, The rugged cliffs and hollow glens; The cattle on the hill. Deep in the sea. The countless finny race and monster brood Tranquil repose. Even the busy bee Forgets her daily toil. The silent wood No more with noisy hum of insect rings; And all the feathered tribes, by gentle sleep subdued, Roost in the glade, and hang their drooping wings. Translation by Colonel Mure. LOUISA MAY ALCOTT (1832-1888) fouiSA May Alcott, daughter of Amos Bronson and Abigail (May) Alcott, and the second of the four sisters whom she was afterward to make famous in < Little Women,* was born in Germantown, Pennsylvania, November 29th, 1832, her father's thirty-third birthday. On his side, she was descended from good Connecticut stock; and on her mother's, from the Mays and Quincys of Massachusetts, and from Judge Samuel Sewall, who has left in his diary as graphic a picture of the New England home-life of two hundred years ago, as his granddaughter of the fifth generation did of that of her own time. At the time of Louisa Alcott's birth her father had charge of a school in Ger- mantown; but within two years he moved to Boston with his family, and put into practice methods of teaching so far in advance of his time that they were unsuccessful. From 1840, the home of the Alcott family was in Concord, Massachusetts, with the Louisa M. Alcott. 284 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT exception of a short time spent in a community on a farm in a neighboring town, and the years from 1848 to 1857 in Boston. At seventeen, Louisa's struggle with life began. She wrote a play, con- tributed sensational stories to weekly papers, tried teaching, sewing. — even going out to service, — and would have become an actress but for an accident. What she wrote of her mother is as true of herself, <* She always did what came to her in the way of duty or charity, and let pride, taste, and comfort suffer for love's sake.** Her first book, ^Flower Fables,* a collection of fairy tales which she had written at sixteen for the children of Ralph Waldo Emerson, some other little friends, and her younger sisters, was printed in 1855 and was well received. From this time until 1863 she wrote many stories, but few that she afterward thought worthy of being re- printed. Her best work from 1860 to 1863 is in the Atlantic Monthly, indexed under her name ; and the most carefully finished of her few poems, ^ Thoreau's Flute, * appeared in that magazine in September, 1863. After six weeks' experience in the winter of 1862-63 ^.s a hospital nurse in Washington, she wrote for the Commonwealth, a Boston weekly paper, a series of letters which soon appeared in book form as ^Hospital Sketches.* Miss Alcott says of them, < or Christie in that a woman carl support herself and her family without losing caste or self-respect. Her stories of the comradeship of New England boys and girls in school or play have made her a popular author in countries where even brothers and sisters see little of each other. The haste and lack of care in her books are the result of writing under pressure for money to support the family, to whom she gave the best years of her life. As a little girl once said of her in a school essay, ^*I like all Miss Alcott's books; but what I like best in them is the author herself. * The reader is referred to *• Louisa May Alcott : Her Life, Letters, and Journals, * edited by Ednah D. Cheney, published in 1889. THE NIGHT WARD From < Hospital Sketches > BEING fond of the night side of nature, I was soon promoted to the post of night nurse, with every facility for indulging in my favorite pastime of "owling.* My colleague, a black-eyed widow, relieved me at dawn, we two taking care of the ward between us, like regular nurses, turn and turn about. I usually found my boys in the jolliest state of mind their con- dition allowed; for it was a known fact that Nurse Periwinkle objected to blue devils, and entertained a belief that he who laughed most was surest of recovery. At the beginning of my reign, dumps and dismals prevailed; the nurses looked anxious and tired, the men gloomy or sad ; and a general " Hark-from- the -tombs-a-doleful- sound * style of conversation seemed to be the fashion: a state of things which caused one coming from a merry, social New England town, to feel as if she had got into an exhausted receiver; and the instinct of self-preservation, to say nothing of a philanthropic desire to serve the race, caused a speedy change in Ward No. i. 286 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT More flattering than the most gracefully turned compliment, more grateful than the most admiring glance, was the sight of those rows of faces, all strange to me a little while ago, now lighting up with smiles of welcome as I came among them, enjoying that moment heartily, with a womanly pride in their regard, a motherly affection for them all. The evenings were spent in reading aloud, writing letters, waiting on and amusing the men, going the rounds with Dr. P as he made his second daily survey, dressing my dozen wounds afresh, giving last doses, and making them cozy for the long hours to come, till the nine o'clock bell rang, the gas was turned down, the day nurses went off duty, the night watch came on, and my nocturnal adventures began. My ward was now divided into three rooms; and under favor of the matron, I had managed to sort out the patients in such a way that I had what I called my *^ duty room, *^ my *^ pleasure room,** and my ^* pathetic room,** and worked for each in a different way. One I visited armed with a dressing-tray full of rollers, plasters, and pins; another, with books, flowers, games, and gossip; a third, with teapots, lullabies, consolation, and some- times a shroud. Wherever the sickest or most helpless man chanced to be, there I held my watch, often visiting the other rooms to see that the general watchman of the ward did his duty by the fires and the wounds, the latter needing constant wetting. Not only on this account did I meander, but also to get fresher air than the close rooms afforded; for owing to the stupidity of that myste- rious ** somebody ** who does all the damage in the world, the windows had been carefully nailed down above, and the lower sashes could only be raised in the mildest weather, for the men lay just below. I had suggested a summary smashing of a few panes here and there, when frequent appeals to headquarters had proved unavailing and daily orders to lazy attendants had come to nothing. No one seconded the motion, however, and the nails were far beyond my reach; for though belonging to the sister- hood of ^'ministering angels,** I had no wings, and might as well have asked for a suspension bridge as a pair of steps in that charitable chaos. One of the harmless ghosts who bore me company during the haunted hours was Dan, the watchman, whom I regarded with a certain awe; for though so much together, I never fairly saw his LOUISA MAY ALCOTT 287 tace, and but for his legs should never have recognized him, as we seldom met by day. These legs were remarkable, as was his whole figure: for his body was short, rotund, and done up in a big jacket and muffler; his beard hid the lower part of his face, his hat-brim the upper, and all I ever discovered was a pair of sleepy eyes and a very mild voice. But the legs! — very long, very thin, very crooked and feeble, looking like gray sausages in their tight coverings, and finished off with a pair of expansive green cloth shoes, very like Chinese junks with the sails down. This figure, gliding noiselessly about the dimly lighted rooms, was strongly suggestive of the spirit of a beer-barrel mounted on corkscrews, haunting the old hotel in search of its lost mates, emptied and staved in long ago. Another goblin who frequently appeared to me was the attend- ant of *^the pathetic room,^* who, being a faithful soul, was often up to tend two or three men, weak and wandering as babies, after the fever had gone. The amiable creature beguiled the watches of the night by brewing jorums of a fearful beverage which he called coffee, and insisted on sharing with me; coming in with a great bowl of something like mud soup, scalding hot, gfuiltless of cream, rich in an all-pervading flavor of molasses, scorch, and tin pot. Even my constitutionals in the chilly halls possessed a certain charm, for the house was never still. Sentinels tramped round it all night long, their muskets glittering in the wintry moon- light as they walked, or stood before the doors straight and silent as figures of stone, causing one to conjure up romantic visions of guarded forts, sudden surprises, and daring deeds; for in these war times the humdrum life of Yankeedom has vanished, and the most prosaic feel some thrill of that excitement which stirs the Nation's heart, and makes its capital a camp of hospi- tals. "Wandering up and down these lower halls I often heard cries from above, steps hurrying to and fro, saw surgeons passing up, or men coming down carrying a stretcher, where lay a long white figure whose face was shrouded, and whose fight was done. Sometimes I stopped to watch the passers in the street, the moonlight shining on the spire opposite, or the gleam of some vessel floating, like a white-winged sea-gull, down the broad Po- tomac, whose fullest flow can never wash away the red stain of the land. 288 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT AMY'S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION From < Little Women > " ^T^HAT boy is a perfect Cyclops, isn't he ? ** said Amy one day, I 3.S Laurie clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed. * How dare you say so, when he's got both his eyes ? and very handsome ones they are, too," cried Jo, who resented any slight- ing remarks about her friend, *I didn't say anything about his eyes; and I don't see why you need fire up when I admire his riding.* <*Oh, my goodness! that little goose means a centaur, and she called him a Cyclops,* exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter. "You needn't be so rude; it's only a 4apse of lingy,* as Mr. Davis says, * retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin. " I just wish I had a little of the money Laurie spends on that horse,* she added, as if to herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear. " Why ? * asked Meg, kindly, for Jo had gone off in another laugh at Amy's second blunder. <*I need it so much: I'm dreadfully in debt, and it won't be my turn to have the rag-money for a month.* * In debt, Amy : what do you mean ? * and Meg looked sober. *Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes; and I can't pay them, you know, till I have money, for Marmee forbids my hav- ing anything charged at the shop.* * Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion now ? It used to be pricking bits of rubber to make balls ; * and Meg tried to keep her countenance. Amy looked so grave and important. "Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to be thought mean, you must do it too. It's nothing but limes now, for every one is sucking them in their desks in school-time, and trading them off for pencils, bead-rings, paper dolls, or something else, at recess. If one girl likes another, she gives her a lime; if she's mad with her, she eats one before her face, and don't offer even a suck. They treat by turns; and I've had ever so many, but haven't returned them, and I ought, for they are debts of honor, you know.* " How much will pay them off, and restore your credit ? * asked Meg, taking out her purse. "A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a treat for you. Don't you like limes ? * LOUISA MAY ALCOTT 289 "Not much; you may have my share. Here's the money: make it last as long as you can, for it isn't very plenty, you know. " *0h, thank you! it must be so nice to have pocket-money. I'll have a grand feast, for I haven't tasted a lime this week. I felt delicate about taking any, as I couldn't return them, and' I'm actually suffering for one.* Next day Amy was rather late at school; but could not resist the temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper parcel before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk. During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy March had got twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the way), and was going to treat, circulated through her **set/^ and the attentions of her friends became quite overwhelming. Katy Brown invited her to her next party on the spot; Mary Kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess; and Jenny Snow, a satirical young lady who had basely twitted Amy upon her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet, and offered to furnish answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten Miss Snow's cutting remarks about " some persons whose noses were not too flat to smell other people's limes, and stuck-up people who were not too proud to ask for them"; and she instantly crushed *that Snow girl's" hopes by the withering tele- gram, ^^ You needn't be so polite all of a sudden, for you won't get any." A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning, and Amy's beautifully drawn maps received praise; which honor to her foe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and caused Miss March to assume the airs of a studious young peacock. But, alas, alas! pride goes before a fall, and the revengeful Snow turned the tables with disastrous success. No sooner had the guest paid the usual stale compliments, and bowed himself out, than Jenny, under pretence of asking an important question, informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March had pickled limes in her desk. Now, Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly vowed to publicly ferule the first person who was found breaking the law. This much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing gum after a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the confiscated novels and newspapers, had suppressed a private post-office, had forbidden distortions of the face, nick- I— 10 290 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT names, and caricatures, and done all that one man could do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in order. Boys are trying enough to human patience, goodness knows! but girls are infinitely more so, especially to nervous gentlemen with tyran- nical tempers, and no more talent for teaching than ^^Dr. Blim- ber.'* Mr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek, Latin, algebra, and ologies of all sorts, so he was called a fine teacher; and manners, morals, feelings, and examples were not considered of any particular importance. It was a most unfortunate moment for denouncing Amy, and Jenny knew it. Mr. Davis had evi- dently taken his coffee too strong that morning; there was an east wind, which always affected his neuralgia, and his pupils had not done him the credit which he felt he deserved; therefore, to use the expressive if not elegant language of a school-girl, ^^he was as nervous as a witch, and as cross as a bear,*^ The word "limes** was like fire to powder: his yellow face flushed, and he rapped on his desk with an energy which made Jenny skip to her seat with unusual rapidity. " Young ladies, attention, if you please ! " At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black, gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance. *Miss March, come to the desk.** Amy rose to comply with outward composure; but a secret fear oppressed her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience. " Bring with you the limes you have in your desk, ** was the unexpected command which arrested her before she got out of her seat. * Don't take all,** whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great presence of mind. Amy hastily shook out half a dozen, and laid the rest down before Mr. Davis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart would relent when that delicious perfume met his nose. Unfor- tunately, Mr. Davis particularly detested the odor of the fashion- able pickle, and disgust added to his wrath. « Is that all ? ** "Not quite,** stammered Amy. " Bring the rest, immediately. ** With a despairing glance at her set she obeyed. " You are sure there are no more ? ** " I never lie, sir. ** LOUISA MAY ALCOTT . 29 1 *So I see. Now take these disgusting things, two by two, and throw them out of the window.** There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust as the last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing lips. Scarlet with shame and anger, Amy went to and fro twelve mortal times; and as each doomed couple, looking, oh, so plump and juicy! fell from her reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed the anguish of the girls, for it told them that their feast was being exulted over by the little Irish chil- dren, who were their sworn foes. This — this was too much; all flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexorable Davis, and one passionate lime-lover burst into tears. As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a por- tentous "hem,* and said, in his most impressive manner: — "Young ladies, you remember what I said to you a week ago. I am sorry this has happened; but I never allow my rules to be infringed, and I fiever break my word. Miss March, hold out your hand.** Amy started, and put both hanc^s behind her, turning on him an imploring look, which pleaded for her better than the words she could not utter. She was rather a favorite with "old Davis," as of course he was called, and it's my private belief that he would have broken his word if the indignation of one irrepressible young lady had not found vent in a hiss. That hiss, faint as it was, irritated the irascible gentleman, and sealed the culprit's fate. " Your hand. Miss March ! ** was the only answer her mute appeal received; and, too proud to cry or beseech. Amy set her teeth, threw back her head defiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling blows on her little palm. They were neither many nor heavy, but that made no difference to her. For the first time in her life she had been struck; and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her down. "You will now stand on the platform till recess,** said Mr. Davis, resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun. That was dreadful. It would have been bad enough to go to her seat and see the pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied one?, of her few enemies; but to face the whole school with that shame fresh upon her seemed impossible, and for a second she felt as if she could only drop down where she stood, and break her heart with crying. A bitter sense of wrong, and the thought of Jenny Snow, helped her to bear it; and taking the ignominious 292 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT place, she fixed her eyes on the stove-funnel above what now seemed a sea of faces, and stood there so motionless and white, that the girls found it very hard to study, with that pathetic little figure before them. During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensi- tive little girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot. To others it might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it was a hard experience; for during the twelve years of her life she had been governed by love alone, and a blow of that sort had never touched her before. The smart of her hand, and the ache of her heart, were forgotten in the sting of the thought, — ^* I shall have to tell at home, and they will be so disappointed in me I *' The fifteen minutes seemed an hour; but they came to an end • at last, and the word " Recess I " had never seemed so welcome to her before. "You can go. Miss March,** said Mr. Davis, looking, as he felt, uncomfortable. He did not soon forget the reproachful look Amy gave him, as she went, without a word to any one, straight into the ante-room, snatched her things, and left the place " forever, " as she passion- ately declared to herself. She was in a sad state when she got home; and when the older girls arrived, some time later, an in- dignation meeting was held at once. Mrs. March did not say much, but looked disturbed, and comforted her aflflicted little daughter in her tenderest manner. Meg bathed the insulted hand with glycerine, and tears; Beth felt that even her beloved kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like this, and Jo wrath- fully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay; while Hannah shook her fist at the "villain,'* and pounded potatoes for dinner as if she had him under her pestle. No notice was taken of Amy's flight, except by her mates; but the sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was quite benignant in the afternoon, and also unusually nervous. Just before school closed Jo appeared, wearing a grim expression as she stalked up to the desk and delivered a letter from her mother; then collected Amy's property and departed, carefully scraping the mud from her boots on the door-mat, as if she shook the dust of the place off her feet. " Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you to study a little every day with Beth.** said Mrs. March that LOUISA MAY ALCOTT 293 evening. ** I don't approve ot corporal punishment, especially for gfirls. I dislike Mr. Davis's manner of teaching, and don't think the girls you associate with are doing you any good, so I shall ask your father's advice before I send you anywhere else.* ** That's good! I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old school. It's perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes,* sighed Amy with the air of a martyr. *^ I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved some punishment for disobedience,* was the severe reply, which rather disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy. " Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole school ? * cried Amy. " I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault, * replied her mother; "but I'm not sure that it won't do you more good than a milder method. You are getting to be altogether too conceited and important, my dear, and it is about time you set about correcting it. You have a good many little gifts and virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit spoils the finest genius. There is not much danger that real talent or goodness will be overlooked long; even if it is, the consciousness of possessing and using it well should satisfy one, and the great charm of all power is modesty.* "So it is,* cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a comer with Jo. "I knew a girl once who had a really remarkable talent for music, and she didn't know it; never guessed what sweet' little things she composed when she was alone, and wouldn't have believed it if any one had told her.* "I wish I'd known that nice girl; maybe she would have helped me, I'm so stupid,* said Beth, who stood beside him listening eagerly. "You do know her, and she helps you better than any one else could,* answered Laurie, looking at her with such mis- chievous meaning in his merry eyes, that Beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face in the sofa-cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery. Jo let Laurie win the game, to pay for that praise of her Beth, who could not be prevailed upon to play for them after her compliment. So Laurie did his best and sung delightfully, being in a particularly lively humor, for to the Marches he seldom showed the moody side of his character. When he was 294 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT gone, Amy, who had been pensive all the evening, said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea : — ** Is Laurie an accomplished boy ? ** **Yes; he has had an excellent education, and has much talent; he will make a fine man, if not spoilt by petting,'* replied her mother. *^ And he isn't conceited, is he ? '* asked Amy. " Not in the least ; that is why he is so charming, and we all like him so much.'* *^ I see : it's nice to have accomplishments, and be elegant, but not to show off, or get perked up," said Amy thoughtfully. *^ These things are always seen and felt in a person's manner and conversation, if modestly used; but it is not necessary to display them,'* said Mrs. March. *^ Any more than it's proper to wear all your bonnets, and gowns and ribbons, at once, that folks may know you've got 'em,** added Jo; and the lecture ended in a laugh. THOREAU'S FLUTE From the Atlantic Monthly, September, 1863 WE, SIGHING, said, "Our Pan is dead; His pipe hangs mute beside the river; Around it wistful sunbeams quiver, But Mvtsic's airy voice is fled. Spring mourns as for untimely frost; The bluebird chants a requiem; The willow-blossom waits for him; — The Genius of the wood is lost.** Then from the flute, untouched by hands. There came a low, harmonious breath: << For such as he there is no death ; His life the eternal life commands; Above man's aims his nature rose : The wisdom of a just content Made one small spot a continent, And turned to poetry Life's prose. <^ Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild, Swallow and aster, lake and pine. To him grew human or divine, — Fit mates for this large-hearted child. LOUISA MAY ALCOTT 295 Such homage Nature ne'er forgets, And yearly on the coverlid 'Neath which her darling lieth hid Will write his name in violets. <*To him no vain .egrets belong, Whose soul, that finer instrument. Gave to the world no poor lament. But wood-notes ever sweet and strong. O lonely friend! he still will be A potent presence, though unseen, — Steadfast, sagacious, and serene: Seek not for him, — he is with thee.* A SONG FROM THE SUDS From < Little Women > QUEEN of my tub, I merrily sing, While the white foam rises high; And sturdily wash, and rinse, and wring. And fasten the clothes to dry; Then out in the free fresh air they swing. Under the sunny sky. I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls The stains of the week away, And let water and air by their magic make Ourselves as pure as they; Then on the earth there would be indeed A glorious washing-day! Along the path of a useful life. Will heart's-ease ever bloom; The busy mind has no time to think Of sorrow, or care, or gloom; And anxious thoughts may be swept away. As we busily wield a broom. I am glad a task to me is given. To labor at day by day ; For it brings me health, and strength, and hope. And I cheerfully learn to say, — **Head you may think, Heart you may feel, But Hand you shall work alway!*^ Selections used by permission of Roberts Brothers, Publishers, and John S. P. Alcott 296 ALCUIN (735?-8o4) BY WILLIAM H. CARPENTER Jlcuin, usually called Alcuin of York, came of a patrician family of Northumberland. Neither the date nor the place of his birth is known with definiteness, but he was born about 735 at or near York. As a child he entered the cathedral school recently founded by Egbert, Archbishop of York, and ulti- mately became its most eminent pupil. He was subsequently as- sistant master to Albert, its head; and when ^Elbert succeeded to the archbishopric on the death of Egbert in 766, Alcuin became scholasticus or master of the school. On the death of ^Elbert in 780, Alcuin was placed in charge of the cathedral library, the most famous in Western Europe. In his longest poem, < Versus de Eboracensi Ecclesia' (Poem on the Saints of the Church at York), he has left an important record of his connection with York. This poem, written before he left England, is, like most of his verse, in dactylic hexameters. To a certain extent it follows Virgil as a model, and is partly based on the writings of Bede, partly on his own personal experience. It is not only valuable for its historical bearings, but for its disclosure of the manner and matter of instruc- tion in the schools of the time, and the contents of the great library. As master of the cathedral school, Alcuin acquired name and fame at home and abroad, and was soon the most celebrated teacher in Britain. Before ^66, in company with Albert, he made his first journey to Germany, and may have visited Rome. Earlier than 780 he was again abroad, and at Pavia came under the notice of Charlemagne, who was on his way back from Italy. In 781 Eanbald, the new Archbishop of York, sent Alcuin to Rome to bring back the Archbishop's pallium. At Parma he again met Charlemagne, who invited him to take up his abode at the Prankish court. With the consent of his king and his archbishop he resigned his position at York, and with a few pupils departed for the court at Aachen, in 782. Alcuin's arrival in Germany was the beginning of "a new intel- lectual epoch among the Franks. Learning was at this time in a deplorable state. The older monastic and cathedral schools had been broken up, and the monasteries themselves often unworthily bestowed upon royal favorites. There had been a palace school for rudimentary instruction, but it was wholly inefficient and unimportant. During the years immediately following his arrival, Alcuin zeal- ously labored at his projects of educational reform. First reorganizing ALCUIN 297 the palace school, he afterward undertook a reform of the monasteries and their system of instruction, and the establishment of new schools throughout the kingdom of Charlemagne. At the court school the great king himself, as well as Liutgard the queen, became his pupil. Gisela, Abbess of Chelles, the sister of Charlemagne, came also to him for instruction, as did the Princes Charles, Pepin, and Louis, and the Princesses Rotmd and Gisela. On himself and the others, in accordance with the fashion of the time, Alcuin bestowed fanciful names. He was Flaccus or Albinus, Charlemagne was David, the queen was Ava, and Pepin was Julius. The subjects of instruction in this school, the centre of culture of the kingdom, were first of all, grammar; then arithmetic, astronomy, rhetoric, and dialectic. The king himself studied poetry, astronomy, arithmetic, the writings of the Fathers, and theology proper. It was under the influence of Alcuin that Charlemagne issued in 787 the capitulary that has been called "the first general charter of education for the Middle Ages." It reproves the abbots for their illiteracy, and exhorts them to the study of letters; and although its effect was less than its purpose, it served, with subsequent decrees of the king, to stimu- late learning and literature throughout all Germany. Alcuin's system included, besides the palace school, and the monastic and cathedral schools, which in some instances gave both elementary and superior instruction, all the parish or village ele- mentary schools, whose head was the parish priest. In 790, seeing his plans well established, Alcuin returned to York bearing letters of reconciliation to Offa, King of Mercia, between whom and Charlemagne dissension had arisen. Having accomplished his errand, he went back to the German court in 792. Here his first act was to take a vigorous part in the furious controversy respect- ing the doctrine of Adoptionism. Alcuin not only wrote against the heresy, but brought about its condemnation by the Council of Frankfort, in 794. Two years later, at his own request, he was made Abbot of the Benedictine monastery of St. Martin, at Tours. Not contented with reforming the lax monastic life, he resolved to make Tours a seat of learning. Under his management, it presently became the most renowned school in the kingdom. Especially in the copying of man- uscripts did the brethren excel. Alcuin kept up a vast correspond- ence with Britain as well as with different parts of the Frankish kingdom; and of the two hundred and thirty letters preserved, the greater part belonged to this time. In 799, at Aachen, he held a public disputation on Adoptionism with Felix, Bishop of Urge!, who was wholly vanquished. When the king, in 800, was preparing for that visit to the Papal court which was to end with his coronation as 298 ALCUIN Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, he invited Alcuin to accompany him. But the old man, wearied with many burdens, could not make the journey. By the beginning of 804 he had become much enfeebled. It was his desire, often expressed, to die on the day of Pentecost. His wish was fulfilled, for he died at dawn on the 19th of May. He was buried in the Cloister Church of St. Martin, near the monastery. Alcuin's literary activity was exerted in various directions. Two- thirds of all that he wrote was theological in character. These works are exegetical, like the *■ Commentary on the Gospel of St. John > ; dogmatic, like the < Writings against Felix of Urgel and Elipandus of Toledo,^ his best work of this class; or liturgical and moral, like the < Lives of the Saints.* The other third is made up of the epis- tles, already mentioned; of poems on a great variety of subjects, the principal one being the ^Poem on the Saints of the Church at York>; and of those didactic works which form his principal claim to atten- tion at the present day. His educational treatises are the following: * On Grammar, > *■ On Orthography, > < On Rhetoric and the Virtues, > <0n Dialectics,* < Disputation between the Royal and Most Noble Youth Pepin, and Albinus the Scholastic,* and < On the Calculation of Easter. * The most important of all these writings is his < Gram- mar,* which consists of two parts: the first a dialogue between a teacher and his pupils on philosophy and studies in general; the other a dialogue between a teacher, a young Frank, and a young Saxon, on grammar. These latter, in Alcuin's language, have "but lately rushed upon the thorny thickets of grammatical density.** Grammar begins with the consideration of the letters, the vowels and consonants, the former of which <: by permission of Charles Scribner's Sons 300 ALCUIN DISPUTATION BETWEEN PEPIN, THE MOST NOBLE AND ROYAl YOUTH, AND ALBINUS THE SCHOLASTIC PEPIN — What is writing? Albinus — The treasury of history. Pepin — What is language? Albinus — The herald of the soul. Pepin — What generates language? Albinus — The tongfue. Pepin — What is the tongue? Albinus — A whip of the air. Pepin — What is the air ? Albinus — A maintainer of life. Pepin — What is life ? Albinus — The joy of the happy; the torment of the suffering; a waiting for death. Pepin — What is death ? Albinus — An inevitable ending, a journey into uncertainty; a source of tears for the living; the probation of wills; a waylayei of men. Pepin — What is man ? Albinus — A booty of death; a passing traveler; a stranger on earth. Pepin — What is man like ? Albinus — The fruit of a tree. Pepin — What are the heavens ? Albinus — A rolling ball; an immeasurable vault. Pepin — What is light ? Albinus — The sight of all things. Pepin — What is day? Albinus — The admonisher to labor. Pepin — What is the sun? Albinus — The glory and splendor of the heavens; the attract- ive in nature; the measure of hours; the adornment of day. Pepin — What is the moon ? Albinus — The eye of night; the dispenser of dew; the pre- sager of storms. Pepin — What are the stars? Albinus — A picture on the vault of heaven; the steersmen of ships; the ornament of night. ALCUIN 301 Pepin — What is rain? Albinus — The fertilizer of the earth; the producer of crops. Pepin — What is fog? Albinus — Night in day; the annoyance of eyes. Pepin — What is wind? Albinus — The mover of air; the agitation of water; the dryei of the earth. Pepin — What is the earth? Albinus — The mother of growth; the nourisher of the living; the storehouse of life; the effacer of all. Pepin — What is the sea? Albinus — The path of adventure; the bounds of the earth; the division of lands; the harbor of rivers; the source of rains; a refuge in danger; a pleasure in enjoyment. Pepin — What are rivers? Albinus — A ceaseless motion; a refreshment to the sun; the waters of the earth. Pepin — What is water ? Albinus — The supporter of life; the cleanser of filth. Pepin — What is fire ? Albinus — An excessive heat; the nurse of growing things; the ripener of crops. Pepin — What is cold? Albinus — The trembling of our members. Pepin — What is frost? Albinus — An assailer of plants; the destruction of leaves; a fetter to the earth; a bridger of streams. Pepin — What is snow? Albinus — Dry water. Pepin — What is winter? Albinus — An exile of summer. Pepin — What is spring? Albinus — A painter of the earth Pepin — What is summer ? Albinus — That which brings to the earth a new garment, and ripens the fruit. Pepin — What is autumn? Albinus — The bam of the year. 302 ' ALCUIN A LETTER FROM ALCUIN TO CHARLEMAGNE ("Written in the year 796) ff YOUR Flaccus, in accordance with your entreaty and your 1 gracious kindness, am busied under the shelter of St. Mar- tin's, in bestowing upon many of my pupils the honey of the Holy Scriptures. I am eager that others should drink deep of the old wine of ancient learning; I shall presently begin to nourish still others with the fruits of grammatical ingenuity; and some of them I am eager to enlighten with a knowledge of the order of the stars, that seem painted, as it were, on the dome of some mighty palace. I have become all things to all men (i Cor. i. 22) so that I may train up many to the profession of God's Holy Church and to the glory of your imperial realm, lest the grace of Almighty God in me should be fruitless (i Cor. xv. 10) and your munificent bounty of no avail. But your servant lacks the rarer books of scholastic learning, which in my own country I used to have (thanks to the generous and most devoted care of my teacher and to my own humble endeavors), and I mention it to your Majesty so that, perchance, it may please you who are eagerly concerned about the whole body of learning, to have me dispatch some of our young men to procure for us cer- tain necessary works, and bring with them to France the flowers of England; so that a graceful garden may not exist in York alone, but so that at Tours as well there may be found the blos- soming of Paradise with its abundant fruits; that the south wind, when it comes, may cause the gardens along the River Loire to burst into bloom, and their perfumed airs to stream forth, and finally, that which follows in the Canticle, whence I have drawn this simile, may be brought to pass. . . . (Canticle v. i, 2). Or even this exhortation of the prophet Isaiah, which urges us to acquire wisdom: — < copyright 1895, by Harper and Brothers A DEDICATION TO MY BELOVED WIFE MY EARLIEST written expression of intimate thought or cher- ished fancy was for your eyes only; it was my first approach to your maidenly heart, a mystical wooing, which neglected no resource, near or remote, for the enhancement of its charm, and so involved all other mystery in its own. In you, childhood has been inviolate, never losing its power of leading me by an unspoken invocation to a green field, ever kept fresh by a living fountain, where the Shepherd tends his flock. Now, through a body racked with pain, and sadly broken, still shines this unbroken childhood, teaching me Love's deepest mystery. It is fitting, then, that I should dedicate to you this book touching that mystery. It has been written in the shadow, but illumined by the brightness of an angel's face seen in the dark- ness, so that it has seemed easy and natural for me to find at the thorn's heart a secret and everlasting sweetness far surpass- ing that of the rose itself, which ceases in its own perfection. Whether that angel we have seen shall, for my need and comfort, and for your own longing, hold back his greatest gift, and leave you mine in the earthly ways we know and love, or shall hasten to make the heavenly surprise, the issujs in either event will be a home-coming: if here^ yet already the deeper secret will have been in part disclosed; and if beyond, that secret, fully known, will not betray the fondest hope of loving hearts. Love never denied Death, and Death will not deny Love. From copyright 1895, by Harper and Brothers THE DOVE AND THE SERPENT THE Dove flies, and the Serpent creeps. Yet is the Dove fond, while the Serpent is the emblem of wisdom. Both were in Eden: the cooing, fluttering, winged spirit, loving to descend, companion -like, brooding, following; and the creep- ing thing which had glided into the sunshine of Paradise from the cold bosoms of those nurses of an older world — Pain, and I — 20 300 HENRY Ri. ALDEN Darkness, and Death — himself forgetting these in the warmth and green life of the Garden. And our first parents isinew naught of these as yet unutterable mysteries, any more than they knew that their roses bloomed over a tomb: so that when all animate creatures came to Adam to be named, the meaning of this living allegory which passed before him was in great part hidden, and he saw no sharp line dividing the firmament below from the firmament above; rather he leaned toward the ground, as one does in a garden, seeing how quickly it was fashioned into the climbing trees, into the clean flowers, and into his own shapely frame. It was upon the ground he lay when that deep sleep fell upon him from which he woke to find his mate, lithe as the serpent, yet with the fluttering heart of the dove. As the Dove, though winged for flight, ever descended, so the Serpent, though unable wholly to leave the ground, tried ever to lift himself therefrom, as if to escape some ancient bond. The cool nights revived and nourished his memories of an older time, wherein lay his subtile wisdom, but day by day his aspiring crest grew brighter. The life of Eden became for him oblivion, the light of the sun obscuring and confounding his reminiscence, even as for Adam and Eve this life was Illusion, the visible disguising the invisible, and pleasure veiling pain. In Adam the culture of the ground maintained humility. He was held, moreover, in lowly content by the charm of the woman, who was to him like the earth grown human; and since she was the daughter of Sleep, her love seemed to him restful as the night. Her raven locks were like the mantle of darkness, and her voice had the laughter of streams that lapsed into unseen depths. But Eve had something of the Serpent's unrest, as if she too had come from the Under-world, which she would fain forget, seeking liberation, urged by desire as deep as the abyss she had left behind her, and nourished from roots unfathomably hidden — the roots of the Tree of Life. She thus came to have conversa- tion with the Serpent. In the lengthening days of Eden's one Summer these two were more and more completely enfolded in the Illusion of Light. It was under this spell that, dwelling upon the enticement of fruit good to look at, and pleasant to the taste, the Serpent denied Death, and thought of Good as separate from Evil. ^^Ye shall not surely die, but shall be as the gods, knowing good and HENRY M. ALDEN 307 evil.® So far, in his aspiring day-dream, had the Serpent fared from his old familiar haunts — so far from his old-world wisdom ! A surer omen would have come to Eve had she listened to the plaintive notes of the bewildered Dove that in his downward flutterings had begun to divine what the Serpent had come to forget, and to confess what he had come to deny. For already was beginning to be felt ** the season's difference, ^^ and the grave mystery, without which Paradise itself could not have been, was about to be unveiled, — the background of the picture becoming its foreground. The fond hands plucking the rose had found the thorn. Evil was known as something by itself, apart from Good, and Eden was left behind, as one steps out of infancy. From that hour have the eyes of the children of men been turned from the accursed earth, looking into the blue above, straining their vision for a glimpse of white-robed angels. Yet it was the Serpent that was lifted up in the wilderness; and when He who ** became sin for us '* was being bruised in the heel by the old enemy, the Dove descended upon Him at His baptism. He united the wisdom of the Serpent with the harm- lessness of the Dove. Thus in Him were bound together and reconciled the elements which in human thought had been put asunder. In Him, Evil is overcome of Good, as, in Him, Death is swallowed, up of Life; and with His eyes we see that the robes of angels are white, because they have been washed in blood. From copyright 1895, by Harper and Brothers THE PARABLE OF THE PRODIGAL STANDING at the gate of Birth, it would seem as if it were the vital destination of all things to fly from their source, as if it were the dominant desire of life to enter into limitations. We might mentally represent to ourselves an essence simple and indivisible that denies itself in diversified manifold existence. To us, this side the veil, nay, immeshed in innumerable veils that hide from us the Father's face, this insistence appears to have the stress of urgency, as if the effort of all being, its unceasing travail, were like the beating of the infinite ocean upon the shores of Time; and as if, within the continent of Time, all existence were forever knocking at new gates, seeking, through some as yet untried path of progression, greater complexity, a deeper involvement. All the children seem to be beseeching the Father to divide unto them His living, none willingly abiding in that Father's house. But in reality their will is His will — they fly, and they are driven, like fledglings from the mother-nest. The story of a solar system, or of any synthesis in time, repeats the parable of the Prodigal Son, in its essential features. It is a cosmic parable. The planet is a wanderer {planes), and the individual planet- ary destiny can be accomplished only through flight from its source. After all its prodigality it shall sicken and return. Attributing to the Earth, thus apparently separated from the Sun, some macrocosmic sentience, what must have been her won- dering dream, finding herself at once thrust away and securely HENRY M. ALDEN 3" nelc\ poised betv'iren her flight and her bond, and so swinging into a regular orbit about the Sun, while at the same time, in her rotation, turning to him and away from him — into the light, and into the darkness, forever denying and confessing her lord! Her emotion must have been one of delight, however mingled with a feeling of timorous awe, since her desire could not have been other than one with her destination. Despite the distance and the growing coolness she could feel the kinship still; her pulse, though modulated, was still in rhythm with that of the solar heart, and in her bosom were hidden consubstantial fires. But it was the sense of otherness, of her own distinct individua- tion, that was mainly being nourished, this sense, moreover, being proper to her destiny; therefore, the signs of her likeness to the Sun were more and more being buried from her view; her fires were veiled by a hardening crust, and her opaqueness stood out against his light. She had no regret for all she was surrendering, thinking only of her gain, of being clothed upon with a garment showing ever some new fold of surprising beauty and wonder. If she had remained in the Father's house — like the elder brother in the Parable — then would all that He had have been hers, in nebulous simplicity. But now, holding her revels apart, she seems to sing her own song, and to dream her own beautiful dream, wandering, with a motion wholly hel own, among the gardens of cosmic order and loveliness. She glories in her many veils, which, though they hide from her both her source and her very self, are the media through which the invisible light is broken into multiform illusions that enrich her dream. She beholds the Sun as a far-off, insphered being existing for her, her ministrant bridegroom; and when her face is turned away from him into the night, she beholds innumerable suns, a myriad of archangels, all witnesses of some infinitely remote and central flame — the Spirit of all life. Yet, in the midst of these visible images, she is absorbed in her individual dream, wherein she appears to herself to be the mother of all living. It is proper to her destiny that she should be thus enwrapped in her own distinct action and passion, and refer to herself the appearances of a universe. While all that is not she is what she really is, — necessary, that is, to her full definition, — she, on the other hand, from herself interprets all else. This is the inevitable terrestrial idealism, peculiar to every individuation ili time — the individual thus balancing the universe. 312 . HENRY M. ALDEN ni In reality, the Earth has never left the Sun; apart from him she has no life, any more than has the branch severed from the vine. More truly it may be said that the Sun has never left the Earth. No prodigal can really leave the Father's house, any more than he can leave himself; coming to himself, he feels the Father's arms about him — they have always been there — he is newly appareled, and wears the signet ring of native prestige; he hears the sound of familiar music and dancing, and it may be that the young and beautiful forms mingling with him in this festival are the riotous youths and maidens of his far-country revels, also come to themselves and home, of whom also the Father saith; These were dead and are alive again, they were lost and are found. The starvation and sense of exile had been parts of a troubled dream — a dream which had also had its ecstasy, but had come into a consuming fever, with delirious imaginings of fresh fountains, of shapes drawn from the memory of childhood, and of the cool touch of kindred hands upon the brow. So near is exile to home, misery to divine commiseration — so near are pain and death, desolation and divestiture, to *^a new creature,* and to the kinship involved in all creation and re-creation. Distance in the cosmic order is a standing-apart, which is only another expression of the expansion and abundance of creative life; but at every remove its reflex is nearness, a bond of at- traction, insphering and curving, making orb and orbit. While in space this attraction is diminished — being inversely as the square of the distance — and so there is maintained and empha- sized the appearance of suspension and isolation, yet in time it gains preponderance, contracting sphere and orbit, aging planets and suns, and accumulating destruction, which at the point of annihilation becomes a new creation. This Grand Cycle, which is but a pulsation or breath of the Eternal life, illustrates a truth which is repeated in its least and most minutely divided mo- ment — that birth lies next to death, as water crystallizes at the frfeezing-point, and the plant blossoms at points most remote from the source of nutrition. 313 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH (1837-) POET in verse often becomes a poet in prose also, in com- posing novels; although the novelist may not, and in gen- eral does not, possess the faculty of writing poems. The poet-novelist is apt to put into his prose a good deal of the same charm and the same picturesque choice of phrase and image that characterize his verse; while it does not follow that the novelist who at times writes verse — like George Eliot, for example — succeeds in giving a distinctly poetic quality to prose, or even wishes to do so. Among authors who have displayed peculiar power and won fame in the dual capacity of poet and of prose romancer or novelist, Sir Walter Scott and Victor Hugo no doubt stand pre-eminent; and in Amer- ican literature, Edgar Allan Poe and Oliver Wendell Holmes very strikingly combine these two functions. Another American author who has gained a distinguished position both as a poet and as a writer of prose fiction and essays is Thomas Bailey Aldrich. It is upon his work in the form of verse, perhaps, that Aldrich's chief renown is based; but some of his short stories in especial have contributed much to his popularity, no less than to his repute as a delicate and polished artificer in words. A New Englander, he has infused into some of his poems the true atmosphere of New England, and has given the same light and color of home to his prose, while impart- ing to his productions in both kinds a delightful tinge of the foreign and remote. In addition to his capacities as a poet and a romancer, he is a wit and humorist of sparkling quality. In reading his books one seems also to inhale the perfumes of Arabia and the farther East, blended with the salt sea-breeze and the pine-scented air of his native State, New Hampshire. He was born in the old seaside town of Portsmouth, New Hamp- shire, November nth, 1837; but moved to New York City in 1854, at the age of seventeen. There he remained until 1866; beginning his Thomas B. Aldrich 314 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH work quite early; forming his literary character by reading and ob- servation, by the writing of poems, and by practice and experience of writing prose sketches and articles for journals and periodicals. During this period he entered into associations with the poets Sted- man, Stoddard, and Bayard Taylor, and was more or less in touch with the group that included Walt Whitman, Fitz-James O'Brien, and William Winter. Removing to Boston in January, 1866, he be- came the editor of Every Saturday, and remained in that post until 1874, when he resigned. In 1875 he made a long tour in Europe, plucking the first fruits of foreign travel, which were succeeded by many rich and dainty gatherings from the same source in later years. In the intervals of these wanderings he lived in Boston and Cambridge; occupying for a time James Russell Lowell's hi.storic house of Elmwood, in the semi-rural university city; and then estab- lished a pretty country house at Ponkapog, a few miles west of Boston. This last suggested the title for a charming book of travel papers, *From Ponkapog to Pesth.* In 1881 he was appointed editor of the Atlantic Monthly, and continued to direct that famous magazine for nine years, frequently making short trips to Europe, extending his tours as far as the heart of Russia, and gathering fresh materials for essay or song. Much of his time since giving up the Atlantic editorship has been passed in voyaging, and in 1894-5 he made a journey around the world. From the beginning he struck with quiet certainty the vein that v/as his by nature in poetry; and this has broadened almost contin- ually, yielding richer results, which have been worked out with an increasing refinement of skill. His predilection is for the picturesque; for romance combined with simplicity, purity, and tenderness of feeling, touched by fancy and by occasional lights of humor so reserved and dainty that they never disturb the pictorial harmony. The capacity for unaffected utterance of feeling on matters common to humanity reached a climax in the poem of ^ Baby Bell,* which by its sympathetic and delicate description of a child's advent and death gave the author a claim to the affections of a wide circle ; and this remained for a long time probably the best known among his poems. * Friar Jerome's Beautiful Book ' is another of the earlier favorites. * Spring in New England * has since come to hold high rank both for its vivid and graceful description of the season, for its tender fervor of patriotism, and for its sentiment of reconciliation between North and South. The lines on < Piscataqua River * remain one of the best illustrations of boyhood memories, and have some- thing of Whittier's homely truth. In his longer narrative pieces, * Judith* and ^Wyndham Towers,* cast in the mold of blank- verse idyls, Mr. Aldrich does not seem so much himself as in many of his THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 315 briefer flights. An instinctive dramatic tendency finds outlet in * Pauline Paulovna* and < Mercedes > — the latter of which, a two-act piece in prose, has found representation in the theatre; yet in these, also, he is less eminently successful than in his lyrics and society verse. No American poet has wrought his stanzas with greater faithful- ness to an exacting standard of craftsmanship than Mr. Aldrich, or has known better when to leave a line loosely cast, and when to rein- force it with correction or with a syllable that might seem, to an ear less true, redundant. This gives to his most carefully chiseled pro- ductions an air of spontaneous ease, and has made him eminent as a sonneteer. His sonnet on < Sleep * is one of the finest in the lan- guage. The conciseness and concentrated aptness of his expression also — together with a faculty of bringing into conjunction subtly contrasted thoughts, images, or feelings — has issued happily in short, concentrated pieces like < An Untimely Thought,' < Destiny, > and < Identity, > and in a number of pointed and effective quatrains. With- out overmastering purpose outside of art itself, his is the poetry of luxury rather than of deep passion or conviction; yet, with the fresh- ness of bud and tint in springtime, it still always relates itself effect- ively to human experience. The author's specially American quality, also, though not dominant, comes out clearly in < Unguarded Gates,* and with a differing tone in the plaintive Indian legend of The fame which it gained, in its separate field, was as swift and widespread as that of Hawthorne's *The Gentle Boy' or Bret Harte's < Luck of Roaring Camp.' It is a bright and half-pathetic little parody on human life and affection; or perhaps we should call it a parable symbolizing the power which imagination wields over real life, even in supposedly unimaginative people. The covert smile which it involves, at the importance of human emotions, may be traced to a certain extent in some of Mr. Aldrich's longer and more serious works of fiction: his three novels, < Prudence Palfrey,' < The Queen of Sheba,' and ; with a second volume of short stories entitled * Two Bites at a Cherry. > The character-drawing in his fiction is clear-cut and effective, often sympathetic, and nearly always suffused with an agreeable coloring of humor. There are notes of pathos, too, in some of his tales; and it is the blending of these qualities, through the medium of a lucid and delightful style, that defines his pleasing quality in prose. T DESTINY HREE roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down Each with its loveliness as with a crown, Drooped in a florist's window in a town. The first a lover bought. It lay at rest. Like flower on flower, that night, on Beauty's breast. The second rose, as virginal and fair, Shrunk in the tangles of a harlot's hair. The third, a widow, with new grief made wild. Shut in the icy palm of her dead child. IDENTITY SOMEWHERE — in desolatc wind-swept space ■ In Twilight-land — in No-man's land — Two hurrying Shapes met face to face, And bade each other stand. ^ And who are you ? '^ cried one, agape. Shuddering in the gloaming light. «I know not,* said the second Shape, «I only died last night!* THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH PRESCIENCE 317 THE new moon hung in the sky, the sun was low in the west, And my betrothed and I in the churchyard paused to rest — Happy maiden and lover, dreaming the old dream over: The light winds wandered by, and robins chirped from the nest. And lo! in the meadow-sweet was the grave of a little child. With a crumbling stone at the feet and the ivy running wild — Tangled ivy and clover folding it over and over: Close to my sweetheart's feet was the little mound up-piled. Stricken with nameless fears, she shrank and clung to me, And her eyes were filled with tears for a sorrow I did not see: Lightly the winds were blowing, softly her tears were flowing Tears for the unknown years and a sorrow that was to be! ALEC YEATON'S SON GLOUCESTER, AUGUST, 1720 T HE wind it wailed, the wind it moaned, And the white caps flecked the sea; "An* I would to God," the skipper groanec *1 had not my boy with me!'* Snug in the stem-sheets, little John Laughed as the scud swept by; But the skipper's sunburnt cheek grew wan As he watched the wicked sky. "Would he were at his mother's side'.** And the skipper's eyes were dim. "Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide. What would become of him! "For me — my muscles are as steel, For me let hap what may; I might make shift upon the keel Until the break o' day. "But he, he is so weak and small. So young, scarce learned to stand — O pitying Father of us all, I trust him in thy hand! ?l8 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH *For thou who markest from on high A sparrow's fall — each one! — Siarely, O Lord, thou'lt have an eye On Alec Yeaton's son!>> Then, helm hard-port, right straight he sailed Towards the headland light: The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed. And black, black fell the night. Then burst a storm to make one quail. Though housed from winds and waves — They who could tell about that gale Must rise from watery graves! Sudden it came, as sudden went; Ere half the night was sped. The winds were hushed, the waves were sper" And the stars shone overhead. Now, as the morning mist grew thin, The folk on Gloucester shore Saw a little figure floating in Secure, on a broken oar! Up rose the cry, <d not be angry, ^^ said the bit of paper, piteously; '-^forgive us^ for we love. ** ( " Pardonnez-nous, car nous aimon.= * ) 328 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH Three years went by wearily enough. Antoine had entered the Church, and was already looked upon as a rising man; but his face was pale and his heart leaden, for there was no sweet- ness in life for him. Four years had elapsed, when a letter, covered with out- landish postmarks, was brought to the young priest — a letter from Anglice. She was dying ; — would he forgive her ? Emile, the year previous, had fallen a victim to the fever that raged on the island; and their child, Anglice, was likely to follow him. In pitiful terms she begged Antoine to take charge of the child until she was old enough to enter the convent of the Sacr^- Cceur. The epistle was finished hastily by another hand, inform- ing Antoine of Madame Jardin's death; it also told him that Anglice had been placed on board a vessel shortly to leave the island for some Western port. The letter, delayed by storm and shipwreck, was hardly read and wept over when little Anglice arrived. On beholding her, Antoine uttered a cry of joy and surprise — she was so like the woman he had worshiped. The passion that had been crowded down in his heart broke out and lavished its richness on this child, who was to him not only the Anglice of years ago, but his friend Emile Jardin also. Anglice possessed the wild, strange beauty of her mother — the bending, willowy form, the rich tint of skin, the large trop- ical eyes, that had almost made Antoine's sacred robes a mockery to him. For a month or two Anglice was wildly unhappy in her new home. She talked continually of the bright country where she was bom, the fruits and flowers and blue skies, the tall, fan-like trees, and the streams that went murmuring through them to the sea. Antoine could not pacify her. By and by she ceased to weep, and went about the cottage in a weary, disconsolate way that cut Antoine to the heart. A long-tailed paroquet, which she had brought with her in the ship, walked solemnly behind her from room to room, mutely pining, it seemed, for those heavy orient airs that used to ruffle its brill- iant plumage. Before the year ended, he noticed that the ruddy tinge had faded from her cheek, that her eyes had grown languid, and her slight figure more willowy than ever. