m-j 747 ALiJJIiiJN » Kixyjuvrsuuin. wx UNIVERSAL LITERATURE. 20 vols. N. Y., 1885. (b) $ 16 - 00 Eft 2\ THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES GIFT OF FREDERIC THOMAS BLANCHARD \m ALDEN'S CYCLOPEDIA Universal Literature TRESENTING BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES, AND SPECIMENS FROM THE WRITINGS OF EMINENT AUTHORS OF ALL AGES AND ALL NATIONS VOL. I NEW YORK JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER 1885 Copyright, 1885, r.i JOHN B. ALDEN TROWS PWnTIM) »N0 BOOKB1N0IH8 COMf>*Kl, HEW VOflK. <3 ft3cf CONTENTS OF VOL. 1. PAGH. Abbot, Ezra, (Amir., 1819-1884.)— Th.> Bibliography of a Future Life, - 11 Abbott, Jacob, (Amer., 1803-1870 )— Confession of Wrong. ^Deity as Manifested.— The Last Supper.— Property as a Means of Doing Good. — At the Country Store, 14 Abbott, John S. C., (Amer , 1805-1877.)— The Character of Napoleon.— The Parting of Napoleon and Josephine. —Burial of Napoleon at St. Helena.— Philosophy of the French Revolution.— Death of Robespierre, 22 Abbott, Lyman. (Amer., 1835- .)— The Destruction of the Cities of the Plain.— The Jesuits, - - 29 A Beckett, Gilbert A., (Engl., 1810-1856.) - • 33 Abelaisd, Peter, (French, 1079-1142.)— Letter to Heloise, 34 Abeucrombie, John, (Scot., 1781-1841.)— On Mathematical Reasoning —Theories of Morals.— Hume's Theory — Paley \s Theory. —Theory of Adam Smith.— Abercrom- bie's Theory, 37 About, Edmond, (French, 1828-1885 i— The Spiritual and the Temporal Power of the Pope.— Character of Pope Pius IX— The outlook in 1859, - - - 43 Adams, Abigail, (Amer., 1741-1818.)— Life in France.— Presentation at the British Court.— Washington City in 1800.- At the White House, 47 Adams, Charles Francis, (Amer. , 1807- . i -The Career of John Adams.— The Career of John Quincy Adams, 56 Adams, Hannah, (Amer,, 1750-ia32.)— Church and State in Massachusetts.— Merits of the Massachusetts Colo- nists.— The Hebrew Nationality, - 60 Adams, John, (Amer., 1732-1826.)— The Governments of the Thirteen States.— The Outlook in 1787.- Early Plans for Life —Upon Franklin and Others.— The Declaration of Independence.— Character of New Englanders.— The Seal for the United States.— Mili- tary Discipline and Obedience.— Cost of Living in Philadelphia.— Hopes and Forecastings, - - 64 Adams, John Quincy, (Amer., 1767-1848.)— On Secession and Nullification. -Our Ebal and Gerizim. — Dermot MacMorrogh.— The Wants of Man.— To a Sun-Dial, 79 Addison, Joseph, (Engl., 1072-1719.)— The Duke of Marl- borough —Marlborough at Blenheim. —Upon Edmund Spenser. — On Italy. — Ode on the Creator.- -Hymn on the Divine Care— Literary Vermin.— Hints for Char- latans.— Special Periods of Devotion.— The Distribu- tion of Human Calamities.— A Visit to Westminster Abbey.— A Visit to the Royal Exchange. --The Dissec- G84980 4 ( 'OXTEXTS. PAGE. tion of a Beau's Head.— The Transmigrations of Pug, the Monkey.— The Death of Sir Roger de Coverly, 90 jEschines, (Greek, 389-314 B.C.)— Oration against Ctesi- phon, 124 JEschylus, (Greek, 595-455 b.c.) — The Binding of Prome- theus.— The Soliloquy of Prometheus.— The Warning of Hermes to Prometheus.— The Beaco'n Lights.— The Doom of Clytemnasstra, .... 126 jEsop, (Greek, About 620 b.c.) — Jupiter and the Frogs. — The Trees and the Axe.— The Old Man and Death.— The Birds, the Beasts, and the Bat.— The Belly and the other Members.— The Fox and the Hedgehog. — The Eagle and the Arrow.— The Oak and the Wood- cutters.— The Wolf and the Lamb.— The Shepherd- Boy and the Wolf .—The Bundle of Sticks, - - 133 Agassiz, Loots, (Swiss, 1807-1873.)— The Growth of Coral Reefs.— Metamorphoses of Animals, - - - 137 Aguilar, Grace, (Engl., 1816-1847.)- Mother and Daughter, 145 Aikin, John, (Engl., 1747-1822.) - - 148 Aikin, Lucy, (Engl, 1781-1864.) .... 148 Ainsworth, William Harrison, (Engl, 1805-1882.) - 149 Aird, Thomas, (Scot, 1802-1876.)— A Vision of the Evil Spirit, - ----- I.tO Akenside, Mark, (Engl, 1721-1770.)— The Divine Idea in the Imagination. — The Imagination in History.-- Wealth of the Imagination. —Ode on the Use of Poetry. —Inscription for a Column at Runnimede.— Inscrip- tion for a Statue of Chaucer, - - - 153 Alamaxi, Lotgi, (Italian, 1495-1556.)— Sonnet to Italy, - 158 Alcazar, Baltazar de, (Spanish, Sixteenth Century, i— On Sleep, 159 Alcott, Amos Bronson, (Amer., 1799- .)— Concord and its Surroundings. — Ephemeral Reading. — Idealism and Idealists. — Preaching.— Dogmas.— Conscience.— Spirituality. — Personal Identity. — Significance of Sleep.— Conversation.— Orphic Sayings, • - 160 Alcott, Louisa May, (Amer., 1833- .)— Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy.— What the Swallows Did, - - 171 Alden, Joseph, (Amer., 1807- .)— Conceptions of the Infinite, ....... 181 Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, (Amer., 1836- .)— Prelude to Cloth of Gold— L'Envoie to Cloth of Gold.— The Cres- cent and the Cross.— A Turkish Legend.— Little Maud. —Egypt.— Edgar Allan Poe.— December.— By the Potomac— Before the Rain.