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ,20 A physician was consulted. He could discover nothing wrong with the child, except this fading and drooping. He failed to account for that. It was some vague disease of the mind, he said, beyond his skill. So Anglice faded day after day. She seldom left the room now. At last Antoine could not shut out the fact that the child was passing away. He had learned to love her so! ** Dear heart, " he said once, " What is 't ails thee ? ® ** Nothing, mon pere," for so she called him. The winter passed, the balmy spring had come with its mag- nolia blooms and orange blossoms, and Anglice seemed to revive. In her small bamboo chair, on the porch, she swayed to and fro in the fragrant breeze, with a peculiar undulating motion, like a graceful tree. At times something seemed to weigh upon her mind. Antoine observed it, and waited. Finally she spoke. *^Near our house,* said little Anglice — "near our house, on the island, the palm-trees are waving under the blue sky. Oh, how beautiful! I seem to lie beneath them all day long. I am very, very happy. I yearned for them so much that I grew ill — don't you think it was so, mon pere?* " Helas, yes ! ** exclaimed Antoine, suddenly. * Let us hasten to those pleasant islands where the palms are waving.** Anglice smiled. *^ I am going there, mon pere.* A week from that evening the wax candles burned at her feet and forehead, lighting her on the journey. All was over. Now was Antoine's heart empty. Death, like another Emile, had stolen his new Anglice. He had nothing to do but to lay the blighted flower away. Pere Antoine made a shallow grave in his garden, and heaped the fresh brown mold over his idol. In the tranquil spring evenings, the priest was seen sitting by the mound, his finger closed in the unread breviary. The summer broke on that sunny land; and in the cool morn- ing twilight, and after nightfall, Antoine lingered by the grave. He could never be with it enough. One morning he observed a delicate stem, with two curiously shaped emerald leaves, springing up from the centre of the mound. At first he merely noticed it casually; but presently the plant grew so tall, and was so strangely unlike anything he had ever seen before, that he examined it with care. 33° THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH How Straight and graceful and exquisite it was! When it swung to and fro with the summer wind, in the twilight, it seemed to Antoine as if little Anglice were standing there in the garden. The days stole by, and Antoine tended the fragile shoot, wondering what manner of blossom it would unfold, white, or scarlet, or golden. One Sunday, a stranger, with a bronzed, weather-beaten face like a sailor's, leaned over the garden rail, and said to him, "What a fine young date-palm you have there, sir!** " Mon Dieu ! ** cried Pere Antoine starting, <* and is it a palm ? '* "Yes, indeed,** returned the man. "I didn't reckon the tree would flourish in this latitude.** " Ah, mon Dieu ! ** was all the priest could say aloud ; but he murmured to himself, "Bon Dieu, vous m'avez donne cela!** If Pere Antoine loved the tree before, he worshiped it now. He watered it, and nurtured it, and could have clasped it in his arms. Here were Emile and Anglice and the child, all in one! The years glided away, and the date-palm and the priest grew together — only one became vigorous and the other feeble. Pfere Antoine had long passed the meridian of life. The tree was in its youth. It no longer stood in an isolated garden; for pretentious brick and stucco houses had clustered about Antoine 's cottage. They looked down scowling on the humble thatched roof. The city was edging up, trying to crowd him off his land. But he clung to it like lichen and refused to sell. Speculators piled gold on his doorsteps, and he laughed at them. Sometimes he was hungry, and cold, and thinly clad; but he laughed none the less. " Get thee behind me, Satan ! ** said the old priest's smile. Pere Antoine was very old now, scarcely able to walk; but he could sit under the pliant, caressing leaves of his palm, lov- ing it like an Arab; and there he sat till the grimmest of specu- lators came to him. But even in death Pere Antoine was faithful to his trust: the owner of that land loses it if he harm the date-tree. And there it stands in the narrow, dingy street, a beautiful, dreamy stranger, an exquisite foreign lady whose grace is a joy to the eye, the incense of whose breath makes the air enamored. May the hand wither that touches her ungently! *^ Because it grew from the heart of little Anglice, ^^ said Miss Blondeau tenderly. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICfl ^^j MISS MEHETABEL'S SON I THE OLD TAVERN AT BAYLEy's FOUR-CORNERS YOU will not find Greenton, or Bayley's Four-Corners as it is more usually designated, on any map of New England that I know of. It is not a town; it is not even a village: it is merely an absurd hotel. The almost indescribable place called Greenton is at the intersection of four roads, in the heart of New Hampshire, twenty miles from the nearest settlement of note, and ten miles from any railway station. A good location for a hotel, you will say. Precisely; but there has always been a hotel there, and for the last dozen years it has been pretty well patronized — by one boarder. Not to trifle with an intelligent public, I will state at once that, in the early part of this century, Greenton was a point at which the mail-coach on the Great Northern Route stopped to change horses and allow the passen- gers to dine. People in the county, wishing to take the early mail Portsmouth-ward, put up over night at, the old tavern, famous for its irreproachable larder and soft feather-beds. The tavern at that time was kept by Jonathan Bayley, who rivaled his wallet in growing corpulent, and in due time passed away. At his death the establishment, which included a farm, fell into the hands of a son-in-law. Now, though Bayley left his son-in- law a hotel — which sounds handsome — he left him no guests; for at about the period of the old man's death the old stage- coach died also. Apoplexy carried off one, and steam the other. Thus, by a sudden swerve in the tide of progress, the tavern at the Comers found itself high and dry, like a wreck on a sand- bank. Shortly after this event, or maybe contemporaneously, there was some attempt to build a town at Greenton; but it apparently failed, if eleven cellars choked up with debris and overgrown with burdocks are any indication of failure. The farm, however, was a good farm, as things go in New Hamp- shire, and Tobias Sewell, the son-in-law, could afford to snap his fingers at the traveling public if they came near enough — which they never did. The hotel remains to-day pretty much the same as when Jonathan Bayley handed in his accounts in 1840, except that 332 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH Sewell has from time to time sold the furniture of some of the upper chambers to bridal couples in the neighborhood. The bar is still open, and the parlor door says Parlour in tall black letters. Now and then a passing drover looks in at that lonely bar-room, where a high-shouldered bottle of Santa Cruz rum ogles with a peculiarly knowing air a shriveled lemon on a shelf; now and then a farmer rides across country to talk crops and stock and take a friendly glass with Tobias; and now and then a circus caravan with speckled ponies, or a menagerie with a soggy elephant, halts under the swinging sign, on which there is a dim mail-coach with four phantomish horses driven by a portly gentleman whose head has been washed off by the rain. Other customers there are none, except that one regular boarder whom I have mentioned. If misery makes a man acquainted with strange bed-fellows, it is equally certain that the profession of surveyor and civil engineer often takes one into undreamed-of localities. I had never heard of Greenton until my duties sent me there, and kept me there two weeks in the dreariest season of the year. I do not think I would, of my own volition, have selected Greenton for a fortnight's sojourn at any time; but now the business is over, I shall never regret the circumstances that made me the guest of Tobias Sewell, and brought me into intimate relations with Miss Mehetabel's Son. It was a black October night in the year of grace 1872, that discovered me standing in front of the old tavern at the Corners. Though the ten miles' ride from K had been depressing, especially the last five miles, on account of the cold autumnal rain that had set in, I felt a pang of regret on hearing the rickety open wagon turn round in the road and roll off in the darkness. There were no lights visible anywhere, and only for the big, shapeless mass of something in front of me, which the driver had said was the hotel, I should have fancied that I had been set down by the roadside. I was wet to the skin and in no amiable humor; and not being able to find bell-pull or knocker, or even a door, I belabored the side of the house with my heavy walking-stick. In a minute or two I saw a light flickering somewhere aloft, then I heard the sound of a window opening, followed by an exclamation of disgust as a blast of wind extinguished the candle which had given me an instant- aneous picture en silhouette of a man leaning out of a casement. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 333 " I say, what do you want, down there ? " inquired an unpre- possessing voice. *^l want to come in; I want a supper, and a bed, and num- berless things.'* "This isn't no time of night to go rousing honest folks out of their sleep. Who are you, anyway?" The question, superficially considered, was a very simple one, and I, of all people in the world, ought to have been able to answer* it off-hand, but it staggered me. Strangely enough, there came drifting across my memory the lettering on the back of a metaphysical work which I had seen years before on a shelf in the Astor Library. Owing to an unpremeditatedly funny collo- cation of title and author, the lettering read as follows: — **Who am I ? Jones. " Evidently it had puzzled Jones to know who he was, or he wouldn't have written a book about it, and come to so lame and impotent a conclusion. It certainly puzzled me at that instant to define my identity. "Thirty years ago,* I reflected, " I was nothing ; fifty years hence I shall be nothing again, humanly speaking. In the mean time, who am I, sure enough ? * It had never before occurred to me what an indefinite article I was. I wish it had not occurred to me then. Standing there in the rain and darkness, I wrestled vainly with the prob- lem, and was constrained to fall back upon a Yankee expedient. " Isn't this a hotel ? '* I asked finally. "Well, it is a sort of hotel," said the voice, doubtfully. My hesitation and prevarication had apparently not inspired my inter- locutor with confidence in me. "Then let me in. I have just driven over from K in this infernal rain. I am wet through and through." " But what do you want here, at the Comers ? What's your business ? People don't come here, leastways in the middle of the night." " It isn't in the middle of the night, " I returned, incensed. " I come on business connected with the new road. I'm the superintendent of the works." "Oh!" "And if you don't open the door at once, I'll raise the whole neighborhood — and then go to the other hotel." When I said that, I supposed Greenton was a village with a population of at least three or four thousand, and was wonder- ing vaguely at the absence of lights and other signs of human 334 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH habitation. Surely, I thought, all the people cannot be abed and asleep at half past ten o'clock: perhaps I am in the business section of the town, among the shops. **You jest wait,** said the voice above. This request was not devoid of a certain accent of menace, and I braced myself for a sortie on the part of the besieged, if he had any such hostile intent. Presently a door opened at the very place where I least expected a door, at the farther end of the building, in fact, and a man in his shirt-sleeves, shielding a candle with his left hand, appeared on the threshold. I passed quickly into the house, with Mr. Tobias Sewell (for this was Mr. Sewell) at my heels, and found myself in a long, low- studded bar-room. There were two chairs drawn up before the hearth, on which a huge hemlock back-log was still smoldering, and on the un- painted deal counter contiguous stood two cloudy glasses with bits of lemon-peel in the bottom, hinting at recent libations. Against the discolored wall over the bar hung a yellowed hand- bill, in a warped frame, announcing that **the Next Annual N. H. Agricultural Fair" would take place on the loth of Sep- tember, 1 84 1. There was no other furniture or decoration in this dismal apartment, except the cobwebs which festooned the ceiling, hanging down here and there like stalactites. Mr. Sewell set the candlestick on the mantel-shelf, and threw some pine-knots on the fire, which immediately broke into a blaze, and showed him to be a lank, narrow-chested man, past sixty, with sparse, steel-gray hair, and small, deep-set eyes, per- fectly round, like a fish's, and of no particular color. His chief personal characteristics seemed to be too much feet and not enough teeth. His sharply cut, but rather simple face, as he turned it towards me, wore a look of interrogation. I replied to his mute inquiry by taking out my pocket-book and handing him my business-card, which he held up to the candle and perused with great deliberation. ^^ You're a civil engineer, are you?** he said, displaying his gums, which gave his countenance an expression of almost infant- ile innocence. He made no further audible remark, but mum- bled between his thin lips something which an imaginative person might have construed into, ** If you're a civil engineer, I'll be blessed if I wouldn't like to see an uncivil one ! ** Mr. Sewell's growl, however, was worse than his bite, — owing to his lack of teeth, probably — for he very good-naturedly set THOMAS BAJL.KY ALDRICH 335 himself to work preparing supper for me. After a slice of cold ham, and a warm punch, to which my chilled condition gave a grateful flavor, I went to bed in a distant chamber in a most amiable mood, feeling satisfied that Jones was a donkey to bother himself about his identity. When I awoke, the sun was several hours high. My bed faced a window, and by raising myself on one elbow I could look out on what I expected would be the main street. To my astonishment I beheld a lonely country road winding up a sterile hill and disappearing over the ridge. In a cornfield at the right of the road was a small private graveyard, inclosed by a crum- bling stone wall with a red gate. The only thing suggestive of life was this little comer lot occupied by death. I got out of bed and went to the other window. There I had an uninter- rupted view of twelve miles of open landscape, with Mount Agamenticus in the purple distance. Not a house or a spire in sight. " Well, " I exclaimed, ^* Greenton doesn't appear to be a very closely packed metropolis ! " That rival hotel with which I had threatened Mr. Sewell overnight was not a deadly weapon, looking at it by daylight. ** By Jove!* I reflected, "maybe I'm in the wrong place.* But there, tacked against a panel of the bedroom door, was a faded time-table dated Greenton, August ist, 1839. I smiled all the time I was dressing, and went smiling down- stairs, where I found Mr. Sewell, assisted by one of the fair sex in the first bloom of her eightieth year, serving breakfast for me on a small table — in the bar-room! " I overslept myself this morning, * I remarked apologetically, "and I see that I am putting you to some trouble. In future, if you will have me called, I will take my meals at the usual tad/e d'hote?'* «At the what?* said Mr. Sewell. " I mean with the other boarders. * Mr. Sewell paused in the act of lifting a chop from the fire, and, resting the point of his fork against the woodwork of the mantel-piece, grinned from ear to ear. "Bless you! there isn't any other boarders. There hasn't been anybody put up here sence — let me see — sence father-in- law died, and that was in the fall of '40. To be sure, there 's Silas; he'% a regular boarder: but I don't count him.* Mr. Sewell then explained how the tavern had lost its custom when the old stage line was broken up by the railroad. The 336 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH introduction of steam was, in Mr. Sewell's estimation, a fatal error. ^^Jest killed local business. Carried it off, I'm darned if I know where. The whole country has been sort o' retrograding ever sence steam was invented.'* " You spoke of having one boarder, "' I said. "Silas? Yes; he come here the summer 'Tilda died — she that was 'Tilda Bay ley — and he 's here yet, going on thirteen year. He couldn't live any longer with the old man. Between you and I, old Clem Jaffrey, Silas's father, was a hard nut. Yes,'* said Mr. Sewell, crooking his elbow in inimitable panto- mime, *^ altogether too often. Found dead in the road hugging a three-gallon demijohn. Habeas corpus in the barn,'* added Mr. Sewell, intending, I presume, to intimate that a post-mortem examination had been deemed necessary. "Silas," he resumed, in that respectful tone which one should always adopt when speak- ing of capital, "is a man of considerable property; lives on his interest, and keeps a hoss and shay. He 's a great scholar, too, Silas: takes all the pe-ri-odicals and the Police Gazette regular." Mr. Sewell was turning over a third chop, when the door opened and a stoutish, middle-aged little gentleman, clad in deep black, stepped into the room. "Silas Jaffrey," said Mr. Sewell, with a comprehensive sweep of his arm, picking up me and the new-comer on one fork, so to speak. " Be acquainted ! " Mr. Jaffrey advanced briskly, and gave me his hand with unlooked-for cordiality. He was a dapper little man, with a head as round and nearly as bald as an orange, and not unlike an orange in complexion, either; he had twinkling gray eyes and a pronounced Roman nose, the numerous freckles upon which were deepened by his funereal dress-coat and trousers. He reminded me of Alfred de Musset's blackbird, which, with its yellow beak and sombre plumage, looked like an undertaker eating an omelet. " Silas will take care of you, " said Mr. Sewell, taking down his hat from a peg behind the door. " I've got the cattle to look after. Tell him if you want anything." While I ate my breakfast, Mr. Jaffrey hopped up and down the narrow bar-room and chirped away as blithely as a bird on a cherry-bough, occasionally ruffling with his fingers a slight fringe of auburn hair which stood up pertly round his head and seemed to possess a luminous quality of its own. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 337 ** Don't I find it a little slow up here at the Comers ? Not at all. my dear sir. I am in the thick of life up here. So many- interesting things going on all over the world — inventions, dis- coveries, spirits, railroad disasters, mysterious homicides. Poets, murderers, musicians, statesmen, distinguished travelers, prodi- gies of all kinds turning up everywhere. Very few events or persons escape me. I take six daily city papers, thirteen weekly journals, all the monthly magazines, and two quarterlies. I could not get along with less. I couldn't if you asked me. I never feel lonely. How can I, being on intimate terms, as it were, with thousands and thousands of people ? There's that young woman out West. What an entertaining creature sJie is! — now in Missouri, now in Indiana, and now in Minnesota, always on the go, and all the time shedding needles from vari- ous parts of her body as if she really enjoyed it! Then there's that versatile patriarch who walks hundreds of miles and saws thousands of feet of wood, before breakfast, and shows no signs of giving out. Then there's that remarkable, one may say that historical colored woman who knew Benjamin Franklin, and fought at the battle of Bunk — no, it is the old negro man who fought at Bunker Hill, a mere infant, of course, at that period. Really, now, it is quite curious to observe how that venerable female slave — formerly an African princess — is repeatedly dying in her hundred and eleventh year, and coming to life again punctually every six months in the small -type paragraphs. Are you aware, sir, that within the last twelve years no fewer than two hundred and eighty-seven of General Washington's colored coachmen have died ? '* For the soul of me I could not tell whether this quaint little gentleman was chaffing me or not. I laid down my knife and fork, and stared at him. *^ Then there are the mathematicians ! * he cried vivaciously, without waiting for a reply. " I take great interest in them. Hear this ! ** and Mr. Jaffrey drew a newspaper from a pocket in the tail of his coat, and read as follows: — "// has been estimated that if all the candles manufactured by this eminent firm ( Stear- ine & Co.) were placed end to end, they would reach 2 and y-8 times around the globe. Of course,* continued Mr. Jaffrey, fold- ing up the journal reflectively, "abstruse calculations of this kind are not, perhaps, of vital importance, but they indicate the intellectual activity of the age. Seriously, now," he said, 338 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH halting in front of the table, "what with books and papers and drives about the country, I do not find the days too long, though I seldom see any one, except when I go over to K for my mail. Existence may be very full to a man who stands a little aside from the tumult and watches it with philo- sophic eye. Possibly he may see more of the battle than those who are in the midst of the action. Once I was struggling with the crowd, as eager and undaunted as the best; perhaps I should have been struggling still. Indeed, I know my life would have been very different now if I had married Mehetabel — if I had married Mehetabel.*^ His vivacity was gone, a sudden cloud had come over his bright face, his figure seemed to have collapsed, the light seemed to have faded out of his hair. With a shuffling step, the very antithesis of his brisk, elastic tread, he turned to the door and passed into the road. " Well, '' I said to myself, * if Greenton had forty thousand inhabitants, it couldn't turn out a more astonishing old party than that!" II THE CASE OF SILAS JAFFREY A MAN with a passion for bric-ct-brac is always stumbling over antique bronzes, intaglios, mosaics, and daggers of the time of Benvenuto Cellini; the bibliophile finds creamy vellum folios and rare Alduses and Elzevirs waiting for him at unsuspected bookstalls; the numismatist has but to stretch forth his palm to have priceless coins drop into it. My own weakness is odd people, and I am constantly encountering them. It was plain that I had unearthed a couple of very queer specimens at Bayley's Four-Corners. I saw that a fortnight afforded me too brief an opportunity to develop the richness of both, and I resolved to devote my spare time to Mr. Jaffrey alone, instinct- ively recognizing in him an unfamiliar species. My professional work in the vicinity of Greenton left my evenings and occas- ionally an afternoon unoccupied; these intervals I purposed to employ in studying and classifying my fellow-boarder. It was necessary, as a preliminary step, to learn something of his previous history, and to this end I addressed myself lo Mr. Sewell that same night. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 339 "I do not want to seem inquisitive/* I said to the landlord, as he was fastening- up the bar, which, by the way, was the salle h manger and general sitting-room — ** I do not want to seem inquisitive, but your friend Mr. Jaffrey dropped a remark this morning at breakfast which — which was not altogether clear to me.** * About Mehetabel ? ** asked Mr. Sewell, uneasily. «Yes.» «Well, I wish he wouldn't!** " He was friendly enough in the course of conversation to hint to me that he had not married the young woman, and seemed to regret it.** ** No, he didn't marry Mehetabel.** "May I inquire why he didn't marry Mehetabel?** * Never asked her. Might have married thp girl forty times. Old Elkins's daughter, over at K . She'd have had him quick enough. Seven years, off and on, he kept company with Mehetabel, and then she died.** " And he never asked her ? ** " He shilly-shallied. Perhaps he didn't think of it. When she was dead and gone, then Silas was struck all of a heap — and that 's all about it. ** Obviously Mr. Sewell did not intend to tell me anything more, and obviously there was more to tell. The topic was plainly disagreeable to him for some reason or other, and that unknown reason of course piqued my curiosity. As I was absent from dinner and supper that day, I did not meet Mr. Jaffrey again until the following morning at break- fast. He had recovered his bird-like manner, and was full of a mysterious assassination that had just taken place in New York, all the thrilling details of which were at his fingers' ends. It was at once comical and sad to see this harmless old gen- tleman, with his nai've, benevolent countenance, and his thin hair flaming up in a semicircle, like the footlights at a theatre, reveling in the intricacies of the unmentionable deed. "You come up to my room to-night,** he cried, with horrid glee, "and I'll give you my theory of the murder. I'll make it as clear as day to you that it was the detective himself who fired the three pistol-shots.** It was not so much the desire to have this point elucidated as to make a closer study of Mr. Jaffrey that led me to accept 340 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH his invitation. Mr. Jaffrey's bedroom was in an L of the building, and was in no way noticeable except for the numer- ous files of newspapers neatly arranged against the blank spaces of the walls, and a huge pile of old magazines which stood in one corner, reaching nearly up to the ceiling, and threatening to topple over each instant, like the Leaning Tower at Pisa. There were green paper shades at the windows, some faded chintz valances about the bed, and two or three easy- chairs covered with chintz On a black-walnut shelf between the windows lay a choice collection of meerschaum and brier- wood pipes. Filling one of the chocolate-colored bowls for me and an- other for himself, Mr. JaflFrey began prattling; but not about the murder, which appeared to have flown out of his mind. In fact, I do not remember that the topic was even touched upon, either then or afterwards. "Cozy nest this,^* said Mr. Jaffrey, glancing complacently over the apartment. **What is more cheerful, now, in the fall of the year, than an open wood-fire? Do you hear those little chirps and twitters coming out of that piece of apple-wood ? Those are the ghosts of the robins and bluebirds that sang upon the bough when it was in blossom last spring. In sum- mer whole flocks of them come fluttering about the fruit-trees under the window: so I have singing birds all the year round. I take it very easy here, I can tell you, summer and winter. Not much society. Tobias is not, perhaps, what one would term a great intellectual force, but he means well. He 's a realist — believes in coming down to what he calls 'the hardpan*; but his heart is in the right place, and he's very kind to me. The wisest thing I ever did in my life was to sell out my grain business over at K , thirteen years ago, and settle down at the Corners. When a man has made a competency, what does he want more ? Besides, at that time an event occurred which destroyed any ambition I may have had. Mehetabel died.'* " The lady you were engaged to ? ** <*N-o, not precisely engaged. I think it was quite under- stood between us, though nothing had been said on the subject. Typhoid,* added Mr. Jaffrey, in a low voice. For several minutes he smoked in silence, a vague, troubled look playing over his countenance. Presently this passed away, and he fixed his gray eyes speculatively upon my face. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 341 *If I had married Mehetabel," said Mr. Jaffrey, slowly, and then he hesitated. I blew a ring of smoke into the air, and, resting my pipe on my knee, dropped into an attitude of attention. " If I had married Mehetabel, you know, we should have had — ahem! — a family." *Very likely,'* I assented^ vastly amused at this unexpected turn. *A Boy!* exclaimed Mr. Jaffrey, explosively. *By all means, certainly, a son.* « Great trouble about naming the boy. Mehetabel's family want him named Elkanah Elkins, after her grandfather; I want him named Andrew Jackson. We compromise by christening him Elkanah Elkins Andrew Jackson Jaffrey. Rather a long name for such a short little fellow,* said Mr. Jaffrey, musingly. *Andy isn't a bad nickname,* I suggested. « Not at all. We call him Andy, in the family. Somewhat fractious at first — colic and things. I suppose it is right, or it wouldn't be so; biit the usefulness of measles, mumps, croup, whooping-cough, scarlatina, and fits is not clear to the parental eye. I wish Andy would be a model infant, and dodge the whole lot.* This suppositious child, bom within the last few minutes, was plainly assuming the proportions of a reality to Mr. Jaffrey. I began to feel a little uncomfortable. I am, as I have said, a civil engineer, and it is not strictly in my line to assist at the births of infants, imaginary or otherwise. I pulled away vigor- ously at the pipe, and said nothing. *What large blue eyes he has,* resumed Mr. Jaffrey, after a pause; **just like Hetty's; and the fair hair, too, like hers. How oddly certain distinctive features are handed down in families! Sometimes a mouth, sometimes a turn of the eye- brow. Wicked little boys over at K have now and then derisively advised me to follow my nose. It would be an inter- esting thing to do. I should find my nose flying about the world, turning up unexpectedly here and there, dodging this branch of the family and reappearing in that, now jumping over one great-grandchild to fasten itself upon another, and never losing its individuality. Look at Andy. There's Elkanah Elkins's chin to the life. Andy's chin is probably older than the Pyramids. Poor little thing,* he cried, with sudden inde- scribable tenderness, <* to lo$^ bis mother so early ! * And Mr, 342 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH Jaffrey's head sunk upon his breast, and his shoulders slanted forward, as if he were actually bending over the cradle of the child. The whole gesture and attitude was so natural that it startled me. The pipe slipped from my fingers and fell to the floor. *Hush!* whispered Mr. Jaffrey, with a deprecating motion of his hand. " Andy's asleep ! '^ He rose softly from the chair, and walking across the room on tiptoe, drew down the shade at the window through which the moonlight was streaming. Then he returned to his seat, and remained gazing with half-closed eyes into the dropping embers. I refilled my pipe and smoked in profound silence, wonder- ing what would come next. But nothing came next. Mr. Jaffrey had fallen into so brown a study that, a quarter of an hour afterwards, when I wished him good-night and withdrew, I do not think he noticed my departure. I am not what is called a man of ■ imagination ; it is my habit to exclude most things not capable of mathematical demonstration: but I am not without a certain psychological insight, and I think I understood Mr. Jaffrey's case. I could easily imderstand how a man with an unhealthy, sensitive nature, overwhelmed by sudden calamity, might take refuge in some forlorn place like this old tavern, and dream his life away. To such a man — brooding forever on what might have been, and dwelling wholly in the realm of his fancies — the actual world might indeed become as a dream, and nothing seem real but his illusions. I dare say that thirteen years of Bayley's Four-Corners would have its effect upon me; though instead of conjuring up golden-haired children of the Madonna, I should probably see gnomes and kobolds, and goblins engaged in hoisting false signals and misplacing switches for midnight express trains. «No doubt,** I said to myself that night, as I lay in bed, thinking over the matter, <*this once possible but now impos- sible child is a great comfort to the old gentleman, — a greater comfort, perhaps, than a real son would be. Maybe Andy will vanish with the shades and mists of night, he's such an unsub- stantial infant; but if he doesn't, and Mr. Jaffrey finds pleasure in talking to me about his son, I shall humor the old fellow. It wouldn't be a Christian act to knock over his harmless fancy." THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 343 I was very impatient to see if Mr. Jaffrey's illusion would stand the test of daylight. It did. Elkanah Elkins Andrew Jackson Jaffrey was, so to speak, alive and kicking- the next morning. On taking his seat at the breakfast-table, Mr. Jaffrey whispered to me that Andy had had a comfortable night. << Silas! *^ said Mr. Sewell, sharply, "what are you whispering about ? » Mr. Sewell was in an ill humor; perhaps he was jealous because I had passed the evening in Mr. Jaffrey's room; but surely Mr. Sewell could not expect his boarders to go to bed at eight o'clock every night, as he did. From time to time during the meal Mr. Sewell regarded me unkindly out of the comer of his eye, and in helping me to the parsnips he poniarded them with quite a suggestive air. All this, however, did not prevent me from repairing to the door of Mr. Jaffrey's snuggery when night came. "Well, Mr. Jaffrey, how's Andy this evening?* " Got a tooth ! " cried Mr. Jaffrey, vivaciously. «No!» "Yes, he has! Just through. Give the nurse a silver dollar. Standing reward for first tooth.'* It was on the tip of my tongue to express surprise that an infant a day old should cut a tooth, when I suddenly recollected that Richard III. was bom with teeth. Feeling myself to be on unfamiliar ground, I suppressed my criticism. It was well I did so, for in the next breath I was advised that half a year had elapsed since the previous evening. "Andy's had a hard six months of it,'' said Mr. Jaffrey, with the well-known narrative air of fathers. "We've brought him up by hand. His grandfather, by the way, was brought up by the bottle — '* and brought down by it, too, I added mentally, recalling Mr. Sewell 's account of the old gentleman's tragic end. Mr. Jaffrey then went on to give me a history of Andy's first six months, omitting no detail however insignificant or irrelevant. This history I would in turn inflict upon the reader, if I were only certain that he is one of those dreadful parents who, under the aegis of friendship, bore you at a street-comer with that remarkable thing which Freddy said the other day, and insist on singing to you, at an evening party, the Iliad of Tommy's woes. 244 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH But to inflict this enfantillagc upon the unmarried reader would be an act of wanton cruelty. So I pass over that part of Andy's biography, and for the same reason make no record of the next four or five interviews I had with Mr. Jaffrey. It will be sufficient to state that Andy glided from extreme infancy to early youth with astonishing celerity — at the rate of one year per night, if I remember correctly; and — must I confess it? — before the week came to an end, this invisible hobgoblin of a boy was only little less of a reality to me than to Mr. Jaffrey. At first I had lent myself to the old dreamer's whim with a keen perception of the humor of the thing; but by and by I found that I was talking and thinking of Miss Mehetabel's son as though he were a veritable personage. Mr. Jaffrey spoke of the child with such an air of conviction! — as if Andy were playing among his toys in the next room, or making mud- pies down in the yard. In "these conversations, it should be observed, the child was never supposed to be present, except on that single occasion when- Mr. Jaffrey leaned over the cradle. After one of our stances I would lie awake until the small hours, thinking of the boy, and then fall asleep only to have indigestible dreams about him. Through the day, and sometimes in the midst of complicated calculations, I would catch myself wondering what Andy was up to now! There was no shaking him off; he became an inseparable nightmare to me; and I felt that if I remained much longer at Bayley's Four- Corners I should turn into just such another bald-headed, mild- eyed visionary as Silas Jaffrey. Then the tavern was a grewsome old shell any way, full of unaccountable noises after dark — rustlings of garments along unfrequented passages, and stealthy footfalls in unoccupied chambers overhead. I never knew of an old house without these mysterious noises. Next to my bedroom was a musty, dismantled apartment, in one comer of which, leaning against the wainscot, was a crippled mangle, with its iron crank tilted in the air like the elbow of the late Mr. Clem Jaffrey. Some- times, <'In the dead vast and middle of the night,* I used to hear sounds as if some one were turning that rusty crank on the sly. This occurred only on particularly cold THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 245 nights, and I conceived the uncomfortable idea that it was the thin family ghosts, from the neglected graveyard in the corn- field, keeping themselves warm by running each other through the mangle. There was a haunted air about the whole place that made it easy for me to believe in the existence of a phan- tasm like Miss Mehetabel's son, who, after all, was less un- earthly than Mr. Jaffrey himself, and seemed more properly an inhabitant of this globe than the toothless ogre who kept the inn, not to mention the silent Witch of Endor that cooked our meals for us over the bar-room fire. In spite of the scowls and winks bestowed upon me by Mr. Sewell, who let slip no opportunity to testify his disapprobation of the intimacy, Mr, Jaffrey and I spent all our evenings to- gether — those long autumnal evenings, through the length of which he talked about the boy, laying out his path in life and hedging the path with roses. He should be sent to the High School at Portsmouth, and then to college; he should be edu- cated like a gentleman, Andy. "When the old man dies,'* remarked Mr, Jaffrey one night, rubbing his hands gleefully, as if it were a great joke, "Andy will find that the old man has left him a pretty plum.'* " What do you think of having Andy enter West Point, when he's old enough ? ** said Mr. Jaffrey on another occasion. " He needn't necessarily go into the army when he graduates; he can become a civil engineer.* This was a stroke of flattery so delicate and indirect that I could accept it without immodesty. There had lately sprung up on the corner of Mr. Jaffrey's bureau a small tin house, Gothic in architecture and pink in color, with a slit in the roof, and the word Bank painted on one facade. Several times in the course of an evening Mr Jaffrey would rise from his chair without interrupting the con- versation, and gravely drop a nickel into the scuttle of the bank. It was pleasant to observe the solemnity of his counte- nance as he approached the edifice, and the air of triumph with which he resumed his seat by the fireplace. One night I missed the tin bank. It had disappeared, deposits and all, like a real bank. Evidently there had been a defalcation on rather a large scale. I strongly suspected that Mr. Sewell was at the bottom of it, but my suspicion was not shared by Mr. Jaffrey, who, remarking my glance at the bureau, became suddenly depressed 346 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH * I'm afraid,^* he said, ^Hhat I have failed to instill into Andrew those principles of integrity which — which — ** and the old gen- tleman quite broke down, Andy was now eight or nine years old, and for some time past, if the truth must be told, had given Mr. Jaffrey no incon- siderable trouble; what with his impishness and his illnesses, the boy led the pair of us a lively dance. I shall not soon forget the anxiety of Mr. Jaifrey the night Andy had the scarlet-fever — an anxiety which so infected me that I actually returned to the tavern the following afternoon earlier than usual, dreading to hear that the little spectre was dead, and greatly relieved on meeting Mr. Jaffrey at the door-step with his face wreathed in smiles. When I spoke to him of Andy, I was made aware that I was inquiring into a case of scarlet-fever that had occurred the year before! It was at this time, towards the end of my second week at Greenton, that I noticed what was probably not a new trait — Mr. Jaffrey's curious sensitiveness to atmospherical changes. He was as sensitive as a barometer. The approach of a storm sent his mercury down instantly. When the weather was fair he was hopeful and sunny, and Andy's prospects were brilliant. When the weather was overcast and threatening he grew rest- less and despondent, and was afraid that the boy was not going to turn out well. On the Saturday previous to my departure, which had been fixed for Monday, it rained heavily all the afternoon, and that night Mr. Jaffrey was in an unusually excitable and unhappy frame of mind. His mercury was very low indeed. ^^ That boy is going to the dogs just as fast as he can go, '* said Mr. Jaffrey, with a woeful face. " I can't do anything with him.» ^^ He'll come out all right, Mr. Jaffrey. Boys will be boys. I would not give a snap for a lad without animal spirits.'^ "But animal spirits," said Mr. Jaffrey sententiously, * shouldn't saw off the legs of the piano in Tobias's best parlor. I don't know what Tobias will say when he finds it out." " What ! has Andy sawed off the legs of the old spinet ? " I returned, laughing. "Worse than that." " Played upon it, then ! * *No, sir. He has lied to me!* THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 347 "I can't believe that of Andy.'* < (The Three Maidens: 1858), (The Seven Soldiers: 1859), and < Canto Politico > (Political Songs: 1862). A slender volume of five hundred pages contains all that Aleardi has written. Yet he is one of the chief minor Italian poets of this century, because of his loftiness of purpose and felicity of expression, his tenderness of feeling, and his deep sympathies with his struggling country. *He has,* observes Howells in his < Modern Italian Poets,* "in greater degree than any other Italian poet of this, or perhaps of any age, those merits which our English taste of this time demands, — quickness of feeling and brilliancy of expression. He lacks simplicity of idea, and his style is an opal which takes all lights and hues, rather than the crystal which lets the daylight colorlessly through. He is distinguished no less by the themes he selects than by the expression he gives them. In his poetry there is passion, but his subjects are usually those to which love is accessory rather than essential; and he cares better to sing of universal and national des- tinies as they concern individuals, than the raptures and anguishes of youthful individuals as they concern mankind." He was original in his way; his attitude toward both the classic and the romantic schools is shown in the following passage from his autobiog^raphy, which at the same time brings out his patriotism. He says: — « It seemed to me strange, on the one hand, that people who, in their serious moments and in the recesses of their hearts, invoked Christ, should in the recesses of their minds, in the deep excitement of poetry-, persist in invoking Apollo and Pallas Minerva. It seemed to me strange, on the other hand, that people bom in Italy, with this sun, with these nights, with so many glories, so many gn:iefs, so many hopes at home, should have the mania of singing the mists of Scandinavia, and the Sabbaths of witches, and should go mad for a gloomy and dead feudalism, which had come from the North, the highway of our misfortunes. It seemed to me, moreover, that every Art of Poetry was marv'^elously useless, and that certain rules were mummies embalmed by the hand of pedants. In fine, it seemed to me that there were two kiods of Art: the one, serene with an Olympic serenity, the 352 ALEARDO ALEARDI Art of all ages that belongs to no country; the other, more impassioned, that has its roots in one's native soil. . . . The first that of Homer, of Phidias, of Virgil, of Tasso; the other that of the Prophets, of Dante, of Shakespeare, of Byron. And I have tried to cling to this last, because I was pleased to see how these great men take the clay of their own land and their own time, and model from it a living statue, which resembles their contemporaries. » In another interesting passage he explains that his old drawing- master had in vain pleaded with the father to make his son a painter, and he continues: — «Not being allowed to use the pencil, I have used the pen. And pre- cisely on this account my pen resembles too much a pencil; precisely on this account I am often too much of a naturalist, and am too fond of losing myself in minute details. I am as one who in walking goes leisurely along, and stops every minute to observe the dash of light that breaks through the trees of the woods, the insect that alights on his hand, the leaf that falls on his head, a cloud, a wave, a streak of smoke; in fine, the thousand accidents that make creation so rich, so various, so poetical, and beyond which we ever- more catch glimpses of that grand mysterious something, eternal, immense, benignant, and never inhuman nor cruel, as some would have us believe, which is called God.» The selections are from Howells's < Modern Italian Poets,> copyright 1887, by Harper and Brothers COWARDS IN THE deep circle of Siddim hast thou seen. Under the shining skies of Palestine, The sinister glitter of the Lake of Asphalt? Those coasts, strewn thick with ashes of damnation, Forever foe to every living thing. Where rings the cry of the lost wandering bird That on the shore of the perfidious sea Athirsting dies, — that watery sepulchre Of the five cities of iniquity. Where even the tempest, when its clouds hang low. Passes in silence, and the lightning dies, — If thou hast seen them, bitterly hath been Thy heart wrung with the misery and despair Of that dread vision! Yet there is on earth A woe more desperate and miserable, — A spectacle wherein the wrath of God Avenges Him more terribly. It is A vain, weak people of faint-heart old men, That, for three hundred years of dull repose. -23 ALEARDO ALEARDI 3SS Has lain perpetual dreamer, folded in The ragged purple of its ancestors, Stretching its limbs wide in its country's sun. To warm them; drinking the soft airs of autumn Forgetful, on the fields where its forefathers Like lions fought! From overflowing hands. Strew we with hellebore and poppies thick The way. From < The Primal Histories.> THE HARVESTERS WHAT time in summer, sad with so much light. The sun beats ceaselessly upon the fields; The harvesters, as famine urges them, Draw hitherward in thousands, and they wear The look of those that dolorously go In exile, and already their brown eyes Are heavy with the poison of the air. Here never note of amorous bird consoles Their drooping hearts; here never the gay songs Of their Abruzzi sound to gladden these Pathetic hands. But taciturn they toil. Reaping the harvests for their unknown lords; And when the weary labor is performed. Taciturn they retire; and not till then Their bagpipes crown the joys of the return. Swelling the heart with their familiar strain. Alas! not all return, for there is one That dying in the furrow sits, and seeks With his last look some faithful kinsman out. To give his life's wage, that he carry it Unto his trembling mother, with the last Words of her son that comes no more. And dying. Deserted and alone, far off he hears His comrades going, with their pipes in time. Joyfully measuring their homeward steps. And when in after years an orphan comes To reap the harvest here, and feels his blade Go quivering through the swaths of falling grain. He weeps and thinks — haply these heavy stalks Ripened on his unburied father's bones. From < Monte Circella* 354 ALEARDO ALEARDI THE DEATH OF THE YEAR ERE yet upon the unhappy Arctic lands, In dying autumn, Erebus descends With the night's thousand hours, along the verge Of the horizon, like a fugitive, Through the long days wanders the weary sun; And when at last under the wave is quenched The last gleam of its golden countenance, Interminable twilight land and sea Discolors, and the north wind covers deep All things in snow, as in their sepulchres The dead are buried. In the distances The shock of warring Cyclades of ice Makes music as of wild and strange lament; And up in heaven now tardily are lit The solitary polar star and seven Lamps of the bear. And now the warlike race Of swans gather their hosts upon the breast Of some far gulf, and, bidding their farewell To the white cliffs and slender junipers. And sea-weed bridal-beds, intone the song Of parting, and a sad metallic clang Send through the mists. Upon their southward way They greet the beryl-tinted icebergs; greet Flamy volcanoes and the seething founts Of geysers, and the melancholy yellow Of the Icelandic fields; and, wearying Their lily wings amid the boreal lights, Journey away unto the joyous shores Of morning. From Associated with Diderot in this vast enterprise, he was at first, because of his eminent position in the scientific world, its director and official head. He contributed a large number of scientific and philosophic articles, and took entire charge of the revising of the mathematical division. His most noteworthy contribution, however, is the * Preliminary Dis- course,' prefixed as a general introduction and explanation of the work. In this he traced with wonderful clearness and logical pre- cision the successive steps of the human mind in its search after knowledge, and basing his conclusion on the historical evolution of the race, he sketched in broad outlines the development of the sciences and arts. In 1758 he withdrew from the active direction of the < Encyclopedic,* that he might free himself from the annoyance of gov- ernmental interference, to which the work was constantly subjected because of the skeptical tendencies it evinced. But he continued to contribute mathematical articles, with a few on other topics. One of these, on * Geneva,* involved him in his celebrated dispute with Rous- seau and other radicals in regard to Calvinism and the suppression of theatrical performances in the stronghold of Swiss orthodoxy. His fame was spreading over Europe. Frederick the Great of Prussia repeatedly offered him the presidency of the Academy of Sciences of Berlin. But he refused, as he also declined the magnifi- cent offer of Catherine of Russia to become tutor to her son, at a yearly salary of a hundred thousand francs. Pope Benedict XIV. honored him by recommending him to the membership of the Insti- tute of Bologne; and the high esteem in which he was held in Eng- land is shown by the legacy of ;^2oo left him by David Hume. All these honors and distinctions did not affect the simplicity of his life, for during thirty years he continued to reside in the pooi and incommodious quarters of his foster-mother, whom he partly supported out of his small income. Ill health at last drove him to seek better accommodations. He had formed a romantic attachment for Mademoiselle de I'Espinasse, and lived with her in the same house for years unscandaled. Her death in 1776 plunged him into profound grief. He died nine years later, on the 9th of October, 1783. His manner was plain and at times almost rude; he had^great independence of character, but also much simplicity and benevolence. With the other French deists, D'Alembert has been attacked for his religious opinions, but with injustice. He was prudent in the public expression of them, as the time necessitated ; but he makes the freest statement of them in his correspondence with Voltaire. His literary and philosopic works were edited by Bassange (Paris, 1891). Condor- cet, in his * Eulogy,* gives the best account of his life and writings. JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT -ey MONTESQUIEU From the Eulogy published in the < Encyclopedie * THESE particulars [of Montesquieu's genealogy] may seem su- perfluous in the eulogy of a philosopher who stands so lit- tle in need of ancestors; but at least we may adorn their memory with that lustre which his name reflects upon it. The early promise of his genius was fulfilled in Charles de Secondat. He discovered very soon what he desired to be, and his father cultivated this rising genius, the object of his hope and of his tenderness. At the age of twenty, young Montesquieu had already prepared materials for the ^Spirit of Laws,* by a well- digested extract from the immense body of the civil law; as New- ton had laid in early youth the foundation of his immortal works. The study of jurisprudence, however, though less dry to M. de Montesquieu than to most who attempt it, because he studied it as a philosopher, did not content him. He inquired deeply into the subjects which pertain to religion, and considered them with that wisdom, decency, and equity, which characterize his work. A brother of his father, perpetual president of the Parliament of Bordeaux, an able judge and virtuous citizen, the oracle of his own society and of his province, having lost an only son, left his fortune and his office to M. de Montesquieu. Some years after, in 1722, during the king's minority, his society employed him to present remonstrances upon occasion of a new impost. Placed between the throne and the people, like a respectful subject and courageous magistrate he brought the cry of the wretched to the ears of the sovereign — a cry which, being heard, obtained justice. Unfortunately, this success was momentary. Scarce was the popular voice silenced before the suppressed tax Was replaced by another; but the good citizen had done his duty. He was received the 3d of April, 17 16, into the new academy of Bordeaux. A taste for music and entertainment had at first assembled its members. M. de Montesquieu believed that the talents of his friends might be better employed in physical sub- jects. He was persuaded that nature, worthy of being beheld everywhere, could find everywhere eyes worthy to behold her; while it was impossible to gather together, at a distance from the metropolis, distinguished writers on works of taste. He looked upon our provincial societies for belles-lettres as a shadow of literature which obscures the reality. The Duke de la Force, by a prize which he founded at Bordeaux, seconded these rational 358 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT views. It was decided that a good physical experiment would be better than a weak discourse or a bad poem; and Bordeaux got an Academy of Sciences. M. de Montesquieu, careless of reputation, wrote little. It was not till 172 1, that is to say, at thirty-two years of age, that he published the * Persian Letters. * The description of Oriental manners, real or supposed, is the least important thing in these letters. It serves merely as a pretense for a delicate satire upon our own customs and for the concealment of a serious intention. In this moving picture, Usbec chiefly exposes, with as much ease as energy, whatever among us most struck his penetrating eyes: our way of treating the silliest things seriously, and of laughing at the most important; our way of talking which is at once so blustering and so frivolous; our impatience even in the midst of pleasure itself; our prejudices and our actions that perpetually contradict our understandings; our great love of glory and respect for the idol of court favor, our little real pride; our courtiers so mean and vain; our exterior politeness to, and our real contempt of strangers; our fantastical tastes, than which there is nothing lower but the eagerness of all Europe to adopt them; our bar- barous disdain for the two most respectable occupations of a citizen — commerce and magistracy; our literary disputes, so keen and so useless; our rage for writing before we think, and for judging before we understand. To this picture he opposes, in the apologue of the Troglodytes, the description of a virtuous people, become wise by misfortunes — a piece worthy of the por- tico. In another place, he represents philosophy, long silenced, suddenly reappearing, regaining rapidly the time which she had lost; penetrating even among the Russians at the voice of a genius which invites her; while among other people of Europe, superstition, like a thick atmosphere, prevents the all-surrounding light from reaching them. Finally, by his review of ancient and modern government, he presents us with the bud of those bright ideas since fully developed in his great work. These different subjects, no longer novel, as when the * Persian Letters* first appeared, will forever remain original — a merit the more real that it proceeds alone from the genius of the writer; for Usbec acquired, during his abode in France, so perfect a knowledge of our morals, and so strong a tincture of our man- ners, that his style makes us forget his country. This small solecism was perhaps not unintentional. While exposing our fol- lies and vices, he meant, no doubt, to do justice to our merits JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT 35 g Avoiding the insipidity of a direct panegyric, he has more deli- cately praised us by assuming our own air in professed satire. Notwithstanding the success of his work, M. de Montesquieu did not acknowledge it. Perhaps he wished to escape criticism. Perhaps he wished to avoid a contrast of the frivolity of the * Persian Letters* with the gravity of his office; a sort of reproach which critics never fail to make, because it requires no sort of effort. But his secret was discovered, and the public suggested his name for the Academy. The event justified M. de Montes- quieu's silence. Usbec expresses himself freely, not concerning the fundamentals of Christianity, but about matters which people affect to confound with Christianity itself: about the spirit of persecution which has animated so many Christians; about the temporal usurpation of ecclesiastical power; about the excessive multiplication of monasteries, which deprive the State of subjects without giving worshipers to God; about some opinions which would fain be established as principles; about our religious dis- putes, always violent and often fatal. If he appears anywhere to touch upon questions more vital to Christianity itself, his reflec- tions are in fact favorable to revelation, because he shows how little human reason, left to itself, knows. Among the genuine letters of M. de Montesquieu the foreign printer had inserted some by another hand. Before the author was condemned, these should have been thrown out. Regardless of these considerations, hatred masquerading as zeal, and zeal without understanding, rose and united themselves against the * Persian Letters.* Informers, a species of men dangerous and base, alarmed the piety of the ministry. M. de Montesquieu, urged by his friends, supported by the public voice, having offered himself for the vacant place of M. de Sacy in the French Academy, the minister wrote * The Forty ** that his Majesty would never accept the election of the author of the * Persian Letters*; that he had not, indeed, read the book, but that persons in whom he placed confidence had informed him of its poisonous tendency. M. de Montesquieu saw what a blow such an accusation might prove to his person, his family, and his tranquillity. He neither sought literary honors nor affected to disdain them when they came in his way, nor did he regard the lack of them as a misfor- tune: but a perpetual exclusion, and the motives of that exclus- ion, appeared to him to be an injury. He saw the minister, and explained that though he did not acknowledge the * Persian Let- ters.* he would not disown a work for which he had no reason to 360 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT blush; and that he ought to be judged upon its contents, and not upon mere hearsay. At last the minister read the book, loved the author, and learned wisdom as to his advisers. The French Academy obtained one of its greatest ornaments, and France had the happiness to keep a subject whom superstition or calumny had nearly deprived her of; for M. de Montesquieu had declared to the government that, after the affront they proposed, he would go among foreigners in quest of that safety, that repose, and per- haps those rewards which he might reasonably have expected in his own country. The nation would really have deplored his loss, while yet the disgrace of it must have fallen upon her. M. de Montesquieu was received the 24th of January, 1728. His oration is one of the best ever pronounced here. Among many admirable passages which shine out in its pages is the deep- thinking writer's characterization of Cardinal Richelieu, " who taught France the secret of its strength, and Spain that of its weakness; who freed Germany from her chains and gave her new ones. * The new Academician was the worthier of this title, that he had renounced all other employments to give himself entirely up to his genius and his taste. However important was his place, he perceived that a different work must employ his talents; that the citizen is accountable to his country and to mankind for all the good he may do; and that he could be more useful by his writ- ings than by settling obscure legal disputes. He was no longer a magistrate, but only a man of letters. But that his works should serve other nations, it was neces- sary that he should travel, his aim being to examine the natural and moral world, to study the laws and constitution of every country; to visit scholars, writers, artists, and everywhere to seek for those rare men whose conversation sometimes supplies the place of years of observation. M. de Montesquieu might have said, like Democritus, ** I have forgot nothing to instruct myself ; I have quitted my country and traveled over the universe, the better to know truth; I have seen all the illustrious personages of my time.** But there was this difference between the French Democritus and him of Abdera, that the first traveled to instruct men, and the second to laugh at them. He went first to Vienna, where he often saw the celebrated Prince Eugene. This hero, so fatal to France (to which he might have been so useful), after having checked the advance of Louis XIV. and humbled the Ottoman pride, lived without pomp. JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT 26l loving- and cultivating letters in a court where they are little honored, and showing his masters how to protect them. Leaving Vienna, the traveler visited Hungary, an opulent and fertile country, inhabited by a haughty and generous nation, the scourge of its tyrants and the support of its sovereigns. ^ As few persons know this country well, he has written with care this part of his travels. From Germany he went to Italy. At Venice he met the famous Mr. Law, of whose former grandeur nothing remained but projects fortunately destined to die away unorganized, and a diamond which he pawned to play at games of hazard. One day the conversation turned on the famous system which Law had invented; the source of so many calamities, so many colossal for- tunes, and so remarkable a corruption in our morals. As the Par- liament of Paris had made some resistance to the Scotch minister on this occasion, M. de Montesquieu asked him why he had never tried to overcome this resistance by a method almost always infallible in England, by the grand mover of human actions — in a word, by money. " These are not, '* answered Law, *^ geniuses so ardent and so generous as my countrymen; but they are much more incorruptible.