— After the Rain, - 182 Alexander, Archibald, (Amer., 1772-1851.) - A 189 Alexander, James Waddell, (.4mer.. 1804-1859.)— On Ex- temporaneous Preaching, - - - - 189 Alexander, Joseph Addison, (Amer., 1809-1860.)— The Downfall of Babylonia, - 191 Alfonso II. of Castile. (Span., d. 1196.)— Parting and Meeting, - - - - - - - 198 Alfonso X. of Castile, (Span.. 1221-1284.)— Letter to Alon- CONTENTS. 5 PAGE. zo Perez de Guzman.— Upon Tyrants and their Ways. —Education of Princesses.— Philosopher's Stone, 198 Alford, Henry, (Engl, 1810-1871.)— Prologue to Collected Poems.— Epilogue to the School of the Heart.— Hymn for St. Andrew's Day.— A Christian Household.— On Providence, ...... 204 Alfred the Great, (Engl, 849-901.)- Alfred's Plans.— Poem on Change, ..... 209 Alfieri, Vittorio, (Ital., 1749-1803.)— Dedication to Agis. —Dedication to The First Brutus.— Dedication to The Second Brutus.— Extracts from The First Brutus, - 214 Alger, William Rounseville, (Amer., 1823- .)— Prob- lem of a Future Life.— The Here and the Hereafter, 224 Alison, Rev. Archibald, (Scot., 1757-1839.)— Effect of Sounds as Modified by Association.— Associations of the Past.— The Lessons of Autumn, • 227 Alison, Sir Archibald, (Scot. 1792-1867.)— Character of Louis XIV. of France.— Character of James II. of England.— Epochs in the French Revolution.— The Revolutionary Triumvirate.— Clemency of Napoleon. —Close of the Battle of Marengo.— The Conflagration of Moscow.— The Restoration of the Bourbons.— Epochs in European History, 1815-52.— Scott, Byron, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, - - 231 Allerton. Ellen Palmer, (Amer., 1835- .) — My Am- bition.— Walls of Corn, - - - 256 Allibone, Samuel Austin, (Amer., 1816- .) — Purpose of the Dictionary of English Literature, - - 258 Allingham, William, {Brit., 1828- .)— To the Night- ingales, - - - - • - - 261 Allston, Washington, (Amer., 1779-1843.) — America to England.— Sonnet on the French Revolution.— Sonnet on Art.— Sonnet on Coleridge.— On Immortality, - 2GL AmadisofGaul.- Amadis and Oriana, - - - 267 Ames, Fisher, (Amer., 1758-1808).— Early American Lit- erature.— Character of Washington.— Character of Hamilton, ... - - - 270 Amory, Thomas, (Brit., 1692-1789.)— Bur.cle and Marinda, 270 Anacreon, (Greek, 563-478, B.C.)— On his Lyre.— The Weapon of Beauty.— Cupid as a Guest.— The Ideal Portrait.— In Praise of Wine. — Plea for Drinking.— Moderation in Wine.— Upon Spring.— To the Cicada.— To the Swallow.— Approaching Age.— Live while we Live. — Looking Backward and Forward, - - 282 Andersen, Hans Christian, (Dan., 1805-1875.; — The Dying Child.— Jenny Lind in Copenhagen. — The Ugly Little Duck, 292 Andrews, Lancelot, (Engl., 1555-1625.)— Upon Angels and Men, ...... 309 Anslo, Reinier, (Dutch, 1622-1699.)— The Plague of Naples, 311 Anstey, Christopher, (Engl., 1724-1805.) — The Public Breakfast, 312 Anthology, The Greek.— Extracts from the Poems, 815 6 CONTENTS. PAGE. Anthon, Charles. (Amer., 1797-1867.) - - - 331 Aquinas, Thomas, (Ital., 1224-1274.)— Primacy of the Pope, 332 Arabian Nights, The.— Exordium to the Arabian Nights. — Shahriar, Shahzeman and Scheherazade.— The As- cription.— The Fisherman and theAfrite.— Conclusion, 336 Irblayd", Frances Burney, (Engl, 1750-1840.")- Frances Burner at Court.— Resigning from Court— Macaulay upon Madame D'Arblay.— George III. and Frances Burney. — Attempt upon the King's Life. — The Braughton Family.— Character of Mr. Delville. — A Fit of Rheumatism, .... 353 Arbcthnot, John, {Brit., 1667-1735.) — John Bull. Nic.Frog, and Hocus.— John Bull's Mother.— John Bull's Sister Peg. . . - - 369 Argensola, Bartolomjeo, {Span., 1566-1633.) — Sonnet on Providence, - - - - 374 Argensola, Ltjpercio, {Span., 1565-1633.) — Mary Mag- dalen, - - - - - - -376 Argyll, Duke of, {Scot., 1823- .)— The Supernatural arid the Natural.— Vital Forces and Matter. — Man's Works and those of the Creator— The Theory of Development.— The Origin of Man.— The Perpetuity 1 if Man.— The Antiquity of Man.— The Hebrew Chro- nology.— The Deluge.— Man as the Representative of the Supernatural, - - 376 Ariosto, Ludovico, {ltal., 1 474-1533).— Orlando's Battle- with the Trees.— Orlando restored to his Senses, 398 ARisTOpnANES, {Greek, 440-380 B.C.)- The Bird Chorus.— Prometheus and Peisthetasrus. — Neptune, Hercules, and the Thracian God, — In the School of Socrates.— Bacchus, Euripides, and JEschylus.— The Knights praise their Forefathers. — The Knights praise their Steeds. — The Chorus of Women.— Women's Capa- bilities, .... - - 898 Aristotle, {Greek, 3S4-322 b.c.)— Sense, Memory, and Foresight. — Experience, Art, and Wisdom.— The Ex- istence and Attributes of the Deity. — The Ideal State. — Classes in the State. — The Middle Class the Ruling One.— Laws and Public Officers.— The Necessity of Good Water, 423 Armstrong, John, {Brit., 1709-1779 .)— Overindulgence in Wine. —The Mutations of Time. - 485 Arndt, Ernst Moritz, {Germ.. 1769- 1860. 1— The German Fatherland, - - - 4-\i7 Arnold, Edwin, {Engl., 1831- .) — Buddha and Buddh- ism. — Buddha, or Gautama. — The Light of Asia. — The Immeasurable. — Dharma. — Karma.— Nirvana.— After Death in Arabia, - - - 439 Arnold. Matthew, (Engl., 1822- .)— Children Asleep.— Lines Written in Kensington Garden. — The Remnant in the United States.— Ralph V. aldo Emerson, - i04 Arnold, Thomas, (Engl, 1795-1842.)— Taking Life in Earn- est.— The Siege of Genoa in 1800.— Hannibal the Car- thagenian. — Christian Politics, ... 470 PREFACE. The design of this Cyclopedia of Univer- sal Literature is to present in a convenient form, and at a very moderate cost, a complete survey of the "written literature of all ages and of all peoples. It will comprise biograph- ical sketches of the men who by their writings have made a distinctive mark in the history of human culture and progress, together with such extracts from their writings as shall be sufficient to give an adequate representation of the characteristics of the authors. This Cyclopedia will not be merely a collection of "Elegant Extracts" or "Gems of Thought" culled from writings which have come to be classics in their various languages. The names of some men will appear who were great, not absolutely, but only relatively. Such men, for example, as Diderot, Erasmus, and Paine, whose works exerted a powerful influence in their own day, and thus upon aftertimes, although had they appeared in an earlier or a later century they would soon have been forgotten. The literature embodied in foreign lan- guages can here be presented only in transla- tions ; and the best translations can be only inadequate representations of the originals. This is especially the case in poetry, where form and manner is hardly less important than subject and matter. The best translator of Homer or iEschylus or Aristophanes, of Virgil or Lucretius or Horace, of Dante or 8 PREFACE. Ariosto, of Goethe or Schiller, must fail more or less in making his author speak in another language just as he spake in his own. Some translator will catch and reproduce one fea- ture, another will reproduce another feature. Whenever, therefore, there have been many good English translations of any notable au- thor, selections will be made from several of these translations. The literature of our own day, and especially of our own country, will occupy in this Cyclo- pedia a more prominent place than it holds in any other work of its class. The conductors have secured the co-operation of those who have made contemporary writers subjects of special thought and study ; and the results of their best thought and study will be presented in these pages. It is hoped that this Cyclo- pedia of Universal Literature will be as full and carefully studied for this current Nineteenth Century as for any preceding century of human culture and progress. It has been determined, after mature con- sideration, that the alphabetical arrangement of subjects presents more advantages and fewer disadvantages than any other ; it will therefore be strictly followed. The names of authors will appear in their proper alphabeti- cal order, h-respective of their period, nation- ality, or the character of their writings. Whatever is said of any one man will be said in connection with his name. Thus, the Novels, Poems, Historical, Biographical, and Criti- cal works of Sir Walter Scott will all be con- sidered together under his name, and not in separate parts of the Cyclopedia. Wherever special works, as distinguished from the per- sonality of the authors, require mention, they will appear in their alphabetical place. Thus there will be separate articles on the Amadis de Gaul, the Greek Anthology, the Arabian PREFACE. '.» Nights, the Dies Irce, the Federalist, the Nibelungen Lied, and numerous other works, which would not be looked for under the name of any particular author. The idea of this Cyclopedia has been long under contemplation by the Publisher, and its plan is now fully matured, so that the work can be pushed forward rapidly until its completion. It is not proposed to fix any defi- nite limit as to the number of volumes of which it shall consist. It will not be unnec- essarily expanded so that its bulk or cost would render it unavailable by the great body of the reading public; nor, on the other hand, will it be so curtailed, in respect of the au- thors embraced or the fulness with which they are treated, as to render it inadequate for the purpose for which it is designed. CYCLOPEDIA OF UNIVERSAL LITERATURE. ABBOT, Ezra, LL.D., an American schol- ar, born at Jackson, Maine, in 1819, died at Cambridge, Mass., March 21, 1884. He grad- uated at Bowdoin College in 1840 ; taught in various academies until 1847, when he took up his residence at Cambridge, where he was a teacher in the High School until 1852. He devoted himself especially to private studies in philology and bibliography, reading in the libraries in and around Boston. In 1856 he was appointed Assistant Librarian in Harvard College, his special duty being that of classify- ing and cataloguing the books of the library. He occupied this position until 1872, when he was made Bussey Professor of N. T. Criticism and Interpretation in the Harvard Divinity School. His especial forte was bibliography, upon which subject he was perhaps the best- acknowledged American authority, and he had few equals in other countries. Most of his literary labor appears in the form of con- tributions to editions of the collected works of others, or in periodicals of the day. For Worcester's Dictionary he laboriously revised the pronouncing vocabulary of Greek, Latin, and Scriptural Proper Names, which, savs Worcester, "will, it is believed, be found to be more correct than any before published." 