*^ It is certainly true that a society which is free for a limited time ought to resist corruption more than one which is always free: the first, when it sells its liberty, loses it; the second, so to speak, only lends it, and exercises it even when it is thus parting with it. Thus the circumstances and nature of government give rise to the vices and virtues of nations. Another person, no less famous, whom M. de Montesquieu saw still oftener at Venice, was Count de Bonneval. This man, so well known for his adventures, which were not yet at an end, delighted to converse with so good a judge and so excellent a hearer, often related to him the military actions in which he had been engaged, and the remarkable circumstances of his life, and drew the characters of generals and ministers whom he had known. He went from Venice to Rome. In this ancient capital of the world he studied the works of Raphael, of Titian, and of Michael Angelo. Accustomed to study nature, he knew her when she was translated, as a faithful portrait appeals to all who are familiar with the original. After having traveled over Italy, M. de Montesquieu came to Switzerland and studied those vast countries which are watered ^62 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT by the Rhine. There was the less for him to see in Germany that Frederick did not yet reign. In the United Provinces he beheld an admirable monument of what human industry animated by a love of liberty can do. In England he stayed three years. Welcomed by the greatest men, he had nothing to regret save that he had not made his journey sooner. Newton and Locke were dead. But he had often the honor of paying his respects to their patroness, the celebrated Queen of England, who cultivated philosophy upon a throne, and who properly esteemed and val- ued M. de Montesquieu. Nor was he less well received by the nation. At London he formed intimate friendships with the great thinkers. With them he studied the nature of the govern- ment, attaining profound knowledge of it. As he had set out neither as an enthusiast nor a cynic, he brought back neither a disdain for foreigners nor a contempt for his own country. It was the result of his observations that Ger- many was made to travel in, Italy to sojourn in, England to think in, and France to live in. After returning to his own country, M. de Montesquieu retired for two years to his estate of La Br^de, enjoying that solitude which a life in the tumult and hurry of the world but makes the more agreeable. He lived with himself, after having so long lived with others; and finished his work *On the Cause of the Grandeur and Decline of the Romans,* which appeared in 1734. Empires, like men, must increase, decay, and be extinguished. But this necessary revolution may have hidden causes which the veil of time conceals from us. Nothing in this respect more resembles modem history than ancient history. That of the Romans must, however, be excepted. It presents us with a rational policy, a connected system of ag- grandizement, which will not permit us to attribute the great for- tune of this people to obscure and inferior sources. The causes of the Roman grandeur may then be found in history, and it is the business of the philosopher to discover them. Besides, there are no systems in this study, as in that of physics, which are easily overthrown, because one new and unforeseen experiment can upset them in an instant. On the contrary, when we carefully collect the facts, if we do not always gather together all the desired materials, we may at least hope one day to obtain more. A great historian combines in the most perfect manner these defective materials. His merit is like that of an architect, who. JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT ,63 from a few remains, traces the plan of an ancient edifice ; supply- ing, by genius and happy conjectures, what was wanting in fact. It is from this point of view that we ought to consider the work of M. de Montesquieu. He finds the causes of the grandeur of the Romans in that love of liberty, of labor, and of country, which was instilled into them during their infancy; in those intestine divisions which gave an activity to their genius, and which ceased immediately upon the appearance of an enemy; in that constancy after misfortunes, which never despaired of the republic; in that principle they adhered to of never making peace but after victories; in the honor of a triumph, which was a sub- ject of emulation among the generals; in that protection which they granted to those peoples who rebelled against their kings; in the excellent policy of permitting the conquered to preserve their religion and customs; and the equally excellent determina- tion never to have two enemies upon their hands at once, but to bear everything from the one till they had destroyed the other. He finds the causes of their declension in the aggrandizement of the State itself: in those distant wars, which, obliging the citizens to be too long absent, made them insensibly lose their republican spirit; in the too easily granted privilege of being citizens of Rome, which made the Roman people at last become a sort of many-headed monster; in the corruption introduced by the luxury of Asia; in the proscriptions of Sylla, which debased the genius of the nation, and prepared it for slavery; in the necessity of having a master while their liberty was become burdensome to them; in the necessity of changing their maxims when they -changed their government; in that series of monsters who reigned, almost without interruption, from Tiberius to Nerva, and from Commodus to Constantine; lastly, in the translation and division of the empire, which perished first in the West by the power of barbarians, and after having languished in the East, under weak or cruel emperors, insensibly died away, like -hose rivers which disappear in the sands. In a very small volume M. de Montesquieu explained and unfolded his picture. Avoiding detail, and seizing only essentials, he has included in a very small space a vast number of objects distinctly perceived, and rapidly presented, without fatiguing the reader. While he points out much, he leaves us still more to reflect upon; and he might have entitled his book, *A Roman Histoiy for the Use of Statesmen and Philosophers.* 264 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT Whatever reputation M. de Montesquieu had thus far acquired, he had but cleared the way for a far grander undertaking — for that which ought to immortalize his name, and commend it to the admiration of future ages. He had meditated for twenty years upon its execution; or, to speak more exactly, his whole life had been a perpetual meditation upon it. He had made himself in some sort a stranger in his own country, the better to understand it. He had studied profoundly the different peoples of Europe. The famous island, which so glories in her laws, and which makes so bad a use of them, proved to him what Crete had been to Lycurgus — a school where he learned much without approving everything. Thus he attained by degrees to the noblest title a wise man can deserve, that of legislator of nations. If he was animated by the importance of his subject, he was at the same time terrified by its extent. He abandoned it, and returned to it again and again. More than once, as he himself owns, he felt his paternal hands fail him. At last, encouraged by his friends, he resolved to publish the ^Spirit of Laws. ^ In this important work M. de Montesquieu, without insisting, like his predecessors, upon metaphysical discussions, without con- fining himself, like them, to consider certain people in certain particular relations or circumstances, takes a view of the actual inhabitants of the world in all their conceivable relations to each other. Most other writers in this way are either simple moral- ists, or simple lawyers, or even sometimes simple theologists. As for him, a citizen of all nations, he cares less what duty requires of us than what means may constrain us to do it; about the metaphysical perfection of laws, than about what man is capable of; about laws which have been made, than about those which ought to have been made; about the laws of a particular people, than about those of all peoples. Thus, when comparing himself to those who have run before him in this noble and grand career, he might say, with Correggio, when he had seen the works of his rivals, **And I, too, am a Painter.^* Filled with his subject, the author of the *■ Spirit of Laws * comprehends so many materials, and treats them with such brev- ity and depth, that assiduous reading alone discloses its merit. This study will make that pretended want of method, of which some readers have accused M. de Montesquieu, disappear. Real want of order should be distinguished from what is apparent only. Real disorder confuses the analogy and connection of ideas; JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT ^65 or sets up conclusions as principles, so that the reader, after innumerable windings, finds himself at the point whence he set out. Apparent disorder is when the author, putting his ideas in their true place, leaves it to the readers to supply intermedi- ate ones. M. de Montesquieu's book is designed for men who think, for men capable of supplying voluntary and reasonable omissions. The order perceivable in the grand divisions of the * Spirit of Laws* pervades the smaller details also. By his method of arrangement we easily perceive the influence of the different parts upon each other; as, in a system of human knowledge well under- stood, we may perceive the mutual relation of sciences and arts. There must always remain something arbitrary in every compre- hensive scheme, and all that can be required of an author is, that he follow strictly his own system. For an allowable obscurity the same defense exists. What may be obscure to the ignorant is not so for those whom the author had in mind. Besides, voluntary obscurity is not properly obscurity. Obliged to present truths of great importance, the direct avowal of which might have shocked without doing good, M. de Montesquieu has had the prudence to conceal them from those whom they might have hurt without hiding them from the wise. He has especially profited from the two most thoughtful his- torians, Tacitus and Plutarch; but, though a philosopher familiar with these authors might have dispensed with many others, he neglected nothing that could be of use. The reading necessary for the ^ Spirit of Laws * is immense ; and the author's ingenuity is the more wonderful because he was almost blind, and obliged to depend on other men's eyes. This prodigious reading contrib- utes not only to the utility, but to the agreeableness of the work. Without sacrificing dignity, M. de Montesquieu entertains the reader by unfamiliar facts, or by delicate allusions, or by those strong and brilliant touches which paint, by one stroke, nations and men. In a word, M. de Montesquieu stands for the study of laws, as Descartes stood for that of philosophy. He often instructs us, and is sometimes mistaken; and even when he mistakes, he instructs those who know how to read him. The last edition of his works demonstrates, by its many corrections and additions, that when he has made a slip, he has been able to rise again. 266 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT But what is within the reach of all the world is the spirit of the ^Spirit of Laws/ which ought to endear the author to all nations, to cover far greater faults than are his. The love of the public good, a desire to see men happy, reveals itself everywhere; and had it no other merit, it would be worthy, on this account alone, to be read by nations and kings. Already we may perceive that the fruits of this work are ripe. Though M. de Montesquieu scarcely survived the publication of the ^ Spirit of Laws, * he had the satisfaction to foresee its effects among us ; the natural love of Frenchmen for their country turned toward its true object; that taste for commerce, for agriculture, and for useful arts, which insensibly spreads itself in our nation; that general knowledge of the principles of government, which renders people more attached to that which they ought to love. Even the men who have indecently attacked this work perhaps owe more to it than they imagine. Ingratitude, besides, is their least fault. It is not with- out regret and mortification that we expose them; but this history is of too much consequence to M. de Montesquieu and to philoso- phy to be passed over in silence. May that reproach, which at last covers his enemies, profit them! The * Spirit of Laws * was at once eagerly sought after on account of the reputation of its author; but though M. de Montes- quieu had written for thinkers, he had the vulgar for his judge. The brilliant passages scattered up and down the work, admit- ted only because they illustrated the subject, made the ignorant believe that it was written for them. Looking for an entertaining book, they found a useful one, whose scheme and details they could not comprehend without attention. The * Spirit of Laws * was treated with a deal of cheap wit; even the title of it was made a subject of pleasantry. In a word, one of the finest literary monuments which our nation ever produced was received almost with scurrility. It was requisite that competent judges should have time to read it, that they might correct the errors of the fickle multitude. That small public which teaches, dictated to that large public which listens to hear, how it ought to think and speak; and the suffrages of men of abilities formed only one voice over all Europe. The open and secret enemies of letters and philosophy now united their darts against this work. Hence that multitude of pamphlets discharged against the author, weapons which we shall not draw from oblivion. If those authors were not forgotten, it JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT 367 might be believed that the * Spirit of Laws * was written amid a nation of barbarians. M. de Montesquieu despised the obscure criticisms of the curious. He ranked them with those weekly newspapers whose encomiums have no authority, and their darts no effect; which indolent readers run over without believing, and in which sov- ereigns are insulted without knowing it. But he was not equally indifferent about those principles of irreligion which they accused him of having propagated. By ignoring such reproaches he would have seemed to deserve them, and the importance of the object made him shut his eyes to the meanness of his adversaries. The ultra-zealous, afraid of that light which letters diffuse, not to the prejudice of religion, but to their own disadvantage, took different ways of attacking him; some, by a trick as puerile as cowardly, wrote fictitious letters to themselves; others, attacking him anonymously, had afterwards fallen by the ears among them- selves. M. de Montesquieu contented himself with making an example of the most extravagant. This was the author of an anonymous periodical paper, who accused M. de Montesquieu of Spinozism and deism (two imputations which are incompatible) ; of having followed the system of Pope (of which there is not a word in his works) ; of having quoted Plutarch, who is not a Christian author; of not having spoken of original sin and of grace. In a word, he pretended that the * Spirit of Laws * was a production of the constitution Unigenitus; a preposterous idea. Those who understand M. de Montesquieu and Clement XL may judge, by this accusation, of the rest. This enemy procured the philosopher an addition of glory as a man of letters : the * Defense of the Spirit of Laws * appeared. This work, for its moderation, truth, delicacy of ridicule, is a model. M. de Montesquieu might easily have made his adversary odious; he did better — he made him ridiculous. We owe the aggressor eternal thanks for having procured us this masterpiece. For here, without intending it, the author has drawn a picture of himself; those who knew him think they hear him; and posterity, when reading his * Defense,' will decide that his conversation equaled his writings — an encomium which few great men have deserved. Another circumstance gave him the advantage. The critic loudly accused the clergy of France, and especially the faculty of theology, of indifference to the cause of God, because they did 368 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT not proscribe the * Spirit of Laws. * The faculty resolved to examine the * Spirit of Laws. * Though several years have passed, it has not yet pronounced a decision. It knows the grounds of reason and of faith; it knows that the work of a man of letters ought not to be examined like that of a theologian; that a bad interpretation does not condemn a proposition, and that it may injure the weak to see an ill-timed suspicion of heresy thrown upon geniuses of the first rank. In spite of this unjust accusa- tion, M. de Montesquieu was always esteemed, visited, and well received by the greatest and most respectable dignitaries of the Church. Would he have preserved this esteem among men of worth, if they had regarded him as a dangerous writer ? M. de Montesquieu's death was not unworthy of his life. Suffering greatly, far from a family that was dear to him, sur- rounded by a few friends and a great crowd of spectators, he preserved to the last his calmness and serenity of soul. After performing with decency every duty, full of confidence in the Eternal Being, he died with the tranquillity of a man of worth, who had ever consecrated his talents to virtue and humanity. France and Europe lost him February loth, 1755, aged sixty-six. All the newspapers published this event as a misfortune. We may apply to M. de Montesquieu what was formerly said of an illustrious Roman: that nobody, when told of his death, showed any joy or forgot him when he was no more. Foreigners were eager to demonstrate their regrets: my Lord Chesterfield, whom it is enough to name, wrote an article to his honor — an article worthy of both. It is the portrait of Anaxagoras drawn by Pericles. The Royal Academy of Sciences and Belles-Lettres of Prussia, though it is not its custom to pronounce a eulogy on foreign members, paid him an honor which only the illustrious John Bernoulli had hitherto received. M. de Maupertuis, though ill, performed himself this last duty to his friend, and would not permit so sacred an office to fall to the share of any other. To these honorable suffrages were added those praises given him, in presence of one of us, by that very monarch to whom this celebrated Academy owes its lustre; a prince who feels the losses which Philosophy sustains, and at the same time comforts her. The 17th of February the French Academy, according to custom, performed a solemn service for him, at which all the learned men of this body assisted. They ought to have placed the * Spirit of Laws * upon his coffin, as heretofore they exposed, JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT 360 opposite to that of Raphael, his Transfiguration. This simple and affecting decoration would have been a fit funeral oration. M. de Montesquieu had, in company, an unvarying sweetness and gayety of temper. His conversation was spirited, agreeable, and instructive, because he had known so many great men. It was, like his style, concise, full of wit and sallies, without gall, and without satire. Nobody told a story more brilliantly, more readily, more gracefully, or with less affectation. His frequent absence of mind only made him the more amus- ing. He always roused himself to reanimate the conversation. The fire of his genius, his prodigality of ideas, gave rise tc flashes of speech; but he never interrupted an interesting conver- sation; and he was attentive without affectation and without con- straint. His conversation not only resembled his character and his genius, but had the method which he observed in his study. Though capable of long-continued meditation, he never exhausted his strength; he always left off application before he felt the. least symptom of fatigue. He was sensible to glory, but wished only to deserve it, and never tried to augment his own fame by underhand practices. Worthy of all distinctions, he asked none, and he was not surprised that he was forgot; but he has protected at court men of letters who were persecuted, celebrated, and unfortunate, and has obtained favors for them. Though he lived with the great, their company was not necessary to his happiness. He retired whenever he could to the country; there again with joy to welcome his philosophy, his books, and his repose. After having studied man in the com- merce of the world, and in the history of nations, he studied him also among those simple people whom nature alone has in- structed. From them he could learn something; he endeavored, like Socrates, to find out their genius; he appeared as happy thus as in the most brilliant assemblies, especially when he made up their differences, and comforted them by his beneficence. Nothing does greater honor to his memory than the economy with which he lived, and which has been blamed as excessive in a proud and avaricious age. He would not encroach on the pro- vision for his family, even by his generosity to the imfortunate, or by those expenses which his travels, the weakness of his sight, and the printing of his works made necessary. He transmitted to his children, without diminution or augmentation, the estate 1—24 270 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT which he received from his ancestors, adding nothing to it but the glory of his name and the example of his life. He had married, in 17 15, dame Jane de Lartigue, daughter of Peter de Lartigue, lieutenant-colonel of the regiment of Molevrier, and had by her two daughters and one son. Those who love truth and their country will not be displeased to find some of his maxims here. He thought: That every part of the State ought to be equally subject to the laws, but that the privileges of every part of the State ought to be respected when they do not oppose the natural right which obliges every citizen equally to contribute to the public good; that ancient possession was in this kind the first of titles, and the most inviolable of rights, which it was always unjust and sometimes dangerous to shake; that magistrates, in all circumstances, and notwithstand- ing their own advantage, ought to be magistrates without par- tiality and without passion, like the laws which absolve and punish without love or hatred. He said upon occasion of those ecclesiastical disputes which so much employed the Greek empe- rors and Christians, that theological disputes, when they are not confined to the schools, infallibly dishonor a nation in the eyes of its neighbors: in fact, the contempt in which wise men hold those quarrels does not vindicate the character of their country; because, sages making everywhere the least noise, and being the smallest number, it is never from them that the nation is judged. We look upon that special interest which M. de Montesquieu took in the < Encyclop^die * as one of the most honorable rewards of our labor. Perhaps the opposition which the work has met with, reminding him of his own experience, interested him the more in our favor. Perhaps he was sensible, without perceiving it, of that justice which we dared to do him in the first volume of the < Encyclopedic,* when nobody as yet had ventured to say a word in his defense. He prepared for us an article upon * Taste,* which has been found unfinished among his papers. We shall give it to the public in that condition, and treat it with the same respect that antiquity formerly showed to the last words of Seneca. Death prevented his giving us any further marks of his approval; and joining our own griefs with those of all Europe, we might write on his tomb: — ^^ Finis vita ejus nobis luctuosus, patrice iristis, extraneis etiam ignotisque non sine cur a fuit?'* 371 VITTORIO ALFIERI (1 749-1 803) BY L. OSCAR KUHNS jTALiAN literature during the eighteenth century, although it could boast of no names in any way comparable with those of Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, and Tasso, showed still a vast improvement on the degradation of the preceding century. Among the most famous writers of the times — Goldoni, Parini, Metastasio — none is so great or so famous as Vittorio Alfieri, the founder of Ital- ian tragedy. The story of his life and of his literary activity, as told by himself in his memoirs, is one of extreme interest. Bom at Asti, on January 17th, 1749, of a wealthy and noble family, he grew up to manhood singularly deficient in knowledge and culture, and without the slightest interest in literature. He was * uneducated,* to use his own phrase, in the Academy of Turin. It was only after a long tour in Italy, France, Holland, and England, that, recognizing his own ignorance, he went to Florence to beg^n serious work. At the age of twenty-seven a sudden revelation of his dramatic power came to him, and with passionate energy he spent the rest of his life in laborious study and in efforts to make himself worthy of a place among the poets of his native land. Practically he had to learn everything ; for he himself tells us that he had ** an almost total ignorance of the rules of dramatic composition, and an unskill- fulness almost total in the divine and most necessary art of writing well and handling his own language.* His private life was eventful, chiefly through his many senti- mental attachments, its deepest experience being his profound love and friendship for the Countess of Albany, — Louise Stolberg, mistress and afterward wife of the << Young Pretender,* who passed under the title of Count of Albany, and from whom she was finally divorced. The production of Alfieri's tragedies began with the sketch called ^ Cleopatra,^ in 1775, and lasted till 1789, when a complete edition, by Didot, appeared in Paris. His only important prose work is his * Auto- biography, > begun in 1790 and ended in the year of his death, 1803, Although heMpote several comedies and a number of sonnets and satires, — whi^H do not often rise above mediocrity, — it is as a tragic poet that he is known to fame. Before him — though Goldoni had successfully imitated Moliere in comedy, and Metastasio had become enormously popular as the poet of love and the opera — no tragedies liad been written inBBaly which deserved to be compared with the g;reat dramas of France, Spain, and England. Indeed, it had been 372 VITTORIO ALPIERI said that tragedy was not adapted to the Italian tongue or caaractet. It remained for Alfieri to prove the falsity of this theory. Always sensitive to the charge of plagiarism, Alfieri declared that whether his tragedies were good or bad, they were at least his own. This is true to a certain extent. And yet he was influenced more than he was willing to acknowledge by the French dramatists of the seventeenth century. In common with Corneille and Racine, he ob- served strictly the three unities of time, place, and action. But the courtliness of language, the grace and poetry of the French dramas, and especially the tender love of Racine, are altogether lacking with him. Alfieri had a certain definite theory of tragedy which he followed with unswerving fidelity. He aimed at the simplicity and directness of the Greek drama. He sought to give one clear, definite action, which should advance in a straight line from beginning to end, with- out deviation, and carry along the characters — who are, for the most part, helplessly entangled in the toils of a relentless fate — to an inevitable destruction. For this reaspn the well-known confidantes of the French stage were discarded, no secondary action or episodes were admitted, and the whole play was shortened to a little more than two-thirds of the average French classic drama. Whatever originality Alfieri possessed did not show itself in the choice of sub- jects, which are nearly all well known and had often been used before. From Racine he took '.— I'll do it: I, e'en if thou wilt not. Shall I let thee, Who only dost deserve my love, be dragged To cruel death ? And shall I let him live Who cares not for my love ? I swear to thee, To-morrow thou shalt be the king in Argos. VITTORIO ALFIERI 377 Nor shall my hand, nor shall my bosom tremble . . . Btit who approaches ? /Cgis. — 'Tis Electra . . . Cly. — Heavens ! Let ns avoid her. Do thou trust in me. SCENE n ELECTRA ' ^/?^/ra— f^gisthus flies from me, and he does well; But I behold that likewise from my sight My mother seeks to fly. Infatuated And wretched mother! She could not resist The guilty eagerness for the last time To see ^gisthus. — They have here, at length. Conferred together . . . But ^gisthus seems Too much elated, and too confident. For one condemned to exile . . . She appeared Like one disturbed in thought, but more possessed With anger and resentment than with grief . . . O Heavens! who knows to what that miscreant base. With his infernal arts, may have impelled her! To what extremities have wrought her up! ... . Now, now, indeed, I tremble: what misdeeds. How black in kind, how manifold in number. Do I behold! . . . Yet, if I speak, I kill My mother: ... If I'm silent — ? . . . ACT V — SCENE II ^GISTHUS CLYTEMNESTRA jEgis. — Hast thou performed the deed? Cly. — ^gisthus . . . yEgis. — What do I behold? O woman. What dost thou here, dissolved in useless tears? Tears are unprofitable, late, and vain; And they may cost us dear. Cfy. — Thou here? . . . but how? . . , Wretch that I am ! what have I promised thee ? Wbat impious counsel ? . . . yEgis. — Was not thine the cotmsel? Love gave it thee, and fear recants it. — Now, Since thou'rt repentant, I am satisfied; 378 VITTORIO ALFIERI Soothed by reflecting that thou art not guilty, I shall at least expire. To thee I said How difficult the enterprise would be; But thou, depending more than it became thee On that which is not in thee, virile courage, Daredst thyself thy own unwarlike hand For such a blow select. May Heaven permit That the mere project of a deed like this May not be fatal to thee! I by stealth, Protected by the darkness, hither came, And unobserved, I hope. I was constrained To bring the news myself, that now my life Is irrecoverably forfeited To the king's vengeance . . . Cly. — ^What is this I hear? Whence didst thou learn it ? yEgis. — More than he would wish Atrides hath discovered of our love; And I already from him have received A strict command not to depart from Argos. And further, I am summoned to his presence Soon as to-morrow dawns: thou seest well That such a conference to me is death. But fear not; for I will all means employ To bear myself the undivided blame. Cly. — What do I hear? Atrides knows it all? ^gis.-^'H.e knows too much: I have but one choice left; It will be best for me to 'scape by death, By self-inflicted death, this dangerous inquest. I save my honor thus; and free myself From an opprobrious end. I hither came To give thee my last warning: and to take My last farewell. . . . Oh, live; and may thy fame Live with thee, unimpeached! All thoughts of pity ( For me now lay aside; if I'm allowed By my own hand, for thy sake, to expire, I am supremely blest. Cly. — Alas! . . . uSigisthus ... What a tumultuous passion rages now Within my bosom, when I hear thee speak! ... And is it true? . . . Thy death . . . y£gts. — Is more than certain. . . . Cly. — And I'm thy murderer! . . . y£gts. — I seek thy safety, VITTORIO ALFIERI ^yo Cly. — What wicked fury from Avemus' shore, iEgisthus, guides thy steps? Oh, I had died Of grief, if I had never seen thee more; But guiltless I had died: spite of myself, Now, by thy presence, I already am Again impelled to this tremendous crime. . . . An anguish, an unutterable anguish. Invades my bones, invades my every fibre. . . . And can it be that this alone can save thee ? . . , But who revealed our love ? yEgis. — To speak of thee. Who but Electra to her father dare ? Who to the monarch breathe thy name but she ? Thy impious daughter in thy bosom thrusts The fatal sword; and ere she takes thy life. Would rob thee of thy honor. Cly. — And ought I This to believe ? . . . Alas ! . . . ^gis. — Believe it, then. On the authority of this my sword. If thou believ'st it not on mine. At least I'll die in time. . . . Cly. — O Heavens! what wouldst thou do? Sheathe, I command thee, sheathe that fatal sword. — Oh, night of horrors! . . . hear me . . . Perhaps Atrides Has not resolved. . . . ^gis. — What boots this hesitation? . . , Atrides injured, and Atrides king. Meditates nothing in his haughty mind But blood and vengeance. Certain is my death, Thine is uncertain: but reflect, O queen. To what thou'rt destined, if he spare thy life. And were I seen to enter here alone. And at so late an hour . . . Alas, what fears Harrow my bosom when I think of thee! Soon will the dawn of day deliver thee From racking doubt; that dawn I ne'er shall see: I am resolved to die: . . . — Farewell . . . forever! Cly. — Stay, stay . . . Thou shalt not die. yEgis. — By no man's hand Assuredly, except my own: — or thine. If so thou wilt. Ah, perpetrate the deed; Kill me; and drag me, palpitating yet. Before thy judge austere: my blood will be A proud acquittance for thee. 380 VITTORIO ALFIERI Cly. — Madd'ning thought! . . , Wretch that 1 am ! . . . Shall I be thy assassin ? . . . ^gis. — Shame on thy hand, that cannot either kill Who most adores thee, or who most detests thee! Mine then must serve. . . . C/y.— Ah! . . . no. . . . JEgis. — Dost thou desire Me, or Atrides, dead ? Cly. — Ah! what a choice! . . . yEgis. — Thou art compelled to choose. Cly. — I death inflict . . . jEgis. — Or death receive; when thou hast witnessed mine. Cly. — Ah, then the crime is too inevitable! ^gis. — The time now presses. Cly. — But . . . the courage . . . strength? . . . ^gis. — Strength, courage, all, will love impart to thee. Cly. — Must I then with this trembling hand of mine Plunge ... in my husband's heart . . . the sword ? . . . j^gis. — The blows Thou Vv^ilt redouble with a steady hand In the hard heart of him who slew thy daughter. Cly. — Far from my hand I hurled the sword in anguish. ^gis. — Behold a steel, and of another temper; The clotted blood-drops of Thyestes's sons Still stiffen on its frame: do not delay To furbish it once more in the vile blood Of Atreus; go, be quick: there now remain But a few moments; go. If awkwardly The blow thou aimest, or if thou shouldst be Again repentant, lady, ere 'tis struck, Do not thou any more tow'rd these apartments Thy footsteps turn: by my own hands destroyed, Here wouldst thou find me in a sea of blood Immersed. Now go, and tremble not; be bold. Enter and save us by his death. — SCENE III iEGISTHUS • ^gis. — Come forth, Thyestes, from profound Avernus; come, Now is the time; within this palace now Display thy dreadful shade. A copious banquet Of blood is now prepared for thee, enjoy it; VITTORIO ALPIERI 381 Already o'er the heart of thy foe's son Hangs the suspended sword; now, now, he feels it: An impious consort grasps it; it was fitting That she, not I, did this: so much more sweet To thee will be the vengeance, as the crime Is more atrocious. . . . An attentive ear Lend to the dire catastrophe with me; Doubt not she will accomplish it: disdain, Love, terror, to the necessary crime Compel the impious woman. — AGAMEMNON (within) Aga. — Treason! Ah! . . . My wife ? . . O Heavens ! . . I die . , O traitorous deed ! y£gis. — Die, thou — yes, die! And thou redouble. The blows redouble; all the weapon hide [woman. Within his heart; shed, to the latest drop. The blood of that fell miscreant: in our blood He would have bathed his hands. SCENE IV CLYTEMNESTRA — ^ESGISTHUS Cly. — What have I done? Where am I? . . . ^gis. — Thou hast slain the tyrant: now At length thoii'rt worthy of me. Cly. — See, with blood The dagger drips; . . . my hands, my face, my garments. All, all are blood . . . Oh, for a deed like this. What vengeance will be wreaked! ... I see already Already to my breast that very steel I see hurled back, and by what hand! I freeze, I faint, I shudder, I dissolve with horror. My strength, my utterance, fail me. Where am I ? What have I done ? . . . Alas ! . . . ^gis. — Tremendous cries Resound on every side throughout the palace: 'Tis time to show the Argives what I am. And reap the harvest of my long endurance. 382 VITTORIO ALPIERI SCENE V ELECTRA — ^GISTHUS Elec. — It still remains for thee to murder me, Thou impious, vile assassin of my father . . . But what do I behold ? O Heavens ! . . . my mother ? . . Flagitious woman, dost thou grasp the sword? Didst thou commit the murder? ^gis. — Hold thy peace. Stop not my path thus; quickly I return; Tremble: for now that I am king of Argos, Far more important is it that I kill Orestes than Electra. SCENE VI CLYTEMNESTRA — ELECTRA Cly. — Heavens! . . . Orestes? . . . ^gisthus, now I know thee. . . . Elec. — Give it me: Give me that steel. C^.— ^gisthus! . . . Stop! . . . Wilt thou Murder my son ? Thou first shalt murder me. SCENE VII ELECTRA Elec. — O night! . . O father! . . Ah, it was your deed, Ye gods, this thought of mine to place Orestes In safety first. — Thou wilt not find him, traitor. — Ah live, Orestes, live: and I will keep This impious steel for thy adult right hand. The day, I hope, will come, when I in Argos Shall see thee the avenger of thy father. Translation of Edgar Alfred Bowring, Bohn's Library. 3S3 ALFONSO THE WISE (i 226-1 284) |ING Alfonso,** records the Jesuit historian, Mariana, *was a man of great sense, but more fit to be a scholar than a king; for whilst he studied the heavens and the stars, he lost the earth and his kingdom.* Certainly it is for his services to letters, and not for political or military successes, that the meditative son of the valorous Ferdinand the Saint and the beautiful Beatrice of Swabia will be remembered. The father conquered Seville, and displaced the enterprising and infidel Moors with orthodox and indo- lent Christians. The son could not keep what his sire had grasped. Born in 1226, the fortunate young prince, at the age of twenty-five, was proclaimed king of the newly conquered and united Castile and Leon. He was very young : he was everywhere admired and honored for skill in war, for learning, and for piety; he was everywhere loved for his heritage of a great name and his kindly and gracious manners. In the first year of his reign, however, he began debasing the coinage, — a favorite device of needy monarchs in his day, — and his people never forgave the injury. He coveted, naturally enough, the throne of the Empire, for which he was long a favorite candidate; and for twenty years he wasted time, money, and purpose, heart and hope, in pursuit of the vain bauble. His kingdom fell into confus- ion, his eldest son died, his second son Sancho rebelled against him and finally deposed him. Courageous and determined to the last, defying the leagfue of Church and State against him, he appealed to the king of Morocco for men and money to reinstate his fortunes. In Ticknor's * History of Spanish Literature* may be found his touching letter to De Guzman at the Moorish court. He is, like Lear, poor and discrowned, but not like him, weak. His prelates have stirred up strife, his nobles have betrayed him. If Heaven wills, he is ready to pay generously for help. If not, says the royal philoso- pher, still, generosity and loyalty exalt the soul that cherishes them. « Therefore, my cousin, Alonzo Perez de Guzman, so treat with your master and my friend [the king of Morocco] that he may lend me, on my richest crown and on the jewels in it, as much as shall seem good to him: and if you should be able to obtain his help for me, do not deprive me of it, which I think you will not do; rather I hold that all the good offices which my master may do me, by your hand they will come, and may the hand of God be with you. « Given in my only loyal city of Seville, the thirtieth year of my reig^ and the first of my misfortunes. « The King.» 384 ALFONSO THE WISE In his **only loyal city'* the broken man remained, until the Pope excommunicated Sancho, and till neighboring towns began to capit- ulate. But he had been wounded past healing. There was no med- icine for a mind diseased, no charm to raze out the written troubles of the brain. <^He fell ill in Seville, so that he drew nigh unto death. . . . And when the sickness had run its course, he said before them all: that he pardoned the Infante Don Sancho, his heir, all that out of malice he had done against him, and to his subjects the wrong they had wrought towards him, ordering that letters con- firming the same should be written — sealed with his golden seal, so that all his subjects should be certain that he had put away his quarrel with them, and desired that no blame whatever should rest upon them. And when he had said this, he received the body of God with great devotion, and in a little while gave up his soul to God.» This was in 1284, when he was fifty-eight years old. At this age, had a private lot been his, — that of a statesman, jurist, man of sci- ence, annalist, philosopher, troubadour, mathematician, historian, poet, — he would but have entered his golden prime, rich in promise, fruitful in performance. Yet Alfonso, uniting in himself all these vocations, seemed at his death to have left behind him a wide waste of opportunities, a dreary dearth of accomplishment. Looking back, however, it is seen that the balance swings even. While his kingdom was slipping away, he was conquering a wider domain. He was creating Spanish Law, protecting the followers of learning, cherish- ing the universities, restricting privilege, breaking up time-honored abuses. He prohibited the use of Latin in public acts. He adopted the native tongue in all his own works, and thus gave to Spanish an honorable eminence, while French and German struggled long for a learning from scholars, and English was to wait a hundred years for the advent of Dan Chaucer. Greatest achievement of all, he codified the common law of Spain in 0 THE WXSE ^gy Striven to make spoil of the strong and to destroy the wise; and have forbidden fellowship and assemblies of men in their land, and striven always to know what men said or did; and do trust their counsel and the guard of their person rather to foreigners, who will serve at their will, than to them of the land, who serve from oppression. And moreover, we say that though any man may have gained master^' of a kingdom by an)' of the law- ful means whereof we have spoken in the laws going before this, yet, if he use his power ill, in the ways whereof we speak in this law, him may the people still call tyrant; for he tumeth his mastery which was rightful into wrongful, as Aristotle hath said in the book which treateth of the rule and government of king- doms. • FrcMn quoted in Ticknoi's < Spanish Literature.* ON THE TURKS. AND WHY THEY ARE SO CALLED THE ancient histories which describe the early inhabitants of the East and their various languages show the origin of each tribe or nation, or whence they came, and for what reason they waged war, and how they were enabled to conquer the former lords of the land. Now in these histories it is told that the Turks, and also the allied race called Turcomans, were all of one land originally, and that these names were taken from two rivers which flow through the territory whence these people came, which lies in the direction of the rising of the sun, a lit- tle toward the north; and that one of these rivers bore the name of Turco, and the other ikiani: and finally that for this reason the two tribes which dwelt on the banks of these two rivers came to be commonly kno\NTi as Turcomanos or Turcomans. On the other hand, there are those who assert that because a portion of the Turks lived among the Comanos (Comans) they accordingly, in course of time, received the name of Turcomanos; but the majority adhere to the reason already given. However this may be, the Turks and the Turcomans belong both to the same fam- ily, and follow no other life than that of wandering over the coimtr}', driving their herds from one good pasture to another, and taking with them their wives and their children and all their property, including money as well as flocks. The Turks did not dwell then in houses, but in tents made of skins, as do in these days the Comanos and Tartars; and when 38S ALFONSO THE WISE they had to move from one place to another, they divided them- selves into companies according to their different dialects, and chose a cabdillo (judge), who settled their disputes, and rendered justice to those who deserved it. And this nomadic race culti- vated no fields, nor vineyards, nor orchards, nor arable lands of any kind; neither did they buy or sell for money: but traded their flocks among one another, and also their milk and cheese, and pitched their tents in the places where they found the best pasturage; and when the grass was exhausted, they sought fresh herbage elsewhere. And whenever they reached the border of a strange land, they sent before them special envoys, the most worthy and honorable of their men, to the kings or lords of such countries, to ask of them the privilege of pasturage on their lands for a space; for which they were willing to pay such rent or tax as might be agreed upon. After this manner they lived among each nation in whose territory they happened to be. From Chapter xiii. TO THE MONTH OF MARY From the WELCOME, O May, yet once again we greet thee I So alway praise we her, the Holy Mother, Who prays to God that he shall aid us ever Against our foes, and to us ever listen. Welcome, O May! loyally art thou welcome! So alway praise we her, the Mother of kindness. Mother who alway on us taketh pity, Mother who guardeth us from woes unnumbered. Welcome, O May! welcome, O month well favored 1 So let us ever pray and offer praises To her who ceases not for us, for sinners. To pray to God that we from woes be g^uarded. Welcome, O May! O joyous month and stainless! So will we ever pray to her who gaineth Grace from her Son for us, and gives each morning Force that by us the Moors from Spain are driven. Welcome, O May, of bread and wine the giver! Pray then to her, for in her arms, an infant She bore the Lord! she points us on our journey. The journey that to her will bear us quickly I 3^9 ALFRED THE GREAT (849-901) [X THE Ashmolean Museum at Oxford may be seen an antique jewel, consisting of an enameled figure in red, blue, and gfreen, enshrined in a golden frame, and bearing the legend "Alfred mec heht gewjTcean* (Alfred ordered me made). This was discovered in 1693 in Newton Park, near Athelney, and through it one is enabled to touch the far-away life of a thousand years ago. But greater and more imperishable than this archaic gem is the gift that the noble King left to the English nation — a gift that affects the entire race of English-speaking people. For it was Alfred who laid the foundations for a national literature. Alfred, the younger son of Ethelwulf, king of the West Saxons, and Osberga, daughter of his cup-bearer, was bom in the palace at Wantage in the year 849. He grew up at his father's court, a migra- tory one, that moved from Kent to Devonshire and from Wales to the Isle of Wight whenever events, raids, or the Witan (Parliament) demanded. At an early age Alfred was sent to pay homage to the Pope in Rome, taking such gifts as rich vessels of gold and silver, silks, and hangings, which show that Saxons lacked nothing in treasure. In 855 Etheiwulf visited Rome with his young son, bearing more costly presents, as well as munificent sums for the shrine of St. Peter's; and returning by way of France, they stopped at the court of Charles the Bold. Once again in his home, young Alfred applied himself to his education. He became a marvel of courage at Jthe chase, proficient in the use of arms, excelled in athletic sports, was zealous in his religious duties, and athirst for knowledge. His accomplishments were many; and when the guests assembled in the great hall to make the walls ring with their laughter over cups of mead and ale, he could take his turn with the harpers and minstrels to improvise one of those sturdy bold ballads that stir the blood to-day with their stately rhythms and noble themes. Ethelwulf died in 858, and eight years later only two sons, Ethel- red and Alfred, were left to cope with the Danish invaders. They won victory after victory, upon which the old chroniclers love to dwell, pausing to describe wild frays among the chalk-hills and dense forests, which afforded convenient places to hide men and to bury spoils. Ethelred died in 871, and the throne descended to Alfred. His kingdom was in a terrible condition, for Wessex, Kent. Mercia, Sus- sex, and Surrey lay at the mercy of the marauding enemy. "The -OQ ALFRED THE GREAT land,'^ says an old writer, ^> Time after time the Danes are overthrown, but, like the heads of the fabled Hydra, they grow and flourish after each attack. They have one advantage : they know how to command the sea, and numerous as the waves that their vessels ride so proudly and well, the invaders arrive and quickly land to plunder and slay. Alfred, although but twenty-five, sees the need for a navy, and in 875 gathers a small fleet to meet the ships of the enemy, wins one prize, and puts the rest to flight. The chroniclers now relate that he fell into disaster and became a fugitive in Selwood Forest, while Guthrum and his host were left free to ravage. From this period date the legends of the King's visit in disguise to the hut of the neat-herd, and his burning the bread he was set to watch; his pene- trating into the camp of the Danes and entertaining Guthrum by his minstrelsy while discovering his plans and force; the vision of St. Cuthbert; and the fable of his calling five hundred men by the winding of his horn. Not long after he was enabled to emerge from the trials of exile in Athelney ; and according to Asser, << In the seventh week after Easter, he rode to Egbert's Stone in the eastern part of Selwood or the Great Wood, called in the old British language Coit-mawr. Here he was met by all the neighboring folk of Somersetshire, Wilt- shire, and Hampshire, who had not for fear of the Pagans fled beyond the sea; and when they saw the king alive after such great tribulation, they received him, as he deserved, with joy and ac- clamations and all encamped there for the night." Soon afterward he made a treaty with the Danes, and became king of the whole of England south of the Thames. It was now Alfred's work to reorganize his kingdom, to strengthen the coast defenses, to rebuild London, to arrange for a standing army, and to make wise laws for the preservation of order and peace; and when all this was accomplished, he turned his attention to the establishment of monasteries and colleges. *^ In the mean- time,*^ says old Asser, > As regards Alfred's personal contribution to literature, it may be said that over and above all disputed matters and certain lost works, they represent a most valuable and voluminous assortment due directly to his own royal and scholarly pen. History, secular and churchly, laws and didactic literature, were his field; and though it would seem that his actual period of composition did not much exceed ten years, yet he accomplished a vast deal for any man, especially any busy sovereign and soldier. An ancient writer, Ethelwerd, says that he translated many books from Latin into Saxon, and William of Malmesbury goes so far as to say that he translated into Anglo-Saxon almost all the literature of Rome. Undoubtedly the general condition of education was deplor- able, and Alfred felt this deeply. « Formerly, >> he writes, "men came hither from foreign lands to seek instruction, and now when we desire it, we can only obtain it from abroad.'^ Like Charlemagne he drew to his court famous scholars, and set many of them to work writing chronicles and translating important Latin books into Anglo- Saxon, Among these was the * Pastoral Care of Pope Gregory, > to which he wrote the Preface; but with his own hand he translated the *■ Consolations of Philosophy, * by Boethius, two manuscripts of which still exist. In this he frequently stops to introduce observations and comments of his own. Of greater value was his translation of the *■ History of the World, * by Orosius, which he abridged, and to which he added new chapters giving the record of coasting voyages in the north of Europe. This is preserved in the Cotton MSS. in the British Museum. His fourth translation was the < Ecclesiastical His- tory of the English Nation,* by Bede. To this last may be added the < Blossom Gatherings from St. Augustine,* and many minor com- positions in prose and verse, translations from the Latin fables and poems, and his own note-book, in which he jots, with what may be termed a journalistic instinct, scenes that he had witnessed, such as Aldhelm standing on the bridge instructing the people on Sunday afternoons; bits of philosophy; and such reflections as the following. 202 ALFRED THE GREAT which remind one of Marcus Aurelius: — "Desirest thou power? But thou shalt never obtain it without sorrows — sorrows from strange folk, and yet keener sorrows from thine own kindred ; ^^ and <* Hard- ship and sorrow! Not a king but would wish to be without these if he could. But I know that he cannot.'^ Alfred's value to literature is this: he placed by the side of Anglo-Saxon poetry, — consisting of two great poems, Caedmon's great -song of the < Creation * and Cyne- wulf's < Nativity and Life of Christ,* and the unwritten ballads passed from lip to lip, — four immense translations from Latin into Anglo- Saxon prose, which raised English from a mere spoken dialect to a true language. From his reign date also the famous Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and the Anglo-Saxon Gospels; and a few scholars are tempted to class the magnificent ^Beowulf* among the works of this period. At any rate, the great literary movement that he inaugurated lasted until the Norman Conquest. In 893 the Danes once more disturbed King Alfred, but he foiled them at all points, and they left in 897 to harry England no more for several generations. In 901 he died, having reigned for thirty years in the honor and affection of his subjects. Freeman in his * Norman Conquest' says that "no other man on record has ever so thoroughly united all the virtues both of the ruler and of the private man.** Bishop Asser, his contemporary, has left a half-mythical eulogy, and William of Malmesbury, Roger of Wendover, Matthew of Westminster, and John Brompton talk of him fully and freely. Sir John Spellman published a quaint biography in Oxford in 1678, followed by Powell's in 1634, and Bicknell's in 1777. The modern lives are by Giles, Pauli, and Hughes, KING ALFRED ON KING-CRAFT Comment in his Translation of Boethius's < Consolations of Philosophy* THE Mind then answered and thus said: O Reason, indeed thou knowest that covetousness and the greatness of this earthly power never well pleased me, nor did I altogether very much yearn after this earthly authority. But nevertheless I was desirous of materials for the work which I was commanded to perform; that was, that I might honorably and fitly guide and exercise the power which was committed to me. Moreover, thou knowest that no man can show any skill nor exercise or control any power, without tools and materials. There are of every craft the materials without which man cannot exercise the craft. These, then, are a king's materials and his tools to reign with: ALFRED THE GREAT 393 that he have his land well peopled; he must have prayer-men, and soldiers, and workmen. Thou knowest that without these tools no king can show his craft. This is also his materials which he must have besides the tools: provisions for the three classes. This is, then, their provision: land to inhabit, and gifts and weapons, and meat, and ale, and clothes, and whatsoever is necessary for the three classes. He cannot without these pre- serve the tools, nor without the tools accomplish any of those things which he is commanded to perform. Therefore, I was desirous of materials wherewith to exercise the power, that my talents and power should not be forgotten and concealed. For every craft and every power soon becomes old, and is passed over in silence, if it be without wisdom: for no man can accom- plish any craft without wisdom. Because whatsoever is done through folly, no one can ever reckon for craft. This is now especially to be said: that I wished to live honorably whilst I lived, and after my life, to leave to the men who were after me, my memory in good works. ALFRED'S PREFACE TO THE VERSION OF POPE GREGORY'S < PASTORAL CARE> KING Alfred bids greet Bishop Waerferth with his words lov- ingly and with friendship; and I let it be known to thee that it has very often come into my mind, what wise men there formerly were throughout England, both of sacred and sec- ular orders; and what happy times there were then throughout England; and how the kings who had power of the nation in those days obeyed God and his ministers; and they preserved peace, morality, and order at home, and at the same time en- larged their territory abroad; and how they prospered both with war and with wisdom; and also the sacred orders, how zealous they were, both in teaching and learning, and in all the services they owed to God; and how foreigners came to this land in search of wisdom and instruction, and how we should now have to get them from abroad if we would have them. So general was its decay in England that there were very few on this side of the Humber who could understand their rituals in English, or translate a letter from Latin into English; and I believe there were not many beyond the Humber. There were so few that I cannot remember a single one south of the Thames when jg4 ALFRED THE GREAT [ came to the throne. Thanks be to God Almighty that we have any teachers among us now. And therefore I command thee to do as I believe thou art willing, to disengage thyself from worldly matters as often as thou canst, that thou mayst apply the wisdom which God has given thee wherever thou canst. Consider what punishments would come upon us on account of this world if we neither loved it (wisdom) ourselves nor suffered other men to obtain it: we should love the name only of Christian, and very few of the virtues. When I considered all this I remembered also how I saw, before it had been all ravaged and burnt, how the churches throughout the whole of England stood filled with treasures and books, and there was also a great multitude of God's servants; but they had very little knowledge of the books, for they could not understand anything of them, because they were not written in their own language. As if they had said, **Our forefathers, who formerly held these places, loved wisdom, and through it they obtained wealth and bequeathed it to us. In this we can still see their tracks, but we cannot follow them, and therefore we have lost both the wealth and the wisdom, because we would not incline our hearts after their example." When I remembered all this, I wondered extremely that the good and wise men, who were formerly all over England, and had perfectly learnt all the books, did not wish to translate them into their own language. But again, I soon answered myself and said, *^ They did not think that men would ever be so careless, and that learning would so decay; therefore they abstained from translating, and they trusted that the wisdom in this land might increase with our knowledge of languages.* Then I remember how the law was first known in Hebrew, and again, when the Greeks had learnt it, they translated the whole of it into their own language, and all other books besides. And again, the Romans, when they had learnt it, they translated the whole of it through learned interpreters into their own language. And also all other Christian nations translated a part of them into their own language. Therefore it seems better to me, if ye think so, for us also to translate some books which are most needful for all men to know, into the language which we can all understand, and for you to do as we very easily can if we have tranquillity enough; that is, that all the youth now in England of free men, who are rich enough to be able to devote ALFRED THE GREAT ^95 themselves to it, be set to learn as long as they are not fit for any other occupation, until that they are well able to read English writing: and let those be afterward taught more in the Latin language who are to continue learning and be promoted to a higher rank. When I remember how the knowledge of Latin had formerly decayed throughout England, and yet many could read English writing, I began among other various and manifold troubles of this kingdom, to translate into English the book which is called in Latin ^ Pastoral is, * and in English ^Shepherd's Book, sometimes word by word and sometimes according to the sense, as I had learnt it from Plegmund, my archbishop, and Asser, my bishop, and Grimbold, my mass-priest, and John, my mass-priest. And when I had learnt it as I could best understand it, and as I could most clearly interpret it, I translated it into English; and I will send a copy to every bishopric in my kingdom; and on each there is a clasp worth fifty mancus. And I command, in God's name, that no man take the clasp from the book or the book from the minister: it is uncertain how long there may be such learned bishops as now, thanks be to God, there are nearly everywhere; therefore, I wish them always to remain in their place, unless the bishop wish to take them with him, or they be lent out anywhere, or any one make a copy from them. BLOSSOM GATHERINGS FROM ST. AUGUSTINE IN every tree I saw something there which I needed at home, therefore I advise every one who is able and has many wains, that he trade to the same wood where I cut the stud shafts, and there fetch more for himself and load his wain with fair rods, that he may wind many a neat wall and set many a comely house and build many a fair town of them; and thereby may dwell merrily and softly, so as I now yet have not done. But He who taught me, to whom the wood was agreeable. He may make me to dwell more softly in this temporary cottage, the while that I am in this world, and also in the everlasting home which He has promised us through St. Augustine, and St. Gregory, and St. Jerome, and through other holy fathers; as I believe also that for the merits of all these He will make the way more con- venient than it was before, and especially the carrying and the building: but every man wishes after he has built a cottage on his lord's lease by his help, that he may sometimes rest him 396 ALFRED THE GREAT therein and hunt, and fowl, and fish, and use it every way under the lease both on water and on land, until the time that he earn book-land and everlasting heritage through his lord's mercy. So do enlighten the eyes of my mind so that I may search out the right way to the everlasting home and the everlasting glory, and the everlasting rest which is promised us through those holy fathers. May it be so! . . . It is no wonder though men swink in timber working, and in the wealthy Giver who wields both these temporary cottages and eternal homes. May He who shaped both and wields both, grant me that I may be meet for each, both here to be profitable and thither to come. o WHERE TO FIND TRUE JOY From < Boethius > h! it is a fault of weight, Let him think it out who will, And a danger passing great Which can thus allure to ill Careworn men from the rightway, Swiftly ever led astray. Will ye seek within the wood Red gold on the green trees tall ? None, I wot, is wise that could. For it grows not there at all: Neither in wine-gardens green Seek they gems of glittering sheen. Would ye on some hill-top set, When ye list to catch a trout. Or a carp, your fishing-net ? Men, methinks, have long found out That it would be foolish fare, For they know they are not there. In the salt sea can ye find. When ye list to start an hunt. With your hounds, the hart or hind ? It will sooner be your wont In the woods to look, I wot. Than in seas where they are not. ALFRED THE GREAT Is it wonderful to know That for crystals red or white One must to the sea-beach go, Or for other colors bright, Seeking by the river's side Or the shore at ebb of tide ? Likewise, men are well aware Where to look for river-fish; And all other worldly ware Where to seek them when they wish; Wisely careful men will know Year by year to find them so. But of all things 'tis most sad That they foolish are so blind, So besotted and so mad. That they cannot surely find Where the ever-good is nigh And true pleasures hidden lie. Therefore, never is their strife After those true joys to spur; In this lean and little life They, half-witted, deeply err Seeking here their bliss to gain. That is God Himself in vain, Ah! I know not in my thought How enough to blame their sin. None so clearly as I ought Can I show their fault within; For, more bad and vain are they And more sad than I can say. All their hope is to acquire Worship goods and worldly weal; When they have their mind's desire, Then such witless Joy they feel. That in folly they believe Those True Joys they then receive. Works of Alfred the Great, Jubilee Edition (Oxford and Cambridge, 1852) 397 3pg ALFRED THE OREAT A SORROWFUL FYTTE From < Boethius > Lo! I sung cheerily In my bright days, But now all wearily Chaunt I my lays; Sorrowing tearfully, Saddest of men, Can I sing cheerfully, As I could then ? Many a verity In those glad times Of my prosperity Taught I in rhymes; Now from forgetfulness Wanders my tongue, Wasting in fretfulness, Metres unsung. Worldliness brought me here Foolishly blind. Riches have wrought me here Sadness of mind; When I rely on them, Lo! they depart, — Bitterly, fie on them! Rend they my heart. Why did your songs to me. World-loving men, Say joy belongs to me Ever as then ? Why did ye lyingly Think such &. thing. Seeing how flyingly Wealth may take wing ? Works of Alfred the Great, Jubilee Edition (Oxford and Cambridge, 1852). 