12 EZRA ABBOT. His Prolegomena to Teschendorf's eighth edi- tion of his New Testament is of high critical value. The historico-critical volume on The Authorship of the Fourth Gospel (1880) is his main separate work ; for his exhaustive Lit- erature of the Doctrine of a Future Life (1864), though equivalent in bulk to a moderate vol- ume, was prepared merely as an Appendix to William Rounseville Alger's Critical History of the Doctrine of a Future Life. This work of Mr. Abbot contains the titles of more than 5000 books and treatises upon the general sub- ject, all classified under suitable heads. In the preface to this work Mr. Abbot says : THE BIBLIOGRAPHY OF A FUTURE LIFE. In deciding upon the form of the Bibliography, 1 could not hesitate to prefer a classed catalogue, with the titles to each section arranged chronolog- ically The subjects embraced in the Bib- liography — the Nature, Origin, and Destiny of the Soul — belong partly to Philosophy, and partly to Religion. They are accordingly discussed not only in the spe'eial treatises relating to them, but in general works on metaphysics, on natural relig- ion, on Christian doctrines, and on various relig- ions and superstitions. The question of materi- alism and the relation between the human and the brute mind are also treated of by writers on phys- iology and natural history. To include in the catalogue all of these general works was, of course, impossible; but many of the more important have been noticed. This is particularly the case in that part of the bibliogra- phy which relates to the opinions concerning the soul which have prevailed among heathen na- tions. That works on the Hindu philosophy and religion have been given with a good degree of fulness will not excite surprise, since the doctrine of transmigration lies at the centre of both Brah- manism and Buddhism. The books held sacred by the followers of Confucius, on the other hand, contain very little concerning the future life, a subject on which that philosopher discouraged EZRA ABBOT. 13 inquiries. But for the convenience of the student who may wish at least to verify that remarkable fact, it appeared desirable to include them in the catalogue. As to special treatises on the subject of the bib- liography, written in Greek or Latin, and in the principal languages of Europe (except those of the Slavic family), I have intended to admit the titles of all of any importance which have fallen under my notice. This remark, however, does not ap- ply to a few classes of works only incidentally con- nected with the proper subjects of the catalogue: as those on Death, the Descent of Christ into Hades, the Resurrection of Christ, and modern " Spiritualism," under which heads merely a se- lection of titles is purposely given. Single ser- mons have been for the most part omitted, unless the production of eminent writers, or belonging to a controversy, or remarkable for some pecul- iarity. As to Oriental works I have, for the most part, contented myself with noticing the best translations. While some may regret that a single pamphlet has been neglected, others probably will complain of excess. "What is the use," it may be said. " of collecting the titles of so many old obsolete books ? " I answer : The study of fossil remains in theological and metaphysical literature is as in- teresting and as instructive to the philosopher as palaeontology is to the naturalist. In pursuing his researches in this held, one may indeed disin- ter strange monsters, but these representatives of tribes now extinct doubtless fulfilled their place in the economy of Providence, and were suited to the times in which they appeared, as truly as the great geological saurians. We marvel at the fol- lies and superstitions of the past ; but when the philosophy and theology of the nineteenth cent- ury shall have become petrified, posterity may regard some of their phenomena with equal won- der. I have therefore aimed to give a full exhibi- tion of the subject, without partiality towards the Old or the New. — Literature of the Doctrine of a Future Life. 14 JACOB ABBOTT. ABBOTT, Jacob, an American educator and author, born at Hallowell, Maine, Nov. 14, 1803 ; died Oct. 31, 1879. He studied at Bow- doin College and at Andover Theological Seminary, and was Professor of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy in Amherst College from 1825 to 1829, when he took charge of the Mount Vernon Female School in Boston. From 1834 to 1838 he was minister of a Con- gregational church in Koxbury, Mass. Sub- sequently he conducted a school for boys in New York. During the greater part of his life he was actively engaged in authorship. His works in all number not less than 300, most of them being of small size, and written for the young. Many of them are in the form of fiction, and are grouped into series of sev- eral volumes, with a common set of charac- ters running through the groups. Among these are the Bollo Books, 28 vols. ; the Lucy Books, 6 vols. ; the Jonas Books, 6 vols. : Har- per's Story Books, 36 vols. ; Franconia Stories, 10 vols. ; The Gay Family, 12 vols. The Young Christian series, 4 vols., which preceded most of the others is of a larger size. He also wrote about twenty biographies of noted persons in ancient and modern history ; Science for the Young, comprising popular treatises on Heat, Light, Force, and Water, and Land. He also edited several historical text-books and com- piled a series of School Readers. Our selec- tions are mainly from his more notable books : CONFESSION OF WKONG. 1 wish to point out something in the nature and effects of confession: 1 mean its power to hring peace and happiness hack to the heart, when the conscience has heen wounded hy sin Confession of sin has an almost magic power in restoring peace of mind. Providence seems to have implanted this principle in the human heart for the express purpose of having us act upon it JACOB ABBOTT. 15 He has so formed us that when we hare clone wroug, we cannot feel at peace again until we have acknowledged our wrong to the person against whom it has been done. And this ac- knowledgment of it removes the uneasiness as effectually as fire removes cold, or as water extin, guishes fire. It operates in all cases, small as well as great, and is infallible in its power. And yet how slowly do young persons, and even old persons, learn to use it. The remedies for almost every external evil are soon discovered, and are at once applied; but the remedy for that uneasiness of mind which results from having neglected some duty or committed some sin, and which consists in simple confession of it to the person injured — how slowly it is learned and how reluctantly practised. — The Young Christian. THE I>EITY AS MANIFESTED. The Unseen Divinity itself, m its purely spirit- ual form, we cannot conceive of. They who at- tempt to do it will find, on a careful analysis of the mental operation that it is the Visible Uni- verse itself that they picture to their minds when, in prayer* they endeavor to form an abstract con- ception of the Deity which pervades it. Others in imagination, look upward, and form a confused and an absurd idea of a monarch on a throne of gold, adorned with crown and sceptre, and sitting in a fancied region which they call Heaven. This is a delusion which we have already endeavored to dispel. Driven from this imagination, the soul roves throughout the universe among suns ami stars, or over the busy surface of the earth, seek ing in vain for some conceivable image of the Deity, some form on which the thought can rest. and toward which the feelings can concentrate. It looks, however, in vain. God manifests him- self indeed, in the blazing sun, in the fiery comet, and in the verdure and the bloom of the bound- less regions of the earth. But these are not the avenues through which a soul, burdened with its sins, would desire to approach its Maker. The Gospel solves the difficulty. " It is by Jesus Christ that we have access to the Father."' This 10 JACOB ABBOTT. vivid exhibition of His character — this personifica- tion of His moral attributes — opens to us the way. Here we see a manifestation of the Divinity, an Image of the Invisible God, which come, as it were, down to us. It meets our feeble faculties with a personification exactly adapted to their wants, so that the soul, when pressed by the trials and diffi- culties of its condition, when overwhelmed with sorrow, or bowed down by remorse, or earnestly longing for holiness, will pass by all the other out- ward exhibitions of the Deity, and approach the Invisible Supreme, through that manifestation of Himself which he has made fa the person of Jesus Christ, His Son, our Saviour. — The Corner Stone. THE LAST SUPPER. "And when they had sung an hymn they went out into the Mount ot Olives.'