399 CHARLES GRANT ALLEN (1848-1899) |he Irish-Canadian naturalist, Charles Grant Blairfindie Allen, who turned his versatile hand with equal facility to scientific ^ writing, to essays, short stories, botanical treatises, biography, and novels, is known to literature as Grant Allen, as "Arbuthnot Wilson," and as ''Cecil Power." His work may be divided into two classes : fiction and popular essays. The first shows the author's familiarity with varied scenes and types, and exhibits much feeling for dramatic situations. His list of novels is long, and includes among others, < Strange Stories,* < Babylon, > < The Tents of Shem,> < Recalled to Life,' and > as he says in substance. Somewhat more scientific are ^Psychological Esthetics,' *The Color Sense,* which appeared in the Century Magazine, were the first fruits of this labor. A con- troversy arose as to the fairness of these portraitures; but however opinions may differ as to his characterization, there can be no ques- tion of the truthfulness of the exposition of the mediaeval spirit of those retreats. This tendency "to use a historic background marks most of Mr. Allen's stories. In THE sunlight grew pale the following morning; a shadow crept rapidly over the blue; bolts darted about the skies like maddened redbirds; the thunder, ploughing its way down the dome as along zigzag cracks in#the stony street, filled the caverns of the horizon with reverberations that shook the earth; and the rain was whirled across the landscape in long, white, wavering sheets. Then all day quiet and silence throughout Nature except for the drops, tapping high and low the twinkling leaves; except for the new melody of woodland and meadow brooks, late silvery and with a voice only for their pebbles and moss and mint, but now yellow and brawling and leaping back into the grassy channels that were their old-time beds; except for the indoor music of dripping eaves and rushing gutters and overflowing rain-barrels. And when at last in the gold of the cool west the sun broke from the edge of the gray, over what a green, soaked, fragrant world he reared the arch of Nature's peace ! Not a little blade of corn in the fields but holds in an eme- rald vase its treasures of white gems. The hemp-stalks bend so low under the weight of their plumes, that were a vesper spar- row to alight on one for his evening hymn, it would go with him to the ground. The leaning barley and rye and wheat flash in the last rays their jeweled beards. Under the old apple- trees, golden-brown mushrooms are already pushing upward through the leaf -loam, rank with many an autumn's dropping. About the yards the peonies fall with faces earthward. In the stable-lots the larded porkers, with bristles as clean as frost, JAMES LANE ALLEN 41 1 and flesh of pinky whiteness, are hunting with nervous nostrils for the lush purslain. The fowls are driving their bills up and down their wet breasts. And the farmers who have been shell- ing com for the mill come out of their bams, with their coats over their shoulders, on the way to supper, look about for the plough-horses, and glance at the western sky, from which the last drops are falling. But soon only a more passionate heat shoots from the sun into the planet. The plumes of the hemp are so dry again, that by the pollen shaken from their tops you can trace the young rabbits making their way out to the dusty paths. The shadows of white clouds sail over purple stretches of blue-grass, hiding the sun from the steady eye of the turkey, whose brood is spread out before her like a fan on the earth. At early morn- ing the neighing of the stallions is heard around the horizon; at noon the bull makes the deep, hot pastures echo with his majes- tic summons; out in the blazing meadows the butterflies strike the afternoon air with more impatient wings; under the moon all night the play of ducks and drakes goes on along the mar- gins of the ponds. Young people are running away and marry- ing; middle-aged farmers surprise their wives by looking in on them at their butter-making in the sweet dairies; and Nature is lashing everything — grass, fruit, insects, -cattle, human creat- ures — more fiercely onward to the fulfillment of her ends. She is the great heartless haymaker, wasting not a ray of sunshine on a clod, but caring naught for the light that beats upon a throne, and holding man and woman, with their longing for im- mortality, and their capacities for joy and pain, as of no more account than a couple of fertilizing nasturtiums. The storm kept Daphne at home. On the next day the earth was yellow with sunlight, but there were puddles along the path^ and a branch rushing swollen across the green valley in the fields. On the third, her mother took the children to town to be fitted with hats and shoes, and Daphne also, to be freshened up with various moderate adornments, in view of a protracted meet- ing soon to begin. On the fourth, some ladies dropped in to spend the day, bearing in mind the episode at the dinner, and having grown curious to watch events accordingly. On the fifth, her father carried out the idea of cutting down some cedar-trees in the front yard for fence posts; and w'henever he was working about the house, he kept her near to wait on him in unnecessary 41 a JAMES LANE ALLEN ways. On the sixth, he rode away with two hands and an empty wagon-bed for some work on the farm; her mother drove off to another dinner — dinners never cease in Kentucky, and the wife of an elder is not free to decline invitations; and at last she was left alone in the front porch, her face turned with burning eager- ness toward the fields. In a little while she had slipped away. All these days Hilary had been eager to see her. He was carrying a good many girls in his mind that summer; none in his heart; but his plans concerning these latter were for the time forgotten. He hung about that part of his farm from which he could have descried her in the distance. Each forenoon and afternoon, at the usual hour of her going to her uncle's, he rode over and watched for her. Other people passed to and fro, — children and servants, — but not Daphne; and repeated disappoint- ments fanned his desire to see her. When she came into sight at last, he was soon walking beside her, leading his horse by the reins. **I have been waiting to see you. Daphne,'^ he said, with a smile, but general air of seriousness. " I have been waiting a long time for a chance to talk to you.** *And I have wanted to see you,'* said Daphne, her face turned away and her voice hardly to be heard. "I have been waiting for a chance "to talk to you.** The change in her was so great, so unexpected, it contained an appeal to him so touching, that he glanced quickly at her. Then he stopped short and looked searchingly around the meadow. The thorn-tree is often the only one that can survive on these pasture lands. Its spikes, even when it is no higher than the grass, keep off the mouths of grazing stock. As it grows higher, birds see it standing solitary in the distance and fly to it, as a resting-place in passing. Some autumn day a seed of the wild grape is thus dropped near its root; and in time the thorn-tree and the grape-vine come to thrive together. As Hilary now looked for some shade to which they could retreat from the blinding, burning sunlight, he saw one of these standing off at a distance of a few hundred yards. He slipped the bridle-reins through the head-stall, and giving his mare a soft slap on the shoulder, turned her loose to graze. ^* Come over here and sit down out of the sun, ** he said, start- ing off in his authoritative way. ^^ I want to talk to you. ** JAMES LANE ALLEN 413 Daphne followed in his wake, through the deep grass. When they reached the tree, they sat down under the rayless boughs. Some sheep lying there ran round to the other side and stood watching them, with a frightened look in their clear, peace- ful eyes. « What's the matter ?» he said, fanning his face, and tugging with his forefinger to loosen his shirt collar from his moist neck. He had the manner of a powerful comrade who means to succoi a weaker one. ^* Nothing,* said Daphne, like a true woman. «Yes, but there is,^* he insisted. "I got you into trouble. I didn't think of that when I asked you to dance.* « You had nothing to do with it, * retorted Daphne, with a flash. * I danced for spite. * He threw back his head with a peal of laughter. All at once this was broken off. He sat up, with his eyes fixed on the lower edge of the meadow. ^^Here comes your father,* he said gravely. Daphne turned. Her father was riding slowly through the bars. A wagon-bed loaded with rails crept slowly after him. In an instant the things that had cost her so much toil and so many tears to arrange, — her explanations, her justifications, and her parting, — all the reserve and the coldness that she had laid up in her heart, as one fills high a little ice-house with fear of far-off summer heat, — all were quite gone, melted away. And everything that he had planned to tell her was forgotten also at the sight of that stern figure on horseback bearing un- consciously down upon them. '^ If I had only kept my mouth shut about his old fences,® he said to himself. ** Confound my bull I * and he looked anx- iously at Daphne, who sat with her eyes riveted on her father. The next moment she had turned, and they were laughing in each other's faces. ** What shall I do ? * she cried, leaning over and burying her face in her hands, and lifting it again, scarlet with excitement. *^ Don't do anything,* he said calmly, " But Hilary, if he sees us, we are lost. * ** If he sees us, we are found. * * But he mustn't see me here ! * she cried, with something like real terror. *^ I believe I'll lie down in the grass. Maybe he'll think I am a friend of yours.* 414 JAMES LANE ALLEN ^' My friends all sit up in the grass, '* said Hilary. But Daphne had already hidden. Many a time, when a little girl, she had amused herself by screaming like a hawk at the young guineas, and seeing them cuddle invisible under small tufts and weeds. Out in the stable lot, where the grass was grazed so close that the geese could barely nip it, she would sometimes get one of the negro men to scare the little pigs, for the delight of seeing them squat as though hidden, when they were no more hidden than if they had spread themselves out upon so many dinner dishes. All of us reveal traces of this primitive instinct upon occasion. Daphne was doing hef best to hide now. When Hilary realized it he moved in front of her, screening her as well as possible. " Hadn't you better lie down, too ? " she asked. *^ No, ^^ he replied quickly. '^ But if he sees you, he might take a notion to ride over this way t » "Then he'll have to ride.'* *But, Hilary, suppose he were to find me lying down here behind you, hiding ? " "Then he'll have to find you." "You get me into trouble, and then you won't help me out!" exclaimed Daphne with considerable heat. "It might not make matters any better for me to hide," he answered quietly, "But if he comes over here and tries to get us into trouble, I'll see then what I can do." Daphne lay silent for a moment, thinking. Then she nestled more closely down, and said with gay, unconscious archness: "I'm not hiding because I'm afraid of him. I'm doing it just because I want to." She did not know that the fresh happiness flushing her at that moment came from the fact of having Hilary between her- self and her father as a protector; that she was drinking in the delight a woman feels in getting playfully behind the man she loves in the face of danger: but her action bound her to him and brought her more under his influence. His words showed that he also felt his position, — the position of the male who stalks forth from the herd and stands the silent challenger. He was young, and vain of his manhood in the usual innocent way that led him to carry the chip on his JAMES LANE ALLEN 41^ shoulder for the world to knock off; and he placed himself before Daphne with the understanding that if they were discov- ered, there would be trouble. Her father was a violent man, and the 'circumstances were not such that any Kentucky father would overlook them. But with his inward seriousness, his face wore its usual look of reckless unconcern. " Is he coming this way ? ** asked Daphne, after an interval of impatient waiting. *^ Straight ahead. Are you hid ? " <* I can't see whether I'm hid or not. Where is he now ? * " Right on us. ^* * Does he see you ? ** « Yes. » " Do you think he sees me ? ** " I'm sure of it.*' ** Then I might as well get up, '* said Daphne, with the cour- age of despair, and up she got. Her father was riding along the path in front of them, but not looking. She was down again like a partridge. *' How could you fool me, Hilary ? Suppose he /tad be^n looking ! ** <^ I wonder what he thinks I'm doing, sitting over here in the grass like a stump,** said Hilary. "If he takes me for one, he must think I've got an awful lot of roots." "Tell me when it's time to get up.** «I will.** He turned softly toward her. She was lying on her side, with her burning cheek in one hand. The other hand rested high on the curve of her hip. Her braids had fallen forward, and lay in a heavy loop about her lovely shoulders. Her eyes were closed, her scarlet lips parted in a smile. The edges of her snow-white petticoats showed beneath her blue dress, and beyond these one of her feet and ankles. Nothing more fragrant with innocence ever lay on the grass. "Is it time to get up now ? ** " Not yet, ** and he sat bending over her. « Now ? ** " Not yet, ** he repeated more softly. « Now, then ? ** " Not for a long time. ** His voice thrilled her, and she glanced up at him. His laugh- ing eyes were glowing down upon her under his heavy mat of 41 6 JAMES LANE ALLEN hair. She sat up and looked toward the wagon crawling away m the distance; her father was no longer in sight. One of the ewes, dissatisfied with a back view, stamped her forefoot impatiently, and ran round in front, and out into the sun. Her lambs followed, and the three, ranging themselves abreast, stared at Daphne, with a look of helpless inquiry. *Sh-pp-pp!** she cried, throwing up her hands at them, irri- tated. " Go away ! ^^ They turned and ran; the others followed; and the whole number, falling into line, took a path meekly homeward. They left a greater sense of privacy under the tree. Several yards off was a small stock-pond. Around the edge of this the water stood hot and green in the tracks of the cattle and the sheep, and about these pools the yellow butterflies were thick, alighting daintily on the promontories of the mud, or rising two by two through the dazzling atmosphere in columns of enamored flight. Daphne leaned over to the blue grass where it swayed un- broken in the breeze, and drew out of their sockets several stalks 3f it, bearing on their tops the purplish seed-vessels. With them she began to braid a ring about one of her fingers in the old simple fashion of the country. As they talked, he lay propped on his elbow, watching her fingers, the soft slow movements of which little by little wove a spell over his eyes. And once again the power of her beauty began to draw him beyond control. He felt a desire to seize her tiands, to crush them in his. His eyes passed upward along her :;apering wrists, the skin of which was like mother-of-pearl; up- ward along the arm to the shoulder — to her neck — to her deeply crimsoned cheeks — to the purity of her brow — to the purity of tier eyes, the downcast lashes of which hid them like conscious fringes. An awkward silence began to fall between them. Daphne felt that the time had come for her to speak. But, powerless to begin, she feigned to busy herself all the more devotedly with braiding the deep-green circlet. Suddenly he drew himself through the grass to her side. «Let me!^'* * No ! '" she cried, lifting her arm above his reach and looking at him with a gay threat. *^You don't know how.'* * I do know how, ** he said, with his white teeth on his red imderlip, and his eyes sparkling; and reaching upward, he laid bis hand in the hollow of her elbow and pulled her arm down. JAMES LANE ALLEN 4x7 ®No! No!* she cried again, putting her hands behind her back. " You will spoil it ! * " I will not spoil it, *^ he said, moving so close to her that his breath was on her face, and reaching round to unclasp her hands. " No ! No ! No I * she cried, bending away from him. I don't want any ring! * and she tore it from her finger and threw it out on the grass. Then she got up, and, brushing the grass-seed off her lap, put on her hat. He sat cross-legged on the gfrass before her. He had put on his hat, and the brim hid his eyes. * And you are not going to stay and talk to me ? ® he said in a tone of reproachfulness, without looking up. She was excited and weak and trembling, and so she put out her hand and took hold of a strong loop of the grape-vine hang- ing from a branch of the thorn, and laid her cheek against her hand and looked away from him. "I thought you were better than the others,* he continued, with the bitter wisdom of twenty years. *But you women are all alike. When a man gets into trouble, you desert him. You hurry him on to the devil. I have been turned out of the church, and now you are down on me. Oh, well! But you know how much I have always liked you. Daphne.* It was not the first time he had acted this character. It had been a favorite role. But Daphne had never seen the like. She was overwhelmed with happiness that he cared so much for her; and to have him reproach her for indifference, and see him suf- fering with the idea that she had turned against him — that instantly changed the whole situation. He had not heard then what had taken place at the dinner. Under the circumstances, feeling certain that the secret of her love had not been dis- covered, she grew emboldened to risk a little more. So she turned toward him smiling, and swayed gently as she clung to the vine. "Yes; I have my orders not even to speak to you! Never again ! * she said, with the air of tantalizing. *Then stay with me a while now,* he said, and lifted slowly to her his appealing face. She sat down, and screened herself with a little feminine transparency. ® I can't stay long : it's going to rain ! * He cast a wicked glance at the sky from under his hat; there were a few clouds on the horizon. 4i8 JAMES LANE ALLEN **And SO you are never going to speak to me again?* he said mournfully. * Never !'^ How delicious her laughter was. " I'll put a ring on your finger to remember me by, * He lay over in the grass and pulled several stalks. Then he lifted his eyes beseechingly to hers. «Will you let me?» Daphne hid her hands. He drew himself to her side and took one of them forcibly from her lap. With a slow, caressing movement he began to braid the grass ring around her finger — in and out, around and around, his fingers laced with her fingers, his palm lying close upon her palm, his blood tingling through the skin upon her blood. He made the briaiding go wrong, and took it off and began over again. Two or three times she drew a deep breath, and stole a bewildered look at his face, which was so close to hers that his hair brushed it — so close that she heard the quiver of his own breath. Then all at once he folded his hands about hers with a quick, fierce tenderness, and looked up at her. She turned her face aside and tried to draw her hand away. His clasp tight- ened. She snatched it away, and got up with a nervous laugh. ** Look at the butterflies ! Aren't they pretty ? * He sprang up and tried to seize her hand again. ** You shan't go home yet ! * he said, in an undertone. ^* Shan't I ? * she said, backing away from him. ** Who's going to keep me ? * ** / afn, " he said, laughing excitedly and following her closely. ^^My father's coming!* she cried out as a v/aming. He turned and looked: there was no one in sight. *He is coming — sooner or later!* she called. She had retreated several yards off into the sunlight of the meadow. The remembrance of the risk that he was causing her to run checked him. He went over to her. ** When can I see you again — soon ? * He had never spoken so seriously to her before. He had never before been so serious. But within the last hour Nature had been doing her work, and its effect was immediate. His sincerity instantly conquered her. Her eyes fell. "No one has any right to keep us from seeing each other!* he insisted "We must settle that for ourselves.* JAMES LANE ALLEN 41 g Daphne made no reply, "But we can't meet here any more — with people passing backward and forward ! *^ he continued rapidly and decisively. "What has happened to-day mustn't happen again.® " No ! ** she replied, in a voice barely to be heard. " It must never happen again. We can't meet here.* They were walking side by side now toward the meadow- path. As they reached it he paused. "Come to the back of the pasture — to-morrow I — at four o'clock ! * he said, tentatively, recklessly. Daphne did not answer as she moved away from him along the path homeward. " Will you come ? '* he called out to her. She turned and shook her head. Whatever her own new plans may have become, she was once more happy and laugh- ing. "Come, Daphne!* She walked several paces further and turned and shook her head again. " Come ! " he pleaded. She laughed at him. He wheeled round to his mare grazing near. As he put his foot into the stirrup, he looked again: she was standing in the same place, laughing still. " You go,* she cried, waving him good-by. "There'll not be a soul to disturb you! To-morrow — at four o'clock!* " Will you be there ? * he said. " Will you ? * she answered. "I'll be there to-morrow,* he said, "and every other day till you come.* By permission of the Macmillan Company, Publishers. OLD KING SOLOMON'S CORONATION From < Flute and Violin, and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances* Copyright 1 89 1, by Harper and Brothers HE STOOD on the topmost of the court-house steps, and for a moment looked down on the crowd with the usual air of ofi&cial severity. "Gentlemen,* he then cried out sharply, "by an ordah of the cou't I now ofifah this roan at public sale to the highes' biddah. 420 JAMES LANE ALLEN He is able-bodied but lazy, without visible property or means of suppoht, an' of dissolute habits. He is therefoh adjudged guilty of high misdemeanahs, an' is to be sole into labah foh a twelve- month. How much, then, am I offahed foh the vagrant ? How much am I offahed foh ole King Sol'mon ? ** Nothing was offered for old King Solomon. The spectators formed themselves into a ring around the big vagrant, and settled down to enjoy the performance, "Staht 'im, somebody." Somebody started a laugh, which rippled around the circle. The sheriff looked on with an expression of unrelaxed severity, but catching the eye of an acquaintance on the outskirts, he ex- changed a lightning wink of secret appreciation. Then he lifted off his tight beaver hat, wiped out of his eyes a little shower of perspiration which rolled suddenly down from above, and warmed a degree to his theme. "Come, gentlemen," he said more suasively, "it's too hot to Stan' heah all day. Make me an offahl You all know ole King Sol'mon; don't wait to be interduced. How much, then, to staht •im? Say fifty dollahs! Twenty-five! Fifteen! Ten! Why, gentlemen ! Not ten dollahs ? Remembah, this is the Blue-Grass Region of Kentucky — the land of Boone an' Kenton, the home of Henry Clay ! " he added, in an oratorical crescendo. "He ain't wuth his victuals," said an oily little tavern-keeper, folding his arms restfully over his own stomach and cocking up one piggish eye into his neighbor's face. " He ain't wuth his 'taters.* "Buy 'im foh 'is rags!" cried a young law student, with a Blackstone under his arm, to the town rag picker opposite, who was unconsciously ogling the vagrant's apparel. "I might buy 'im foh 'is scalp, ^^ drawled a farmer, who had taken part in all kinds of scalp contests, and was now known to be busily engaged in collecting crow scalps for a match soon to come off between two rival counties. "I think I'll buy 'im foh a hat sign," said a manufacturer of ten-dollar Castor and Rhorum hats. This sally drew merry atten- tion to the vagrant's hat, and the merchant felt rewarded. "You'd bettah say the town ought to buy 'im an' put 'im up on top of the cou't-house as a scarecrow foh the cholera," said some one else. "What news of the cholera did the stage coach bring this mohning ? " quickly inquired his neighbor in his ear ; and the two JAMES LANE ALLEN 42 1 immediately fell into low, grave talk, forgot the auction, and turned away. " Stop, gentlemen, stop ! * cried the sheriff, who had watched the rising tide of good humor, and now saw his chance to float in on it with spreading sails. " You're runnin' the price in the wrong direction — down, not up. The law requires that he be sole to the highes' biddah, not the lowes'. As loyal citizens, uphole the constitution of the commonwealth of Kentucky an' make me an offah; the man is really a great bargain. In the first place, he would cos' his ownah little or nothin', because, as you see, he keeps himself in cigahs an' clo'es; then, his main article of diet is whisky — a supply of which he always has on han*. He don't even need a bed, foh you know he sleeps jus' as well on any doohstep; noh a chair, foh he prefers to sit roun' on the curbstones. Remembah, too, gentlemen, that ole King Sol'mon is a Virginian — from the same neighbohhood as Mr. Clay. Remembah that he is well educated, that he is an awfui Whig, an' that he has smoked mo' of the stumps of Mr. Clay's cigahs than any other man in existence. If you don't b'lieve wr, gentlemen, yondah goes Mr. Clay now; call him ovah an' ask 'im foh yo'se'ves.'* He paused, and pointed with his right forefinger towards Main Street, along which the spectators, with a sudden craning of necks, beheld the familiar figure of the passing statesman. "But you don't need anfoo^y to tell these fac's, gentlemen," he continued. " You merely need to be reminded that ole King Sol'mon is no ohdinary man. Mo'ovah he has a kine heaht; he nevah spoke a rough wohd to anybody in this worl', an' he is as proud as Tecumseh of his good name an' charactah. An', gentle- men," he added, bridling with an air of mock gallantry and lay- ing a hand on his heart, "if anythin' fu'thah is required in the way of a puffect encomium, we all know that there isn't anothah man among us who cuts as wide a swath among the ladies. The'foh, if you have any appreciation of virtue, any magnanimity of heaht; if you set a propah valuation upon the descendants of Virginia, that mothah of Presidents; if you believe in the pure laws of Kentucky as the pioneer bride of the Union; if you love America an' love the worl' — make me a gen'rous, high-toned offah foh ole King Sol'mon ! " He ended his peroration amid a shout of laughter and ap- plause, and feeling satisfied that it was a good time for returning ^2 2 JAMES LANE ALLEN to a more practical treatment of his subject, proceeded in a sin- cere tone: — *He can easily earn from one to two dollahs a day, an' from three to six hundred a yeah. There's not anothah white man in town capable of doin' as much work. There's not a niggah han' in the hemp factories with such muscles an' such a chest. Look at 'em! An', if you don't b'lieve me, step fo'ward and feel 'em. How much, then, is bid foh 'im ? ** " One dollah ! " said the owner of a hemp factory, who had walked forward and felt the vagrant's arm, laughing, but coloring up also as the eyes of all were quickly turned upon him. In those days it was not an unheard-of thing for the muscles of a human being to be thus examined when being sold into servitude to a new master. ** Thank you ! " cried the sheriff, cheerily. * One precinc' heard from! One dollah! I am offahed one dollah foh ole King Sol'mon. One dollah foh the king! Make it a half. One dollah an' a half. Make it a half. One dol-dol-dol-dollah ! ** Two medical students, returning from lectures at the old Med- ical Hall, now joined the group, and the sheriff explained: — ** One dollah is bid foh the vagrant ole King Sol'mon, who is to be sole into labah foh a twelvemonth. Is there any othah bid? Are you all done? One dollah, once — ** <* Dollah and a half, ** said one of the students, and remarked half jestingly under his breath to his companion, " I'll buy him on the chance of his dying. We'll dissect him.** * Would you own his body if he should die ? " ** If he dies while bound to me, I'll arrange tJiat. ** <*One dollah an' a half,* resumed the sheriff, and falling into the tone of a facile auctioneer he rattled on: — ^*One dollah an' a half foh ole Sol'mon — sol, sol, sol, — do, re, mi, fa, sol, — do, re, mi, fa, sol! Why, gentlemen, you can set the king to music ! ** All this time the vagrant had stood in the centre of that close ring of jeering and humorous bystanders — a baffling text from which to have preached a sermon on the infirmities of our imper- fect humanity. Some years before, perhaps as a master-stroke of derision, there had been given to him that title which could but heighten the contrast of his personality and estate with every suggestion of the ancient sacred magnificence; and never had the mockery seemed so fine as at this moment, when he was led JAMES LANE ALLEN 423 forth into the streets to receive the lowest sentence of the law upon his poverty and dissolute idleness. He was apparently in the very prime of life — a striking figure, for nature at least had truly done some royal work on him. Over six feet in height, erect, with limbs well shaped and sinewy, with chest and neck full of the lines of great power, a large head thickly covered with long, reddish hair, eyes blue, face beardless, complexion fair but dis- colored by low passions and excesses — such was old King Solo- mon. He wore a stiff, high, black Castor hat of the period, with the crown smashed in and the torn rim hanging down over one ear; a black cloth coat in the old style, ragged and buttonless; a white cotton shirt, with the broad collar crumpled wide open at the neck and down his sunburnt bosom; blue jean pantaloons, patched at the seat and the knees; and ragged cotton socks that fell down over the tops of his dusty shoes, which were open at the heels. In one comer of his sensual mouth rested the stump of a cigar. Once during the proceedings he had produced another, lighted it, and continued quietly smoking. If he took to himself any shame as the central figure of this ignoble performance, no one knew it. There was something almost royal in his uncon^ cem. The humor, the badinage, the open contempt, of which he was the public target, fell thick and fast upon him, but as harm- .lessly as would balls of pith upon a coat of mail. In truth, there was that in his great, lazy, gentle, good-humored bulk and bear- ing which made the gibes seem all but despicable. He shuffled from one foot to the other as though he found it a trial to stand up so long, but all the while looking the spectators full in the eyes without the least impatience. He suffered the man of the factory to walk round him and push and pinch his muscles as calmly as though he had been the show bull at a country fair. Once only, when the sheriff had pointed across the street at the figure of Mr. Clay, he had looked quickly in that direction with a kindling light in his eye and a passing flush on his face. For the rest, he seemed like a man who has drained his cup of human life and has nothing left him but to fill again and drink without the least surprise or eagerness. The bidding between the man of the factor}^ and the student had gone slowly on. The price had reached ten dollars. The heat was intense, the sheriff tired. Then something occurred to revivify the scene. Across the market place and toward the steps ^24 JAMES LANE ALLEN of the court-house there suddenly came trundling along in breath- less haste a huge old negress, carrying on one arm a large shal- low basket containing apple-crab lanterns and fresh gingerbread. With a series of half -articulate grunts and snorts she approached the edge of the crowd and tried to force her way through. She coaxed, she begged, she elbowed and pushed and scolded, now laughing, and now with the passion of tears in her thick, excited voice. All at once, catching sight of the sheriff, she lifted one ponderous brown arm, naked to the elbow, and waved her hand to him above the heads of those in front. "Hole on marster! hole on!* she cried in a tone of humorous entreaty. " Don' knock 'im off till I come ! Gim me a bid at 'im ■ ** The sheriff paused and smiled. The crowd made way tumult- uously, with broad laughter and comment. ** Stan' aside theah an' let Aun' Charlotte in ! * * Now you'll see biddin' ! '* *Get out of the way foh Aun' Charlotte!" * Up, my free niggah ! Hurrah foh Kentucky ! * A moment more and she stood inside the ring of spectators, her basket on the pavement at her feet, her hands plumped akimbo into her fathomless sides, her head up, and her soft, motherly eyes turned eagerly upon the sheriff. Of the crowd she seemed unconscious, and on the vagrant before her she had not cast a single glance. She was dressed with perfect neatness. A red and yellow Madras 'kerchief was bound about her head in a high coil, and another over the bosom of her stiffly starched and smoothly ironed blue cottonade dress. Rivulets of perspiration ran down over her nose, her temples, and around her ears, and disappeared mysteriously in the creases of her brown neck. A single drop accidentally hung glistening like a diamond on the circlet of one of her large brass earrings. The sheriff looked at her a moment, smiling but a little dis- concerted. The spectacle was unprecedented. ** What do you want heah, Aun' Charlotte ? '* he asked kindly. *You can't sell yo' pies an' gingerbread heah." **I don' wan' sell no pies en gingerbread,'* she replied, con- temptuously. "I wan' bid on him,^'* and she nodded sidewise at the vagrant, ** White folks allers sellin' niggahs to wuk fuh dent; I gwine to buy a white man to wuk fuh me. En he gwine t' git a mighty hard mistiss, you heah me/ * JAMES LANE ALLEN 425 The eyes of the sheriff twinkled with delight. "Ten doUahs is offahed foh ole King Sol'mon, Is theah any othah bid. Are you all done ? *^ *Leben,* she said. Two young ragamuffins crawled among the legs of the crowd up to her basket and filched pies and cake beneath her very nose. " Twelve ! '* cried the student, laughing. " Thirteen ! *^ she laughed, too, but her eyes flashed. * Vou are bidding against a niggah^^'* whispered the student's companion in his ear. "So I am; let's be off,** answered the other, with a hot flush on his proud face. Thus the sale was ended, and the crowd variously dispersed. In a distant corner of the courtyard the ragged urchins were devouring their unexpected booty. The old negress drew a red handkerchief out of her bosom, untied a knot in a corner of it, and counted out the money to the sheriff. Only, she and the vagrant were now left on the spot. " You have bought me. What do you want me to do ' ** he asked quietly. " Lohd, honey ! ** she answered, in a low tone of affectionate chiding, " I don' wan' you to do nothin'' ! I wuzn' gwine t' 'low dem white folks to buy you. Dey'd wuk you till you dropped dead. You go 'long en do ez you please." She gave a cunning chuckle of triumph in thus setting at naught the ends of justice, and in a voice rich and musical with affection, she said, as she gave him a little push: — "You bettah be gittin' out o' dis blazin' sun. G' on home! I be 'long by-en-by.* He turned and moved slowly away in the direction of Water Street, where she lived; and she, taking up her basket, shuffled across the market place toward Cheapside, muttering to herself the while: — " I come mighty nigh gittin' dar too late, foolin' 'long wid dese pies. Sellin' him 'ca'se he don' wuk! Umph! if all de men in dis town dat don' wuk wuz to be tuk up en sole, d' wouldn' be 'nough money in de town to buy em! Don' I see 'em settin' roun' dese taverns f 'om mohnin' till night ? * 426 JAMES LANE ALLEN Nature soon smiles upon her own ravages and strews our graves with flowers, not as memories, but for other flowers when the spring returns. It was one cool, brilliant morning late in that autumn. The air blew fresh and invigorating, as though on the earth there were no corruption, no death. Far southward had flown the plague. A spectator in the open court square might have seen many signs of life returning to the town. Students hurried along, talking eagerly. Merchants met for the first time and spoke of the winter trade. An old negress, gayly and neatly dressed, came into the market place, and sitting down on a side- walk displayed her yellow and red apples and fragrant ginger- bread. She hummed to herself an old cradle-song, and in her soft, motherly black eyes shone a mild, happy radiance. A group of young ragamuffins eyed her longingly from a distance. Court was to open for the first time since the spring. The hour was early, and one by one the lawyers passed slowly in. On the steps of the court-house three men were standing: Thomas Brown, the sheriff; old Peter Leuba, who had just walked over from his music store on Main Street; and little M. Giron, the French confectioner. Each wore mourning on his hat, and their voices were low and grave. *^ Gentlemen,* the sheriff was saying, *Mt was on this very spot the day befoah the cholera broke out that I sole 'im as a vagrant. An' I did the meanes' thing a man can evah do. I her 'im up to public ridicule foh his weakness an' made spoht of 'is infirmities. I laughed at 'is povahty an' 'is ole clo'es. I delivahed on 'im as complete an oration of sarcastic detraction as I could prepare on the spot, out of my own meanness an' with the vulgah sympathies of the crowd. Gentlemen, if I only had that crowd heah now, an' ole King Sol'mon standin' in the midst of it, that I might ask 'im to accept a humble public apology, offahed from the heaht of one who feels himself un- worthy to shake 'is han'! But gentlemen, that crowd will nevah reassemble. Neahly ev'ry man of them is dead, an' ole King Sol'mon buried them." "He buried my friend Adolphe Xaupi,** said Frangois Giron, touching his eyes with his handkerchief. "There is a case of my best Jamaica rum for him whenever he comes for it,'* said old Leuba, clearing his throat. "But, gentlemen, while we are speakin' of ole King Sol'mon JAMES LANE ALLEN 427 we ought not to forget who it is that has suppohted 'im. Yon- dah she sits on the sidewalk, sellin' 'er apples an' gingerbread.** The three men looked in the direction indicated. "Heah comes ole King Sol'mon now,** exclaimed the sheriff. Across the open square the vagrant was seen walking slowly along with his habitual air of quiet, unobtrusive preoccupation. A minute more and he had come over and passed into the court- house by a side door. ^^ Is Mr. Clay to be in court to-day ? ** ** He is expected, I think. ** "Then let's go in: there will be a crowd.** ** I don't know: so many are dead.** They turned and entered and found seats as quietly as pos- sible; for a strange and sorrowful hush brooded over the court- room. Until the bar assembled, it had not been realized how many were gone. The silence was that of a common over- whelming disaster. No one spoke with his neighbor; no one observed the vagrant as he entered and made his way to a seat on one of the meanest benches, a little apart from the others. He had not sat there since the day of his indictment for vagrancy. The judge took his seat, and making a great effort to control himself, passed his eyes slowly over the court-room. All at once he caught sight of old King Solomon sitting against the wall in an obscure corner; and before any one could know what he was doing, he had hurried down and walked up to the vagrant and grasped his hand. He tried to speak, but could not. Old King Solomon had buried his wife and daughter, — buried them one clouded midnight, with no one present but himself. Then the oldest member of the bar started up and followed the example; and then the other members, rising by a common impulse, filed slowly back and one by one wrung that hard and powerful hand. After them came the other persons in the court- room. The vagrant, the gravedigger, had risen and stood against the wall, at first with a white face and a dazed express- ion, not knowing what it meant; afterwards, when he under- stood it, his head dropped suddenly forward and his tears fell thick and hot upon the hands that he could not see. And his were not the only tears. Not a man in the long file but paid his tribute of emotion as he stepped forward to honor that image of sadly eclipsed but still effulgent humanity. It was not grief, it was not gratitude, nor any sense of making reparation 428 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM for the past. It was the softening influence of an act of hero- ism, which makes every man feel himself, a brother hand in hand with every other; — such power has a single act of moral greatness to reverse the relations of men, lifting up one, and bringing all others to do him homage. It was the coronation scene in the life of ^Ole^ King Solo- mon of Kentucky, WILLIAM ALLINGHAM (1828-1889) ^ACH form of verse has, in addition to its laws of structure, a subtle quality as difficult to define as the perfume of a SS^iS flower. The poem, a collection of essays upon his walks through England; < Lawrence Bloomfield in Ireland, > the tale of a young landlord's efforts to improve the condition of his tenantry; an anthology, < Nightingale Valley* (1862), and an excellent collection of English ballads, (1865). In 1870 he gladly embraced an opportunity to leave the Customs for the position of assistant editor of Eraser's Magazine under Froude, whom he afterward succeeded as editor. He was now a member of a brilliant literary circle, knew Tennyson, Ruskin, and Carlyle, and was admitted into the warm friendship of the Pre-Raphaelites. But in no way does he reflect the Pre-Raphaelite spirit by which he was surrounded; nor does he write his lyrics in the metres and rhythms of mediaeval France. He is as oblivious of rondeaux, ballades, and roundels, as he. is of fair damosels with cygnet necks and full pome- granate lips. He is a child of nature, whose verse is free from all artificial inspiration or expression, and seems to flow easily, clearly, and tenderly from his pen. Some of it errs in being too fanciful. In the Flower-Songs, indeed, he sometimes becomes trivial in his comparison of each English poet to a special flower; but his poetry is usually sincere with an undercurrent of pathos, as in * WILLIAM ALLINGHAM THE RUINED CHAPEL 431 BY THE shore, a plot of ground Clips a ruined chapel round, Buttressed with a grassy mound; Where Day and Night and Day go by And bring no touch of human sound. Washing of the lonely seas. Shaking of the guardian trees. Piping of the salted breeze; Day and Night and Day go by To the endless tune of these. Or when, as winds and waters keep A hush more dead than any sleep. Still morns to stiller evenings creep, And Day and Night and Day go by; Here the silence is most deep. The empty ruins, lapsed again Into Nature's wide domain, Sow themselves with seed and grain As Day and Night and Day go by; And hoard June's sun and April's rain. Here fresh funeral tears were shed; Now the graves are also dead; And suckers from the ash-tree spread. While Day and Night and Day go by, And stars move calmly overhead. From THE WINTER PEAR IS ALWAYS Age severe ? Is never Youth austere ? Spring- fruits are sour to eat; Autumn's the mellow time. Nay, very late in the year, Short day and frosty rime. Thought, like a winter pear. Stone-cold in summer's prime. May turn from harsh to sweet. From < Ballads and Songs. > 432 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM SONG O SPIRIT of the Summer-time! Bring back the roses to the dells; The swallow from her distant clime, The honey-bee from drowsy cells. Bring back the friendship of the sun* The gilded evenings calm and late, When weary children homeward run. And peeping stars bid lovers wait Bring back the singing; and the scent Of meadow-lands at dewy prime; Oh, bring again my "heart's content. Thou Spirit of the Summer-time! From * Day and Night Songs. ^ THE BUBBLE SEE the pretty planet! Floating sphere' Faintest breeze will fan it Far or near; World as light as feather; Moonshine rays. Rainbow tints together, As it plays. Drooping, sinking, failing. Nigh to earth. Mounting, whirling, sailing. Full of mirth; Life there, welling, flowing. Waving round; Pictures coming, going, Without sound. Quick now, be this airy Globe repelled! Never can the fairy Star be held. - Touched — it in a twinkle Disappears ! Leaving but a sprinkle. As of tears. From ' Ballads and Songs ' WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 433 ST. MARGARET'S EVE I BUILT my castle upon the seaside, The waves roll so gayly O, Half on the land and half in the tide, Love me true! Within was silk, without was stone, The waves roll so gayly O, It lacks a queen, and that alone. Love me true! The gray old harper sang to me. The waves roll so gayly O, * Beware of the Damsel of the Sea!* Love me true! Saint Margaret's Eve it did befall. The waves roll so gayly O, The tide came creeping up the wall. Love me true! 1 opened my gate; who there should stand — The waves roll so gayly O, But a fair lady, with a cup in her hand. Love me true! The cup was gold, and full of wine, The waves roll so gayly O, * Drink," said the lady, "and I will be thine," Love me true! * Enter my castle, lady fair," The waves roll so gayly O, ®You shall be queen of all that's there,** Love me true! A gray old harper sang to me. The waves roll so gayly O, * Beware of the Damsel of the Sea!* Love me true! In hall he harpeth many a year. The waves roll so gayly O, And we will sit his song to hear. Love me true! t— 28 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 434 «I love thee deep, I love thee true,'* The waves roll so gayly O. «But ah! I know not how to woo,* Love me true ! Down dashed the cup, with a sudden shock, The waves roll so gayly O, The wine like blood ran over the rock, Love me true! She said no word, but shrieked aloud. The waves roll so gayly O, And vanished away from where she stood, Love me true I I locked and barred my castle door. The waves roll so gayly O, Three summer days I grieved sore, Love me true! For myself a day, a night. The waves roll so gayly O, And two to moan that lady bright, Love me true! From < Ballads and Songs.^ THE FAIRIES (A Child's Song) Up THE airy mountain, Down the rushy glen. We daren't go a hunting For fear of little men: Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather. Down along the rocky shore Some have made their home; They live on crispy pancakes Of yellow-tide foam. Some in the reeds Of the black mountain-lake. With frogs for their watch-dogs. All night awake. WILLIAM ALLINGHAM High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray He's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist Columbkill he crosses. On his stately journeys From Sliveleague to Rosses; Or going up with music On cold starry nights. To sup with the Queen Of the gay northern lights. They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back. Between the night and morrow. They thought that she was fast asleep But she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since Deep within the lakes, On a bed of flag leaves Watching till she wakes. By the craggy hillside, Through the mosses bare. They have planted thorn-trees For pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring As dig them up in spite, He shall feel their sharpest thorns In his bed at night. Up the airy mountain, Down the rushy glen. We daren't go a hunting For fear of little men: Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together; Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather. From < Ballads and Socgf.- 43S ^^6 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM ROBIN REDBREAST (A Child's Song) GooD-BY, good-by, to Summer! For Summer's nearly done; The garden smiling faintly, Cool breezes in the sun; Our Thrushes now are silent, Our Swallows flown away — But Robin's here, in coat of brown. With ruddy breast-knot gay. Robin, Robin Redbreast, Oh, Robin, dear! Robin singing sweetly In the falling of the year. Bright yellow, red, and orange. The leaves come down in hosts; The trees are Indian Princes, But soon they'll turn to Ghosts ; The scanty pears and apples Hang russet on the bough. It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 'Twill soon be winter now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, Oh, Robin, dear! And welaway! my Robin, For pinching times are near. The fireside for the Cricket, The wheatstack for the Mouse, When trembling night-winds whistle And moan all round the house. The frosty ways like iron. The branches plumed with snow — Alas! in Winter, dead and dark. Where can poor Robin go ? Robin, Robin Redbreast, Oh, Robin, dear! And a crumb of bread for Robin, His little heart to cheer. From < Ballads and Songs.' WILLIAM ALLINGHAM ^^7 A AN EVENING sunset's mounded cloud; A diamond evening-star; Sad blue hills afar: Love in his shroud. Scarcely a tear to shed; Hardly a word to say; The end of a summer's day; Sweet Love is dead. From < Day and Night Songs. DAFFODIL GOLD tassel upon March's bugle-horn, Whose blithe reveille blows from hill to hill And every valley rings — O Daffodil! What promise for the season newly born ? Shall wave on wave of fiow'rs, full tide of corn, O'erflow the world, then fruited Autumn fill Hedgerow and garth ? Shall tempest, blight, or chill Turn all felicity to scathe and scorn ? Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring Lies open, writ in blossoms; not a bird Of evil augury is seen or heard: Come now, like Pan's old crew, we'll dance and sing. Or Oberon's: for hill and valley ring To March's bugle-horn, — Earth's blood is stirred. From < Flower Pieces.* LOVELY MARY DONNELLY (To an Irish Tune) O LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best! If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest. Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock. How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock. Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower. Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power. 438 WILLIAM ALLTNGHAlvr Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted iip; Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup; Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine. It's rolling down upon her neck and gathered in a twine. The dance o' last Whit Monday night exceeded all before; No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh, but she was gay! She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away. When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete, The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet; The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised. But blessed himself he wasn't deaf, when once her voice she raised. And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung. Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue; But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands, And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty bright, And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. Oh, might we live together in a lofty palace hall. Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small. With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall! O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress: It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less. The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low; But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go! From < Ballads and Songs.> 439 KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST (1793-1866) |lmquist, one of the most versatile writers of Sweden, was a man of strange contrasts, a genius as uncertain as a will-o'- 1^^ the-wisp. His contemporary, the famous poet and critic Atterbom, writes: — <> Almquist was bom in Stockholm in 1793. When still a very young man he obtained a good official position, but gave it up in 1823 to lead a colony of friends into the forests of Varmland, where they intended to return to a primitive life close to the heart of nature. He called this colony a "Man's-home Association," and ordained that in the primeval forest the members should live in turf- covered huts, wear homespun, eat porridge with a wooden spoon, and enact the ancient freeholder. The experiment was not successful, he tired of the manual work, and returning to Stockholm, became master of the new Elementary School, and began to write text-books and educational works. His publication of a number of epics, dramas, lyrics, and romances made him suddenly famous. Viewed as a whole, this collection is generally called *The Book of the Rose,* but at times MISS RuDENSKOLD and her companion sat in one of the pews in the cheerful and beautiful church of Normalm, which is all that is left of the once famous cloister of St. Clara, and still bears the saint's name. The sermon was finished, and the strong full tones of the organ, called out by the skillful hands of an excellent organist, hovered like the voices of unseen angel choirs in the high vaults of the church, floated down to the listeners, and sank deep into their hearts. Azouras did not speak a single word; neither did she sing, for she did not know a whole hymn through. Nor did Miss Rudenskold sing, because it was not her custom to sing in church. During the organ solo, however, Miss Rudenskold vent- ured to make some remarks about Dr. Asplund's sermon which was so beautiful, and about the notices afterward which were so tiresome. But when her neighbor did not answer, but sat look- ing ahead with large, almost motionless eyes, as people stare without looking at anything in particular, she changed her sub- ject. At one of the organ tones which finished a cadence, Azouras started, and blinked quickly with her eyelids, and a light sigh showed that she came back to herself and her friend, from her vague contemplative state of mind. Something indescribable, very sad, shone in her eyes, and made them almost black; and with a childlike look at Miss Rudenskold she asked, "Tell me what that large painting over there represents.'* " The altar-piece ? Don't you know ? The altar-piece in Clara is one of the most beautiful we possess.** " What is going on there ? * asked Azouras. Miss Rudenskold gave her a side glance; she did not know that her neighbor in the pew was a girl without baptism, with- out Christianity, without the slightest knowkdg-e of Wy religiop, KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST ^.- a heathen — and knew less than a heathen, for such a one has his teachings, although they are not Christian. Miss Rudenskold thought the girl's question came of a momentary forgetfulness, and answered, to remind her: — "Well, you see, it is one of the usual subjects, but unusually well painted, that is all. High up among the other figures in the painting you will see the half-reclining figure of one that is dead — see what an expression the painter has put into the face! — That is the Saviour.^* «The Saviour?* "Yes, God's son, you know; or God Himself.* " And he is dead ? * repeated Azouras to herself with wonder- ing eyes. "Yes, I believe that; it must be so: it is godlike to die ! » Miss Rudenskold looked at her neighbor with wide-opened eyes. " You must not misunderstand this subject, * she said. " It is human to live and want to live; you can see that, too, in the altar-piece, for all the persons who are human beings, like our- selves, are alive.* "Let us go out! I feel oppressed by fear — no, I will tarry here until my fear passes away. Go, dearest, I will send you word. * Miss Rudenskold took leave of her; went out of the church and over the churchyard to the Eastern Gate, which faces Oden's lane. . . . The girl meanwhile stayed inside; came to a comer in the organ stairs; saw people go out little by little; remained unob- served, and finally heard the sexton and the church-keeper go away. When the last door was closed, Azouras stepped out of her hiding-place. Shut out from the entire world, severed from all human beings, she found herself the only occupant of the large, light building, into which the sun lavishly poured his gold. Although she was entirely ignorant of our holy church cus- toms and the meaning of the things she saw around her, she had nevertheless, sometimes in the past, when her mother was in better health, been present at the church service as a pastime, and so remembered one thing and another. The persons with whom she lived, in the halls and corridors of the opera, hardly ever went to God's house; and generally speaking, church-going was not practiced much during this time. No wonder, then, that a child who was not a member of any religious body, and who 444 KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST had never received an enlightening word from any minister, should neglect what the initiated themselves did not attend to assiduously. She walked up the aisle, and never had the sad, strange feel- ing of utter loneliness taken hold of her as it did now; it was coupled with the apprehension of a great, overhanging danger. Her heart beat wildly; she longed unspeakably — but for what? for her wild free forest out there, where she ran around quick as a deer ? or for what ? She walked up toward the choir and approached the altar rail- ing. *He e at kast — I remember that once — but that was long ago, and it L'tands like a shadow before my memory — I saw many people kneel here : it must have been of some use to them ? Suppose I did likewise ? ** Nevertheless she thought it would be improper for her to kneel down on the decorated cushions around the chancel. She folded her hands and knelt outside of the choir on the bare stone floor. But what more was she to do or say now? Of what use was it all ? Where was she to turn ? She knew nothing. She looked down into her own thoughts as into an immense, silent dwelling. Feelings of sorrow and a sense of transiency moved in slow swells, like shining, breaking waves, through her consciousness. *Oh — something to lean on — a help — where ? where ? where ? * She looked quietly about her; she saw nobody. She was sure to meet the most awful danger when the door was opened, if help did not come first. She turned her eyes back toward the organ, and in her thoughts she besought grace of the straight, long, shining pipes. But all their mouths were silent now. She looked up to the pulpit; nobody was standing there. In the pews nobody. She had sent everybody away from here and from herself. She turned her head again toward the choir. She remem- bered that when she had seen so many gathered here, two min- isters in vestments had moved about inside of the railing and had offered the kneeling worshipers something. No doubt to help them! But now — there was nobody inside there. To be sure she was kneeling here with folded hands and praying eyes; but there was nobody, nobody, nobody who offered her the least little thing. She wept KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST .^c She looked out of the great church windows to the clear noonday sky; her eyes beheld the delicate azure light which spread itself over everything far, far away, but on nothing could her eyes rest. There were no stars to be seen now, and the sun itself was hidden by the window post, although its mild golden light flooded the world. She looked away again, and her eyes sank to the ground. Her knees were resting on a tombstone, and she saw many of the same kind about her. She read the names engraven on the Btones; they were all Swedish, correct and well-known. *Oh,* she said 'to herself with a sigh, "I have not a name like others! My names have been many, borrowed, — and oh, often changed. I did not get one to be my very own! If only I had one like other people! Nobody has written me down in a book as I have heard it said others are written down. Nobody asks about me. I have nothing to do with anybody! Poor Azouras,'* she whis-. pered low to herself. She wept much. There was no one else who said * poor Azouras Tintomara ! * but it was as if an inner, higher, invisible being felt sorry for the outer, bodily, visible being, both one and the same person in her. She wept bitterly over herself. "God is dead,'* she thought, and looked up at the large altar- piece again. "But I am a human being; I must live." And she wept more heartily, more bitterly. . . . The afternoon passed, and the hour for vespers struck. The bells in the tower began to lift their solemn voices, and keys rattled in the lock. Then the heathen girl sprang up, and, much like a thin vanishing mist, disappeared from the altar. She hid in her corner again. It seemed to her that she had been for- ward, and had taken liberties in the choir of the church to which she had no right; and that in the congregation coming in now, she saw persons who had a right to everything. Nevertheless, when the harmonious tones of the organ began to mix with the fragrant summer air in the church, Azouras stood radiant, and she felt quickly how the weight lifted from her breast. Was it because of the tears she had shed ? Or did an unknown helper at this moment scatter the fear in her heart ? She felt no more that it would be dangerous to leave the church; she stole away, before vespers were over, came out into the churchyard and turned off to the northern gate. 446 JOHANNA AMBROSIUS GOD'S WAR HIS mighty weapon drawing, God smites the world he loves, Thus, worthy of him growing. She his reflection proves. God's war like lightning striking, The heart's deep core lays bare, Which fair grows to his liking Who is supremely fair. Escapes no weakness shame. No hid, ignoble feeling; But when his thunder pealing Enkindles life's deep flame. And water clear upwelleth. Flowing unto its goal, God's grand cross standing, telleth His truth unto the soul. Sing, God's war, earth that shakes I Sing, sing the peace he makes! JOHANNA AMBROSIUS (1854-) jEFORE the year 1895 the name of the German peasant, Johanna Ambrosius, was hardly known, even within her own country. Now her melodious verse has made her one of the most popular writers in Germany. Her genius found its way from the humble farm in Eastern Prussia, where she worked in the field beside her husband, to the very heart of the great literary circles. She was born in Lengwethen, a parish village in Eastern Prussia, on the 3d of August, 1854. She received only the commonest education, and every day was filled with the coarsest toil. But her mind and soul were uplifted by the gift of poetry, to which she gave voice in her rare moments of leisure. A delicate, middle-aged woman, whose simplicity is undisturbed by the lavish praises of literary men, she leads the most unpretending of lives. Her work became known by the merest chance. She sent a poem to a German weekly, where it attracted the attention of a Viennese gentleman, Dr. Schrattenthal, who collecteo her verses and sent the little volume into the world with a preface by himself. This work has already gone through twenty-six editions. JOHANNA AMBROSIUS 4^7 The short sketch cited, written some years ago, is the only prose of hers that has been published. The distinguishing characteristics of the poetry of this singularly gifted woman are the deep, almost painfully intense earnestness per- vading its every line, the fine sense of harmony and rhythmic felicity attending the comparatively few attempts she has thus far made, and her tender touch when dwelling upon themes of the heart and home. One cannot predict what her success will be when she attempts more ambitious flights, but thus far she seems to have probed the aesthetic heart of Germany to its centre. A PEASANT'S THOUGHTS THE first snow, in large and thick flakes, fell gently and silently on the barren branches of the ancient pear-tree, standing like a sentinel at my house door. The first snow of the year speaks both of joy and sadness. It is so comfortable to sit in a warm room and watch the falling flakes, eternally pure and lovely. There are neither flowers nor birds about, to make you see and hear the beautiful great world. Now the busy peasant has time to read the stories in his calendar. And I, too, stopped my spinning-wheel, the holy Christ-child's gift on my thirteenth birthday, to fold my hands and to look through the calendar of my thoughts. I did not hear a knock at the door, but a little man came in with a cordial '* Good morning, little sister ! '' I knew him well enough, though we were not acquaintances. Half familiar, half strange, this little time-worn figfure looked. His queer face seemed stamped out of rubber, the upper part sad, the lower full of laughing wrinkles. But his address surprised me, for we were not in the least related. I shook his homy hand, respond- ing, "Hearty thanks, little brother.* "I call this good luck," began little brother: *a room freshly scoured, apples roasting in the chimney, half a cold duck in the cupboard ; and you all alone with cat and clock. It is easier talking when there are two, for the third is always in the way." The old man amused me immensely. I sat down On the bench beside him and asked after his wife and family. "Thanks, thanks," he nodded, "all well and happy except our nestling Ille. She leaves home to-morrow, to eat her bread as a dress- maker in B . " — " And the other children, where are they ? " . .g JOHANNA AMBROSIUS " Flown away, long ago ! Do you suppose, little sister, that 1 want to keep all fifteen at home like so many cabbages in a single bed ? '^ Fifteen children ! Almost triumphantly, little brother watched me. I owned almost as many brothers and sisters myself, and fifteen children were no marvel to me. So I asked if he were a grandfather too. **Of course,* he answered gravely. ** But I am going to tell you how I came by fifteen children. You know how we peasant folk give house and land to the eldest son, and only a few coppers to the youngest children. A bad custom, that leads to quarrels, and ends sometimes in murder. Fathers and mothers can't bring themselves to part with the property, and so they live with the eldest son, who doles out food and shelter, and gets the farm in the end. So, in time, a family has some rich mem- bers and more paupers. Now, we'd better sell the land and let the children share alike; but then that way breaks estates too, I was a younger child, and I received four hundred thalers; — a large sum forty years ago. I didn't know anything but field work. The saying that *The peasant must be kept stupid or he will not obey^ was still printed in all the books. So I had to look about for a family where a son was needed. One day, with my four hundred thalers in my pocket, I went to a farm where there was an unmarried daughter. When you go a-courting among us, you pretend to mean to buy a horse. That's the fashion. With us, a lie doesn't wear French rouge. The parents of Marianne (that was her name) made me welcome. Brown Bess was brought from the stable, and her neck, legs, and teeth examined. I showed my willingness to buy her, which meant as much as to say, *■ Your daughter pleases me. * As proud as you please, I walked through the buildings. Everything in plenty, all right, not a nail wanting on the harrow, nor a cord missing from the harness. How I strutted! I saw myself master, and I was tickled to death to be as rich as my brother. *But I reckoned without my host. On tiptoe I stole into the kitchen, where my sweetheart was frying ham and eggs, I thought I might snatch a kiss. Above the noise of the sizzling frying-pan and the crackling wood, I plainly heard the voice of my — well, let us say it — bride, weeping and complaining to an old house servant: *It's a shame and a sin to enter matrimony with a lie. I can't wed this Michael: not because he is ugly; that doesn't matter in a man, but he comes too late! My heart JOHANNA AMBROSIUS 44^ belongs to poor Joseph, the woodcutter, and I'd sooner be turned out of doors than to make a false promise. Money blinds my mother's eyes I* Don't be surprised, little sister, that I remember these words so well. A son doesn't forget his father's blessing, nor a prisoner his sentence. This was my sentence to poverty and single -blessedness. I sent word to Marianne that she should be happy — and so she was. *^ But now to my own story. I worked six years as farm hand for my rich brother, and then love overtook me. The little housemaid caught me in the net of her golden locks. What a fuss it made in our family! A peasant's pride is as stiff as that of your *Vous* and ^Zus.* My g^rl had only a pair of willing hands and a good heart to give to an ugly, pock-marked being like me. My mother (God grant her peace!) caused her many a tear, and when I brought home my Lotte she wouldn't keep the peace until at last she found out that happiness depends on kind- ness more than on money. On the patch of land that I bought, my wife and I lived as happily as people live when there's love in the house and a bit of bread to spare. We worked hard and spent little. A long, scoured table, a wooden bench or so, a chest or two of coarse linen, and a few pots and pans — that was our furniture. The walls had never tasted whitewash, but Lotte kept them scoured. She went to church barefoot, and put on her shoes at the door. Good things such as coffee and plums, that the poorest hut has now-a-days, we never saw. We didn't save much, for crops sold cheap. But I didn't speculate, nor squeeze money from the sweat of the poor. In time five pretty little chatterboxes arrived, all flaxen-haired girls with blue eyes, or brown. I was satisfied with girls, but the mother hankered after a boy. That's a poor father that prefers a son to a daughter. A man ought to take boys and girls alike, just as God sends them. I was glad enough to work for my girls, and I didn't worry about their future, nor build castles in the air for them to live in. After fifteen years the boy arrived, but he took himself quickly out of the world and coaxed his mother away with him.* Little brother was silent, and bowed his snow-white head. My heart felt as if the dead wife flitted through the room and gently touched the old fellow's thin locks. I saw him kneeling at her death-bed, heard the little girls sobbing, and waited in silence till he drew himself up, sighing deeply: — I — 20 ^eo JOHANNA AMBROSIUS "My Lotte died; she left me alone. What didn't I promise the dear Lord in those black hours! My life, my savings, yea, all my children if He would but leave her to me. In vain. *My thoughts are not thy thoughts, saith the Lord, and My ways are not thy ways.* It was night in my soul. I cried over my children, and I only half did my work. At night I tumbled into bed tearless and prayerless. Oh, sad time ! God vainly knocked at my heart's door until the children fell ill. Oh, what would become of me if these flowers were gathered ? What wealth these rosy mouths meant to me, how gladly would they smile away my sor- row! I had set myself up above the Lord. But by my children's bedside I prayed for grace. They all recovered. I took my motherless brood to God's temple to thank Him there. Church- going won't bring salvation, but staying away from church makes a man stupid and coarse. " But I am forgetting, little sister. I started to tell you about my fifteen children. You see I made up my mind that I had to find a mother for the chicks. I wouldn't chain a young thing to my bonds, even if she understood housekeeping. I held to the saying, * Equal wealth, equal birth, equal years make a good match.* When an old widower courts a young girl he looks at her faults with a hundred eyes when he measures her with his first wife. But a home without a wife is like spring with- out blossoms. So, thinking this way, I chose a widow with ten children. ** Twirling his thumbs, little brother smiled gayly as he looked at me. " Five and ten make fifteen, I thought, and when fifteen prayers rise to heaven, the Lord must hear. My two eldest stepsons entered military service. We wouldn't spend all our money on the boys and then console our poor girls with a hus- band. I put three sons to trades. But my girls were my pride. They learned every kind of work. When they could cook, wash, and spin, we sent them into good households to learn more. Two married young. Some of the rest are seamstresses and housekeepers. One is a secretary, and our golden-haired Miez is lady's-maid to the Countess H . Both these girls are be- trothed. Miez is the brightest, and she managed to learn, even at the village school. So much is written about education nowa- days, * (little brother drew himself up proudly as he added, * I take a newspaper,**) "but the real education is to keep children at work and make them unselfish. They must love their work. JOHANNA AMBROSIUS 451 Work and pray, these were my rules, and thank Heaven! all my children are good and industrious. "Just think, last summer my dear girls sent me a suit of fine city clothes and money to go a journey, begging their old father to make them a visit. Oh, how pretty they looked when they showed me round the city in spite of my homespun, for I couldn't bring myself to wear the fine clothes, after all. The best dressed one was our little lady's-maid, who had a gold watch in her belt. So I said : * Listen, child, that is not fit for you. * But she only laughed. * Indeed it is, little father. If my gra- cious lady makes me a present, I'm not likely to be mistaken for her on that account.* — *And girls, are you contented to be in service ? * — ^ Certainly, father : unless there are both masters and servants the world would go out of its grooves. My good Countess makes service so light, that we love and serve her. Yes, little father,* added Miez, * my gracious mistress chose Gus- tav for me, and is going to pay for the wedding and start us in housekeeping — God bless her ! * Now see what good such a woman does. If people would but learn that it takes wits to command as well as to obey, they would get along well enough in these new times of equality. Thank heaven! we country folk shan't be ruined by idleness. When I saw my thatched roof again, among the fir-trees, I felt as solemn as if I were going to prayers. The blue smoke looked like incense. I folded my hands, I thanked God." Little brother arose, his eyes bright with tears. He cast a wistful look toward the apples in the chimney : " My old wife, little sister ? " — " Certainly, take them all, little brother, you are heartily welcome to them.** — "We are like children, my wife and I, we carry tidbits to each other, now that our birds have all flown away. ** — " That is right, old boy, and God keep thee ! ** I said. From the threshold the words echoed back, "God keep thee!** Translation of Miss H. Geist. STRUGGLE AND PEACE A QUARTER-CENTURY warfare wokt No sabre clash nor powder smoke, No triumph song nor battle cry; Their shields no templared knights stood by. 45i JOHANNA AMfeROSltJS Though fought were many battles hot. Of any fight the world knew not How great the perils often grew — God only knew. Within my deepest soul-depths torn, In hands and feet wounds bleeding borne. Trodden beneath the chargers' tread. How I endured, felt, suffered, bled, How wept and groaned I in my woe. When scoffed the malice-breathing foe, How pierced his scorn my spirit through, God only knew. The evening nears; cool zephyrs blow; The struggle wild doth weaker grow; The air with scarce a sigh is filled From the pale mouth; the blood is stilled. Quieted now my bitter pain; A faint star lights the heavenly plain; Peace cometh after want and woe — My God doth know. DO THOU LOVE. TOO! THE waves they whisper In Luna's glance, Entrancing music For the nixies' dance. They beckon, smiling. And wavewise woo. While softly plashing: — <* Do thovi love, too ! ** In blossoming lindens Doves fondly rear Their tender fledglings From year to year. With never a pausing, They bill and coo, And twitter gently: — **Do thou love, tool* EDMONDO DE AMICIS 453 INVITATION How long wilt stand outside and cower? Come straight within, beloved guest. The winds are fierce this wintry hour: Come, stay awhile with me and rest. You wander begging shelter vainly A weary time from door to door; I see what you have suffered plainly: Come, rest with me and stray no more! And nestle by me, trusting-hearted; Lay in my loving hands your head: Then back shall come your peace departed, Through the world's baseness long since fled; And deep from out your heart upspringing. Love's downy wings will soar to view, The darling smiles like magic bringing Around your gloomy lips anew. Come, rest: myself will here detain you, So long as pulse of mine shall beat; Nor shall my heart grow cold and pain you. Till carried to your last retreat. You gaze at me in doubting fashion. Before the offered rapture dumb; Tears and still tears your sole expression: Bedew my bosom with them — come! EDMONDO DE AMICIS (1846-) |n 1869, 'Vita Militare* (Military Life), a collection of short stories, was perhaps the most popular Italian volume of the year. Read alike in court and cottage, it was every-where discussed and enthusiastically praised. Its prime quality was that quivering sympathy which insures some success to any imaginative work, however crudely written. But these sketches of all the grim and amusing phases of Italian soldier life are drawn with an exqui- site precision. The reader feels the breathless discouragement of the tired soldiers when new dusty vistas are revealed by a sudden tvirn in the road (*A Midsummer March*); understands the strong 454 EDMONDO DE AMICIS silent love between officer and orderly, suppressed by military eti- quette (); smiles with the soldiers at the pretty runa- way boy, idol of the regiment ( ). « When I had finished reading it,» said an Italian workman, «I would gladly have pressed the hand of the first soldier whom I happened to meet.» The author was only twenty-three, and has since given the world many delightful volumes, but nothing finer. These sketches were founded upon personal knowledge, for De Amicis began life as a soldier. After his early education at Coni and Turin, he entered the military school at Modena, from which he was sent out as sub-lieutenant in the third regiment of the line. He saw active service in various expeditions against Sicilian brigands; and in the war with Austria he fought at the battle of Custozza. His literary power seems to have been early manifest; for in 1867 he became manager of a newspaper, L'ltalia Militare, at Flor- ence; and in 1871, yielding to his friends' persuasions, he settled down to authorship at Turin. His second book was the memorials dedicated to the youth of Italy, of national events which had come within his experience. Half a dozen later stories published together were also very popular, especially < Gli Amici di Collegio > (College Friends), * Fortezza,* and ' La Casa Paterna * (The Paternal Home). He has written some graceful verse as well. But De Amicis soon craved the stimulus of novel environments, of differing personalities; and he set out upon the travels which he has so delightfully recounted. This ardent Italian longed for the repose of <> a crific tells us. He went first to Holland, and experienced a joyous satisfaction in the careful art of that trim little land. Later, a visit to North Africa in the suite of the Italian ambassador prompted a brilliant volume, * Morocco, * " which glitters and flashes like a Damascus blade.** Among his other well-known books, descriptive of other trips, are < Holland and Its People, * * Spain,* < London,* < Paris,* and < Constantinople, * which, translated into many languages, have been widely read. That unfortunate though not uncommon traveler who finds ennui everjrwhere must envy De Amicis his inexhaustible enthusiasm, his power of epicurean enjoyment in the color and glory of every land. Edmondo de Amicis EDMONDO DE AMICIS ^ge His is a curiously optimistic nature. Always perceiving the beautiful and picturesque in art and nature, he treats other aspects hopefully, and ignores them when he may. He catches what is characteristic in every nation as inevitably as he catches the physiognomy of a land with its skies and its waters, its flowers and its atmosphere. His is a realism transfigured by poetic imagination, which divines essential things and places them in high relief. Very early in life De Amicis announced his love and admiration of Manzoni, of whom he called himself a disciple. But his is a very different mind. This Italian, born at Oneglia of Genoese parents, has inherited the emotional nature of his country. He sees every- thing with feeling, penetrating below the surface with sympathetic insight. Italy gives him his sensuous zest in life. But from France, through his love of her vigor and grace, his cordial admiration of her literature, he has gained a refining and strengthening influence. She has taught him that direct diction, that choice simplicity, which forsakes the stilted Italian of literary tradition for a style far simpler, stronger, and more natural. All selections used by permission of G. 1'. Putnam s Sons THE LIGHT From < Constantinople AND first of all, the light! One of my dearest delights at Con- stantinople was to see the sun rise and set, standing upon the bridge of the Sultana Valide. At dawn, in autumn, the Golden Horn is almost always covered by a light fog, behind which the city is seen vaguely, like those gauze curtains that descend upon the stage to conceal the preparations for a scenic spectacle. Scutari is quite hidden; nothing is to be seen but the dark uncertain outline of her hills. The bridge and the shores are deserted, Constantinople sleeps; the solitude and silence render the spectacle more solemn. The sky begins to grow golden behind the hills of Scutari. Upon that luminous strip are drawn, one by one, black and clear, the tops of the cypress trees in the vast cemetery, like an army of giants ranged upon the heights; and from one cape of the Golden Horn to the other there shines a tremulous light, faint as the first murmur of the awakening city. Then behind the cypresses of the Asiatic shore comes forth an eye of fire, and suddenly the white tops of the four minarets of Saint Sophia are tinted with deep rose. In a few minutes. 456 EDMONDO DE AMICIS from hill to hill, from mosque to mosque, down to the end of the Golden Horn, all the minarets, one after the other, turn rose color; all the domes, one by one, are silvered, the flush descends from terrace to terrace, the tremulous light spreads, the great veil melts, and all Stamboul appears, rosy and resplendent upon her heights, blue and violet along the shores, fresh and young, as if just risen from the waters. As the sun rises, the delicacy of the first tints vanishes in an immense illumination, and everything remains bathed in white light until toward evening. Then the divine spectacle begins again. The air is so limpid that from Galata one can see clearly every distant tree, as far as Kadi-Kioi. The whole of the immense profile of Stamboul stands out against the sky with such a clearness of line and rigor of color, that every minaret, obelisk, and cypress-tree can be counted, one by one, from Seraglio Point to the cemetery of Eyub. The Golden Horn and the Bosphorus assume a wonderful ultramarine color; the heavens, the color of amethyst in the East, are afire behind Stamboul, tinting the hori- zon with infinite lights of rose and carbuncle, that make one think of the first day of the creation; Stamboul darkens, Galata becomes golden, and Scutari, struck by the last rays of the set- ting sun, with every pane of glass giving back the glow, looks like a city on fire. And this is the moment to contemplate Constantinople. There is one rapid succession of the softest tints, pallid gold, rose and lilac, which quiver and float over the sides of the hills and the water, every moment giving and taking away the prize of beauty from each part of the city, and revealing a thousand modest graces of the landscape that have not dared to show themselves in the full light. Great melancholy suburbs are lost in the shadow of the valleys; little purple cities smile upon the heights; villages faint as if about to die; others die at once like extin- guished flames; others, that seemed already dead, revive, and glow, and quiver yet a moment longer under the last ray of the sun. Then there is nothing left but two resplendent points upon the Asiatic shore, — the summit of Mount Bulgurlu, and the extremity of the cape that guards the entrance to the Propontis; they are at first two golden crowns, then two purple caps, then two rubies; then all Constantinople is in shadow, and ten thou- sand voices from ten thousand minarets announce the close of the day. EpMONDO DE AMICIS 4^7 RESEMBLANCES From < Constantinople * IN THE first days, fresh as I was from the penisal of Oriental hterature, I saw everywhere the famous personages of history and legend, and the figures that recalled them resembled sometimes so faithfully those that were fixed in my imagination, that I was constrained to stop and look at them. How many times have I seized my friend by the arm, and pointing to a person passing by, have exclaimed : *^ It is he, cospetto! do you not recognize him ? ^* In the square of the Sultana Valide, I fre- quently saw the gigantic Turk who threw down millstones from the walls of Nicaea on the heads of the soldiers of Baglione; I saw in front of a mosque Umm Djemil, that old ivixy that sowed brambles and nettles before Mahomet's house; I met in the book bazaar, with a volume under his arm, Djemaleddin, the learned man of Broussa, who knew the whole of the Arab dictionary by heart; I passed quite close to the side of Ayesha, the favorite wife of the Prophet, and she fixed upon my face her eyes, brill- iant and humid, like the reflection of stars in a well; I have recognized, in the At-Meidan, the famous beauty of that poor Greek woman killed by a cannon ball at the base of the serpent- ine column; I have been face to face, in the Fanar, with Kara- Abderrahman, the handsome young Turk of the time of Orkhan; I have seen Coswa, the she-camel of the Prophet; I have en- countered Kara-bulut, Selim's black steed; I have met the poor poet Fignahi, condemned to go about Stamboul tied to an ass for having pierced with an insolent distich the Grand Vizier of Ibrahim; I have been in the same cafe with Soliman the Big, the monstrous admiral, whom four robust slaves hardly succeeded in lifting from the divan; Ali, the Grand Vizier, who could not find in all Arabia a horse that could carry him; Mahmoud Pasha, the ferocious Hercules that strangled the son of Soliman; and the stupid Ahmed Second, who continually repeated *Koso! Koso!" (Ver}^ well, very well) crouching before the door of the copyists' bazaar, in the square of Bajazet. All the personages, of the * Thousand and One Nights,* the Aladdins, the Zobeides, the Sindbads, the Gulnares, the old Jewish merchants, possessors of enchanted carpets and wonderful lamps, passed before me like a procession of phantoms. 4.58 EDMONDO DE AMICI* BIRDS From < Constantinople > CONSTANTINOPLE has onc grace and gayety peculiar to itself, that comes from an infinite number of birds of every kind, for which the Turks nourish a warm sentiment and regard. Mosques, groves, old walls, gardens, palaces, all resound with song, the whistling and twittering of birds; everywhere wings are fluttering, and life and harmony abound. The sparrows enter the houses boldly, and eat out of women's and children's hands; swallows nest over the ca.i6 doors, and under the arches of the bazaars; pigeons in innumerable swarms, maintained by legacies from sultans and private individuals, form garlands of black and white along the cornices of the cupolas and around the terraces of the minarets; sea-gulls dart and play over the water; thousands of turtle-doves coo amorously among the cypresses in the ceme- teries; crows croak about the Castle of the Seven Towers hal- cyons come and go in long files between the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmora; and storks sit upon the cupolas of the mausoleums. For the Turk, each one of these birds has a gentle meaning, or a benignant virtue: turtle-doves are favorable to lovers, swallows keep away fire from the roofs where they build their nests, storks make yearly pilgrimages to Mecca, halcyons carry the souls of the faithful to Paradise. Thus he protects and feeds them, through a sentiment of gratitude and piety; and they enliven the house, the sea, and the sepulchre. Every quarter of Stamboul is full of the noise of them, bringing to the cit}^ a sense of the pleasures of country life, and continually refreshing the soul with a reminder of nature, CORDOVA From < Spain > FOR a long distance the country offers no new aspect to the feverish curiosity of the tourist. At Vilches there is a vast plain, and beyond there the open country of Tolosa, where Alphonso VIII., King of Castile, gained the celebrated victory *de las Navas* over the Mussulman army. The sky was very clear, and in the distance one could see the mountains of the Sierra de Segura. Suddenly, there comes pver one a sensation EDMONDO DE AMICIS 459 which seems to respond to a suppressed exclamation of surprise: the first aloes with their thick leaves, the unexpected heralds of tropical vegetation, rise on both sides of the road. Beyond, the fields studded with flowers begin to appear. The first are studded, those which follow almost covered, then come vast stretches of ground entirely clothed with poppies, daisies, lilies, wild mush- rooms, and ranunculuses, so that the country (as it presents itself to view) looks like a succession of immense purple, gold, and snowy-hued carpets. In the distance, among the trees, are in- numerable blue, white, and yellow streaks, as far as the eye can reach; and nearer, on the banks of the ditches, the elevations of ground, the slopes, and even on the edge of the road are flowers in beds, clumps, and clusters, one above the other, grouped in the form of great bouquets, and trembling on their stalks, which one can almost touch with his hand. Then there are fields white with great blades of grain, flanked by plantations of roses, orange groves, immense olive groves, and hillsides varied by a thousand shades of green, surmounted by ancient Moorish towers, scattered with many-colgred houses; and between the one and the other are white and slender bridges that cross rivulets hidden by the trees. On the horizon appear the snowy caps of the Sierra Nevada; under that white streak lie the undulating blue ones of the nearer mountains. The country becomes more varied and flourishing; Arjonilla lies in a grove of olives, whose boundary one cannot see; Pedro Abad, in the midst of a plain, covered with vineyards and fruit-trees; Ventas di Alcolea, on the last hills of the Sierra Nevada, peopled with villas and gardens. We are approaching Cordova, the train flies along, we see little stations half hidden by trees and flowers, the wind carries the rose leaves into the carriages, great butterflies fly near the windows, a delicious per- fiime permeates the air, the travelers sing; we pass through an enchanted garden, the aloes, oranges, palms, and villas grow more frequent; and at last we hear a cry — "Here is Cordova!** How many lovely pictures and grand recollections the sound of that name awakens in one's mind! Cordova, — the ancient pearl of the East, as the Arabian poets call it, — the city of cities; Cordova of the thirty suburbs and three thousand mosques, which inclosed within her walls the greatest temple of Islam! Her fame extended throughout the East, and obscured the glory of ancient Damascus. The faithful came from the most remote 46o EDMONDO DE AJIICIS regions of Asia to banks of the Guadalquivir to prostrate them- selves in the marvelous Mihrab of her mosque, in the light of the thousand bronze lamps cast from the bells of the cathedrals of Spain. Hither flocked artists, savants, poets from every part of the Mahometan world to her flourishing schools, immense libra- ries, and the magnificent courts of her caliphs. Riches and beauty flowed in, attracted by the fame of her splendor. From here they scattered, eager for knowledge, along the coasts of Africa, through the schools of Tunis, Cairo, Bagdad, Cufa, and even to India and China, in order to gather inspiration and records; and the poetry sung on the slopes of the Sierra Morena flew from lyre to lyre, as far as the valleys of the Caucasus, to excite the ardor for pilgrimages. The beautiful, powerful, and wise Cordova, crowned with three thousand villages, proudly raised her white minarets in the midst of orange groves, and spread around the valley a voluptuous atmosphere of joy and glory. I leave the train, cross a garden, look around me. I am alone. The travelers who were with me disappear here and there; I still hear the noise of a carriage which is rolling off; then all is quiet. It is midday, the sky is very clear, and the air suffocating. I see two white houses; it is the opening of a street; I enter and go on. The street is narrow, the houses as small as the little villas on the slopes of artificial gardens, almost all one story in height, with windows a few feet from the ground, the roofs so low that one could almost touch them with a stick, and the walls very white. The street turns; I look, see no one, and hear neither step nor voice. I say to myself: — ^' This must be an abandoned street!'* and try another one, in which the houses are white, the windows closed, and there is nothing but silence and solitude around me. *^Why, where am I ? ** I ask myself. I go on ; the street, which is so narrow that a carriage could not pass, begins to wind; on the right and left I see other deserted streets, white houses, and closed windows. My step resounds as if in a corridor. The whiteness of the walls is so vivid that even the reflection is trying, and I am obliged to walk with my eyes half closed, for it really seems as if I were making my way through the snow. I reach a small square; everything is closed, and no one is to be seen. At this point a vague feeling of melancholy seizes me, such as I have never experienced before; a mixture of EDMONDO DE AMICIS 46 1 pleasure and sadness, similar to that which comes to children when, after a long- run, they reach a lonely rural spot and rejoice in their discovery, but with a certain trepidation lest they should be too far from home. Above many roofs rise the palm-trees of inner gardens. Oh, fantastic legends of Odalisk and Caliph! On I go from street to street, and square to square; I begin to meet some people, but they pass and disap- pear like phantoms. All the streets resemble each other; the houses have only three or four windows; and not a spot, scrawl, or crack is to be seen on the walls, which are as smooth and white as a sheet of paper. From time to time I hear a whisper behind a blind, and see, almost at the same moment, a dark head, with a flower in the hair, appear and disappear. I look in at a door. . . . A patio! How shall I describe a patio? It is not a court, nor a garden, nor a room; but it is all three things combined. Between the patio and the street there is a vestibule. On the four sides of the patio rise slender columns, which support, up to a level with the first floor, a species of gallery inclosed in glass; above the gallery is stretched a canvas, which shades the court. The vestibule is paved with marble, the door flanked by columns, surmounted by bas-reliefs, and closed by a slendei iron gate of graceful design. At the end of the patio there is a fountain; and all around are scattered chairs, work-tables, pictures, and vases of flowers. I run to another door: there is another patio, with its walls covered with ivy, and a number of niches holding little statues, busts, and urns. I look in at a third door: here is another patio, with its walls worked in mosaics, a palm in the centre, and a mass of flowers all around. I stop at a fourth door: after the patio there is another vestibule, after this a second patio, in which one sees other statues, columns, and fountains. All these rooms and gardens are so neat and clean that one could pass his hand over the walls and on the ground without leaving a trace; and they are fresh, odorous, and lighted by an uncertain light, which increases their beauty and mysterious appearance. On I go at random from street to street. As I walk, my curiosity increases and I quicken my pace. It seems impossible that a whole city can be like this; I am afraid of stumbling across some house or coming into some street that will remind me of other cities, and disturb my beautiful dream. But no, the 462 EDMONDO DE AMICIS dream lasts; for everything is small, lovely, and mysterious. At every hundred steps I reach a deserted square, in which I stop and hold my breath; from time to time there appears a cross- road, and not a living soul is to be seen; everything is white, the windows closed, and silence reigns on all sides. At each door there is a new spectacle; there are arches, columns, flowers, jets of water, and palms; a marvelous variety of design, tints, light, and perfume; here the odor of roses, there of oranges, farther on of pinks; and with this perfume a whiff of fresh air, and with the air a subdued sound of women's voices, the rustling of leaves, and the singing of birds. It is a sweet and varied harmony, that without disturbing the silence of the streets, soothes the ear like the echo of distant music. Ah! it is not a dream! Madrid, Italy, Europe, are indeed far away! Here one lives another life, and breathes the air of a different world, — for I am in the East. THE LAND OP PLUCK From < Holland and Its People* WHOEVER looks for the first time at a large map of Holland wonders that a country so constituted can continue tc exist. At the first glance it is difficult to see whether land or water predominates, or whether Holland belongs most to the continent or to the sea. Those broken and compressed coasts; those deep bays; those great rivers that, losing the aspect of rivers, seem bringing new seas to the sea; that sea which, changing itself into rivers, penetrates the land and breaks it into archipelagoes; the lakes, the vast morasses, the canals crossing and recrossing each other, all combine to give the idea of a country that may at any moment disintegrate and disappear. Seals and beavers would seem to be its rightful inhabitants; but since there are men bold enough to live in it, they surely cannot ever sleep in peace. What sort of a country Holland is, has been told by many in few words. Napoleon said it was an alluvion of French rivers, — the Rhine, the Scheldt, and the Meuse, — and with this pretext he added it to the Empire. One writer has defined it as a sort of transition between land and sea. Another, as an immense crust of earth floating on the water. Others, an annex of the old EDMONDO DE AMICIS 463 continent, the China of Europe, the end of the earth and the beginning of the ocean, a measureless raft of mud and sand; and Philip II. called it the country nearest to hell. But they all agreed upon one point, and all expressed it in the same words: — Holland is a conquest made by man over the sea; it is an artificial country: the Hollanders made it; it exists because the Hollanders preserve it; it will vanish whenever the Hollanders shall abandon it. To comprehend this truth, we must imagine Holland as it was when first inhabited by the first German tribes that wandered away in search of a country. It was almost uninhabitable. There were vast tempestuous lakes, like seas, touching one another; morass beside morass; one tract after another covered with brushwood; immense forests of pines, oaks, and alders, traversed by herds of wild horses, and so thick were these forests that tradition says one could travel leagues passing from tree to tree without ever putting foot to the ground. The deep bays and gulfs carried into the heart of the country the fury of the northern tempests. Some provinces dis- appeared once every year under the waters of the sea, and were nothing but muddy tracts, neither land nor water, where it was impossible either to walk or to sail. The large rivers, without sufficient inclination to descend to the sea, wandered here and there uncertain of their way, and slept in monstrous pools and ponds among the sands of the coasts. It was a sinister place, swept by furious winds, beaten by obstinate rains, veiled in a perpetual fog, where nothing was heard but the roar of the sea and the voices of wild beasts and birds of the ocean. The first people who had the courage to plant their tents there, had to raise with their own hands dikes of earth to keep out the rivers and the sea, and lived within them like shipwrecked men upon desolate islands, venturing forth at the subsidence of the waters in quest of food in the shape of fish and game, and gathering the eggs of marine birds upon the sand. Caesar, passing by, was the first to name this people. The other Latin historians speak with compassion and respect of these intrepid barbarians who lived upon a "floating land,'* exposed to the intemperance of a cruel sky and the fury of the mysterious northern sea; and the imagination pictures the Roman soldiers, who, from the heights of the uttermost citadels of the empire, beaten by the waves, contemplated with wonder and pity those 464 EDMONDO DE AMICIS wandering tribes upon their desolate land, like a race accursed of heaven. Now, if we remember that such a region has become one of the most fertile, wealthiest, and best regulated of the countries of the world, we shall understand the justice of the saying that Holland is a conquest made by man. But, it must be added, the conquest goes on forever. To explain this fact — to show how the existence of Holland, in spite of the great defensive works constructed by the inhabit- ants, demands an incessant and most perilous struggle — it will be enough to touch here and there upon a few of the principal vicissitudes of her physical history, from the time when her inhabitants had already reduced her to a habitable country. Tradition speaks of a great inundation in Friesland in the sixth century. From that time every gulf, every island, and it may be said every city, in Holland has its catastrophe to record. In thirteen centuries, it is recorded that one great inundation, beside smaller ones, has occurred every seven years; and the country being all plain, these inundations were veritable floods. Towards the end of the thirteenth century, the sea destroyed a part of a fertile peninsula near the mouth of the Ems, and swal- lowed up more than thirty villages. In the course of the same century, a series of inundations opened an immense chasm in northern Holland, and formed the Zuyder Zee, causing the death of more than eighty thousand persons. In 142 1 a tempest swelled the Meuse, so that in one night the waters overwhelmed seventy- two villages and one hundred thousand inhabitants. In 1532 the sea burst the dikes of Zealand, destroying hundreds of villages, and covering forever a large tract of country. In 1570 a storm caused another inundation in Zealand and in the province of Utrecht; Amsterdam was invaded by the waters, and in Fries- land twenty thousand people were drowned. Other great inunda- tions took place in the seventeenth century; two terrible ones at the beginning and the end of the eighteenth; one in 1825 that desolated North Holland, Friesland, Over-Yssel, and Gueldres; and another great one of the Rhine, in 1855, which invaded Gueldres and the province of Utrecht, and covered a great part of North Brabant. Beside these great catastrophes, there hap- pened in different centuries innumerable smaller ones, which would have been famous in any other country, but which in Holland are scarcely remembered^ like the rising of the lake of EDMONDO DE AMICIS 465 Haarlem, itself the result of an inundation of the sea; flourishing cities of the gulf of Zuyder Zee vanished under the waters; the islands of Zealand covered again and again by the sea, and again emerging; villages of the coast, from Helder to the mouths of the Meuse, from time to time inundated and destroyed; and in all these inundations immense loss of life of men and animals It is plain that miracles of courage, constancy, and industry must have been accomplished by the Hollanders, first in creating and afterwards in preserving such a country. The enemy from which they had to wrest it was triple: the sea, the lakes, the rivers. They drained the lakes, drove back the sea, and imprisoned the rivers. To drain the lakes the Hollanders pressed the air into their service The lakes, the marshes, were surrounded by dikes, the dikes by canals; and an army of windmills, putting in motion force-pumps, turned the water into the canals, which carried it off to the rivers and the sea. Thus vast tracts of land buried under the water saw the sun, and were transformed, as if by magic, into fertile fields, covered with villages, and intersected by canals and roads. In the seventeenth century, in less than forty years, twenty-six lakes were drained. At the beginning of the present centur}^ in North Holland alone, more than six thousand hectares (or fifteen thousand acres) were thus redeemed from the waters; in South Holland, before 1844, twenty-nine thousand hectares; in the whole of Holland, from 1500 to 1858, three hun- dred and fifty-five thousand hectares. Substituting steam-mills for windmills, in thirty-nine months was completed the great undertaking of the draining of the lake of Haarlem, which meas- ured forty-four kilometres in circumference, and forever threatened with its tempests the cities of Haarlem, Amsterdam, and Leyden. And they are now meditating the prodigious work of dr\nng up the Zuyder Zee, which embraces an area of more than seven hundred square kilometres. The rivers, another eternal enemy, cost no less of labor and sacrifice. Some, like the Rhine, which lost itself in the sands before reaching the sea, had to be channeled and defended at their mouths, against the tides, by formidable cataracts; others, like the Meuse, bordered by dikes as powerful as those that were raised against the ocean; others, turned from their course; the wandering waters gathered together; the course of the afflu- ents regulated; the waters divided with rigorous measure in order I — ^o 466 EDMONDO DE AMICIS to retain that enormous mass of liquid in equilibrium, where the slightest inequality might cost a province; and in this way all the rivers that formerly spread their devastating floods about the country were disciplined into channels and constrained to do service. But the most tremendous struggle was the battle with the ocean. Holland is in great part lower than the level of the sea; consequently, everywhere that the coast is not defended by sand- banks it has to be protected by dikes. If these interminable bul- warks of earth, granite, and wood were not there to attest the indomitable courage and perseverance of the Hollanders, it would not be believed that the hand of man could, even in many cen- turies, have accomplished such a work. In Zealand alone the dikes extend to a distance of more than four hundred kilometres. The western coast of the island of Walcheren is defended by a dike, in which it is computed that the expense of construction added to that of preservation, if it were put out at interest, would amount to a sum equal in value to that which the dike itself would be worth were it made of massive copper. Around the city of Helder, at the northern extremity of North Holland, extends a dike ten kilometres long, constructed of masses of Nor- wegian granite, which descends more than sixty metres into the sea. The whole province of Friesland, for the length of eighty- eight kilometres, is defended by three rows of piles sustained by masses of Norwegian and German granite. Amsterdam, all the cities of the Zuyder Zee, and all the islands, — fragments of van- ished lands, — which are strung like beads between Friesland and North Holland, are protected by dikes. From the mouths of the Ems to those of the Scheldt, Holland is an impenetrable fortress, of whose immense bastions the mills are the towers, the cataracts are the gates, the islands the advanced forts; and like a true fortress, it shows to its enemy, the sea, only the tops of its bell- towers and the roofs of its houses, as if in defiance and derision. Holland is a fortress, and her people live as in a fortress, on a war footing with the sea. An army of engineers, directed by the Minister of the Interior, spread over the country, and, ordered like an army, continually spy the enemy, watch over the internal waters, foresee the bursting of the dikes, order and direct the defensive works. The expenses of the war are divided, — one part to the State, one part to the provinces; every proprietor pays, beside the general imposts, a special impost for the dikes, EDMONDO DE AMICIS 467 m proportion to the extent of his lands and their proximity to the water. An accidental rupture, an inadvertence, may cause a flood; the peril is unceasing; the sentinels are at their posts upon the bulwarks; at the first assault of the sea, they shout the war- cry, and Holland sends men, material, and money. And even when there is no great battle, a quiet, silent struggle is forever going on. The innumerable mills, even in the drained districts, continue to work unresting, to absorb and turn into the canals the water that falls in rain and that which filters in from the sea. Every day the cataracts of the bays and rivers close their gigan- tic gates against the high tide trying to rush into the heart of the land. The work of strengthening dikes, fortifying sand-banks with plantations, throwing out new dikes where the banks are low, straight as great lances, vibrating in the bosom of the sea and breaking the first impetus of the wave, is forever going on. And the sea eternally knocks at the river-gates, beats upon the ramparts, growls on every side her ceaseless menace, lifting her curious waves as if to see the land she counts as hers, piling up banks of sand before the gates to kill the commerce of the cities, forever gnawing, scratching, digging at the coast; and failing to overthrow the ramparts upon which she foams and fumes in ang^ effort, she casts at their feet ships full of the dead, that they may announce to the rebellious country her fury and her strength. In the midst of this great and terrible struggle Holland is transformed: Holland is the land of transformations. A geo- graphical map of that country as it existed eight centuries ago is not recognizable. Transforming the sea, men also are trans- formed. The sea, at some points, drives back the land; it takes portions from the continent, leaves them and takes them again; joins islands to the mainland with ropes of sand, as in the case of Zealand; breaks off bits from the mainland and makes new islands, as in Wieringen; retires from certain coasts and makes land cities out of what were cities of the sea, as Leuvarde; con- verts vast tracts of plain into archipelagoes of a hundred islets, as Biisbosch; separates a city from the land, as Dordrecht; forms new gulfs two leagues broad, like the g^lf of Dollart; divides two provinces with a new sea, like North Holland and Friesland. The effect of the inundations is to cause the level of the sea to rise in some places and to sink in others; sterile lands are fertil- ized by the slime of the rivers, fertile lands are changed into 468 EDMONDO DE AMICIS deserts of sand. With the transformations of the waters alternate the transformations of labor. Islands are united to continents, like the island of Ameland; entire provinces are reduced to islands, as North Holland will be by the new canal of Amster- dam, which is to separate it from South Holland; lakes as large as provinces disappear altogether, like the lake of Beemster; by the extraction of peat, land is converted into lakes, and these lakes are again transformed into meadows. And thus the country changes its aspect according to the violence of nature or the needs of men. And while one goes over it with the latest map in hand, one may be sure that the map will be useless in a few years, because even now there are new gulfs in process of forma- tion, tracts of land just ready to be detached from the mainland, and gfreat canals being cut that will carry life to uninhabited dis- tricts. But Holland has done more than defend herself against the waters; she has made herself mistress of them, and has used them for her own defense. Should a foreign army invade her territory, she has but to open her dikes and imchain the sea and the rivers, as she did against the Romans, against the Spaniards, against the army of Louis XIV., and defend the land cities with her fleet. Water was the source of her poverty, she has made it the source of wealth. Over the whole country extends an immense network of canals, which serves both for the irrigation of the land and as a means of communication. The cities, by means of canals, communicate with the sea; canals run from town to town, and from them to villages, which are themselves bound together by these watery ways, and are connected even to the houses scattered over the country; smaller canals surround the fields and orchards, pastures and kitchen-gardens, serving at once as boundary wall, hedge, and road-way; every house is a little port. Ships, boats, rafts, move about in all directions, as in other places carts and carriages. The canals are the arteries of Holland, and the water her life-blood. But even setting aside the canals, the draining of the lakes, and the defensive works, on every side are seen the traces of marvelous undertakings. The soil, which in other countries is a gift of nature, is in Holland a work of men's hands. Holland draws the greater part of her wealth from commerce; but before commerce comes the cultiva- tion of the soil; and the soil had to be created. There were sand-banks interspersed with layers ot peat, broad downs swept EDMONDO DE AMICIS 469 by the winds, great tracts of barren land apparently condemned to an eternal sterility. The first elements of manufacture, iron and coal, were wanting; there was no wood, because the forests had already been destroyed by tempests when agriculture began; there was no stone, there were no metals. Nature, says a Dutch poet, had refused all her gifts to Holland; the Hollanders had to do everything in spite of nature. They began by fertilizing the sand. In some places they formed a productive soil with earth brought from a distance, as a garden is made; they spread the siliceous dust of the downs over the too watery meadows; they mixed with the sandy earth the remains of peat taken from the bottoms; they extracted clay to lend fertility to the surface of their lands; they labored to break up the downs with the plow: and thus in a thousand ways, and continually fighting off the menacing waters, they succeeded in bringing Holland to a state of cultivation not inferior to that of more favored regions. That Holland, that sandy, marshy country which the ancients consid- ered all but uninhabitable, now sends out yearly from her con- fines agricultural products to the value of a hundred millions of francs, possesses about one million three hundred thousand head of cattle, and in proportion to the extent of her territory may be accounted one of the most populous of European States. It may be easily understood how the physical peculiarities of their country must influence the Dutch people ; and their genius is in perfect harmony with the character of Holland. It is suffi- cient to contemplate the monuments of their great struggle with the sea in order to understand that their distinctive characteristics must be firmness and patience, accompanied by a calm and con- stant courage. That glorious battle, and the consciousness of owing everything to their own strength, must have infused and fortified in them a high sense of dignity and an indomitable spirit of liberty and independence. The necessity of a constant struggle, of a continuous labor, and of perpetual sacrifices in defense of their existence, forever taking them back to a sense of reality, must have made them a highly practical and economical people; good sense should be their most salient quality, economy one of their chief virtues; they must be excellent in all iiseful arts, sparing of diversion, simple even in their greatness; succeeding in what they undertake by dint of tenacity and a thoughtful and orderly activity; more ^^dse than heroic; more conservative than creative; giving no great architects to the edifice of modem 47© EDMONDO DE AMICIS thougnt, but the ablest of workmen, a legion of patient and laborious artisans. And by virtue of these qualities of prudence, phlegmatic activity, and the spirit of conservatism, they are ever advancing, though by slow degrees; they acquire gradually, but never lose what they have gained; holding stubbornly to their ancient customs; preserving almost intact, and despite the neigh- borhood of three great nations, their own originality; preserving it through every form of government, through foreign invasions, through political and religious wars, and in spite of the immense concourse of strangers from every country that are always coming among them; and remaining, in short, of all the northern races, that one which, though ever advancing in the path of civilization, has kept its antique stamp most clearly. It is enough also to remember its form in order to compre- hend that this country of three millions and a half of inhabitants, although bound in so compact a political union, although recog- nizable among all the other northern peoples by certain traits peculiar to the population of all its provinces, must present a great variety. And so it is in fact. Between Zealand and Hol- land proper, between Holland and Friesland, between Friesland and Gueldres, between Groningen and Brabant, in spite of vicinity and so many common ties, there is no less difference than between the more distant provinces of Italy and France; difference of language, costume, and character; difference of race and of religion. The communal regime has impressed an indeli- ble mark upon this people, because in no other country does it so conform to the nature of things. The country is divided into various groups of interests organized in the same manner as the hydraulic system. Whence, association and mutual help against the common enemy, the sea; but liberty for local institutions and forces. Monarchy has not extinguished the ancient munici- pal spirit, and this it is that renders impossible a complete fusion of the State, in all the great States that have made the attempt. The great rivers and gulfs are at the same time commercial roads serving as national bonds between the different provinces, and barriers which defend old traditions and old customs in each. EDMONDO DE AMICIS 471 THE DUTCH MASTERS From < Holland and Its People > THE DutcK school of painting has one quality which renders it particularly attractive to us Italians; it is above all others the most different from our own, the very antithesis or the opposite pole of art. The Dutch and Italian schools are the most original, or, as has been said, the only two to which the title rigorously belongs; the others being only daughters or younger sisters, more or less resembling them. Thus even in painting Holland offers that which is most sought after in travel and in books of travel: the new. Dutch painting was bom with the liberty and independence of Holland. As long as the northern and southern provinces of the Low Countries remained under the Spanish rule and in the Cath- olic faith, Dutch painters painted like Belgian painters; they stud- ied in Belgium, Germany, and Italy; Heemskerk imitated Michael Angelo, Bloemart followed Correggio, and ^* II Moro " copied Titian, not to indicate others : and they were one and all pedantic imitators, who added to the exaggerations of the Italian style a certain German coarsenesss, the result of which was a bastard style of painting, still inferior to the first, childish, stiff in design, crude in color, and completely wanting in chiaroscuro, but at least not a servile imitation, and becoming, as it were, a faint prelude of the true Dutch art that was to be. With the war of independence, liberty, reform, and painting also were renewed. With religious traditions fell artistic tradi- tions; the nude nymphs, Madonnas, saints, allegory, mythology, the ideal — all the old edifice fell to pieces. Holland, animated by a new life, felt the need of manifesting and expanding it in a new way; the small country, become all at once glorious and formidable, felt the desire for illustration ; the faculties which had been excited and strengthened in the grand undertaking of creat- ing a nation, now that the work was completed, overflowed and ran into new channels. The conditions of the country were favor- able to the revival of art. The supreme dangers were conjured away; there was security, prosperity, a splendid future; the heroes had done their duty, and the artists were permitted to come to the front; Holland, after many sacrifices, and much suffering, issued victoriously from the struggle, lifted her face among her people and smiled. And that smile is art. 472 EDMONDO DE AMICIS What that art would necessarily be, might have been guessed even had no monument of it remained. A pacific, laborious, prac- tical people, continually beaten down, to quote a great German poet, to prosaic realities by the occupations of a vulgar burgher life; cultivating its reason at the expense of its imagination; liv- ing, consequently, more in clear ideas than in beautiful images; taking refuge from abstractions; never darting its thoughts beyond that nature with which it is in perpetual battle; seeing only that which is, enjoying only that which it can possess, making its hap^ piness consist in the tranquil ease and honest sensuality of a life without violent passions or exorbitant desires; — such a people must have tranquillity also in their art, they must love an art that pleases without startling the mind, which addresses the senses rather than the spirit; an art full of repose, precision, and deli- cacy, though material like their lives: in one word, a realistic art, in which they can see themselves as they are and as they are con- tent to be. The artists began by tracing that which they saw before their eyes — the house. The long winters, the persistent rains, the dampness, the variableness of the climate, obliged the Hollander to stay within doors the greater part of the year. He loved his little house, his shell, much better than we love our abodes, for the reason that he had more need of it, and stayed more within it; he provided it with all sorts of conveniences, caressed it, made much of it; he liked to look out from his well-stopped windows at the falling snow and the drenching rain, and to hug himself with the thought, << Rage, tempest, I am warm and safe ! *^ Snug in his shell, his faithful housewife beside him, his children about him, he passed the long autumn and winter evenings in eating much, drinking much, smoking much, and taking his well-earned ease after the cares of the day were over. The Dutch painters represented these houses and this life in Httle pictures proportion- ate to the size of the walls on which they were to hang; the bed- chambers that make one feel a desire to sleep, the kitchens, the tables set out, the fresh and smiling faces of the house-mothers, the men at their ease around the fire; and with that conscientious realism which never forsakes them, they depict the dozing cat, the yawning dog, the clucking hen, the broom, the vegetables, the scattered pots and pans, the chicken ready for the spit. Thus they represent life in all its scenes, and in every grade of the social scale — the dance, the conversazione, the orgie, the feast, the EDMONDO DE AMICIS ^y* game; and thus did Terburg, Metzu, Netscher, Dow, Mieris, Steen, Brouwer, and Van Ostade become famous. After depicting the house, they turned their attention to the country. The stem cHmate allowed but a brief time for the admiration of nature, but for this very reason Dutch artists admired her all the more; they saluted the spring with a livelier joy, and permitted that fugitive smile of heaven to stamp itself more deeply on their fancy. . The country was not beautiful, but it was twice dear because it had been torn from the sea and from the foreign oppressor. The Dutch artist painted it lov- ingly; he represented it simply, ingenuously, with a sense of intimacy which at that time was not to be found in Italian or Belgian landscape. The flat, monotonous country had, to the Dutch painter's eyes, a marvelous variety. He caught all the mutations of the sky, and knew the value of the water, with its reflections, its grace and freshness, and its power of illuminating everything. Having no mountains, he took the dikes for back- ground; with no forests, he imparted to a single group of trees all the mystery of a forest; and he animated the whole with beautiful animals and white sails. The subjects of their pictures are poor enough, — a windmill, a canal, a gray sky; but how they make one think! A few Dutch painters, not content with nature in their own