- The Saviour and His disciples stood around their table and sang an hymn. It was the Redeemer's last public act — His final farewelZ. He had presided over many an assembly, guiding their devotions or explaining to them the principles of religion. Sometimes the thronging multitudes had gathered around Him on the sea-shore; sometimes they had crowded into a private dwelling; and He sat in the synagogue, and explained the Law to the congregation as- sembled there. But the last moments had now come. He was presiding in the last assembly which, by His mortal powers, He should ever ad- dress; and when the hour for separation came, the last tones in which His voice uttered itself, were heard in song. — What could have been their hymn ? Its sentiments and feelings, they who can appreciate the occasion may perhaps con- ceive; but what were its words? Beloved Disci- ple, why didst thou not record them ? They should have been sung in every nation and lan- guage and clime. We would have fixed them in our hearts and taught them to our children; and whenever we came together to commemorate our Redeemer's sufferings, we would never have sep- arated without singing His parting Hymn. — The Corner Stone. JACOB ABBOTT. 17 PROPERTY AS A MEANS OF DOING GOOD. This girat truth that he who acquires property by any legitimate and honest business, instead of taking from the community the amount which he acquires, actually confers upon the community itself a benefit equal to that which he receives, and makes them richer, while he enriches himself, is not only sustained by the theoretical considera- tions which have been adduced, but is abundantly confirmed by practical observation. Where an en- terprising and active man, with talents, industry, and capital, goes into any community, and com- mences operations there, he generally not only prospers himself, but he diffuses a general pros- perity all around him. Dwellings multiply, the comforts and conveniences of life are increased, industry increases, schools improve, and children are better clothed and better fed. However self- ish the man may be whose enterprise and activity produces this general improvement, and however far from his thoughts all desire or intention to produce.it may have been, the effect will inevita- bly follow, through the operation of inflexible and universal laws, which no management on his part can counteract or essentially impede. In a word, the true state of the case may be summed up thus: A man cannot prosper in any honest business without benefiting the community as well as himself. For he cannot induce men to deal with him without offering them an advan- tage; and, taking all the transactions of life together, the advantages which men offer to oth- ers must, on the whole, be equal to those which they receive themselves. Doing business, there- fore, is a very effectual and extended mode of doing good; and the fortune which is acquired in doing it is, in a very important sense, the measure and index of the good done.— The Way to do Good. AT THE COUNTRY STORE. The store was kept by a hard-faced looking man who went by the name of Shubael, sometimes with and sometimes without the prefix " Colonel.'' He was an elderly man. quiet and cool in his air and manner, and with a countenance placid but 18 JACOB ABBOTT. heartless in its expression. There was a certain quick motion of his eye which showed that he was shrewd and observant. His store had a bad name, and yet no one seemed to know exactly why. Colonel Shubael himself, too, was the ob- ject of a certain mysterious fear, and even hate; and yet no one had anything very decided to say against him. He was believed to be a perfectly honest man, so far as leyul honesty is concerned. No man understood the law better than he, or the sound policy of keeping on good terms with it. Mr. Shubael's store was small, but it had a snug, social air within. It was nearly square, with a door in the middle of the front. A counter extended along one side and across the back of the store, and on the remaining side, near the corner next the road, was a fire-place, with a barrel of oil and another of cider near it, to keep them from freezing. There were other barrels and hogs- heads, less likely to freeze, behind the counter against the back side of the room. A door be- tween two great black hogsheads mounted on sticks, opened to a dark-looking back room be- hind. Tubs, bundles of whip-handles, hoes and shovels, barrels, kegs of nails, and iron-ware, en- cumbered the floor, leaving only narrow passages along in front of the counters and toward the fire. There was a little area near the fire also unoccu- pied, and two or three basket-bottomed chairs, with high wooden backs, stood there. A half-keg of closely-packed tobacco was near, with one loose fig and an old hatchet lying on it; and there was an ink-bottle, with a blackened and dried-up quill thrust through the cork, in the chimney cor- ner. This was the aspect of the store in the winter; but it was now summer, between haying and har- vesting. The fire was dead, and a great tin fen- der concealed the ashes and brands. The chairs were put out before the door, and two or three men were sitting and standing there, waiting for the " stage." It was a calm and pleasant after- noon; the foi-ests around were in their best dress, and the view up the pond was picturesque in the highest degree. But the company paid little atten- JACOB ABBOTT. 