country, came to Italy in search of hills, luminous skies, and famous ruins; and another band of select artists is the result, — Both, Swanevelt, Pynacker, Breenberg, Van Laer, Asselyn. Bxit the palm remains with the landscapists of Holland; with Wynants the painter of morning, with Van der Neer the painter of night, with Ruysdael the painter of melancholy, with Hobbema the illustrator of windmills, cabins, and kitchen gardens, and with others who have restricted themselves to the expression of the enchantment of nature as she is in Holland. Simultaneously with landscape art was bom another kind of painting, especially peculiar to Holland, — animal painting. Ani- mals are the riches of the country; that magnificent race of cattle which has no rival in Europe for fecundity and beauty. The Hollanders, who owe so much to them, treat them, one may say, as part of the population; they wash them, comb them, dress them, and love them dearly. They are to be seen everywhere; they are reflected in all the canals, and dot with points of black and white the immense fields that stretch on 474 EDMONDO DE AMICIS every side, giving an air of peace and comfort to every place, and exciting in the spectator's heart a sentiment of Arcadian gen- tleness and patriarchal serenity. The Dutch artists studied these animals in all their varieties, in all their habits, and divined, as one may say, their inner life and sentiments, animating the tran- quil beauty of the landscape with their forms. Rubens, Luyders, Paul de Vos, and other Belgian painters, had drawn animals with admirable mastery; but all these are surpassed by the Dutch artists Van der Velde, Berghem, Karel du Jardin, and by the prince of animal painters, Paul Potter, whose famous *^Bull," in the gallery of the Hague, deserves to be placed in the Vatican beside the ^* Transfiguration '^ by Raphael. In yet another field are the Dutch painters great, — the sea. The sea, their enemy, their power, and their glory, forever threatening their country, and entering in a hundred ways into their lives and fortunes; that turbulent North Sea, full of sinistei color, with a light of infinite melancholy upon it, beating forever upon a desolate coast, must subjugate the imagination of the artist. He passes, indeed, long hours on the shore, contemplat- ing its tremendous beauty, ventures upon its waves to study the effects of tempests, buys a vessel and sails with his wife and family, observing and making notes, follows the fleet into battle and takes part in the fight; and in this way are made marine painters like William Van der Velde the elder and William the younger, like Backhuysen, Dubbels, and Stork. Another kind of painting was to arise in Holland, as the expression of the character of the people and of republican manners. A people which without greatness had done so many great things, as Michelet says, must have its heroic painters, if we call them so, destined to illustrate men and events. But this school of painting, — precisely because the people were without greatness, or to express it better, without the form of great- ness, — modest, inclined to consider all equal before the country, because all had done their duty, abhorring adulation, and the glorification in one only of the virtues and the triumph of many, — this school has to illustrate not a few men who have excelled, and a few extraordinary facts, but all classes of citizen- ship gathered among the most ordinary and pacific of burgher life. From this come the great pictures which represent five, ten, thirty persons together, arquebusiers, mayors, officers, pro- fessors, magistrates, administrators; seated or standing around a EDMONDO DE AMICIS 475 table, feasting and conversing; of life size, most faithful like- nesses; grave, open faces, expressing that secure serenity of conscience by which may be divined rather than seen the noble- ness of a life consecrated to one's country, the character of that strong, laborious epoch, the masculine virtues of that excellent generation; all this set off by the fine costume of the time, so admirably combining grace and dignity, — those gorgets, those doublets, those black mantles, those silken scarves and ribbons, those arms and banners. In this field stand pre-eminent Van der Heist, Hals, Govaert, FHnk, and Bol. Descending from the consideration of the various kinds of painting, to the special manner by means of which the artist excelled in treatment, one leads all the rest as the distinctive feature of Dutch painting — the light. The light in Holland, by reason of the particular conditions of its manifestation, could not fail to give rise to a special man- ner of painting. A pale light, waving with marvelous mobility through an atmosphere impregnated with vapor, a nebulous veil continually and abruptly torn, a perpetual struggle between' light and shadow, — such was the spectacle which attracted the eye of the artist. He began to observe and to reproduce all this agita- tion of the heavens, this struggle which animates with varied and fantastic life the solitude of nature in Holland; and in represent- ing it, the struggle passed into his soul, and instead of repre- senting he created. Then he caused the two elements to contend under his hand; he accumulated darkness that he might split and seam it with all manner of luminous effects and sudden gleams of light; sunbeams darted through the rifts, sunset reflections and the yellow rays of lamp-light were blended with delicate manipulation into mysterious shadows, and their dim depths were peopled with half-seen forms; and thus he created all sorts of contrasts, enigmas, play and effect of strange and unexpected chiaroscuro. In this field, among many, stand conspicuous Gerard Dow, the author of the famous four-candle picture, and the great magician and sovereign illuminator Rembrandt. Another marked feature of Dutch painting was to be color. Besides the generally accepted reasons that in a country where there are no mountainous horizons, no varied prospects, no great coup d'ceil, — no forms, in short, that lend themselves to design, — the artist's eye must inevitably be attracted by color; and that this might be peculiarly the case in Holland, where the uncertain 476 EDMONDO DE AMICIS light, the fog-veiled atmosphere, confuse and blend the outlines of all objects, so that the eye, unable to fix itself upon the form, flies to color as the principal attribute that nature presents to it, — besides these reasons, there is the fact that in a country so flat, so uniform, and so gray as Holland, there is the same need of color as in southern lands there is need of shade. The Dutch artists did but follow the imperious taste of their country, men, who painted their houses in vivid colors, as well as theii ships, and in some places the trunks of their trees and the palings and fences of their fields and gardens; whose dress was of the gayest, richest hues; who loved tulips and hyacinths even to madness. And thus the Dutch painters were potent colorists, and Rembrandt was their chief. Realism, natural to the calmness and slowness of the Dutch character, was to give to their art yet another distinctive feature, — finish, which was carried to the very extreme of possibility. It is truly said that the leading quality of the people may be found in their pictures; viz., patience. Everything is represented with the minuteness of a daguerreotype; every vein in the wood of a piece of furniture, every fibre in a leaf, the threads of cloth, the stitches in a patch, every hair upon an animal's coat, every wrinkle in a man's face; everything finished with microscopic pre- cision, as if done with a fairy pencil, or at the expense of the painter's eyes and reason. In reality a defect rather than an excellence, since the office of painting is to represent not what is, but what the eye sees, and the eye does not see everything; but a defect carried to such a pitch of perfection that one admires, and does not find fault. In this respect the most famous prodi- gies of patience were Dow, Mieris, Potter, and Van der Heist, but more or less all the Dutch painters. But realism, which gives to Dutch art so original a stamp and such admirable qualities, is yet the root of its most serious defects. The artists, desirous only of representing material truths, gave to their figures no expression save that of their physical sentiments. Grief, love, enthusiasm, and the thousand delicate shades of feel- ing that have no name, or take a different one with the different causes that give rise to them, they express rarely, or not at all. For them the heart does not beat, the eyes do not weep, the lips do not quiver. On« whole side of the human soul, the noblest and highest, is wanting in their pictures. More: in their faithful reproduction of everythmg, even the ugly, and especially the ugly, EDMONDO DE AMICIS 477 they end by exaggerating even that, making defects into deformi- ties and portraits into caricatures; they calumniate the national type; they give a burlesque and graceless aspect to the human countenance. In order to have the proper background for such figures, they are constrained to choose trivial subjects: hence the great number of pictures representing beer-shops, and drinkers with grotesque, stupid faces, in absurd attitudes; ugly women and ridiculous old men; scenes in which one can almost hear the brutal laughter and the obscene words. Looking at these pictures, one would naturally conclude that Holland was inhabited by the ugliest and most ill-mannered people on the earth. We will not speak of greater and worse license. Steen, Potter, and Brouwer, the great Rembrandt himself, have all painted incidents that are scarcely to be mentioned to civilized ears, and certainly should not be looked at. But even setting aside these excesses, in the picture galleries of Holland there is to be found nothing that ele- vates the mind, or moves it to high and gentle thoughts. You admire, you enjoy, you laugh, you stand pensive for a moment before some canvas; but coming out, you feel that something is lacking to your pleasure, you experience a desire to look upon a handsome countenance, to read inspired verses, and sometimes you catch yourself murmuring, half unconsciously, * O Raphael ! '* Finally, there are still two important excellences to be recorded of this school of painting: its variety, and its importance as the expression — the mirror, so to speak — of the country. If we except Rembrandt with his group of followers and imitators, almost all the other artists differ very much from one another; no other school presents so great a number of original masters. The realism of the Dutch painters is bom of their common love of nature: but each one has shown in his work a kind of love peculiarly his own; each one has rendered a different impression which he has received from nature; and all, starting from the same point, which was the worship of material truth, have arrived at separate and distinct goals. Their realism, then, inciting them to disdain nothing as food for the pencil, has so acted that Dutch art succeeds in representing Holland more completely than has ever been accomplished by any other school in any other country. It has been truly said that should every other visible witness of the existence of Holland in the seventeenth century — her period of greatness — vanish from the earth, and the pictures remain, in them would be found preserved entirs the city, the country, the 478 EDMONDO DE AMICIS ports, the ships, the markets, the shops, the costumes, the arms, the linen, the stuffs, the merchandise, the kitchen utensils, the food, the pleasures, the habits, the religious belief and supersti- tions, the qualities and effects of the people; and all this, which is great praise for literature, is no less praise for her sister art. But there is one great hiatus in Dutch art, the reason for which can scarcely be found in the pacific and modest disposition of the people. This art, so profoundly national in all other re- spects, has, with the exception of a few naval battles, completely neglected all the great events of the war of independence, among which the sieges of Leyden and of Haarlem alone would have been enough to inspire a whole legion of painters. A war of almost a century in duration, full of strange and terrible vicis- situdes, has not been recorded in one single memorable painting. Art, so varied and so conscientious in its records of the country and its people, has represented no scene of that great tragedy, as William the Silent prophetically named it, which cost the Dutch people, for so long a time, so many different emotions of terror, of pain, of rage, of joy, and of pride! The splendor of art in Holland is dimmed by that of political greatness. Almost all the great painters were born in the first thirty years of the seventeenth century, or in the last part of the sixteenth ; all were dead after the first ten years of the eighteenth, and after them there were no more, — Holland had exhausted her fecundity. Already towards the end of the seventeenth century the national sentiment had grown weaker, taste had corrupted, the inspiration of the painters had declined with the moral ener- gies of the nation. In the eighteenth century, the artists, as if they were tired of nature, went back to mythology, to classicism, to conventionalities; the imagination grew cold, style was impov- erished, every spark of the antique genius was extinct. Dutch art still showed to the world the wonderful flowers of Van Huy- sum, the last great lover of nature, and then folded her tired hands and let the flowers fall upon his tomb. 479 HENRI FREDERIC AMIEL (1821-1881) BY RICHARD BURTON Ihe French have long been writers of what they call * Pensees, * — those detached thoughts or meditations which, for depth, illumination, and beauty, have a power of life, and come under the term "literature." Their language lends itself to the expression of subjective ideas with lucidity, brilliance, charm. The French quality of mind allows that expression to be at once dignified and happily urbane. Sometimes these sayings take the fonn of the cynical epigrams of a La Rochefoucauld; are expanded into senten- tious aphorisms by a La Bruyere; or reveal more earnest and athletic souls, who pierce below the social surface froth to do battle with the demons of the intellect. To this class belong men like the seven- teenth-century Pascal and the nineteenth-century Amiel. The career of Henri Frederic Amiel illustrates the dubiety of too hasty judgment of a man's place or power in the world. A Gene- vese by birth, of good parentage, early orphaned, well educated, much traveled, he was deemed, on his return in the spring-time of his manhood to his native town as professor in the Academy of Greneva, to be a youth of g^reat promise, destined to become distin- gfuished. But the years slipped by, and his literary performance, consisting of desultory essays and several slight volumes of verse, was not enough to justify the prophecy. His life more and more became that of a bachelor recluse and valetudinarian. When he died, in 188 1, at sixty years of age, after much suffering heroically borne, as pathetic entries in the last leaves of his Diary remain to show, there was a feeling that here was "one more faithful failure.* But the quiet, brooding teacher in the Swiss city which has at one time or another immured so many rare minds, had for years been jotting down his reflections in a private journal. It constitutes the story of his inner life, never told in his published writings. When a volume of the < Journal Intime* appeared the year after his taking off, the vvorld recognized in it not only an intellect of clarity and keenness, and a heart sensitive to the widest spiritual problems, but the revelation of a typical modem mood. The result was that Amiel, being dead, yet spoke to his generation, and his fame was quick and genuine. The apparent disadvantage point of Geneva proved, after 480 HENRI FREDERIC AMIEL all, the fittest abiding-place for the poet-philosopher. A second vol- ume of extracts, two years later, found him in an assured place as a writer of While these words show the fine critical sense of the man, they do an injustice to his own work. Fragmentary it is, but neither superficial nor petty. One recognizes in reading his wonderfully suggestive pages that here is a rare per- sonality, indeed, — albeit <^ sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought." In 1889 an admirable English translation of Amiel by Mrs. Humphry Ward, the novelist, appeared in London. The introductory essay by Mrs. Ward is the best study of him in our language. The appended selections are taken from the Ward translation. <^/T^C ^ur^. EXTRACTS FROM AMIEL'S JOURNAL OCTOBER 1ST, 1849. — Yesterday, Sunday, I read through and made extracts from the Gospel of St. John. It confirmed me in my beHef that about Jesus we must believe no one but Himself, and that what we have to do is to discover the true image of the Founder behind all the prismatic refractions through which it comes to us, and which alter it more or less. A ray of heavenly Hght traversing human life, the message of Christ has been broken into a thousand rainbow colors, and carried in a thousand directions. It is the historical task of Christianity to assume with every succeeding age a fresh metamorphosis, and to be forever spiritualizing more and more her understanding of the Christ and of salvation. I am astounded at the incredible amount of Judaism and formalism which still exists nineteen centuries after the Redeem- er's proclamation, **It is the letter which killeth" — after his pro- test against a dead symbolism. The new religion is so profound that it is not understood even now, and would seem a blasphemy to the greater number of Christians. The person of Christ is the centre of it. Redemption, eternal life, divinity, humanity, pro- pitiation, incarnation, judgment, Satan, heaven and hell, — all these beliefs have been so materialized and coarsened that with a strange irony they present to us the spectacle of things having a I— 31 482 HENRI FREDfiRIC AMIEL profound meaning- and yet carnally interpreted. Christian bold-, ness and Christian liberty must be reconquered; it is the Church which is heretical, the Church whose sight is troubled and her heart timid. Whether we will or no, there is an esoteric doc- trine — there is a relative revelation; each man enters into God so much as God enters into him; or, as Angelus, I think, said, *The eye by which I see God is the same eye by which He sees me.** Duty has the virtue of making us feel the reality of a positive world while at the same time detaching us from it. FEBRUARY 20TH, 1851. — I have almost finished these two vol- umes of [Joubert's] * Pensees * and the greater part of the * Correspondance. * This last has especially charmed me; it is remarkable for grace, delicacy, atticism, and precision. The chapters on metaphysics and philosophy are the most insignificant. All that has to do with large views, with the whole of things, is very little at Joubert's command: he has no philosophy of history, no speculati^'e intuition. He is the thinker of detail, and his proper field is psychology and matters of taste. In this sphere of the subtleties and delicacies of imagination and feeling, within the circle of personal affections and preoccupations, of social and educational interests, he abounds in ingenuity and sagacity, in fine criticisms, in exquisite touches. It is like a bee going from flower to flower, a teasing, plundering, wayward zephyr, an seolian harp, a ray of furtive light stealing through the leaves. Taken as a whole, there is something impalpable and immaterial about him, which I will not venture to call effeminate, but which is scarcely manly. He wants bone and body: timid, dreamy, and clairvoyant, he hovers far above reality. He is rather a soul, a breath, than a man. It is the mind of a woman in the character of a child, so that we feel for him less admiration than tender- ness and gratitude. NOVEMBER loTH, 1852. — How much havc we not to learn from the Greeks, those immortal ancestors of ours! And how much better they solved their problem than we have solved ours! Their ideal man is not ours; but they understood infinitely better than we, how to reverence, cultivate, and ennoble the man whom they knew. In a thousand respects we are still bar- barians beside them, as B^ranger said to me with a sigh in 184^; barbarians in education, in eloquetice^ m -oublic life, in poetry, in HENRI FRfiDfiRIC AMIEL 483 matters of art, etc. We must have millions of men in order to produce a few elect spirits: a thousand was enough in Greece, If the measure of a civilization is to be the number of perfected men that it produces, we are still far from this model people. The slaves are no longer below us, but they are among us. Bar- barism is no longer at our frontiers: it lives side by side with us. We carry within us much greater things than they, but we ourselves are smaller. It is a strange result. Objective civiliza- tion produced great men while making no conscious effort toward such a result; subjective civilization produces a miserable and im- perfect race, contrary to its mission and its earnest desire. The world grows more majestic, but man diminishes. Why is this ? We have too much barbarian blood in our veins, and we lack measure, harmony, and grace. Christianity, in breaking man up into outer and inner, the world into earth and heaven, hell and paradise, has decomposed the human unity, in order, it is true, to reconstruct it more profoundly and more truly. But Christianity has not yet digested this powerful leaven. She has not yet con- quered the true humanity; she is still living under the antinomy of sin and grace, of here below and there above. She has not penetrated into the whole heart of Jesus. She is still in the nar- thex of penitence; she is not reconciled, and even the churches still wear the livery of service, and have none of the joy of the daughters of God, baptized of the Holy Spirit. Then, again, there is our excessive division of labor; our bad and foolish education which does not develop the whole man; and the problem of poverty. We have abolished slavery, but without having solved the question of labor. In law, there are no more slaves — in fact, there are many. And while the majority of men are not free, the free man, in the true sense of the term, can neither be conceived nor realized. Here are enough causes for our inferiority. NOVEMBER I2TH, 1 85 2. — St. Martiu's summer is still lingering, and the days all begin in mist. I ran for a quarter of an hour round the garden to get some warmth and suppleness. Nothing could be lovelier than the last rosebuds, or the delicate gaufred edges of the strawberry leaves embroidered with hoar- frost, while above them Arachne's delicate webs hung swaying in the green branches of the pines, — little ball-rooms for the fairies, carpeted with powdered pearls, and kept in place by a thousand 484 HENRI FREDERIC AMIEL dewy strands, hanging from above like the chains of a lamp, and supporting them from below like the anchors of a vessel. These little airy edifices had all the fantastic lightness of the elf-world, and all the vaporous freshness of dawn. They recalled to me the poetry of the North, wafting to me a breath from Caledonia or Iceland or Sweden, Frithjof and the Edda, Ossian and the Heb- rides. All that world of cold and mist, of genius and of reverie, where warmth comes not from the sun but from the heart, where man is more noticeable than nature, — that chaste and vigorous world, in which will plays a greater part than sensation, and thought has more power than instinct, — in short, the whole ro- mantic cycle of German and Northern poetry, awoke little by little in my memory and laid claim upon my sympathy. It is a poetry of bracing quality, and acts upon one like a moral tonic. Strange charm of imagination! A twig of pine-wood and a few spider- webs are enough to make countries, epochs, and nations live again before her. JANUARY 6th, 1853. — Self-government with tenderness, — here you have the condition of all authority over children. The child must discover m us no passion, no weakness of which he can make use; he must feel himself powerless to deceive or to trouble us; then he will recognize in us his natural superiors, and he will attach a special value to our kindness, because he will re- spect it. The child who can rouse in us anger, or impatience, or excitement, feels himself stronger than we, and a child respects strength only. The mother should consider herself as her child's sun, a changeless and ever radiant world, whither the small rest- less creature, quick at tears and laughter, light, fickle, passionate, full of storms, may come for fresh stores of light, warmth, and electricity, of calm and of courage. The mother represents good- ness, providence, law; that is to say, the divinity, under that form of it which is accessible to childhood. If she is herself passionate, she will inculcate in her child a capricious and despotic God, or even several discordant gods. The religion of a child depends on what its mother and its father are, and not on what they say. The inner and unconscious ideal which guides their life is precisely what touches the child; their words, their remonstran- ces, their punishments, their bursts of feeling even, are for him merely thunder ana comedy; what they worship — this it is which his instinct divines and reflects. HENRI FREDERIC AMIEL 485 The child sees what we are, behind what we wish to be. Hence his reputation as a physiognomist. He extends his power as far as he can with each of us; he is the most subtle of diplomatists. Unconsciously he passes under the influence of each person about him, and reflects it while transforming it after his own nature. He is a magnifying mirror. This is why the first principle of education is, Train yourself; and the first rule to fol- low, if you wish to possess yourself of a child's will, is, Master your own. MAY 27TH, 1857. — Wagner's is a powerful mind endowed with strong poetical sensitiveness. His work is even more poet- ical than musical. The suppression of the lyrical element, and therefore of melody, is with him a systematic parti pris. No more duos or trios; monologue and the aria are alike done away with. There remains only declamation, the recitative, and the choruses. In order to avoid the conventional in singing, Wagner falls into another convention, — that of not singing at all. He subordinates the voice to articulate speech, and for fear lest the Muse should take flight he clips her wings; so that his works are rather symphonic dramas than operas. The voice is brought down to the rank of an instrument, put on a level with the violins, the hautboys, and the drums, and treated instrumentally. Man is deposed from his superior position, and the centre of gravity of the work passes into the baton of the conductor. It is music depersonalized, — neo-Hegelian music, — music multiple instead of individual. If this is so, it is indeed the music of the future, — the music of the socialist democracy replacing the art which is aristocratic, heroic, or subjective. DECEMBER 4TH, 1863. — The wholc secret of remaining young in spite of years, and even of gray hairs, is to cherish enthu- siasm in one's self, by poetry, by contemplation, by charity, — that is, in fewer words, by the maintenance of harmony in the soul. APRIL I2TH, 1858. — The era of equality means the triumph of mediocrity. It is disappointing, but inevitable; for it is one of time's revenges. . . . Art no doubt will lose, but justice will gain. Is not universal leveling down the law of nature ? . . . The world is striving with all its force for the destruction of what it has itself brought forth! 486 HENRI FR6d£RIC AMIEL MARCH 1ST, 1869. — From the point of view of the ideal, humanity is triste and ugly. But if we compare it with its probable origins, we see that the human race has not altogether wasted its time. Hence there are three possible views of history: the view of the pessimist, who starts from the ideal; the view of the optimist, who compares the past with the pres- ent; and the view of the hero-worshiper, who sees that all progress whatever has cost oceans of blood and tears. AUGUST 31ST, 1869. — I have finished Schopenhauer. My mind has been a tumult of opposing systems, — Stoicism, Qui- etism, Buddhism, Christianity. Shall I never be at peace with myself ? If impersonality is a good, why am I not consist- ent in the pursuit of it ? and if it is a temptation, why return to it, after having judged and conquered it ? Is happiness anything more than a conventional fiction ? The deepest reason for my state of doubt is that the supreme end and aim of life seems to me a mere lure and deception. The indi- vidual is an eternal dupe, who never obtains what he seeks, and who is forever deceived by hope. My instinct is in harmony with the pessimism of Buddha and of Schopenhauer. It is a doubt which never leaves me, even in my moments of religious fervor. Nature is indeed for me a Ma'ia; and I look at her, as it were, with the eyes of an artist. My intelligence remains skep- tical. What, then, do I believe in ? I do not know. And what is it I hope for ? It would be diiBcult to say. Folly ! I believe in goodness, and I hope that good will prevail. Deep within this ironical and disappointed being of mine there is a child hid- den — a frank, sad, simple creature, who believes in the ideal, in love, in holiness, and all heavenly superstitions. A whole millen- nium of idyls sleeps in my heart; I am a pseudo-skeptic, a pseudo-scoffer. << Borne dans sa nature, infini dans ses voeux, L'homme est un dieu tombe qui se souvient des cieux.** MARCH 17TH, 1870. — This morning the music of a brass band which had stopped under my windows moved me almost to tears. It exercised an indefinable, nostalgic power over me; it set me dreaming of another world, of infinite passion and supreme happiness. Such impressions are the echoes of Paradise HENRI FREDERIC AMIEL 487 in the soul; memories of ideal spheres whose sad sweetness rav- ishes and intoxicates the heart. O Plato! O Pythagoras! ages ago you heard these harmonies, surprised these moments of inward ecstasy, — knew these divine transports ! If music thus carries us to heaven, it is because music is harmony, harmony is perfection, perfection is our dream, and our dream is heaven. APRIL 1ST, 1870. — I am inclined to believe that for a woman love is the supreme authority, — that which judges the rest and decides what is good or evil. For a man, love is sub- ordinate to right. It is a great passion, but it is not the source of order, the synonym of reason, the criterion of excellence. It would seem, then, that a woman places her ideal in the perfec- tion of love, and a man in the perfection of justice. JUNE 5TH, 1870. — The efficacy of religion lies precisely in that which is not rational, philosophic, nor eternal; its efficacy lies in the unforeseen, the miraculous, the extraordinary. Thus religion attracts more devotion in proportion as it demands more faith, — that is to say, as it becomes more incredible to the profane mind. The philosopher aspires to explain away all mys- teries, to dissolve them into light. It is mystery, on the other hand, which the religious instinct demands and pursues: it is mystery which constitutes the essence of worship, the power of proselytism. When the cross became the *^ foolishness * of the cross, it took possession of the masses. And in our own day, those who wish to get rid of the supernatural, to enlighten religion, to economize faith, find themselves deserted, like poets who should declaim against poetry, or women who should decry love. Faith consists in the acceptance of the incomprehensible, and even in the pursuit of the impossible, and is self -intoxicated with its own sacrifices, its own repeated extravagances. It is the forgetfulness of this psychological law which stulti- fies the so-called liberal Christianity. It is the realization of it which constitutes the strength of Catholicism. Apparently, no positive religion can survive the supernatural element which is the reason for its existence. Natural religion seems to be the tomb of all historic cults. All concrete religions die eventually in the pure air of philosophy. So long then as the life of nations is in need of religion as a motive and sanc- tion of morality, as food for faith, hope, and charity, so long 488 HENRI FREDERIC AMIEL will the masses turn away from pure reason and naked truth, so long will they adore mystery, so long — and rightly so — will they rest in faith, the only region where the ideal presents itself to them in an attractive form, OCTOBER 26th, 1870, — If ignorauce and passion are the foes of popular morality, it must be confessed that moral indif- ference is the malady of the cultivated classes. The mod- em separation of enlightenment and virtue, of thought and conscience, of the intellectual aristocracy from the honest and vulgar crowd, is the greatest danger that can threaten liberty. When any society produces an increasing number of literary exquisites, of satirists, skeptics, and beaux esprits, some chemical disorganization of fabric may be inferred. Take, for example, the century of Augustus and that of Louis XV. Our cynics and railers are mere egotists, who stand aloof from the common duty, and in their indolent remoteness are of no service to society against any ill which may attack it. Their cultivation consists in having got rid of feeling. And thus they fall farther and farther away from true humanity, and approach nearer to the demoniacal nature. What was it that Mephistopheles lacked 1 Not intelligence, certainly, but goodness. DECEMBER 11 TH, 1872. — The ideal which the wife and mother makes for herself, the manner in which she understands duty and life, contain the fate of the community. Her faith becomes the star of the conjugal ship, and her love the animating principle that fashions the future of all belonging to her. Woman is the salvation or destruction of the family. She carries its destinies in the folds of her mantle. JANUARY 22D, 1875. — The thirst for truth is not a French passion. In everything appearance is preferred to reality, the outside to the inside, the fashion to the material, that which shines to that which profits, opinion to conscience. That is to say, the Frenchman's centre of gravity is always outside him, — he is always thinking of others, playing to the gallery. To him individuals are so many zeros: the unit which turns them into a number must be added from outside; it may be royalty, the writer of the day, the favorite newspaper, or any other temporary master of fashion. — All this is .probably the HENRI FREDERIC AMIEL, 489 result of an exaggerated sociability, which weakens the soul's forces of resistance, destroys its capacity for investigation and iDersonal conviction, and kills in it the worship of the ideal. DECEMBER 9TH, 1877. — The modem haunters of Parnassus carve urns of agate and of onyx; but inside the urns what is there ? — Ashes. Their work lacks feeling, seriousness, sincerity, and pathos — in a word, soul and moral life. I cannot bring myself to sympathize with such a way of understanding poetry. The talent shown is astonishing, but stuff and matter are wanting. It is an effort of the imagination to stand alone — a substitute for everything else. We find metaphors, rhymes, music, color, but not man, not humanity. Poetry of this facti- tious kind may beguile one at twenty, but what can one make of it at fifty ? It rerrfinds me of Pergamos, of Alexandria, of all the epochs of decadence when beauty of form hid poverty of thought and exhaustion of feeling. I strongly share the repug- nance which this poetical school arouses in simple people. It is as though it only cared to please the world-worn, the over-subtle, the corrupted, while it ignores all normal healthy life, virtuous habits, pure affections, steady labor, honesty, and duty. It is an affectation, and because it is an affectation the school is struck with sterility. The reader desires in the poem something better than a juggler in rhyme, or a conjurer in verse; he looks to find in him a painter of life, a being who thinks, loves, and has a conscience, who feels passion and repentance. The true critic strives for a clear vision of things as they are — for justice and fairness; his effort is to get free from himself, so that he may in no way disfigure that which he wishes to understand or reproduce. His superiority to the common herd lies in this effort, even when its success is only partial. He dis- trusts his own senses, he sifts his own impressions, by returning upon them from different sides and at different times, by com- paring, moderating, shading, distinguishing, and so endeavoring to approach more and more nearly to the formula which repre- sents the maximum of truth. The art which is grand and yet simple is that which presup- poses the greatest elevation both in artist and. in public. .QQ HENRI FREDERIC AMIEL MAY 19TH, 1878. — Criticism is above all a gift, an intuition, a matter of tact and flair; it cannot be taught or demon- strated, — it is an art. Critical genius means an aptitude for discerning truth under appearances or in disgnises which con- ceal it; for discovering it in spite of the errors of testimony, the frauds of tradition, the dust of time, the loss or alteration of texts. It is the sagacity of the hunter whom nothing deceives for long, and whom no ruse can throw off the trail. It is the talent of the Juge d' Instruction who knows how to interrogate circumstances, and to extract an unknown secret from a thousand falsehoods. The true critic can understand everything, but he will be the dupe of nothing, and to no convention will he sacrifice his duty, which .is to find out and proclaim truth. Competent learning, general cultivation, absolute probity, accuracy of general view, human sympathy, and technical capacity, — how many things are necessary to the critic, without reckoning grace, delicacy, savoir vivre, and the gift of happy phrasemaking ! MAY 22D, 1879 (Ascension Day). — Wonderful and delicious weather. Soft, caressing sunlight, — the air a limpid blue, — ■ twitterings of birds; even the distant voices of the city have something young and springlike in them. It is indeed a new birth. The ascension of the Savior of men is symbolized by the expansion, this heavenward yearning of nature. ... I feel myself bom again; all the windows of the soul are clear. Forms, lines, tints, reflections, sounds, contrasts, and harmonies, the general play and interchange of things, — it is all enchanting! In my court-yard the ivy is green again, the chestnut-tree is full of leaf, the Persian lilac beside the little fountain is flushed with red and just about to flower; through the wide openings to the right and left of the old College of Calvin I see the Saleve above the trees of St. Antoine, the Voirons above the hill of Cologny; while the three flights of steps which, from landing to landing, lead between two high walls from the Rue Verdaine to the terrace of the Tranch6es, recall to one's imagination some oid city of the south, a glimpse of Perugia or of Malaga. All the bells are ringing. It is the hour of worship. A his- torical and religious impression mingles with the picturesque, the musical, the poetical impressions of the scene. All the peoples of Christendom — all the churches scattered over the globe — are celebrating at this moment the glory of the Crucified. HENRI FREDERIC AMIEL 491 And what are those many nations doing who have other prophets, and honor the Divinity in other ways — the Jews, the Mussulmans, the Buddhists, the Vishnuists, the Guebers ? They have other sacred days, other rites, other solemnities, other beliefs. But all have some religion, some ideal end for life — all aim at raising man above the sorrows and smallnesses of the present, and of the individual existence. All have faith in 'something greater than themselves, all pray, all bow, all adore; all see beyond nature, Spirit, and beyond evil. Good. All bear witness to the Invisible. Here we have the link which binds all peoples together. All men are equally creatures of sorrow and desire, of hope and fear. All long to recover some lost harmony with the great order of things, and to feel themselves approved and blessed by the Author of the universe. All know what suffering is, and yearn for happiness. All know what sin is, and feel the need of pardon. Christianity, reduced to its original simplicity, is the reconcili- ation of the sinner with God, by means of the certainty that God loves in spite of everything, and that he chastises because he loves. Christianity furnished a new motive and a new strength for the achievement of moral perfection. It made holiness attract- ive by giving to it the air of filial gratitude. JULY 28th, 1880. — This afternoon I have had a walk in the sunshine, and have just come back rejoicing in a renewed communion with nature. The waters of the Rhone and the Arve, the murmur of the river, the austerity of its banks, the brilliancy of the foliage, the play of the leaves, the splendoi of the July sunlight, the rich fertility of the fields, the lucidity of the distant mountains, the whiteness of the glaciers under the azure serenity of the sky, the sparkle and foam of the mingling rivers, the leafy masses of the La Batie woods, — all and every- thing delighted me. It seemed to me as though the years of streng^ had come back to me. I was overwhelmed with sensa- tions. I was surprised and grateful. The universal life carried me on its breast; the summer's caress went to my heart. Once more my eyes beheld the vast horizons, the soaring peaks, the blue lakes, the winding valleys, and all the free outlets of old days. And yet there was no painful sense of longing. The scene left upon me an indefinable impression, which was neither hope, nor desire, nor regret, but rather a sense of emotion, of 492 ANACREON passionate impulse, mingled with admiration and anxiety. I am conscious at once of joy and of want; beyond what I possess I see the impossible and the unattainable; I gauge my own wealth and poverty: in a word, I am and I am not — my inner state is one of contradiction, because it is one of transition. APRIL loTH, 1881 [he died May nth]. — What dupes we are of our own desires! . . . Destiny has two ways of crush- ing us — by refusing our wishes and by fulfilling them. But he who only wills what God wills escapes both catastrophes. **A11 things work together for his good.'* ANACREON (B.C. 562?-477) 5F THE life of this lyric poet we have little exact knowledge. We know that he was an Ionian Greek, and therefore by racial type a luxury-loving, music-loving Greek, born in the city of Teos on the coast of Asia Minor. The year was probably B. C. 562. With a few fellow-citizens, it is supposed that he fled to Thrace and founded Abdera when Cyrus the Great, or his general Harpagus, was conquering the Greek cities of the coast. Abdera, however, was too new to afford luxurious living, and the singing Ionian soon found his way to more genial Samos, whither the fortunes of the world then seemed converging. Polycrates was ^Hyrant,'* in the old Greek sense of irre- sponsible ruler; but withal so large-minded and far-sighted a man that we may use a trite comparison and say that under him his island was, to the rest of Greece, as Florence in the time of Lorenzo the Mag- nificent was to the rest of Italy, or Athens in the time of Pericles to the other Hellenic States. Anacreon became his tutor, and may have been of his council ; for Herodo- tus says that when Oroetes went to see Polycrates he found him in the men's apartment with Anacreon the Teian. Another historian says that he tempered the stern will of the ruler. Still another relates that Polycrates once presented him with five talents, but that the poet returned the sum after two nights Anacreon ANACREON 493 made sleepless from thinking what he would do with his riches, say- ing < Italy had on him much the same clarifying effect that it had on Goethe; and his next book, the novel ^ Improvisatore ' (1835), achieved and deserved a European recognition. Within ten years the book was translated into six languages. It bears the mark of its date in its romantic sentiments. There is indeed no firm character- drawing, here or in any of his novels; but the book still claims attention for its exquisite descriptions of Italian life and scenery. The year 1835 saw also Andersen's first essay in the < Wonder Stories,* which were to give him his lasting title to grateful remem- brance. He did not think highly of this work at the time, though his little volume contained the now classic ^ Tinderbox, * and * Big Claus and Little Claus.* Indeed, he always chafed a little at the modest fame of a writer for children; but he continued for thirty- seven years to publish those graceful fancies, which in their little domain still hold the first rank, and certainly gave the freest scope to Andersen's qualities, while they masked his faults and limitations. He turned again from this "sleight of hand with Fancy's golden apples,'* to the novel, in the < O. T.* (1836), which marks no advance on the < Improvisatore * ; and in the next year he published his best romance, * Only a Fiddler, * which is still charming for its autobio- graphical touches, its genuine humor, and its deep pathos. At the time, this book assured his European reputation; though it has less interest for us to-day than the * Tales, * or the * Picture Book without Pictures* (1840), where, perhaps more than anywhere else in his work, the child speaks with all the naivete of his nature. A journey to the East was reflected in *A Poet's Bazaar* (1842); and these years contain also his last unsuccessful dramatic efforts, (i860), and his last novel, < To Be or Not To Be ^ (1857), which reflects the religious speculations of his later years. He was now in comparatively easy circumstances, and passed the last fifteen years of his life unharassed by criticism, and surrounded with the <^ honor, love, obedience, troops of friends,'* that should accompany old age. It was not until 1866 that he made himself a home; and even at sixty-one he said the idea * positively frightened him — he knew he should run away from it as soon as ever the first warm sunbeam struck him, like any other bird of passage.'* In 1869 he celebrated his literary jubilee. In 1872 he finished his last *■ Stories. * That year he met with an accident in Innsbriick from which he never recovered. Kind friends eased his invalid years; and so general was the grief at his illness that the children of the United States collected a sum of money for his supposed necessities, which at his request took the form of books for his library. A few months later, after a brief and painless illness, he died, August ist, 1875. His admirers had already erected a statue in his honor, and the State gave him a magnificent funeral; but his most enduring monument is that which his < Wonder Tales* are still building all around the world. The character of Andersen is full of curious contrasts. Like the French fabulist. La Fontaine, he was a child all his life, and often a spoiled child; yet he joined to childlike simplicity no small share of worldly wisdom. Constant travel made him a shrewd observer of detail, but his self-absorption kept him from sympathy with the broad political aspirations of his generation. In the judgment of his friends and critics, his autobiographical < Story of My Life * is strangely unjust, and he never understood the limitations of his genius. He was not fond of children, nor personally attractive to them, though his letters to them are charming. In personal appearance he was limp, ungainly, awkward, and odd, with long lean limbs, broad flat hands, and feet of striking size. His eyes were small and deep-set, his nose very large, his neck very long; but he masked his defects by studied care in dress, and always fancied he looked distinguished, delighting to display his numerous decorations on his evening dress in complacent profusion. On Andersen's style there is a remarkably acute study by his fellow-countryman Brandes, in ^ Kritiker og Portraiter * (Critiques and Portraits), and a useful comment in Boyesen's * Scandinavian Litera- ture.* When not perverted by his translators, it is perhaps better HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 503 suited than any other to the comprehension of children. His syntax and rhetoric are often faulty ; and in the * Tales * he does not hesitate to take liberties even with German, if he can but catch the vivid, darting imagery of juvenile fancy, the ** ohs ** and ^^ ahs *^ of the nurs- ery, its changing intonations, its fears, its smiles, its personal appeals, and its venerable devices to spur attention and kindle sympathy. Action, or imitation, takes the place of description. We hear the trumpeter's taratantara and * the pattering rain on the leaves, rum diim dum, rum dum dum?'* The soldier ^^ comes marching along, left, right, left, rights* No one puts himself so wholly in the child's place and looks at nature so wholly with his eyes as Andersen. < newly translated THERE were once twenty-five tin soldiers^ who were all brothers, for they were cast out of one old tin spoon. They held their muskets, and their faces were turned to the enemy; red and blue, ever so fine, were the uniforms. The first thing they heard in this world, when the cover was taken from the box where they lay, were the words, *: copyright 1891, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. THERE was a proud Teapot, proud of being porcelain, proud of its long spout, proud of its broad handle. It had something before and behind — the spout before, the handle behind — and that was what it talked about. But it did not talk of its lid — that was cracked, it was riveted, it had faults; and one does not talk about one's faults — there are plenty of others to do that. The cups, the cream-pot, the sugar-bowl, the whole tea- service would be reminded much more of the lid's weakness, and talk about that, than of the sound handle and the remarkable spout. The Teapot knew it. *^ I know you, ^^ it said within itself, <* I know well enough, too, my fault; and I am well aware that in that very thing is 5o8 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN seen my humility, my modesty. We all have faults, but then one also has a talent. The cups get a handle, the sugar-bowl a lid; I get both, and one thing besides in front which they never got, — I get a spout, and that makes me a queen on the tea- table. The sugar-bowl and cream-pot are good-looking serving maids; but I am the one who gives, yes, the one high in coun- cil. I spread abroad a blessing among thirsty mankind. In my insides the Chinese leaves are worked up in the boiling, taste- less water. '^ All this said the Teapot in its fresh young life. It stood on the table that was spread for tea, it was lifted by a very delicate hand; but the very delicate hand was awkward, the Teapot fell. The spout snapped off, the handle snapped off; the lid was no worse to speak of — the worst had been spoken of that. The Teapot lay in a swoon on the floor, while the boiling water ran out of it. It was a horrid shame, but the worst was that they jeered at it; they jeered at it, and not at the awkward hand. ^^ I never shall lose the memory of that ! ^* said the Teapot, when it afterward talked to itself of the course of its life. *^ I was called an invalid, and placed in a comer, and the day after was given away to a woman who begged victuals. I fell into poverty, and stood dumb both outside and in; but there, as I stood, began my better life. One is one thing and becomes quite another. Earth was placed in me: for a Teapot that is the same as being buried, but in the earth was placed a flower bulb. Who placed it there, who gave it, I know not; given it was, and it took the place of the Chinese leaves and the boiling water, the broken handle and spout. And the bulb lay in the earth, the bulb lay in me, it became my heart, my living heart, such as I never before had. There was life in me, power and might. My pulses beat, the bulb put forth sprouts, it was the springing up of thoughts and feelings; they burst forth in flower. I saw it, I bore it, I forgot myself in its delight. Blessed is it to forget one's self in another. The bulb gave me no thanks, it did not think of me — it was admired and praised. I was so glad at that: how happy mtist it have been! One day I heard it said that it ought to have a better pot. I was thumped on my back — that was rather hard to bear; but the flower was put in a better pot — and I was thrown away in the yard, where I lie as an old crock. But I have the memory: t/ia^ I can never lose.^* HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 509 THE UGLY DUCKLING From < Riverside Literature Series >: copjTight 1891, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. I — THE DUCKLING IS BORN IT WAS glorious in the country. It was summer; the cornfields were yellow, the oats were green, the hay had been put up in stacks in the green meadows; and the stork went about on his long red legs, and chattered Egj^ptian, for this was the language he had learned from his mother. All around the fields and meadows were great woods, and in the midst of these woods deep lakes. Yes, it was right glorious in the country. In the midst of the sunshine there lay an old farm, with deep canals about it; and from the wall down to the water grew great burdocks, so high that little children could stand upright under the tallest of them. It was just as wild there as in the deepest wood, and here sat a Duck upon her nest. She had to hatch her ducklings, but she was almost tired out before the little ones came; and she seldom had visitors. The other ducks liked better to swim about in the canals than to run up to sit under a bur- dock and gabble with her. At last one egg-shell after another burst open. **Pip! pip!* each cried, and in all the eggs there were little things that stuck out their heads. " Quack ! quack ! '^ said the Duck, and they all came quacking out as fast as they could, looking all around them under the green leaves; and the mother let them look as much as they liked, for green is good for the eye. "How wide the world is!* said all the young ones; for they certainly had much more room now than when they were inside the eggs. * D'ye think this is all the world ? * said the mother. * That stretches far across the other side of the garden, quite into the parson's field; but I have never been there yet. I hope you are all together, * and she stood up. * No, I have not all. The largest egg still lies there. How long is that to last ? I am really tired of it.* And so she sat down again. * Well, how goes it ? * asked an old Duck who had come to pay her a visit. *It lasts a long time with this one egg,^^ said the Duck who sat there. *It will not open. Now, only look at the others! 5IO HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN They are the prettiest little ducks I ever saw. They are all like their father: the rogue, he never comes to see me.^^ <: copyright 1891, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co, THE Top and the Ball lay in a drawer among some other toys; and so the Top said to the Ball : — " Shall we not be lovers, since we live together in the same drawer ? * But the Ball, which had a coat of morocco leather, and thought herself as good as any fine lady, had nothing to say to such a thing. The next day came the little boy who owned the toys: he painted the Top red and yellow, and drove a brass nail into it; and the Top looked splendidly when he turned round. " Look at me ! ** he cried to the Ball. " What do you say now ? Shall we not be lovers ? We go so nicely together? You jump and I dance! No one could be happier than we two should be,* " Indeed ! Do you think so ? * said the Ball. *^ Perhaps you do not know that my papa and my mamma were morocco slip- pers, and that I have a cork inside me ? * **Yes, but I am made of mahogany," said the Top; "and the mayor himself turned me. He has a turning-lathe of his own, and it amuses him greatly,* " Can I depend on that ? * asked the Ball. <* May I never be whipped again if it is not true ! * replied the Top. "You talk well for yourself,* said the Ball, "but I cannot do what you ask. I am as good as half engaged to a swallow: every time I leap up into the air he sticks his head out of the nest and says, ^ Will you ? will you ? * And now I have silently said *Yes,* and that is as good as being half engaged; but I promise I will never forget you.* " Much good that will do ! * said the Top. And they spoke no more to each other. Next day the Ball was taken out. The Top saw how she flew high into the air, like a bird ; at last one could no longer see her. Each time she came back again, but always gave a high leap when she touched the earth; and that came about either from her longing, or because she had a cork in her body. The ninth time the Ball stayed away and did not come back again; and the boy looked and looked, but she was gone. " I know very well where she is ! * sighed the Top. " She is •«n the Swallow's nest, and has married the Swallow!* HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN eio The more the Top thought of this, the more he longed for the Ball. Just because he could not get her, he fell more in love with her. That she had taken some one else, that was another thing. So the Top danced around and hummed, but always thought of the Ball, which grew more and more lovely in his fancy. Thus many years went by, — and now it was an old love. And the Top was no longer young. But one day he was gilt all over; never had he looked so handsome; he was now a golden Top, and sprang till he hummed again. Yes, that was something! But all at once he sprang too high, and — he was gone! They looked and looked, even in the cellar, but he was not to be found. Where was he ? He had jumped into the dust-box, where all kinds of things were lying: cabbage stalks, sweepings, and gravel that had fallen down from the roof. * Here's a nice place to lie in ! The gilding will soon leave me here. And what a rabble I've come amongst!^* And then he looked askance at a long cabbage stalk that was much too near him, and at a curious round thing like an old apple; but it was not an apple — it was an old Ball, which had lain for years in the roof-gutter and was soaked through with water, ^< Thank goodness, here comes one of us, with whom one can talk!» said the Httle Ball, and looked at the gilt Top. «I am really morocco, sewn by a girl's hands, and have a cork inside me; but no one would think it to look at me. I was very near marrying a swallow, but I fell into the gutter on the roof, and have laid there full five years, and am quite soaked through. That's a long time, you may believe me, for a young girl." But the Top said nothing. He thought of his old love; and the more he heard, the clearer it became to him that this was she. Then came the servant-girl, and wanted to empty the dust- box. ^*Aha, there's a gilt top!" she cried. And so the Top was brought again to notice and honor, but nothing was heard of the Ball. And the Top spoke no more of his old love: for that dies away when the beloved has lain for five years in a gutter and got soaked through; yes, one does not know her again when one meets her in the dust-box. S20 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN THE SNOW QUEEN From < Riverside Literature Series >: copyright 1891, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. FOURTH STORY — THE PRINCE AND PRINCESS GERDA was obliged to rest herself again, when just over against where she sat, a large Crow hopped over the white snow. He had sat there a long while, looking at her and shaking his head; and now he said, **Caw! caw! Good day! good da.yl'^^ He could not say it better; but he meant well by the little girl, and asked her where she was going all alone out in the wide world. The word *' alone ^^ Gerda understood quite well, '.nd felt how much lay in it; so she told the Crow her whole history and asked if he had not seen Kay. The Crow nodded very gravely, and said, *^ It may be — it may be ! " * What ; do you really think so ? * cried the little girl ; and she nearly squeezed the Crow to death, so much did she kiss him. *^ Gently, gently, ^^ said the Crow. *I think I know; I think that it may be little Kay. But now he has quite forgotten you for the Princess.** " Does he live with a princess ? * asked Gerda. *Yes, — listen,** said the Crow; <*but it is hard for me to speak your language. If you understand the Crow language, I can tell you better.** ^'No, I have not learnt it,** said Gerda; *^but my grand- mother understands it. I wish I had learnt it.** *^ No matter, ** said the Crow : ** I will tell you as well as I can ; but it will be bad enough.** And then he told all he knew. *^ In the kingdom where we now are, there lives a princess, who is vastly clever; for she has read all the newspapers in the whole world, and has forgotten them again, — so clever is she. Some time ago, they say, she was sitting on her throne, — which is no great fun, after all, — when she began humming an old tune, and it was just ^ Oh, why should I not be married ? * ^ Come, now, there is something in that,* said she, and so then she was bound to marry; but she would have a husband who knew how to give an answer when he was spoken to, — not one who was good for nothing but to stand and be looked at, for that is very tiresom.e. She then had all the ladies of the court drummed HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 521 tog-ether; and when they heard what she meant to do, all were well pleased, and said, *We are quite glad to hear it: it is the very thing we were thinking of.* You may believe every word I say,'* said the Crow, *^for I have a tame sweetheart that hops about in the palace quite freely, and she told me all. ^^ The newspapers at once came out with a border of hearts and the initials of the Princess; and you could read in them that every good-looking young man was free to come to the palace and speak to the Princess; and he who spoke in such wise as showed he felt himself at home there, and talked best, that one the Princess would choose for her husband. "Yes — yes,'* said the Crow, "you may believe it; it is as true as I am sitting here. People came in crowds; there was a crush and a hurry, but no one had good luck either on the first or second day. They could all talk well enough when they were out in the street; but as soon as they came inside the palace gates, and saw the guard richly dressed in silver, and the lackeys in gold, on the staircase, and the large lighted halls, then they were dumb; and when they stood before the throne on which the Princess was sitting, all they could do was to repeat the last word she had said, and she didn't care to hear that again. It was just as if the people within were under a charm, and had fallen into a trance till they came out again into the street; for then — oh, then they could chatter enough. There was a whole row of them from the town gates to the palace. I was there myself to look on,** said the Crow. "They grew hungry and thirsty; but from the palace they got not so much as a glass of water. Some of the cleverest, it is true, had taken bread and butter with them; but none shared it with his neighbor, for each thought, * Let him look hungry, and then the Princess won't have him. * ** "But Kay — little Kay,** asked Gerda, "when did he come? Was he among the number ? ** " Give me time ! give me time ! we are coming to him. It was on the third day, when a little personage, without horse or carriage, came marching right boldly up to the palace; his eyes shone like yours, he had beautiful long hair, but his clothes were very shabby.** " That was Kay, ** cried Gerda, with a voice of delight. " Oh, now I've found him!** and she clapped her hands. "He had a little knapsack at his back,** said the Crow. 52 2 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN •No, that was certainly his sled,* said Gerda; **for he went away with his sled.* *That may be,* said the Crow; "I did not see him close to; but I know from my tame sweetheart that when he came into the courtyard of the palace, and saw the body-guard in silver, and the lackeys on the staircase in gold, he was not in the least cast down ; he nodded and said to them, * It must be very tiresome to stand on the stairs; for my part, I shall go in.* The halls were bright with lights. Court people and fine folks were walking about on bare feet; it was all very solemn. His boots creaked, too, very loudly; but still he was not at all afraid.* "That's Kay, for certain,* said Gerda, "I know he had on new boots; I have heard them creaking in grandmamma's room,* * Yes, they creaked, * said the Crow. " And on he went boldly up to the Princess, who was sitting on a pearl as large as a spin- ning-wheel. All the ladies of the court stood about, with their maids and their maids' maids, and all the gentlemen with their servants and their servants' servants, who kept a boy; and the nearer they stood to the door, the prouder they looked. The boy of the servants' servants, who always goes in slippers, hardly looked at one, so very proudly did he stand in the doorway.* " It must have been terrible, * said little Gerda. " And did Kay get the Princess ? * ** Were I not a Crow, I should have taken the Princess myself, although I am engaged. It is said he spoke as well as I speak when I talk crow language; this I learned from my tame sweet- heart. He was bold and nicely behaved; he had not come to woo the Princess, but only to hear her wisdom. She pleased him and he pleased her.* "Yes, yes, for certain that was Kay,* said Gerda. "He was so clever; he could do sums with fractions. Oh, won't you take ma to the palace ? * "That is very easily said,* answered the Crow, "But how are we to manage it? I'll speak to my tame sweetheart about it; she can tell us what to do; for so much I must tell you, such a little girl as you are will never get leave to go in the common way, * "Oh, yes, I shall,* said Gerda: "when Kay hears that I am here, he will come out at once to fetch me.* "Wait for me here on these steps,* said the Crow. He wagged his head and flew away. HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN ej- When it grew dark the Crow came back. **Caw! caw!" said he. ^^I bring you a great many good wishes from her; and here is a bit of bread for you. She took it out of the kitchen, where there is bread enough, and you are hungry, no doubt. It is not possible for you to enter the palace, for you are barefoot; the guards in silver and the lackeys in gold would not allow it: but do not cry, you shall come in still. My sweetheart knows a little back stair that leads to the chamber, and she knows where she can get the key of it.^^ And they went into the garden by the broad path, where one leaf was falling after the other; and when the lights in the palace were all put out, one after the other, the Crow led little Gerda to the back door, which stood ajar. Oh, how Gerda's heart beat with doubt and longing! It was just as if she had been about to do something wrong; and yet she only wanted to know if little Kay was there. Yes, he must be there. She called to mind his clear eyes and his long hair so vividly, she could quite see him as he used to laugh when they were sitting under the roses at home. He would surely be glad to see her — to hear what a long way she had come for his sake; to know how unhappy all at home were when he did not come back. Oh, what a fright and what a joy it was! Now they were on the stairs. A single lamp was burning there; and on the floor stood the tame Crow, turning her head on every side and looking at Gerda, who bowed as her grandmother had taught her to do. <^My intended has told me so much good of you, my dear young lady,* said the tame Crow. <*Your Life, as they call it, is very affecting. If you will take the lamp, I will go before. We will go straight on, for we shall meet no one." ^^I think there is somebody just behind us,'* said Gerda; and it rushed past her. It was like shadows on the wall: horses with flowing manes and thin legs, huntsmen, ladies and gentlemen on horseback. <^They are only dreams,* said the Crow. *^They come to fetch the thoughts of the fine folk to the chase; 'tis well, for now you can see them asleep all the better. But let me find, when you come to have honor and fame, that you possess a grateful heart. » «Tut! that's not worth talking about,* said the Crow from the woods. 524 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN Now they came into the first hall, which was of rose-colored satin, with painted flowers on the wall. Here the dreams were rushing past, but they hurried by so quickly that Gerda could not see the fine people. One hall was more showy than the other — well might people be abashed; and at last they came into the bed-chamber. The ceiling of the room was like a great palm-tree, with leaves of glass, of costly glass; and in the middle of the floor, from a thick golden stalk, hung two beds, each of which was shaped like a lily. One was white, and in this lay the Princess: the other was red, and it was here that Gerda was to look for little Kay. She bent back one of the red leaves, and saw a brown neck — oh, that was Kay! She called him quite loud by name, held the lamp toward him — the dreams rushed again on horse- back into the chamber — he awoke, turned his head, and — it was not little Kay! The Prince was only like him about the neck; but he was young and handsome. And out of the white lily leaves the Princess peeped too, and asked what was the matter. Then little Gerda cried and told her whole history, and all that the Crows had done for her. ** Poor little thing ! * said the Prince and the Princess, and they praised the Crows very much, and told them they were not at all angry with them, but they were not to do so again. However, they should have a reward. * Will you fly about at liberty ? ** asked the Princess ; " or would you like to have a steady place as court Crows with all the broken bits from the kitchen ? ^* And both the Crows nodded, and begged for a steady place; for they thought of their old age, and said **it was a good thing to have something for the old folks,** as the saying is. And the Prince got up and let Gerda sleep in his bed, and more than this he could not do. She folded her little hands, and thought, " How good men and animals are ! ** and then she shut her eyes and slept soundly. All the dreams came flying in again, and they now looked like the angels; they drew a little sled, on which Kay sat and nodded his head: but the whole was only a dream, and so it was all gone as soon as she awoke. The next day she was dressed from top to toe in silk and velvet. They offered to let her stay at the palace, and lead a happy life; but she begged only to have a little carriage with a HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 525 horse in front, and for a small pair of shoes; then, she said, she would again go forth in the wide world and look "for Kay. And she got both shoes and a muff; she was dressed very nicely, too; and when she was about to set off, a new carriage stopped before the door. It was of pure gold, and the arms of the Prince and Princess shone like a star upon it; the coachman, the footmen, and the outriders, for outriders were there too, all wore golden crowns. The Prince and Princess helped her into the carriage themselves, and wished her good luck. The Crow of the woods, who was now married, went with her for the first three miles. He sat beside Gerda, for he could not bear riding backward; the other Crow stood in the doorway, and flapped her wings; she could not go with Gerda, because she suffered from headache since she had had a steady place, and ate so much. The carriage was lined inside with sugar-plums, and in the seats were fruits and cookies. * Good-by ! good-by ! ** cried Prince and Princess ; and little Gerda wept, and the Crows wept. Thus passed the first miles; and then the Crow said good-by, and this was the worst good-by of all. He flew into a tree, and beat his black wings as long as he could see the carriage, that shone from afar like the clear sunlight. THE NIGHTINGALE From < Riverside Literature Series >: copyright 1891, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. I THE REAL NIGHTINGALE IN China, you must know, the Emperor is a Chinaman, and all whom he has about him are Chinamen too. It happened a good many years ago, but that's just why it's worth while to hear the story before it is forgotten. The Emperor's palace was the most splendid in the world. It was made wholly of fine porcelain, very costly, but so brittle and so hard to handle that one had to take care how one touched it. In the garden were to be seen the most wonderful flowers, and to the prettiest of them silver bells were tied, which tinkled, so that nobody should pass by without noticing the flowers. Yes, everything in the Emperor's garden was nicely set out, and it reached so far that the gardener himself did noi know 526 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN where the end was. If a man went on and on, he came into a glorious forest with high trees and deep lakes. The wood went straight down to the sea, which was blue and deep ; great ships could sail to and fro beneath the branches of the trees; and in the trees lived a Nightingale, which sang so finely that even the poor Fisherman, who had many other things to do, stopped still and listened, when he had gone out at night to throw out his nets, and heard the Nightingale, <^How beautiful that is!** he said; but he had to attend to his work, and so he forgot the bird. But the next night, when the bird sang again, and the Fisherman heard it, he said as before, * How. beautiful that is ! ** From all the countries of the world travelers came to the city of the Emperor, and admired it, and the palace, and the garden; but when they heard the Nightingale, they all said, **That is the best of all ! » And the travelers told of it when they came home; and the learned men wrote many books about the town, the palace, and the garden. But they did not forget the Nightingale; that was spoken of most of all; and all those who were poets wrote great poems about the Nightingale in the wood by the deep lake. The books went all over the world, and a few of them once came to the Emperor. He sat in his golden chair, and read, and read ; every moment he nodded his head, for it pleased him to hear the fine things that were said about the city, the palace, and the garden. **But the Nightingale is the best of all!* — it stood written there. " What's that ? ** exclaimed the Emperor. * The Nightingale ? I don't know that at all! Is there such a bird in my empire, and in my garden to boot ? I've never heard of that. One has to read about such things.* Hereupon he called his Cavalier, who was so gfrand that if any one lower in rank than he dared to speak to him, or to ask him any question, he answered nothing but **P!* — and that meant nothing. * There is said to be a strange bird here called a Nightin- gale ! * said the Emperor. * They say it is the best thing in all my great empire. Why has no one ever told me anything about it ? » **I have never heard it named,* replied the Cavalier. * It has never been presented at court.* HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 527 ^^ I command that it shall come here this evening, and sing before me,^* said the Emperor. **A11 the world knows what I have, and I do not know it myself ! ** ** I have never heard it mentioned, " said the Cavalier. ^* I will seek for it. I will find it.** But where was it to be found ? The Cavalier ran up and down all the stairs, through halls and passages, but no one among all those whom he met had heard talk of the Nightingale. And the Cavalier ran back to the Emperor, and said that it must be a fable made up by those who write books. ^^Your Imperial Majesty must not believe what is written. It is fiction, and something that they call the black art." * But the book in which I read this, " said the Emperor, * was sent to me by the high and mighty Emperor of Japan, and so it cannot be a falsehood. I will hear the Nightingale! It must be here this evening! It has my high favor; and if it does not come, all the court shall be trampled upon after it has supped ! ** ** Tsing-pe ! ** said the Cavalier; and again he ran up and down all the stairs, and through all the halls and passages, and half the court ran with him, for the courtiers did not like being trampled upon. There was a great inquiry after the wonderful Nightingale, which all the world knew, but not the people at court. At last they met with a poor little girl in the kitchen. She said : — " The Nightingale ? I know it well ; yes, how it can sing ! Every evening I get leave to carry my poor sick mother the scraps from the table. She lives down by the beach, and when I get back and am tired, and rest in the wood, then I hear the Nightingale sing. And then the tears come into my eyes, and it is just as if my mother kissed me ! ** * Little Kitchen-girl, ** said the Cavalier, *^ I will get you a fixed place in the kitchen, with leave to see the Emperor dine, if you will lead us to the Nightingale, for it is promised for this evening. * So they all went out into the wood where the Nightingale was wont to sing; half the court went out. When they were on the way, a cow began to low. **Oh!" cried the court pages, *now we have it! That shows a great power in so small a creature ! We have certainly heard it before. ** 528 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN ** No, those are cows mooing ! '* said the little Kitchen-girl. "We are a long way from the place yet.'^ Now the frogs began to croak in the marsh. * Glorious ! ^^ said the Chinese Court Preacher. ** Now I hear it — it sounds just like little church bells.* " No, those are frogs ! ** said the little Kitchen-maid. " But now I think we shall soon hear it.** And then the Nightingale began to sing. «That is it!'* exclaimed the little Girl. « Listen, listen! and yonder it sits.** And she pointed to a little gray bird up in the boughs. "Is it possible ? ** cried the Cavalier. " I should never have thought it looked like that! How simple it looks! It must cer- tainly have lost its color at seeing so many famous people around. ** " Little Nightingale ! ** called the little Kitchen-maid, quite loudly, " our gracious Emperor wishes you to sing before him. ** " With the greatest pleasure ! ** replied the Nightingale, and sang so that it was a joy to hear it. " It sounds just like glass bells ! ** said the Cavalier. " And look at its little throat, how it's working! It's wonderful that we should never have heard it before. That bird will be a great success at court.** " Shall I sing once more before the Emperor ? ** asked the Nightingale, for it thought the Emperor was present. " My excellent little Nightingale, ** said the Cavalier, " I have great pleasure in inviting you to a court festival this evening, when you shall charm his Imperial Majesty with your beautiful singing. ** " My song sounds best in the greenwood ! ** replied the Night- ingale; still it came willingly when it heard what the Emperor wished. In the palace there was a great brushing up. The walls and the floor, which were of porcelain, shone with many thousand golden lamps. The most glorious flowers, which could ring clearly, had been placed in the halls. There was a running to and fro, and a draught of air, but all the bells rang so exactly together that one could not hear any noise. In the midst of the great hall, where the Emperor sat, a golden perch had been placed, on which the Nightingale was to sit. The whole court was there, and the little Cook-maid had HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN ezg leave to stand behind the door, as she had now received the title of a real cook-maid. All were in full dress, and all looked at the little gray bird, to which the Emperor nodded. And the Nightingale sang so gloriously that the tears came into the Emperor's eyes, and the tears ran down over his cheeks; and then the Nightingale sang still more sweetly; that went straight to the heart. The Emperor was happy, and he said the Nightingale should have his golden slipper to wear round its neck. But the Nightingale thanked him, it had already got reward enough. "I have seen tears in the Emperor's eyes — that is the real treasure to me. An Emperor's tears have a strange power. I am paid enough ! * Then it sang again with a sweet, glorious voice. * That's the most lovely way of making love I ever saw ! * said the ladies who stood round about, and then they took water in their mouths to gurgle when any one spoke to them. They thought they should be nightingales too. And the lackeys and maids let it be known that they were pleased too; and that was saying a good deal, for they are the hardest of all to please. In short, the Nightingale made a real hit. It was now to remain at court, to have its own cage, with freedom to go out twice every day and once at night. It had twelve servants, and they all had a silken string tied to the bird's leg which they held very tight. There was really no pleasure in going out. The whole city spoke of the wonderful bird, and when two people met, one said nothing but ** Nightin, ^^ and the other said *^ gale '* ; and then they sighed, and understood one another. Eleven storekeepers' children were named after the bird, but not one of them could sing a note. IT — THE TOY NIGHTINGALE One day a large parcel came to the Emperor, on which was written *The Nightingale.** "Here we have a new book about this famous bird,* said the Emperor. But it was not a book: it was a little work of art, that lay m a box; a toy nightingale, which was to sing like a live one, but 1—34 53© HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN it was all covered with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires. So soon as the toy bird was wound up, he could sing one of the pieces that the real one sang, and then his tail moved up and down, and shone with silver and gold. Round his neck hung a little ribbon, and on that was written, **The Emperor of Japan's Nightingale is poor beside that of the Emperor in China.** " That is capital ! * said they all, and he who had brought the toy bird at once got the title Imperial Head-Nightingale-Bringer. *Now they must sing together: what a duet that will be!** And so they had to sing together; but it did not sound very well, for the real Nightingale sang in its own way, and the toy bird sang waltzes. * That's not its fault,** said the Play-master: *^it's quite per- fect, and very much in my style.** Now the toy bird was to sing alone. It made just as much of a hit as the real one, and then it was so much more fine to look at^it shone like bracelets and breastpins. Three-and-thirty times over did it sing the same piece, and yet was not tired. The people would gladly have heard it again, but the Emperor said that the living Nightingale ought to sing a little something. But where was it ? No one had noticed that it had flown away, out of the open window, back to its green woods. ** But what is become of it ? * asked the Emperor, Then all the courtiers scolded, and thought the Nightingale was a very thankless creature. "We have the best bird, after all,** said they. And so the toy bird had to sing again, and this was the thirty- fourth time they had listened to the same piece. For all that, they did not know it quite by heart, for it was so very difficult. And the Play-master praised the bird highly; yes, he declared that it was better than the real Nightingale, not only in its feathers and its many beautiful diamonds, but inside as well. " For you see, ladies and gentlemen, and above all, your Im- perial Majesty, with the real Nightingale one can never make sure what is coming, but in this toy bird everything is settled. It is just so, and not any other way. One can explain it; one can open it, and can show how much thought went to making it, where the waltzes come from, how they go, and how one follows another. ** " Those are quite our own ideas, ** they all said. And the Play- master got leave to show the bird to the people on the next HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN h^I Sunday. The people were to hear it sing too, said the Emperor; and they did hear it, and were as much pleased as if they had all had tea, for that's quite the Chinese fashion; and they all said " Oh ! ^^ and held their forefingers up in the air and nodded. But the poor Fisherman, who had heard the real Nightingale, said: — *^ It sounds pretty enough, and it's a little like, but there's something wanting, though I know not what ! * The real Nightingale was exiled from the land and empire. The toy bird had its place on a silken cushion close to the Emperor's bed. All the presents it had received, gold and pre- cious stones, were ranged about it. In title it had come to be High Imperial After-Dinner-Singer, and in rank it was Number One on the left hand; for the Emperor reckoned that side the most important on which the heart is placed, and even in an Emperor the heart is on the left side. And the Play-master wrote a work of five-and-twenty volumes about the toy bird: it was so learned and so long, full of the most difficult Chinese words, that all the people said they had read it and understood it, or else they would have been thought stupid, and would have had their bodies tram- pled on. So a whole year went by. The Emperor, the court, and all the other Chinese knew every little twitter in the toy bird's song by heart. But just for that reason it pleased them best — they could sing with it themselves, and they did so. The street boys sang, « Tsi-tsi-tsi-glug-glug ! ** and the Emperor himself sang it too. Yes, that was certainly famous. But one evening, when the toy bird was singing its best, and the Emperor lay in bed and heard it, something inside the bird said, " Svup ! ^* Something cracked. << Whir-r-r ! ^^ All the wheels ran round, and then the music stopped. The Emperor jumped at once out of bed, and had his own doctor called ; but what could he do ? Then they sent for a watch- maker, and after a good deal of talking and looking, he got the bird into some sort of order; but he said that it must be looked after a good deal, for the barrels were worn, and he could not put new ones in in such a manner that the music would go. There was a great to-do; only once in a year did they dare to let the bird sing, and that was almost too much. But then the Play- master made a little speech, full of heavy words, and said this was just as good as before — and so, of coiirse, it was as good as before. 532 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN III — THE REAL NIGHTINGALE AGAIN Five years had gone by, and a real grief came upon the whole nation. The Chinese were really fond of their Emperor, and now he was sick, and could not, it was said, live much longer. Al- ready a new Emperor had been chosen, and the people stood out in the street and asked the Cavalier how their old Emperor did. " P ! ^* said he, and shook his head. Cold and pale lay the Emperor in his great, gorgeous bed; the whole court thought him dead, and each one ran to pay respect to the new ruler. The chamberlains ran out to talk it over, and the ladies'-maids had a great coffee party. All about, in all the halls and passages, cloth had been laid down so that no one could be heard go by, and therefore it was quiet there, quite quiet. But the Emperor was not dead yet: stiff and pale he lay on the gorgeous bed with the long velvet curtains and the heavy gold tassels; high up, a window stood open, and the moon shone in upon the Emperor and the toy bird. The poor Emperor could scarcely breathe; it was just as if something lay upon his breast. He opened his eyes, and then he saw that it was Death who sat upon his breast, and had put on his golden crown, and held in one hand the Emperor's sword, and in the other his beautiful banner. And all around, from among the folds of the splendid velvet curtains, strange heads peered forth; a few very ugly, the rest quite lovely and mild. These were all the Emperor's bad and good deeds, that stood before him now that Death sat upon his heart. * Do you remember this ? ** whispered one to the other. " Do you remember that ? ^* and then they told him so much that the sweat ran from his forehead. *' I did not know that!*^ said the Emperor. ^^ Music! music! the great Chinese drum ! *^ he cried, ** so that I need not hear all they say ! " And they kept on, and Death nodded like a Chinaman to all they said. ^^ Music ! music ! ** cried the Emperor. ** You little precious golden bird, sing, sing! I have given you gold and costly pres- ents; I have even hung my golden slipper around your neck — sing now, sing ! " But the bird stood still, — no one was there to wind him up, and he could not sing without that; but Death kept on staring HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 533 at the Emperor with his great hollow eyes, and it was quiet, fearfully quiet. Then there sounded close by the window the most lovely song. It was the little live Nightingale, that sat outside on a spray. It had heard of the Emperor' s need, and had come to sing to him of trust and hope. And as it sang the spectres grew paler and paler; the blood ran more and more quickly through the Emperor's weak limbs, and Death himself listened, and said : — " Go on, little Nightingale, go on ! ® " But will you give me that splendid golden sword ? Will you give me that rich banner ? Will you give me the Emperor's crown ? *^ And Death gave up each of these treasures for a song. And the Nightingale sang on and on; it sang of the quiet church- yard where the white roses grow, where the elder-blossom smells sweet, and where the fresh grass is wet with the tears of mourn- ers. Then Death felt a longing to see his garden, and floated out at the window in the form of a cold, white mist. *' Thanks ! thanks ! *' said the Emperor. *^ You heavenly little bird! I know you well. I drove you from my land and empire, and yet you have charmed away the evil faces from my bed, and driven Death from my heart ! How can I pay you ? " "You have paid me!** replied the Nightingale. *I drew tears from your eyes, the first time I sang — I shall never forget that. Those are the jewels that make a singer's heart glad. But now sleep and grow fresh and strong again. I will sing you some- thing. » And it sang, and the Emperor fell into a sweet sleep. Ah! how mild and refreshing that sleep was! The sun shone upon him through the windows, when he awoke strong and sound. Not one of his servants had yet come back, for they all thought that he was dead; but the Nightingale still sat beside him and sang. "You must always stay with me,** said the Emperor. "You shall sing as you please; and 111 break the toy bird into a thou- sand pieces.** "Not so,** replied the Nightingale. "It did well as long as it could; keep it as you have done till now. I cannot build my nest in the palace to dwell in it, but let me come when I feel the wish; then I will sit in the evening on the spray yonder by 534 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN the window, and sing for you, so that you may be glad and thoughtful at once. I will sing of those who are happy and of those who suffer. I will sing of good and of evil that remain hidden round about you. The little singing bird flies far around, to the poor fisherman, to the peasant's roof, to every one who dwells far away from you and from your court, I love your heart more than your crown, and yet the crown has an air of sanctity about it. I will come and sing to you — but one thing you must promise me.'* ** Everything ! *' said the Emperor ; and he stood there in his royal robes, which he had put on himself, and pressed the sword which was heavy with gold to his heart. " One thing I beg of you : tell no one that you have a little bird who tells you everything. Then all will go well.** And the Nightingale flew away. The servants came in to look on their dead Emperor, and — yes, there he stood, and the Emperor said, ^^ Good-morning ! ** THE MARKET PLACE AT ODENSE (1836) From < The Story of My Life > IF THE reader was a child who lived in Odense, he would just need to say the words " St. Knud's Fair, ** and it would rise before him in the brightest colors, lighted by the beams of childish fancy. . . . Somewhere near the middle of the town, five streets meet and make a little square. . , . There the town crier, in striped homespun, with a yellow bandoleer, beat his drum and proclaimed from a scroll the splendid things to be ^een in the town, ■ "He beats a good drum,** said the chamberlain. * It would delight Spontini and Rossini to hear the fellow, ** said William. * Really, Odense at New Year would just suit these composers. The drums and fifes are in their glory. They drum the New Year in. Seven or eight little drummers, or fifers, go from door to door, with troops of children and old women, and they beat the drum-taps and the reveille. Xhat fetches the pennies. Then when the New Year is well drummed in the city, the)^ go into the country and drum for meat and pojTidge. Th§ dnimmin^ iii of the New Year lasts until Lent.*^ HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 535 *' And then we have new sports, '* said the chamberlain. *^ The fishers come from Stege with a full band, and on their shoulders a boat with all sorts of flags. . . . Then they lay a board between two boats, and on this two of the youngest and spryest wrestle till one falls into the water. . . . But all the fun's gone now. When I was young, there was different sport going. That was a sight! the corporation procession with the banners and the harlequin atop, and at Shrovetide, when the butchers led about an ox decked with ribbons and carnival twigs, with a boy on his back with wings and a little shirt. . . . All that's past now, people are got so fine. St. Knud's Fair is not what it used to be.» « Well, I'm glad it isn't,* said William; "but let us go into the market and look at the Jutlanders, who are sitting with their pottery amidst the hay.* Just as the various professions in the Middle Ages had each its quarter, so here the shoemakers had ranged their tables side by side, and behind them stood the skillful workman in his long coat, and with his well-brushed felt hat in his hand. Where the shoemakers' quarter ended, the hatters' began, and there one was in the midst of the great market where tents and booths formed many parallel streets. The milliners, the goldsmiths, the pastry cooks, with booths of canvas and wood, were the chief attractions. Ribbons and handkerchiefs fluttered. Noise and bustle was every- where. The girls from the same village always went in rows, seven or eight inseparables, with hands fast clasped. It was impossible to break the chain; and if you tried to pass through, the whole band wound itself into a clump.- Behind the booth was a great space with wooden shoes, pottery, turners' and saddlers* wares. Rude and rough toys were spread on tables. Around them children were trying little trumpets, or moving about the playthings. Country girls twirled and twisted the work-boxes and themselves many a time before making their bargain. The air was thick and heavy with odors that were spiced with the smell of honey-cake. On Fair day, St. Knud's Church and all its tombs are open to the public. From whatever side you look at this fine old build- ing it has something imposing, with its high tower and spire. The interior produces the same, perhaps a greater, effect. But its full impression is not felt on entering it, nor until you get to the main aisle, Ther^ ^11 is gran4, beautiful, li^ht. Ttje whole 536 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN interior is bright with gilding. Up in the high vaulted roof there shine, since old time, a multitude of golden stars. On both sides, high up above the side aisles, are great gothic windows from which the light streams down. The side aisles are painted with oil portraits, whole families, women and children, all in cler- ical dress, with long gowns and deep ruffs. Usually the figures are ranged by ages, the eldest first and then down to the very smallest. They all stand with folded hands, and look piously down before them, till their colors have gradually faded away in dust. THE ANDERSEN JUBILEE AT ODENSE From I HEARD on the morning of December 6th [1867] that the town was decorated, that all the schools had a holiday, because it was my festival. I felt myself as humble, meek, and poor as though I stood before my God. Every weakness or error or sin, in thought, word, and deed, was revealed to me. All stood out strangely clear in my soul, as though it were doomsday — and it was my festival. God knows how humble I felt when men exalted and honored me so. Then came the first telegram from the Student Club. I saw that they shared and did not envy my joy. Then came a dis- patch from a private club of students in Copenhagen, and from the Artisans' Club of Slagelse. You will remember that I went to school in that town, and was therefore attached to it. Soon followed messages from sympathetic friends in Aarhuus, in Stege; telegram on telegram from all around. One of these was read aloud by Privy Councillor Koch. It was from the king. The assembly burst out in applause. Every cloud and shadow in my soul vanished! How happy I was! And yet man must not exalt himself. I was to feel that I was only a poor child of humanity, bound by the frailty of earth. I suffered from a dreadful toothache, which was increased unbearably by the heat and excitement. Yet at evening I read a Wonder Story for the little friends. Then the deputation came from the town corporations, with torches and waving banners through the street, to the guild-hall. And now the prophecy was to be fulfilled tJiat the old woman gave when HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 537 I left home as a boy. Odense was to be illuminated for me. I stepped to the open window. All was aglow with torchlight, the square was filled with people. Songs swelled up to me. I was overcome, emotionally. Physically racked with pain, I could not enjoy this crowning fruit of my life, the toothache was so intolerable. The ice-cold air that blew against me fanned the pain to an awful intensity, and, instead of enjoying the bliss of these never-to-be-repeated moments, I looked at the printed song to see how many verses had to be sung before I could step away from the torture which the cold air sent through my teeth. It was the acme of suffering. As the glow of the piled-up torches subsided, my pain subsided too. How thankful I was, though! Gentle eyes were fastened upon me all around. All wanted to speak with me, to press my hand. Tired out, I reached the bishop's house and sought rest. But I got no sleep till toward morning, so filled and overflowing was I. < MISERERE > IN THE SIXTINE CHAPEL From : Translation by Mary Hewitt ON Wednesday afternoon began the Miserere in the Sixtine Chapel. My soul longed for music; in the world of mel- ody I could find sympathy and consolation. The throng was great, even within the chapel — the foremost division was already filled with ladies. Magnificent boxes, hung with velvet and golden draperies for royal personages and foreigners from various courts, were here erected so high that they looked out beyond the richly carved railing which separated the ladies from the interior of the chapel. The papal Swiss Guards stood in their bright festal array. The officers wore light armor, and in their helmets a waving plume. . . . The old cardinals entered in their magnificent scarlet velvet cloaks, with their white ermine capes, and seated themselves side by side in a great half-circle within the barrier, while the priests who had carried their trains seated themselves at their feet. By the little side door of the altar the holy father now entered, in his scarlet mantle and silver tiara. He ascended his throne. Bishops swung the vessels of incense around him, while young priests, in scarlet vestments, knelt, with lighted torches in their hands, before him and the high altar, 538 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN The reading of the lessons began. But it was impossible to keep the eyes fixed on the lifeless letters of the Missal — they raised themselves, with the thoughts, to the vast universe which Michael Angelo has breathed forth in colors upon the ceiling and the walls. I contemplated his mighty sibyls and wondrously glorious prophets, — every one of them a subject for a painting. My eyes drank in the magnificent processions, the beautiful grovips of angels; they were not, to me, painted pictures; — all stood living before me. The rich tree of knowledge, from which Eve gave the fruit to Adam; the Almighty God, who floated over the waters, — not borne up by angels, as the older masters had represented him — no, the company of angels rested upon him and his fluttering garments. It is true, I had seen these pictures before, but never as now had they seized upon me. My excited state of mind, the crowd of people, perhaps even the lyric of my thoughts, made me wonderfully alive to poetical impressions; and many a poet's heart has felt as mine did! The bold foreshortenings, the determinate force with which every figure steps forward, is amazing, and carries one quite away! It is a spiritual Sermon on the Mount, in color and form. Like Raphael, we stand in astonishment before the power of Michael Angelo, Every prophet is a Moses, like that which he formed in marble. What giant forms are those which seize upon our eye and our thoughts as we enter! But when intoxicated with this view, let us turn our eyes to the background of the chapel, whose whole wall is a high altar of art and thought. The great chaotic picture, from the floor to the roof, shows itself there like a jewel, of which all the rest is only the setting. We see there the Last Judgment. Christ stands in judgment upon the clouds, and his Mother and the Apostles stretch forth their hands beseechingly tor the poor human race. The dead raise the gravestones under which they have lain; blessed spirits adoring, float upward to God, while the abyss seizes its victims. Here one of the ascending spirits seeks to save his condemned brother, whom the abyss already embraces in its snaky folds. The children of despair strike their clenched fists upon their brows, and sink into the depths! In bold foreshortenings, float and tumble whole legions between heaven and earth. The sympathy of the angels, the expression of lovers who meet, the child that at the sound of the trumpet clings to the mother's breast, are so natural and t>eatitiful ANEURIN 539 that one believes one's self to be among those who are waiting for judgment. Michael Angelo has expressed in colors what Dante saw and has sung to the generations of the earth. The descending sun at that moment threw his last beams in through the uppermost window. Christ, and the blessed around him, were strongly lighted up; while the lower part, where the dead arose, and the demons thrust their boat laden with the damned from the shore, were almost in darkness. Just as the sun went down the last lesson was ended, the last light which now remained was extinguished, and the whole picture world vanished in the gloom from before me; but in that same moment burst forth music and singing. That which color had bodily revealed arose now in sound; the day of judgment, with its despair and its exultation, resounded above us. The father of the church, stripped of his papal pomp, stood before the altar, and prayed to the holy cross; and upon the wings of the trumpet resounded the trembling choir, * Populus mens quid feci tibi ? * Soft angel-tones rose above the deep song, tones which ascended not from a human breast: it was not a man's nor a woman's; it belonged to the world of spirits: it was like the weeping of angels dissolved in melody. ANEURIN (Sixth Century A. D.) jMONG the triad of singers — Llywarch, prince and bard, Aneu- rin, warrior and bard, and Taliessin, bard only — who were among the followers of the heroic British chief Urien, when he bravely but unsuccessfully resisted the invasion of the victorious Angles and Saxons, Aneurin was famous both as poet and warrior. He sang of the long struggle that eventually was to turn Briton into England, and celebrated in his * Gododin ^ ninety of the fallen Cymric chiefs. The notes of his life are scanty, and are drawn chiefly from his allusion to himself in his poem. He was the son of Cwm Caw- Iwyd, a chief of the tribe of Gododin. He seems to have been educated at St. Cadoc's College at Llancarvan, and afterwards entered the bardic order. As appears from the < Gododin, > he was present at the battle of Cattreeth both as bard and as priest. He fled, but was 540 ANEURIN taken prisoner. In his poem he refers to the hardships he endured in his captivity. After his release he returned to Llancarvan, Wales, and in his old age he went north to live with his brother in Gallo- way. Here he was murdered; his death is referred to as one of the <* three accursed hatchet-strokes of the isle of Britain. >' His friendship with Taliessin is commemorated by both bards. The * Gododin * is at once the longest and the most important composition in early Welsh literature. It has been variously inter- preted, but is thought to celebrate the battle of Cattrasth. This battle was fought in 570 between the Britons, who had formed a league to defend their country, and their Teutonic invaders. It << began on a Tuesday, lasted for a week, and ended with great slaughter of the Britons, who fought desperately till they perished on the field. >> Three hundred and sixty chieftains were slain; only three escaped by flight, among whom was Aneurin, who afterwards commemorated the slaughter in the ^Gododin,* a lament for the dead. Ninety-seven of the stanzas remain. In various measures of alliterative and assonant verse they sing the praises of ninety of the fallen chiefs, usually giving one stanza to each hero. One of these stanzas is known to readers of Gray, who translated it under the name of < The Death of Hoel.> Again the * Gododin * is assumed to be, like many early epic poems whose origin is wrapped in mystery, not the commemoration of one single, particular event, but a collection of lays composed at various times, which compresses into one battle the long and disas- trous period of the Anglo-Saxon invasion, ending in the subjugation of the Britons. But whatever its history, the < Gododin ' is one of the finest monu- ments of Cymric literature. * In the brevity of the narrative, the careless boldness of the actors as they present themselves, the con- densed energy of the action, and the fierce exultation of the slaughter, together with the recurring elegiac note, this poem (or poems if it be the work of two authors) has some of the highest epic qualities. The ideas and manners are in harmony with the age and the country to which it is referred.'^ Like all early songs, the poem was handed down through cen- turies by oral tradition. It is now preserved in the * Book of An- eurin,* a small quarto manuscript of nineteen leaves of vellum, of the end of the thirteenth century. The * Gododin* has been published with an English translation and notes by the Rev. J. Williams (1852); and by the Cymmrodorion Society, with a translation by Thomas Stevens, in 1885. Interesting information covering it may be found in Skene's *Four Ancient Books of Wales* (1866). and in the article * Celtic Literature* in this work. ANEURIN 541 THE SLAYING OF OWAIN [During the battle a conference was held, at which the British leaders demanded as a condition of peace that part of the land of Gododin be restored. In reply, the Saxons killed Owain, one of the greatest of the Cymric bards. Aneurin thus pictures him : — ] A MAN in thought, a boy in form, He stoutly fought, and sought the storm Of flashing war that thundered far. His courser, lank and swift, thick-maned, Bore on his flank, as on he strained. The light-brown shield, as on he sped, "With golden spur, in cloak of fur. His blue sword gleaming. Be there said No word of mine that does not hold thee dear! Before thy youth had tasted bridal cheer. The red death was thy bride! The ravens feed On thee yet straining to the front, to lead. Owain, tjie friend I loved, is dead! Woe is it that on him the ravens feed! THE FATE OF HOEL, SON OF THE GREAT CIAN [From various expressions used by Aneurin in different parts of his great poem, it is evident that the warriors of whom he sang fortified themselves, before entering the field of battle, with unstinted libations of that favorite intoxicant of those days, sweet mead. He mentions the condition of the war- riors as they started for the fray, and tells of Hoel's fate. This son of Cian had married the daughter of one of the Bryneish. His marriage caused no abatement of a feud existing between the tribes to which the husband and wife respectively belonged. He repudiated her family, disdained to take her away, and was sought and slain by her insulted father.] THE warriors marched to Cattraeth, full of mead; Drunken, but firm of array: great the shame. But greater the valor no bard can defame. The war-dogs fought fiercely, red swords seemed to bleed. Flesh and soul, I had slain thee, myself, had I thought. Son of Cian, my friend, that thy faith had been bought By a bribe from the tribe of the Bryneish! But no; He scorned to take dowry from hands of the foe. And I, all unhurt, lost a friend in the fight, Whom the wrath of a father felled down for the slight. 542 ANEURIN THE GIANT GWRVELING FALLS AT LAST [The bard tells the story of Gwrveling*s revelry, impulsive oravery, and 5nal slaughter of the foe before yielding to their prowess.] LIGHT of lights — the sun, Leader of the day. First to rise and run His appointed way. Crowned with many a ray. Seeks the British sky; Sees the flight's dismay. Sees the Britons fly. The horn in Eiddin's hall Had sparkled with the wine, And thither, at a call To drink and be divine. He went, to share the feast Of reapers, wine and mead. He drank, and so increased His daring for wild deed. The reapers sang of war That lifts its shining wings. Its shining wings of fire. Its shields that flutter far. The bards, too, sang of war. Of plumed and crested war; The song rose ever higher. Not a shield Escapes the shock, To the field They fiercely flock, — There to fall. But of all Who struck on giant Gwrveling, Whom he would he struck again. All he struck in erave were lain, Ere the bearers came to bring To his grave stout Gwrveling. S43 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE BY ROBERT SHARP !he earliest recorded utterances of a race, whether in poetry or in prose, become to the representatives of this race in later days a treasure beyond price. The value of such monuments of the remote past is manifold. In them we first begin to become really acquainted with ancestors of the people of to-day, even though we may have read in the pages of earlier writers of alien descent much that is of great concurrent interest. Through the medium of the native saga, epic, and meagre chronicle, we see for the first time their real though dim outlines, moving in and out of the mists that obscure the dawn of history; and these outlines become more and more distinct as the literary remains of succeed- ing periods become more abundant and present more varied aspects of life. "We come gradually to know whajt manner of men and women were these ancestors, what in peace and in war were their customs, what their family and social relations, their food and drink, their dress, their systems of law and government, their religion and morals, what were their art instincts, what were their ideals. This is essential material for the construction of history in its complete sense. And this evidence, when subjected to judicious crit- icism, is trustworthy; for the ancient story-teller and poet reflects the customs and ideas and ideals of his own time, even though the combination of agencies and the preternatural proportions of the actors and their deeds belong to the imagination. The historian must know how to supplement and to give life and interest to the colorless succession of dates, names, and events of the chronicler, by means of these imaginative yet truth-bearing creations of the poet. Remnants of ancient poetry and legend have again an immediate value in proportion as they exhibit a free play of fine imagination; that is, according as they possess the power of stirring to response the aesthetic feeling of subsequent ages, — as they possess the true poetic quality. This gift of imagination varies greatly among races as amoTig individuals, and the earliest manifestations of it frequently throw a clear light upon apparently eccentric tendencies developed in a literature in later times. For these reasons, added to a natural family pride in them, the early literary monuments of the Anglo-Saxons should be cherished by us as among the most valued possessions of the race. 544 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE The first Teutonic language to be reduced to writing was the Moeso-Gothic. Considerable portions of a translation of the Bible into that language, made by Bishop Ulfilas in the fourth century, still remain. But this cannot be called the beginning of a literature; for there is no trace of original creative impulse. The Gothic move- ment, too, seems to have ceased immediately after its beginning. It is elsewhere that we must seek for the rise of a real Teutonic litera- ture. We shall not find it till after the lapse of several centuries; and we find it not among the tribes that remained in the fatherland, nor with those that had broken into and conquered parts of the Roman empire, only to be absorbed and to blend with other races into Romanic nations. The proud distinction belongs to the Low German tribes that had created an England in Britain. The conquest of Britain by the Anglo-Saxons, begun in 449, seemed at first to promise only retrogression and the ruin of an existing civilization. These fierce barbarians found among the Celts of Britain a Roman culture, and the Christian religion exerting its influence for order and humanity. Their mission seemed to be to destroy both. In their original homes in the forests of northern Germany, they had come little if at all into contact with Roman civ- ilization. At any rate, we may assume that they had felt no Roman influence capable of stemming their national and ethnical tendencies. We cannot yet solve the difficult problem of the extent of their mingling with the conquered Celts in Britain. In spite of learned opinions to the contrary, the evidence now available seems to point to only a small infusion of Celtic blood. The conquerors seem to have settled down to their new homes with all the heathenism and most of the barbarism they had brought from their old home, a Teutonic people still. In these ruthless, plundering barbarians, whose very breath was battle, and who seemed for the time the very genius of disorder and ruin, there existed, nevertheless, potentialities of humanity, order, and enlightenment far exceeding those of the system they displaced. In all their barbarism there was a certain nobility; their courage was unflinching; the fidelity, even unto death, of thane to lord, repaid the open-handed generosity of lord to thane ; they honored truth ; and even after we allow for the exaggerated claims made for a chivalrous devotion that did not exist, we find that they held their women in higher respect than was usual even among many more enlightened peoples. There are few more remarkable narratives in history than that of the facility and enthusiasm with which the Anglo-Saxons, a people conservative then as now to the degree of extreme obstinacy, accepted Christianity and the new learning which followed in the train of the ANGLO-SAXON LITERA'^URE 545 new religion. After a few lapses into paganism in some localities, we find these people, who lately had swept Christian Britain with fire and sword, themselves became most zealous followers of Christ. Under the influence of the Roman missionaries who, under St. Augustine, had begun their work in the south in 597 among the Saxons and Jutes, and under the combined influence of Irish and Roman mission- aries in the north and east among the Angles, theological and secular studies were pursued with avidity. By the end of the seventh century we find Anglo-Saxon missionaries, with St. Boniface at their head, carrying Christianity and enlightenment to the pagan German tribes on the Continent. The torch had been passed to the Anglo-Saxon, and a new centre of learning, York, — the old Roman capital, now the chief city of the Northumbrian Angles, — became famous throughout Europe. Indeed, York seemed for a time the chief hope for preserving and advancing Christian culture; for the danger of a relapse into dense ignorance had become imminent in the rest of Europe. Bede, bom about 673, a product of this Northumbrian culture, represented the highest learning of his day. He wrote a vast number of works in Latin, treating nearly all the branches of knowledge existing in his day. Alcuin, another Northumbrian, bom about 735, was called by Charlemagne to be tutor for himself and his children, and to organize the educa- tional system of his realm. Other great names might be added to show the extent and brilliancy of the new learning. It was more remarkable among the Angles; and only at a later day, when the g^eat schools of the north had gone up in fire and smoke in the piti- less invasion of the Northmen, did the West Saxons become the leaders, almost the only representatives, of the literary impulse among the Anglo-Saxons. It is significant that the first written English that we know of contains the first Christian English king's provision for peace and order in his kingdom. The 'laws of Athelbert, King of Kent, who died in 616, were written down early in the seventh century. This code, as it exists, is the oldest surviving monument of English prose. The laws of Ine, King of the West Saxons, were put into writing about 690. These collections can scarcely be said to have a literary value; but they are of the utmost importance as throwing light upon the early customs of our race, and the laws of Ine may be consid- ered as the foundation of modern English law. Many of these laws were probably much older; but they were now first codified and systematically enforced. The language employed is direct, almost crabbed; but occasionally the Anglo-Saxon love of figure shows itself. To illustrate, I quote, after Brooke, from Earle's * Anglo-Saxon Liter- ature,* page 153; — 1—35 540 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE «In case any one bum a tree in a wood, and it came to light who did it, let him pay the full penalty, and give sixty shillings, because fire is a thief. If one fell in a wood ever so many trees, and it be found out afterwards, let him pay for three trees, each with thirty shillings. He is not required to pay for more of them, however many they may be, because the axe is a reporter, and not a thief ?^ [The italicized sentences are evidently current sayings.] But even these remains, important and interesting as they are, may not be called the beginning of a vernacular literature. It is among the Angles of Northumbria that we shall find the earliest native and truly literary awakening in England. Here we perceive the endeavor to do something more than merely to aid the memory of men in preserving necessary laws and records of important events. The imagination had become active. The impulse was felt to give expression to deep emotions, to sing the deeds and noble character of some hero embodying the loftiest ideals of the time and the race, to utter deep religious feeling. There was an effort to do this in a form showing harmony in theme and presentation. Here we find displayed a feeling for art, often crude, but still a true and native impulse. This activity produced or gave definite form to the earliest Anglo-Saxon poetry, a poetry often of a very high quality; perhaps never of the highest, but always of intense interest. We may claim even a greater distinction for the early fruit of Anglo-Saxon inspira- tion. Mr. Stopford Brooke says: — "With the exception of perhaps a few Welsh and Irish poems, it is the only vernacular poetry in Europe, outside of the classic tongues, which belongs to so early a time as the seventh and eighth centuries.* The oldest of these poems belong in all save their final form to the ancient days in Northern Germany. They bear evidence of trans- mission, with varying details, from gleeman to gleeman, till they were finally carried over to England and there edited, often with discordant interpolations and modifications, by Christian scribes. Tacitus tells us that at his time songs or poems were a marked feature in the life of the Germans; but we cannot trace the clue further. To these more ancient poems many others were added by Christian Northum- brian poets, and we find that a large body of poetry had grown up in the North before the movement was entirely arrested by the de- stroying Northmen. Not one of these poems, unless we except a few fragmentary verses, has come down to us in the Northumbrian dialect. Fortunately they had been transcribed by the less poetically gifted West Saxons into theirs, and it is in this form that we possess them. This poetry shows in subject and in treatment very considerable range. We have a great poem, epic in character; poems partly nar- rative and partly descriptive; poems that may be classed as lyric or elegiac in character; a large body of verse containing a paraphrase ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE 547 of portions of the Bible : a collection of * Riddles * ; poems on animals; with morals; and others difficult to classify. The regTilar verse-form was the alliterative, four-accent line, broken by a strongly marked caesura into two half-lines, which were in early editions printed as short lines. The verse was occasionally extended to six accents. In the normal verse there were two alliterated words in the first half of the line, each of which received a strong accent; in the second half there was one accented word in alliteration with the alliterated words in the first half, and one other accented word not in alliteration. A great license was allowed as to the number of unaccented syllables, and as to their position in regard to the accented ones; and this lent great freedom and vigor to the verse. When well constructed and well read, it must have been very effective. There were of course many variations from the normal number, three, of alliterated words, as it would be impossible to find so many for every line. Something of the quality of this verse-form may be felt in trans- lations which aim at the same effect. Notice the result in the follow- ing from Professor Gummere's version of as election from ^Beowulf *: — «Then the warriors went, as the way was showed to them. Under Heorot's roof; the hero stepped, Hardy 'neath helm, till the hearth he neared.» In these verses it will be noted that the alliteration is complete in the first and third, and that in the second it is incomplete. A marked feature of the Anglo-Saxon poetry is parallelism, or the repetition of an idea by means of new phrases or epithets, most fre- quently within the limits of a single sentence. This proceeds from the desire to emphasize attributes ascribed to the deity, or to some person or object prominent in the sentence. But while the added epithets have often a cumulative force, and are picturesque, yet it must be admitted that they sometimes do not justify their introduc- tion. This may be best illustrated by an example. The following, in the translation of Earle, is Caedmon's first hymn, composed between 658 and 680, and the earliest piece of Anglo-Saxon poetry that we know to have had its origin in England: — «Now shall we glorify the guardian of heaven's realm. The Maker's might and the thought of his mind; The work of the Glory-Father, how He of every wonder. He, the Lord eternal, laid the foundation. He shaped erst for the sons of men HeaVen, their roof, Holy Creator; The middle world. He, mankind's sovereign. Eternal captain, afterwards created, The land for men. Lord Almighty.* 548 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE Many of the figurative expressions are exceedingly vigorous and poetic; some to our taste not so much so. Note the epithets in < is, in many respects, the most important poetical monu- ment of the Anglo-Saxons. The poem is undoubtedly of heathen origin, and the evidence that it was a gradual growth, the result of grouping several distinct songs around one central figure, seems unmistakable. We may trace it, in its earliest stages, to the ancient home of the Angles in North Germany. It was transplanted to England in the migration of the tribes, and was edited in the present form by some unknown Northumbrian poet. When this occurred we do not know certainly, but there seems good reason for assuming the end of the seventh or the beginning of the eighth century as the time. The poem is epic in cast and epic in proportion. Although, judged by th-e Homeric standard, it falls short in many respects of the complete form, yet it may without violence be called an epic. The central figure, Beowulf, a nobly conceived hero, possessing immense strength, unflinching courage, a never-swerving sense of honor, magnanimity, and generosity, the friend and champion of the weak against evil however terrible, is the element of unity in the whole poem. It is in itself a great honor to the race that they were able to conceive as their ideal a hero so superior in all that consti- tutes true nobility to the Greek ideal, Achilles. It is true that the poem consists of two parts, connected by little more than the fact that they have the same hero at different times of life; that episodes are introduced that do not blend perfectly into the unity of the poem; and that there is a lack of repose and sometimes of lucidity. Yet there is a dignity and vigor, and a large consistency in the treatment of the theme, that is epic. Ten Brink says: — "The poet's intensity is not seldom imparted to the listener, . , . The por- trayals of battles, although much less realistic than the Homeric descriptions, are yet at times superior to them, in so far as the demoniac rage of war elicits from the Germanic fancy a crowding affluence of vigorous scenes hastily projected in glittering lights of grim half gloom.