19 tion to the beauty of the scenery. They were looking out for the " stage." Mr. Shubael was the postmaster. A little high paling, at the end of the counter opposite the fire, was the post-office. The mail came once a week, bringing a few newspapers and sometimes some letters. The company which was collected on this occasion were not interested so much in the contents of the mail, as in a new team of horses, and a large coach, which was that day for the first time to be put on the road. They were looking off beyond the bridge, where the road could be seen for a considerable distance winding around a hill, and talking with noisy laughter about various subjects that came up. By the side of the door, outside, his chair tipped back against the side of the building and his feet resting upon a bar which passed along between two posts placed there for fastening horses, sat a tall dark-complexioned man, with black bushy hair and eyebrows, and an intelli- gent but sinister expression of countenance. They called him McDonner. "McDonner," said one of the men, leaning upon the bar before him, " it's a great poser to me how you contrive to pick up a living. Your farm over there don't produce enough to winter over a red squirrel. Then you're off, nobody knows where, half of the time. I'll lay ten to one there's some foul play." McDonner muttered some inarticulate ejacula- tion in reply, and then said, taking down his feet, and drawing himself up in his chair. " I can tell you what would be a very pretty way for you to get a living." " How ?" rejoined his interrogator. "By attending to your own business, and leav- ing me to manage mine." The company tried to receive this with a laugh. but the attempt was a failure. Shubael was standing at this moment at the door. He inter- posed to prevent ill-will. " Come, come," said he, " no sparring. Who's that coming down the road ? " The men turned their eyes in the direction of 20 JACOB ABBOTT. the road, where they were expecting to see the stage, and they saw a man corning along with something on his shoulder. ik It's Terry, as I'm alive," said Shubael, with a sort of a nod and a wink, " bringing back his axe, just as I said — exactly." The men asked him what he meant, but he turned away with a knowing look and disappeared in the store. McDonner twisted his long body around so as to look in at the door, and called out, " Colonel Shubael, come back here, and tell us all about Terry's axe. You've been coming over the poor fellow in some of your sly ways, I know. Tell us all about it." Shubael came to the door again, with a look of hard, selfish satisfaction on his face, and told his story thus: " Terry got a job the other day which brought him a little money, and he came here and wanted to get an axe. ' Shubael,' says he, ' I want a first- rate axe, and I am able to pay for it.'— - Well," says I. • Terry, I've got some of Darlington's best, warranted.'— • What's the price?' said he.— ' A dollar and a-half,' says I." " Oh, Shubael," cried one of the by-standers, "you offered to sell me one for a dollar and a quarter. That's a fine way to work poor Terry." Here was a shout of laughter, to which Shubael himself, however, contributed rather faintly; and then proceeded. "Why. I knew he would not keep the axe a week, and so it was not much mat- ter what he paid for it." •■A very pretty reason that, I declare." said McDonner. " I rather guess he did not get his money back in a week." "I told him a dollar and a-half, at any rate." continued Shubael: "and he chose out one. and bought a handle for it. and paid the money. 'Twas the first time he had bought anything but spirits at my store for three months. I knew he would not keep it a week, and now he's coming back to get the value of it in spirits, or my name's not Shubael." It was not long before Terry approached. He was a thin, dejected miserable-lookintr man. JACOB ABBOTT. 21 though his countenance had a certain expression of intelligence. As he came up to the store door, he was hailed in various tones hy the several loungers there, and made the butt of jokes, some coarse and others dull. He received them all with a vacant smile and walked into the store. "Well, Terry," said Shubael, "how do you make your axe go '? " "It's not a good one," said Terry, " and I want you to take it back." "What's the matter with it ?" asked Shubael, taking the axe from Terry's hand, and turning a sly glance toward the company, who were looking in at the door to see how the negotiation was to result. " Oh, it's too soft. 1 can't do anything with it, and you must take it back, as it is warranted," said Terry, pointing to the words "Darlington, warranted,'''' stamped very legibly on the side. "Yes, but I don't warrant it; it's Darlington* that warrants it. I presume, if you take it to his manufactory, he'll exchange it for you." Darlington's manufactory was about a hundred and fifty miles off, and in another State. Terry hesitated a minute or two, and then said that he thought the Colonel ought to take it back, as he sold it