* In addition to its great poetic merit, < Beowulf > is of the greatest importance to us on account of the many fine pictures of ancient Teutonic life it presents. In the merest outline, the argument of ^ Beowulf > is as follows: — Hrothgar, King of the Gar-Danes, has built a splendid hall, called Heorot. This is the scene of royal festivity until a monster from the fen, Grendel, breaks into it by night and devours thirty of the king's thanes. From that time the hall is desolate, for no one can cope with Grendel, and Hrothgar is in despair. Beowulf, the noble hero of the Geats, in Sweden, hears of the terrible calamity, and with fourteen companions sails across the sea to undertake the adventure. Hrothgar receives him joyfully, and afte-^ a splendid banquet gives ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE 55' Heorot into his charge. During the following night, Beowulf is attacked by Grendel; and after one of his companions has been slain, he tears out the arm of the monster, who escapes, mortally hurt, to his fen. On the morrow all is rejoicing; but when night falls, the monster's mother attacks Heorot, and kills Hrothgar's favorite thane. The next day, Beowulf pursues her to her den under the waters of the fen, and after a terrific combat slays her. The hero returns home to Sweden laden with gifts. This ends the main thread of the first incident. In the second incident, after an interval of fifty years, we find Beowulf an old man. He has been for many years king of the Geats. A fire-breathing dragon, the guardian of a great treasure, is devastating the land. The heroic old king, accompanied by a party of thanes, attacks the dragon. All the thanes save one are cowardly; but the old hero, with the aid of the faithful one, slays the dragon, not, however, till he is fatally injured. Then follow his death and picturesque burial. In this sketch, stirring episodes, g^raphic descriptions, and fine effects are all sacrificed. The poem itself is a noble one and the English people may well be proud of preserving in it the first epic production of the Teutonic race. The < Fight at Finnsburg* is a fine fragment of epic cast. The Finn saga is at least as old as the Beowulf poem, since the gleeman at Hrothgar's banquet makes it his theme. From the fragment and the gleeman's song we perceive that the situation here is much more complex than is usual in Anglo-Saxon poems, and involves a tragic conflict of passion. Hildeburh's brother is slain through the treach- ery of her husband, Finn; her son, partaking of Finn's faithlessness, falls at the hands of her brother's men; in a subsequent counterplot, her husband is slain. Besides the extraordinary vigor of the narra- tive, the theme has special interest in that a woman is really the central figure, though not treated as a heroine. A favorite theme in the older lyric poems is the complaint of some wandering scop, driven from his home by the exigencies of those perilous times. Either the singer has been bereft of his patron by death, or he has been supplanted in his favor by some successful rival; and he passes in sorrowful review his former hap- piness, and contrasts it with his present misery. The oldest of these lyrics are of pagan origin, though usually with Christian additions. In the < Wanderer,* an unknown poet pictures the exile who has fled across the sea from his home. He is utterly lonely. He must lock his sorrow in his heart. In his dream he embraces and kisses his lord, and lays his head upon his knee, as of old. He awakes, and sees nothing but the gray sea, the snow and hail, and the birds dipping their wings in the waves. And so he reflects: the world is 552 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE full of care ; we are all in the hands of Fate. Then comes the Christian sentiment: happy is he who seeks comfort with his Father in heaven, with whom alone all things are enduring. Another fine poem of this class, somewhat similar to the * Wan- derer,* is the * Seafarer.' It is, however, distinct in detail and treat- ment, and has its own peculiar beauty. In the < Fortunes of Men,* the poet treats the uncertainty of all things earthly, from the point of view of the parent forecasting the ill and the good the future may bring to his sons. ^Deor's Lament* possesses a genuine lyrical quality of high order. The singer has been displaced by a rival, and finds consolation in his grief from reciting the woes that others have endured, and reflects in each instance, "That was got over, and so this may be.** Other poems on other subjects might be noticed here; as It covers with more or less com- pleteness the period from 449 to 1 1 54. This was supplemented by fanciful genealogies leading back to Woden, or even to Adam. It is not known when the practice of jotting down in the native speech notices of contemporary events began, but probably in very early times. It is believed, however, that no intelligent effort to collect and present them with order and system was made until the middle of the ninth century. In the oldest of the seven MSS. in which it has come down to us, we have the < Chronicle* to 891, as it was written down in Alfred's time and probably under his supervision- ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE 555 The meagreness of the earliest entries and the crudeness of the language, together with occasional picturesque force, indicate that many of them were drawn from current song or tradition. The style and fullness of the entries differ greatly throughout, as might be expected, since the < Chronicle ^ is the work of so many hands. From mere bare notices they vary to strong, full narrative and description. Indeed, the < Chronicle > contains some of the most effective prose produced by the Anglo-Saxons; and in one instance, under the date 937, the annalist describes the battle of Brunanburh in a poem of considerable merit. But we know the name of no single contributor. This * Chronicle* is the oldest and most important work of the kind produced outside of the classical languages in Europe. It is meagre in places, and its entire trustworthiness has been questioned. But it and Bede's < Ecclesiastical History,* supplemented by other Anglo-Saxon writings, constitute the basis of early English history; and this fact alone entitles it to the highest rank in importance among ancient documents. A large body of Anglo-Saxon prose, nearly all of it translation or adaptation of Latin works, has come down to us under the name of King Alfred. A peculiar interest attaches to these works. They belong to a period when the history of England depended more than at any other time upon the ability and devotion of one man; and that man, the most heroic and the greatest of English kings, was himself the author of them. When Alfred became king, in 871, his throne seemed tottering to its fall. Practically all the rest of England was at the feet of the ruthless Northmen, and soon Alfred himself was little better than a fugitive. But by his military skill, which was successful if not brill* iant, and by his never-wavering devotion and English persistency, he at last freed the southern part of the island from his merciless and treacherous enemies, and laid the firm foundation of West Saxon supremacy. If Alfred had failed in any respect to be the great king that he was, English history would have been changed for all time. Although Alfred had saved his kingdom, yet it was a kingdom almost in ruins. The hopeful advance of culture had been entirely arrested. The great centres of learning had been utterly destroyed in the north, and little remained intact in the south. And even worse than this was the demoralization of all classes, and an indispo- sition to renewed effort. There was, moreover, a great scarcity of books. Alfred showed himself as great in peace as in war, and at once set to work to meet all those difficulties. To supply the books that were so urgently needed, he found time in the midst of his perplex- ing cares to translate from the Latin into the native speech such 556 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE works as he thought would supply the most pressing want. This was the more necessary from the prevailing ignorance of Latin. It is likely that portions of the works that go under his name were pro- duced under his supervision by carefully selected co-workers. But it is certain that in a large part of them we may see the work of the great Alfred's own hand. He has used his own judgment in these translations, omitting whatever he did not think would be immediately helpful to his peo- ple, and making such additions as he thought might be of advantage. Just these additions have the g^reatest interest for us. He translated, for instance, Orosius's ^ History * ; a work in itself of inferior worth, but as an attempt at a universal history from the Christian point of view, he thought it best suited to the needs of his people. The Anglo-Saxon version contains most interesting additions of original matter by Alfred. They consist of accounts of the voyages of Ohtere, a Norwegian, who was the first, so far as we know, to sail around the North Cape and into the White Sea, and of Wulfstan, who ex- plored parts of the coast of the Baltic. These narratives give us our first definite information about the lands and people of these regions, and appear to have been taken down by the king directly as related by the explorers. Alfred added to this < History > also a description of Central Europe, which Morley calls [The Spear-Danes intrust the dead body of King Scyld to the sea, in a splendidly adorned ship. He had come to them mysteriously, alone in a ship when an infant.] AT THE hour that was fated Scyld then departed to the All-Father's keeping War-like to wend him; away then they bare him To the flood of the current, his fond-loving comrades, As himself he had bidden, while the friend of the Scyld- ings Word-sway wielded, and the well-loved land prince Long did rule them. The ring-stemmed vessel, Bark of the atheling, lay there at anchor, Icy in glimmer and eager for sailing ; The beloved leader laid they down there. Giver of rings, on the breast of the vessel, The famed by the mainmast. A many of jewels. Of fretted embossings, from far-lands brought over. Was placed near at hand then; and heard I not ever That a folk ever furnished a float more superbly With weapons of warfare, weeds for the battle. Bills and burnies; on his bosom sparkled Many a jewel that with him must travel On the flush of the flood afar on the current. And favors no fewer they furnished him soothly. Excellent folk-gems, than others had given him Lone on the main, the merest of infants: And a gold-fashioned standard they stretched under heaven High o'er his head, let the holm-currents bear him. Seaward consigned him: sad was their spirit, Their mood very mournful. Men are not able Soothly to tell us, they in halls who reside. Heroes under heaven, to what haven he hied. They guard the wolf-coverts. Lands inaccessible, wind-beaten nesses, Fearfullest fen-deeps, where a flood from the mountains 'Neath mists of the nesses netherward rattles. The stream under earth: not far is it henceward Measured by mile-lengths the mere-water standeth. Which forests hang over, with frost-whiting covered, A firm-rooted forest, the floods overshadow. ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE 559 There ever at night one an ill-meaning portent, A fire-flood may see; 'mong children of men None liveth so wise that wot of the bottom ; Though harassed by hounds the heath-stepper seek for. Fly to the forest, firm-antlered he-deer, Spurred from afar, his spirit he yieldeth. His life on the shore, ere in he will venture To cover his head. Uncanny the place is: Thence upward ascendeth the surging of waters. Wan to the welkin, when the wind is stirring The weather unpleasing, till the air groweth gloomy. Then the heavens lower. [Beowulf has plunged into the water of the mere in pursuit of Grendel's mother, and is a whole day in reaching the bottom. He is seized by the monster and carried to her cavern, where the combat ensues.] The earl then discovered he was down in some cavern Where no water whatever anywise harmed him. And the clutch of the current could come not anear him. Since the roofed-hall prevented; brightness a-gleaming. Fire-light he saw, flashing resplendent. The good one saw then the sea-bottom's monster. The mighty mere-woman; he made a great onset With weapon-of-battle ; his hand not desisted From striking; the war-blade struck on her head then A battle-song greedy. The stranger perceived then The sword would not bite, her life would not injure, But the falchion failed the folk-prince when straitened: Erst had it often onsets encountered. Oft cloven the helmet, the fated one's armor ; 'Twas the first time that ever the excellent jewel Had failed of its fame. Firm-mooded after. Not heedless of valor, but mindful of glory Was Higelac's kinsman; the hero-chief angry Cast then his carved-sword covered with jewels That it lay on the earth, hard and steel-pointed; He hoped in his strength, his hand-grapple sturdy. So any must act whenever he thinketh To gain him in battle glory unending, And is reckless of living. The lord of the War-Geats (He shrank not from battle) seized by the shoulder The mother of Grendel; then mighty in struggle Swung he his enemy, since his anger was kindled. That she fell to the floor. With fiirious grapple 560 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE She gave him requital early thereafter, And stretched out to grab him; the strongest of warriors Faint-mooded stumbled, till he fell in his traces, Foot-going champion. Then she sat on the hall-guest And wielded her war-knife wide-bladed, flashing, For her son would take vengeance, her one only bairn. His breast-armor woven bode on his shoulder; It guarded his life, the entrance defended 'Gainst sword-point and edges. Ecgtheow's son there Had fatally journeyed, champion of Geatmen, In the arms of the ocean, had the armor not given, Close-woven corselet, comfort and succor. And had God Most Holy not awarded the victory, All-knowing lord; easily did heaven's Ruler most righteous arrange it with justice; Uprose he erect ready for battle. Then he saw 'mid the war-gems a weapon of victory. An ancient giant-sword, of edges a-doughty. Glory of warriors: of weapons 'twas choicest. Only 'twas larger than any man else was Able to bear to the battle-encounter. The good and splendid work of the giants. He grasped then the sword-hilt, knight of the Scyldings, Bold and battle-grim, brandished his ring-sword. Hopeless of living, hotly he smote her. That the fiend-woman's neck firmly it grappled, Broke through her bone-joints, the bill fully pierced her Fate-cursed body, she fell to the ground then: The hand-sword was bloody, the hero exulted. [Fifty years have elapsed. The aged Beowulf has died from the injuries received in his struggle with the Fire Drake. His body is burned, and a barrow erected.] A folk of the Geatmen got him then ready A pile on the earth strong for the burning, Behung with helmets, hero-knight's targets. And bright-shining burnies, as he begged they should have them; Then wailing war-heroes their world-famous chieftain. Their liege-lord beloved, laid in the middle. Soldiers began then to make on the barrow The largest of dead fires: dark o'er the vapor The smoke cloud ascended; the sad-roaring fire, Mingled with weeping (the- wind-roar subsided) ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE 561 Till the building of bone it had broken to pieces, Hot in the heart. Heavy in spirit They mood-sad lamented the men-leader's min. . . . The men of the Weders made accordingly A hill on the height, high and extensive. Of sea-going sailors to be seen from a distance, And the brave one's beacon built where the fire was, In ten days' space, with a wall surrounded it. As wisest of world-folk could most worthily plan it. They placed in the barrow rings and jewels. All such ornaments as erst in the treasure War-mooded men had won in possession: The earnings of earlmen to earth they intrusted. The gold to the dust, where yet it remaineth As useless to mortals as in foregoing eras. 'Round the dead-mound rode then the doughty-in-battle. Bairns of all twelve of the chiefs of the people. More would they mourn, lament for their ruler. Speak in measure, mention him with pleasure; Weighed his worth, and his warlike achievements Mightily commended, as 'tis meet one praise his Liege lord in words and love him in spirit. When forth from his body he fares to destruction. So lamented mourning the men of the Geats, Fond loving vassals, the fall of their lord. Said he was gentlest of kings under heaven. Mildest of men and most philanthropic, Friendliest to folk-troops and fondest of honor. By permission of John Leslie Hall, the Translator, and D. C. Heath & Co.. Publishers DEOR'S LAMENT WWLAND often wandered in exile, doughty earl, ills endur'd, had for comrades care and longing, winter-cold wandering; woe oft found since Nithhad brought such need upon him, — laming wound on a lordlier man. That pass'd over, — and this may, too! In Beadohild's breast, her brothers' death wrought no such ill as her own disgrace, when she had openly understood 1-36 562 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE her maidhood vanished; she might no wise think how the case could thrive at all. That pass'd over, — and this may, tool We have heard enough of Hild's disgrace; heroes of Geat were homeless made, and sorrow stole their sleep away. That pass'd over, — and this may, too! Theodoric held for thirty winters Maering's burg, as many have known. That pass'd over, — and this may, too ; We have also heard of Ermanric's wolfish mind; wide was his sway o'er the Gothic race, — a ruler grim. Sat many a man in misery bound, waited but woe, and wish'd amain that ruin might fall on the royal house. That pass'd over, — and this may, too! Sitteth one sighing, sunder'd from happiness; all's dark within him; he deems forsooth that his share of evils shall endless be. Let such bethink him that thro' this world mighty God sends many changes: to earls a plenty honor he shows, ease and bliss; to others, sorrow. Now I will say of myself, and how I was singer once to the sons of Heoden, dear to my master, and Deor was my name. Long were the winters my lord was kind, happy my lot, — till Heorrenda now by grace of singing has gained the land which the ** haven of heroes*' erewhile gave me. That pass'd over, — and this may, too ! Translation of F. B. Gummere in the Atlantic Monthly, February, 1891: by permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE 563 FROM OFT-TIMES the Wanderer waiteth God's mercy, Sad and disconsolate though he may be. Far o'er the watery track must he travel. Long must he row o'er the rime-crusted sea — Plod his lone exile-path — Fate is severe. Mindful of slaughter, his kinsman friends' death. Mindful of hardships, the wanderer saith: — Oft must I lonely, when dawn doth appear. Wail o'er my sorrow — since living is none Whom I may whisper my heart's undertone. Know I full well that in man it is noble Fast in his bosom his sorrow to bind. Weary at heart, yet his Fate is unyielding — Help Cometh not to his suffering mind. Therefore do those who are thirsting for glory Bind in their bosom each pain's biting smart. Thus must I often, afar from my kinsmen. Fasten in fetters my home-banished heart. Now since the day when my dear prince departed Wrapped in the gloom of his dark earthen grave.. I, a poor exile, have wandered in winter Over the flood of the foam-frozen wave. Seeking, sad-hearted, some giver of treasure, Some one to cherish me friendless — some chief Able to guide me with wisdom of counsel. Willing to greet me and comfort my grief. He who hath tried it, and he alone, knoweth How harsh a comrade is comfortless Care Unto the man who hath no dear protector. Gold wrought with fingers nor treasure so fair. Chill is his heart as he roameth in exile — Thinketh of banquets his boyhood saw spread; Friends and companions partook of his pleasures — Knoweth he well that all friendless and lordless Sorrow awaits him a long bitter while; — Yet, when the spirits of Sorrow and Slumber Fasten with fetters the orphaned exile, Seemeth him then that he seeth in spirit, Meeteth and greeteth his master once more, Layeth his head on his lord's loving bosom, Just as he did in the dear days of yore. 5^4 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE But he awaketh, forsaken and friendless, Seeth before him the black billows rise, Seabirds are bathing and spreading their feathers, Hailsnow and hoar-frost are hiding the skies. Then in his heart the more heavily wounded, Longeth full sore for his loved one, his own, Sad is the mind that remembereth kinsmen. Greeting with gladness the days that are gone. Seemeth him then on the waves of the ocean Comrades are swimming, — well-nigh within reach,— Yet from the spiritless lips of the swimmers Cometh familiar no welcoming speech. So is his sorrow renewed and made sharper When the sad exile so often must send Thoughts of his suffering spirit to wander Wide o'er the waves where the rough billows blend. So, lest the thought of my mind should be clouded, Close must I prison my sadness of heart, When I remember my bold comrade-kinsmen. How from the mede-hall I saw them depart. Thus is the earth with its splendor departing — Day after day it is passing away, Nor may a mortal have much of true wisdom Till his world-life numbers many a day. He who is wise, then, must learn to be patient — Not too hot-hearted, too hasty of speech. Neither too weak nor too bold in the battle. Fearful, nor joyous, nor greedy to reach, Neither too ready to boast till he knoweth — Man must abide, when he vaunted his pride. Till strong of mind he hath surely determined Whether his purpose can be turned aside. Surely the wise man may see like the desert How the whole wealth of the world lieth waste, How through the earth the lone walls are still standing, Blown by the wind and despoiled and defaced. Covered with frost, the proud dwellings are ruined, Crumbled the wine-halls — the king lieth low, Robbed of his pride — and his troop have all fallen Proud by the wall — some, the spoil of the foe, War took away — and some the fierce sea-fowl Over the ocean — and some the wolf gray Tore after death — and yet others the hero Sad-faced has laid in earth-caverns away. ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE ^65 Thus at his will the eternal Creator Famished the fields of the earth's ample fold — Until her dwellers abandoned their feast-boards. Void stood the work of the giants of old. One who was viewing full wisely this wall-place. Pondering deeply his dark, dreary life. Spake then as follows, his past thus reviewing, Years full of slaughter and struggle and strife: — « Whither, alas, have my horses been carried? Whither, alas, are my kinspeople gone ? Where is my giver of treasure and feasting ? Where are the joys of the hall I have known ? Ah, the bright cup — and the corseleted warrior — Ah, the bright joy of a king's happy lot! How the glad time has forever departed, Swallowed in darkness, as though it were not! Standeth, instead of the troop of young warriors, Stained with the bodies of dragons, a wall — The men were cut down in their pride by the spear- points — Blood-greedy weapons — but noble their fall. Earth is enwrapped in the lowering tempest. Fierce on the stone-cliff the storm rushes forth, Cold winter-terror, the night shade is dark'ning. Hail-storms are laden with death from the north. All full of hardships is earthly existence — Here the decrees of the Fates have their sway — Fleeting is treasure and fleeting is friendship — Here man is transient, here friends pass away. Earth's widely stretching, extensive domain. Desolate all — empty, idle, and vain.** In < Modern Language Notes*: Translation of W. R. Sims. THE SEAFARER SOOTH the song that I of myself can sing, Telling of my travels: how in troublous days. Hours of hardship oft I've borne! With a bitter breast-care I have been abiding: Many seats of sorrow in my ship have known! Frightful was the whirl of waves, when it was my part Narrow watch at night to keep, on my Vessel's prow When it rushed the rocks along. By the rigid cold 566 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE Fast my feet were pinched, fettered by the frost, By the chains of cold. Care was sighing then Hot my heart around; hunger rent to shreds Courage in me, me sea-wearied! This the man knows not, He to whom it happens, happiest on earth. How I, carked with care, in the ice-cold sea, Overwent the winter on my wander-ways. All forlorn of happiness, all bereft of loving kinsmen. Hung about with icicles; flew the hail in showers. Nothing heard I there save the howling of the sea, And the ice-chilled billow, 'whiles the crying of the swan. All the glee I got me was the gannet's scream. And the swoughing of the seal, 'stead of mirth of men; 'Stead of the mead-drinking, moaning of the sea-mew. There the storms smote on the crags, there the swallow of the sea Answered to them, icy-plumed; and that answer oft the earn — Wet his wings were — barked aloud. None of all my kinsmen Could this sorrow-laden soul stir to any joy. Little then does he believe who life's pleasure owns, While he tarries in the towns, and but trifling ills, Proud and insolent with wine — how out-wearied I Often must outstay on the ocean path! Sombre grew the shade of night, and it snowed from north- ward. Frost the field enchained, fell the hail on earth. Coldest of all grains. Wherefore now then crash together Thoughts my soul within that I should myself adventure The high streamings of the sea, and the sport of the salt waves ! For a passion of the mind every moment pricks me on All my life to set a faring ; so that far from hence, I may seek the shore of the strange outlanders. Yes, so haughty of his heart is no hero on the earth. Nor so good in all his giving, nor so generous in youth, Nor so daring in his deed, nor so dear unto his lord, That he has not always yearning unto his sea-faring. To whatever work his Lord may have will to make for him. For the harp he has no heart, nor for having of the rings, Nor in woman is his weal, in the world he's no delight, Nor in anything whatever save the tossing o'er the waves! Oh, forever he has longing who is urged towards the sea. ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE 567 Trees rebloom with blossoms, burghs are fair again, Winsome are the wide plains, and the world is gay — All doth only challenge the impassioned heart Of his courage to the voyage, whosoever thus bethinks him, O'er the ocean billows, far away to go. Every cuckoo calls a warning, with his chant of sorrow! Sings the summer's watchman, sorrow is he boding. Bitter in the bosom's hoard. This the brave man wots not of, Not the warrior rich in welfare — what the wanderer endures. Who his paths of banishment, widest places on the sea. For behold, my thought hovers now above my heart; O'er the surging flood of sea now my spirit flies, O'er the homeland of the whale — hovers then afar O'er the foldings of the earth! Now again it flies to me Full of yearning, greedy! Yells that lonely flier; Whets upon the Whale-way irresistibly my heart. O'er the storming of the seas! Translation of Stopford Brooke. THE FORTUNES OF MEN FULL often it falls out, by fortune from God, That a man and a maiden may marry in this world, Find cheer in the child whom they cherish and care for, Tenderly tend it, until the time comes. Beyond the first years, when the young limbs increasing Grown firm with life's fullness, are formed for their work. Fond father and mother so guide it and feed it. Give gifts to it, clothe it: God only can know What lot to its latter days life has to bring. To some that make music in life's morning hour Pining days are appointed of plaint at the close. One the wild wolf shall eat, hoary haunter of wastes: His mother shall mourn the small strength of a man. One shall sharp hunger slay; one shall the storm beat down; One be destroyed by darts, one die in war. One shall live losing the light of his eyes. Feel blindly with fingers; and one, lame of foot. With sinew-wound wearily wasteth away. Musing and mourning, with death in his mind. One, failing feathers, shall fall from the height Of the tall forest tree; yet he trips as though flying, Plays proudly in air till he reaches the point 568 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE Where the woodgrowth is weak; life then whirls in his brain, Bereft of his reason he sinks to the root, Falls flat on the ground, his life fleeting away. Afoot on the far-ways, his food in his hand, One shall go grieving, and great be his need. Press dew on the paths of the perilous lands Where the stranger may strike, where live none to sustain. All shun the desolate for being sad. One the great gallows shall have in its grasp, ' Stained in dark agony, till the soul's stay, The bone-house, is bloodily all broken up; When the harsh raven hacks eyes from the head. The sallow-coated, slits the soulless man. Nor can he shield from shame, scare with his hands, Off from their eager feast prowlers of air. Lost is his life to him, left is no breath. Bleached on the gallows-beam bides he his doom; Cold death-mists close round him called the Accursed. One shall die by the dagger, in wrath, drenched with ale, Wild through wine, on the mead bench, too swift with his words ; Through the hand that brings beer, through the gay boon companion. His mouth has no measure, his mood no restraint; Too lightly his life shall the wretched one lose, Undergo the great ill, be left empty of joy. When they speak of him slain by the sweetness of mead, His comrades shall call him one killed by himself. Some have good hap, and some hard days of toil; Some glad glow of youth, and some glory in war, Strength in the strife; some sling the stone, some shoot. One shall handle the harp, at the feet of his hero Sit and win wealth from the will of his Lord; Still quickly contriving the throb of the cords, The nail nimbly makes music, awakes a glad noise. While the heart of the harper throbs, hurried by zeal. Translation of Henry Morley. T ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE 569 FROM < JUDITH > [The Ass)nrian officers, obeying the commands of Holofemes, come to the rarouse.] *HEY then at the feast proceeded to sit, The proud to the wine-drinking, all his comrades-in-ill. Bold mailed-warriors. There were lofty beakers Oft borne along the benches, also were cups and flagons Full to the hall-sitters borne. The fated partook of them. Brave warriors-with-shields, though the mighty weened not of it. Awful lord of earls. Then was Holofemes, Gold-friend of men, full of wine-joy: He laughed and clamored, shouted and dinned, That children of men from afar might hear How the strong-minded both stormed and yelled. Moody and mead-drunken, often admonished The sitters-on-benches to bear themselves well. Thus did the hateful one during all day His liege-men loyal keep plying with wine. Stout-hearted giver of treasure, until they lay in a swoon. [Holofemes has been slain by Judith. The Hebrews, encouraged by her, surprise the drunken and sleeping Assyrians.] Then the band of the brave was quickly prepared. Of the bold for battle; stepped out the valiant Men and comrades, bore their banners. Went forth to fight straight on their way The heroes 'neath helmets from the holy city At the dawn itself; shields made a din. Loudly resounded. TK^ereat laughed the lank Wolf iu the wood, and the raven wan. Fowl greedy for slaughter: both of them knew That for them the warriors thought to provide Their fill on the fated* and flew on their track The dewy-winged eagle eager for prey, The dusky-coated sang his war-song. The crooked-beaked. Stepped forth the warriors, The heroes for battle with boards protected, With hollow shields, who awhile before The foreign-folk's reproach endured, The heathens' scorn; fiercely was that 570 ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE At the ash-spear's play to them all repaid. All the Assyrians, after the Hebrews Under their banners had boldly advanced To the army-camps. They bravely then Forthright let fly showers of arrows, Of battle-adders, out from the horn-bows. Of strongly-made shafts; stormed they aloud. The cruel warriors, sent forth their spears Among the brave; the heroes were angry, The dwellers-in-land, with the loathed race; The stern-minded stepped, the stout-in-heart, Rudely awakened their ancient foes Weary from mead; with hands drew forth The men from the sheaths the brightly-marked swords Most choice in their edges, eagerly struck Of the host of Assyrians the battle-warriors, The hostile-minded; not one they spared Of the army-folk, nor low nor high Of living men, whom they might subdue. By consent of Ginn & Co. Translation of Gamett. THE FIGHT AT MALDON [The Anglo-Saxons under Byrhtnoth are drawn up on one side of Panta stream, the Northmen on the other. The herald of the Northmen demands tribute. Byrhtnoth replies.] THEN stood on the stathe, stoutly did call. The wikings' herald, with words he spake, Who boastfully bore from the brine-farers An errand to th' earl, where he stood on the shore: — <*To thee me did send the seamen snell, Bade to thee say, thou must send to them quickly Bracelets for safety; and 'tis better for you That ye this spear-rush with tribute buy off Than we in so fierce a fight engage. We need not each spill, if ye speed to this: We will for the pay a peace confirm. If thou that redest, who art highest in rank, If thou to the seamen at their own pleasure Money for peace, and take peace from us, We will with the treasure betake us to ship, Fare on the flood, and peace with you confirm,'* Byrhtnoth replied, his buckler uplifted, ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE 571. Waved his slim spear, with words he spake. Angry and firm gave answer to him: — *: Translation of Robert Sharp. ANGLO-SAXON LITERATURE 573 FROM THE Selection from the entry for the year 897 THEN Alfred, the King-, ordered long ships built to oppose the war-ships of the enemy. They were very nearly twice as long as the others; some had sixty oars, some more. They were both swifter and steadier, and also higher than the others; they were shaped neither on the Frisian model nor on the Danish, but as it seemed to King Alfred that they would be most useful. Then, at a certain time in that year, came six hostile ships to Wight, and did much damage, both in Devon and elsewhere on the seaboard. Then the King ordered that nine of the new ships should proceed thither. And his ships blockaded the mouth of the passage on the outer-sea against the enemy. Then the Danes came out with three ships against the King's ships; but three of the Danish ships lay above the mouth, high and dry aground; and the men were gone off upon the shore. Then the King's men took two of the three ships outside, at the mouth, and slew the crews; but one ship escaped. On this one all the men were slain except five; these escaped because the King's ship got aground. They were aground, moreover, very inconveniently, since three were situated upon the same side of the channel with the three stranded Danish ships, and all the others were upon the other side, so that there could be no communication between the two divisions. But when the water had ebbed many furlongs from the ships, then went the Danes from their three ships to the King's three ships that had been left dry upon the same side by the ebbing of the tide, and they fought together there. Then were slain Lucumon, the King's Reeve, Wulfheard the Frisian, and ^bbe the Frisian, and ^thelhere the Frisian, and ^thel- ferth the King's companion, and of all the men Frisians and Eng- lish, sixty-two; and of the Danes, one hundred and twenty. But the flood came to the Danish ships before the Christians could shove theirs out, and for that reason the Danes rowed off. They were, nevertheless, so grievously wounded that they could not row around the land of the South Saxons, and the sea cast up there two of the ships upon the shore. And the men from them were led to Winchester to the King, and he commanded them to be hanged there. But the men who were in the remain- ing ship came to East Anglia, sorely wounded. Translation of Robert Sharp. 574 GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO (1864-) jN Italian poet and novelist of early promise, who has become a somewhat unique figure in contemporary litera- ture, Gabriele d'Annunzio is a native of the Abruzzi, born in the little village of Pescara, on the Adriatic coast. Its picturesque scenery has formed the background for more than one of his stories. At the age of fifteen, while still a student at Prato, he published his first volume of poems, ^Intermezzo di Rime* (Interludes of Verse): "grand, plastic verse, of an impeccable prosody,'* as he maintained in their defense, but so daringly erotic that their appearance created no small scandal. Other poems followed at intervals, notably *I1 Canto Nuovo* (The New Song: Rome, 1882), ^Isotteo e la Chimera* (Isotteo and the Chimera: Rome, 1890), < Poema Paradisiaco, * and < Odi Navali* (Marine Odes: Milan, 1893), which leave no doubt of his high rank as poet. The novel, however, is his chosen vehicle of expression, and the one which gives fullest scope to his rich and versatile genius. His first long story, and < Bel- Ami > as of is not remarkable either for depth or for novelty, being the needlessly detailed record of Sperelli's rela- tions with two married women, of totally opposite type.*:. ^76 GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO * Giovanni Episcopo* is a brief, painful tragedy of low life, written under the influence of Russian evangelism, and full of reminiscences of Dostoievsky's * Crime and Punishment.^ Giovanni is a poor clerk, of a weak, pusillanimous nature, completely dominated by a coarse, brutal companion, Giulio Wanzer, who makes him an abject slave, until a detected forgery compels Wanzer to flee the country. Epis- copo then marries Ginevra, the pretty but unprincipled waitress at his pension, who speedily drags him down to the lowest depths of degra- dation, making him a mere nonentity in his own household, willing to live on the proceeds of her infamy. They have one child, a boy, Giro, on whom Giovanni lavishes all his suppressed tenderness. After ten years of this martyrdom, the hated Wanzer reappears and installs himself as husband in the Episcopo household. Giovanni submits in helpless fury, till one day Wanzer beats Ginevra, and little Giro inter- venes to protect his mother. Wanzer turns on the child, and a spark of manhood is at last kindled in Giovanni's breast. He springs upon Wanzer, and with the pent-up rage of years stabs him. ALL of a sudden, Albadora, the septuagenarian Cybele, she who had given life to twenty-two sons and daughters, came toiling up the narrow lane into the court, and indicating the neighboring shore, where it skirted the promontory on the left, announced breathlessly: — " Down yonder there has been a child drowned ! * Candia made the sign of the cross. Giorgio arose and ascended to the loggia, to observe the spot designated. Upon the sand, below the promontory, in close vicinity to the chain of rocks and the tunnel, he perceived a blotch of white, presumably the sheet which hid the little body. A group of people had gathered around it. As Ippolita had gone to mass with Elena at the chapel of the Port, he yielded to his curiosity and said to his entertainers: — ** I am going down to see. " ^^ Why ? "^ asked Candia. " Why do you wish to put a pain in your heart ? *^ Hastening down the narrow lane, he descended by a short cut to the beach, and continued along the water. Reaching the spot, somewhat out of breath, he inquired: — " What has happened ? ^^ The assembled peasants saluted him and made way for him. One of them answered tranquilly: — *The son of a mother has been drowned.* Another, clad in linen, who seemed to be standing guard over the corpse, bent down and drew aside the sheet. The inert little body was revealed, extended upon the unyield- ing sand. It was a lad, eight or nine years old, fair and frail, with slender limbs. His head was supported on his few humble garments, rolled up in place of pillow, — the shirt, the blue trousers, the red sash, the cap of limp felt. His face was but slightly livid, with flat nose, prominent forehead, and long, long lashes ; the mouth was half open, with thick lips which were turning blue, between which the widely spaced teeth gleamed white. His neck was slender, flaccid as a wilted stem, and seamed with tiny creases. The jointure of the arms at the shoulder looked feeble. The arms themselves were fragile, and covered with a down similar to the fine plumage which clothes !— 37 578 GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO the bodies of newly hatched birds. The whole outline of the ribs was distinctly visible; down the middle of the breast the skin was divided by a darker line; the navel stood out, like a knot. The feet, slightly bloated, had assumed the same sallow color as the little hands, which were callous and strewn with warts, with white nails beginning to turn livid. On the left arm, on the thighs near the groin, and further down, on the knees and along the legs, appeared reddish blotches of scurf. Every detail of this wretched little body assumed, in the eyes of Giorgio, an extraordinary significance, immobile as it was and fixed forever in the rigidity of death. ** How was he drowned ? Where ? '* he questioned, lowering his voice. The man dressed in linen gave, with some show of impatience^ the account which he had probably had to repeat too many times already. He had a brutal countenance, square-cut, with bushy brows, and a large mouth, harsh and savage. Only a little while after leading the sheep back to their stalls, the lad, taking his breakfast along with him, had gone down, together with a comrade, to bathe. He had hardly set foot in the water, when he had fallen and was drowned. At the cries of his comrade, some one from the house overhead on the bluff had hurried down, and wading in up to the knees, had dragged him from the water half dead; they had turned him upside down to make him throw up the water, they had shaken him, but to no pur- pose. To indicate just how far the poor little fellow had gone in, the man picked up a pebble and threw it into the sea. ^^ There, only to there; at three yards from the shore!'* The sea lay at rest, breathing peacefully, close to the head of the dead child. But the sun blazed fiercely down upon the sand; and something pitiless, emanating from that sky of flame and from those stolid witnesses, seemed to pass over the pallid corpse. **Why,* asked Giorgio, ^*do you not place him in the shade, in one of the houses, on a bed ? '* ^^ He is not to be moved,** declared the man on guard, ^^ until they hold the inquest.** ^*At least carry him into the shade, down there, below the embankment ! '* Stubbornly the man reiterated, *^ He is not to be moved. '* There could be no sadder sight than that frail, lifeless little being, extended on the stones, and watched over by the impassive GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO 579 brute who repeated his account every time in the selfsame words, and every time made the selfsame gesture, throwing a pebble into the sea: — "There; only to there.* A woman joined the group, a hook-nosed termagant, with gray eyes and sour lips, mother of the dead boy's comrade. She manifested plainly a mistrustful restlessness, as if she anticipated some accusation against her own son. She spoke with bitterness, and seemed almost to bear a grudge against the victim. " It was his destiny. God had said to him, * Go into the sea and end yourself. * " She gesticulated with vehemence. "What did he go in for, if he did not know how to swim ? ** A young lad, a stranger in the district, the son of a mariner, repeated contemptuously, " Yes, what did he go in for ? We, yes, who know how to swim — * . . . Other people joined the group, gazed with cold curiosity, then lingered or passed on. A crowd occupied the railroad embank- ment, another gathered on the crest of the promontory, as if at a spectacle. Children, seated or kneeling, played with pebbles, toss- ing them into the air and catching them, now on the back and now in the hollow of their hands. They all showed the same profound indifference to the presence of other people's troubles and of death. Another woman joined the group on her way home from mass, wearing a dress of silk and all her gold ornaments. For her also the harassed custodian repeated his account, for her also he indi- cated the spot in the water. She was talkative. " I am always saying to my children, *■ Don't you go into the water, or I will kill you ! * The sea is the sea. Who can save himself ? * She called to mind other instances of drowning; she called to mind the case of the drowned man with the head cut off, driven by the waves all the way to San Vito, and found among the rocks by a child. " Here, among these rocks. He came and told us, * There is a dead man there. ^ We thought he was joking. But we came and we found. He had no head. They had an inquest; he was buried in a ditch; then in the night he was dug up again. His flesh was all mangled and like jelly, but he still had his boots on. The judge said, ^See, they are better than mineP So he must 580 GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO have been a rich man. And it turned out that he was a dealer in cattle. They had killed him and chopped oif his head, and had thrown him into the Tronto.^^ . . . She continued to talk in her shrill voice, from time to time sucking in the superfluous saliva with a slight hissing sound, <^ And the mother ? When is the mother coming ? * At that name there arose exclamations of compassion from all the women who had gathered. ^^ The mother ! There comes the mother, now ! '* And all of them turned around, fancying that they saw her in the far distance, along the burning strand. Some of the women could give particulars about her. Her name was Riccangela; she was a widow with seven children. She had placed this one in a farmer's family, so that he might tend the sheep, and gain a morsel of bread. One woman said, gazing down at the corpse, ^*Who knows how much pains the mother has taken in raising him ! *^ Another said, ■**To keep the children from going hungry she has even had to ask charity.*^ Another told how, only a few months before, the unfortunate child had come very near strangling to death in a courtyard in a pool of water barely six inches deep. All the women repeated, *' It was his destiny. He was bound to die that way. * And the suspense of waiting rendered them restless, anxious. *^ The mother ! There comes the mother now ! " Feeling himself grow sick at heart, Giorgio exclaimed, ^^ Can't you take him into the shade, or into a house, so that the mother will not see him here naked on the stones, under a sun like this ? ** Stubbornly the man on guard objected: — <^ He is not to be touched. He is not to be moved — until the inquest is held. ^* The bystanders gazed in surprise at the stranger, — Candia's stranger. Their number was augmenting. A few occupied the embankment shaded with acacias; others crowned the promon- tory rising abruptly from the rocks. Here and there, on the monstrous bowlders, a tiny boat lay sparkling like gold at the foot of the detached crag, so lofty that it gave the effect of the ruins of some Cyclopean tower, confronting the immensity of the sea. All at once, from above on the height, a voice announced, "There she is.» Other voices followed: — "The mother! The mother!** GABRIELE D'ANNUNZIO ^gl All turned. Some stepped down from the embankment. Those on the promontory leaned far over. All became silent, in expectation. The man on guard drew the sheet once more over the corpse. In the midst of the silence, the sea barely seemed to draw its breath, the acacias barely rustled. And then through the silence they could hear her cries as she drew near. The mother came along the strand, beneath the sun, crying aloud. She was clad in widow's mourning. She tottered along the sand, with bowed body, calling out, " O my son ! My son ! * She raised her palms to heaven, and then struck them upon her knees, calling out, " My son ! ** One of her older sons, with a red handkerchief bound around his neck, to hide some sore, followed her like one demented, dashing aside his tears with the back of his hand. She ad- vanced along the strand, beating her knees, directing her steps toward the sheet. And as she called upon her dead, there issued from her mouth sounds scarcely human, but rather like the howling of some savage dog. As she drew near, she bent over lower and lower, she placed herself almost on all fours-; till, reaching him, she threw herself with a howl upon the sheet. She arose again. With hand rough and toil-stained, hand toughened by every variety of labor, she uncovered the body. She gazed upon it a few instants, motionless as though turned to stone. Then time and time again, shrilly, with all the power of her voice, she called as if trying to awaken him, ^*My son! My son ! My son ! ** Sobs suffocated her. Kneeling beside him, she beat her sides furiously with her fists. She turned her despairing eyes around upon the circle of strangers. During a pause in her paroxysms she seemed to recollect herself. And then she began to sing. She sang her sorrow in a rhythm which rose and fell continually, like the palpitation of a heart. It was the ancient monody which from time immemorial, in the land of the Abruzzi, the women have sung over the remains of their relatives. It was the melodious eloquence of sacred sorrow, which renewed spontaneously, in the profundity of her being, this hereditary rhythm in which the mothers of bygone ages had modulated their lamentations. She sang on and on: — ^ in 1734; and by English versions of the ^Arabian Nights > from 17 12 onward. The latter were derived from Galland's translation of the < Thousand and One Nights, > which began to appear, in French, in 1704. Next to nothing was generally known of Oriental literature from that time until the end of the eighteenth century. The East India Company fostered the study of the classics of the extreme Orient; and the first Napoleon opened Egypt, — his savans marched in the centre of the invading squares. The flagship of the English fleet which blockaded Napoleon's army carried an Austro-German diplomatist and scholar, — Baron von Ham- mer-Purgstall, — part of whose mission was to procure a complete manuscript of the < Arabian Nights.* It was then supposed that these tales were the daily food of all Turks, Arabians, and Syrians. To the intense surprise of Von Hammer, he learned that they were never recited in the coffee-houses of Constantinople, and that they were not to be found at all outside of Egypt. His dismay and disappointment were soon richly compensated, however, by the discovery of the Arabian romance of ^Antar,* the national classic, hitherto unknown in Europe, except for an enthu- siastic notice which had fallen by chance into the hands of Sir William Jones. The entire work was soon collected. It is of inter- minable length in the original, being often found in thirty or forty manuscript volumes in quarto, in seventy or eighty in octavo. Por- tions of it have been translated into English, German, and French. English readers can consult it best in ^Antar,* a Bedouin romance, translated from the Arabic by Terrick Hamilton, in four volumes 8vo (London, 1820). Hamilton's translation, now rare, covers only a portion of the original ; and a new translation, suitably abridged, is much needed. The book purports to have been written more than a thousand years ago, — in the golden prime of the Caliph Hariin-al-Rashid (786-809) and of his sons and successors, Amin (809-813) and Mamun (813-834), — by the famous As-Asmai (born 741, died about 830). It is in fact a later compilation, probably of the twelth century. (Baron ANTAR • • » *^ * ANTAR 587 von Hammer's MS. was engrossed in the year 1466.) Whatever the exact date may have been, it was probably not much later than A. D. 1200. The main outlines of Antar's life are historical. Many partic- ulars are derived from historic accounts of the lives of other Arabian heroes (Duraid and others) and are transferred bodily to the biogra- phy of Antar. They date back to the sixth centui^*. Most of the details must be imaginary, but they are skillfully contrived by a writer who knew the life of the desert Arab at first hand. The verses with which the volumes abound are in many cases undoubt- edly Antar's. (They are printed in italics in what follows.) In any event, the book in its present form has been the delight of all Arabians for many centuries. Every wild Bedouin of the desert knew much of the tale bj^ heart, and listened to its periods and to its poems with quivering interest. His more cultivated brothers of the cities possessed one or many of its volumes. Every coffee-house in Aleppo, Bagdad, or Constantinople had a narrator who, night after night, recited it to rapt audiences. The unanimous opinion of the East has always placed the romance .of < Antar* at the summit of such literature. As one of their authors well says: — **The Thousand and One Nights* is for the amusement of women and children; * Antar* is a book for men. From it they learn lessons of eloquence, of mag^nanimity, of generosity, and of statecraft.** Even the prophet Muhammad, well-known foe to poetry and to poets, instructed his disciples to relate to their children the traditions concerning Antar, ®for these will steel their hearts harder than stone.** The book belongs among the great national classics, like the If he is in the midst of tumult and battle, mowing down rank after rank of the enemy with his sword, they seize their own weapons and rise to fly to his rescue. If he falls into the snares of treachery, their foreheads contract with angry indignation and they exclaim, If the hero at last sinks under the superior forces of the enemy, a long and ardent sigh escapes from their breasts, with the farewell blessing, < Allah's compassion be with him — may he rest in peace. > . . . Descriptions of the beauties of nature, especially of the spring, are received with exclama- tions. Nothing equals the delight which sparkles in every eye when the narrator draws a picture of feminine beauty. >> The question as to the exact relation of the chivalry of Europe to the earlier chivalry of Arabia and of the East is a large one, and one which must be left to scholars. It is certain that Spenser and Sir Philip Sidney owe far more to Saladin than we commonly sup- pose. The tales of Boccaccio (1350) show that the Italians of that day still held the Arabs to be their teachers in chivalry, and at least their equals in art, science, and civilization; and the Italy of 1300 was a century in advance of the rest of Europe. In 1268 two broth- ers of the King of Castile, with 800 other Spanish gentlemen, were serving under the banners of the Muslim in Tunis. The knightly ideal of both Moors and Spaniards was to be «Like steel among swords, Like wax among ladies.® Hospitality, generosity, magnanimity, the protection of the weak, punctilious observance of the plighted faith, pride of birth and lineage, glory in personal valor — these were the knightly virtues common to Arab and Christian warriors. Antar and his knights, Ibla and her maidens, are the Oriental counterparts of Launcelot and Arthur, of Guinevere and Iseult. The primary duty of the early Arab was biood-revenge. An insult to himself, or an injury to the tribe, must be wiped out with the blood of the offender. Hence arose the multitude of tribal feuds. It was Muhammad who first checked the private feud by fixing *the price of blood >^ to be paid by the aggressor or by his tribe. In the time of Antar revenge was the foremost duty. Ideals of excellence change as circumstances alter. Virtues go out of fashion (like the magnificence of Aristotle), or acquire an entirely new importance (as veracity, since England became a trading nation). Some day we may possess a natural history of the virtues. 5 go ANTAR The service of the loved one by the early Arab was a passion completely different from the vain gallantry of the mediaeval knight of Europe. He sought for the complete possession of his chosen mistress, and was eager to earn it by multitudes of chivalric deeds; but he could not have understood the sentimentalities of the Trou- badours. The systematic fantasies of the <* Courts of Love '* would have seemed cold follies to Arab chivalry — as indeed they are, though they have led to something better. In generosity, in mag- nanimity, the Arab knight far surpassed his European brother. Hos- pitality was a point of honor to both. As to the noble Arabs of those days, when any one demanded their protection, no one ever inquired what was the matter; for if he asked any questions, it would be said of him that he was afraid. The poets have thus described them in verse : — «They rise when any one calls out to them, and they haste before asking any questions; they aid him against his enemies that seek his life, and they return honored to their families. » The Arab was the knight of the tent and the desert. His deeds were immediately known to his fellows; discussed and weighed in every household of his tribe. The Christian knight of the Middle Ages, living isolated in his stronghold, was less immediately affected by the opinions of his class. Tribal allegiance was developed in the first case, independence in the second. Scholars tell us that the romance of *Antar' is priceless for faith- ful pictures of the times before the advent of Muhammad, which are confirmed by all that remains of the poetry of < Antar ' is the epic of success crowning human valor; the tales in the < Arabian Nights,' at their best, are the fond fancies of the fatalist whose best endeavor is at the mercy of every capricious Jinni. The < Arabian Nights' contains one tale of the early Arabs, — the story of Gharib and his brother Ajib, — which repeats some of the ANTAR 591 exploits of Antar; a tale far inferior to the romance. The excellences of the * Arabian Nights* are of another order. We must look for them in the pompous enchantments of the City of Brass, or in the tender constancy of Aziz and Azizah, or in the tale of Hasan of Bassorah, with its lovely study of the friendship of a foster-sister, and its wonderful presentment of the magic surroundings of the country of the Jann. To select specimens from < Antar > is like selecting from < Robinson Crusoe. > In the romance, Antar's adventures go on and on, and the character of the hero develops before one's eyes. It may be that the leisure of the desert is needed fully to appreciate this master-work. ^.^id^Lt^ THE VALOR OF ANTAR Now Antar was becoming a big boy, and grew up, and used to accompany his mother, Zebeeba, to the pastures, and he watched the cattle; and this he continued to do till he increased in stature. He used to walk and run about to harden himself, till at length his muscles were strengthened, his frame altogether more robust, his bones more firm and solid, and his speech correct. His days were passed in roaming about the mountain sides; and thtis he continued till he attained his tenth year. [He now kills a wolf which had attacked his father's flocks, and breaks into verse to celebrate his victory: — ] O thou wolf, eager for death, I have left thee wallowing in dust, and spoiled of life; thou wouldst have the run of my flocks, but I have left thee dyed with blood; thou 7vouldst disperse my sheep, and thou knowest I am a lion that never fears. This is the raay I treat thee, thou dog of the desert. Hast thou rver before seen battle and wars? [His next adventure brought him to the notice of the chief of the tribe, — King Zoheir. A slave of Prince Shas insulted a poor, feeble woman who was tending her sheep; on which Antar « dashed him against the gfround. And his length and breadth were all one mass.» This deed won for Antar the hatred of Prince Shas, the friendship of the gentle Prince Malik, and the praise of the king, their father. « This valiant fellow,** said the king, « has defended the honor of women. »] \ 592 ANTAR From that day both King Zoheir and his son Malik conceived a great affection for Antar, and as Antar returned home, the women all collected around him to ask him what had happened; among them were his aunts and his cousin, whose name was Ibla. Now Ibla was younger than Antar, and a merry lass. She was lovely as the moon at its full; and perfectly beautiful and elegant. . . . One day he entered the house of his uncle Malik and found his aunt combing his cousin Ibla's hair, which flowed down her back, dark as the shades of night. Antar was quite surprised; he was greatly agitated, and could pay no atten- tion to anything; he was anxious and thoughtful, and his anguish daily became more oppressive. [Meeting her at a feast, he addressed her in verse: — ] The lonely virgvi has struck my heart 7vith the arroiv of a glance, for which there is no cure. Sometitnes she wishes for a feast in the sandhills, like a faivn whose eyes are full of magic. She moi he cried, <* to-day will I destroy ANTAR 595 all this race.* Thus he proceeded until he terrified the warriors, and huried them into woe and disgrace, hewing off their arms and their joints. [At the moment of Antar's victory his friends arrive to see his triumph. On his way back with them he celebrates his love for Ibla in verses.] When the breezes blow from Mount Saadi, their freshness cabns the fire of my love and transports. . . . Jifer throat complains of the darkness of her necklaces. Alas! the effects of that throat and that necklace! Will fortune rcer, O daughter of Malik, ever bless 7ne with thy embrace, that ivould cure my heart of the sorrows of loi'e? If fny eye could see her baggage camels, and her fatnily, I would rub my cheeks on the hoofs of her camels. I will kiss the earth where thou art; mayhap the fire of my love and ecstasy may be quenched. . . . I am the well-known Antar, the chief of his tribe, and I shall die; but when I am gone, histories shall tell of me. [From that day forth Antar was named Abool-fawaris, that is to say, the father of horsemen. His sword, Dhami — the trenchant — was forged from a meteor that fell from the sky; it was two cubits long and two spans wide. If it were presented to Nushirvan, King of Persia, he would exalt the giver with favors; or if it were presented to the Emperor of Europe, one would be enriched ^vith treasures of gold and silver.] As soon as Gheidac saw the tribe of Abs, and Antar the destroyer of horsemen, his heart was overjoyed and he cried out, ** This is a glorious morning ; to-day will I take my revenge. * So he assailed the tribe of Abs and Adnan, and his people attacked behind him like a cloud when it pours forth water and rains. And the Knight of Abs assaulted them likewise, anxious to try his sword, the famous Dhami. And Antar fought with Gheidac, and wearied him, and shouted at him, and filled him with horror; then assailed him so that stirrup grated stirrup; and he struck him on the head with Dhami. He cleft his visor and wadding, and his sword played away between the eyes, passing through his shoulders down to the back of the horse, even down \o the ground; and he and his horse made four pieces; and to the strict- est observer, it would appear that he had divided them with scales. And God prospered Antar in all that he did, so that he slew all he aimed at, and overthrew all he touched. "Nobility,*^ said Antar, << among liberal men, is the thrust of the spear, the blow of the sword, and patience beneath the battle- dust. I am the physician of the tribe of Abs in sickness, their protector in disgrace, the defender of their wives when they are 596 ANTAR in trouble, their horseman when they are in glory, and their sword when they rush to arms.*^ [This was Antar's speech to Monzar, King of the Arabs, when he was in search of Ibla's dowry. He found it in the land of Irak, where the magnificent Chosroe was ready to reward him even to the half of his kingdom, for his victory over the champion of the Emperor of Europe.] < are especially noteworthy: the famous horse race between the cham- pions of the tribes of Abs and Fazarah (Vol. iv., Chapter 33), and the history of Khahd and Jaida (Vol. ii.. Chapter 11).] LUCIUS APULEIUS (Second Century A. D.) |*ucius APULEIUS, author of the brilliant Latin novel