to him for a good axe. Mr. Shubael seemed very unwilling to do anything about it. He talked of the trouble and expense of sending the axe back, and finally told the man, winking at the same time at the bystanders, that he would give him a dollar for it. out of the store, and run liis chance of selling it or getting it changed. "Why," said Terry, "that's very hard; I paid a dollar and a-half for it: and then there's the handle besides, to say nothing of the putting it in." " But it will cost me a good deal to get it back to Darlington's, and the handle must come out to harden it." Terry at length accepted the offer, took up the amount in spirits and sugar, and left the store, jug in hand. As soon as he had gone, the loung- ers came in, and gave vent to bursts of laughter. which they had contrived to suppress while the ■>>2, JOHN S. C. ABBOTT. bargain was going on, while the colonel, with a smile of self-satisfaction and a nod and a wink, went round to his desk, and began to look into his ledger. — Hoaryhead and McDonner. ABBOTT, John Stephens Cabot, brother of Jacob Abbott, born at Brunswick, Maine, Sept. 18, 1805, died, June 17. 1877. He w-as educated at Bowdoin College and at Andover Theological Seminary ; and became pastor of Congregational churches in various parts of Massachusetts. In 1844 he relinquished the regular pastoral office (although he preached at intervals during his whole life), in order to devote himself to authorship, of which he had already made a beginning by his Mother at Home, Child at Home, and other religious works. Subsequently he devoted himself .mainly to works of a historical character. He wrote a number of small biographies ranging over a wide field. Of his larger works the principal are : Kings and Queens; or, Life in the Palace ; The French Revolution of 1789 ; The History of Napoleon Bonaparte ; Napoleon at St. Helena ; The History of Na- poleon III.; History of the Civil War in America : Romance of Spanish History ; The History of Frederick the Second, of Prussia ; and The History of Christianity. The style of Mr. Abbott is always animated and pictur- esque, though not unfrequently somewhat in- flated. The most popular of his works is the History of Napoleon, for whom he cherished the warmest admiration; ascribing to him not only capacities of the highest order, but more virtues and fewer faults than are often found in a human being: THE CHARACTER OF NAPOLEON. The history of Napoleon has often been written by his enemies. This narrative is from the pen of one who reveres and loves the Emperor. The writer admires Napoleon because he abhorred JOHN S. C ABBOTT. 23 war, aiid did everything in his power to avert that dire calamity; because he merited the sov- ereignty to which the suffrages of a grateful na- tion elevated him; because he consecrated the most extraordinary energies ever conferred upon a mortal to promote the prosperity of his country; because he was regardless of luxury, and cheer- fully endured ah toil and hardships that he might elevate and bless tho masser of mankind; because he had a high sonsc ot honor : revered religion, re- spected the rights cti. conscience, and nobly advo- cated equality of privileges and the universal brotherhood of man. Such was the true charac- ter of Napoleon Bonaparte. The world has been bewildered by the contra- dictory views which have been presented of Na- poleon. Hostile historians have stigmatized him as a usurper; while admitting that the suffrages of the nation placed him on the throne. They have denounced him as a tyrant inexorable as a Nero; while admitting that he won the adoring love of his subjects. He is called a bloodthirsty monster, delighting in war; yet it is confessed that he was, in almost every conflict, struggling in self-defence, and imploring peace. It is said that his insatiable ambition led him to trample re- morselessly" upon the rights of other nations: while it is confessed that Europe was astonished by his moderation and generosity in every treaty which he made with his vanquished foes. He is described as a human butcher, reckless of suffer- ing, who regarded his soldiers merely as food for powder; and yet, on the same page, we are told that he wept over the carnage of the battle-field, tenderly pressed the hand of the dying, and won from those soldiers who laid down their lives in his service a fervor of love which earth has never seen paralleled. It is recorded that France at last became weary of him, and drove him from the throne; and in the next paragraph we are informed that, as soon as the bayonets of the Allies had disappeared from France, the whole nation rose to call him back from his exile, with unanimity so unprece- dented that, without shedding one drop of blood, 24 JOHN S. C. ABBOTT. he traversed the whole of France, entered Paris and re-ascended the throne. It is affirmed that a second time France, weary of his despotism, ex- pelled him ; and yet it is at the same timf> recorded that this same France demanded of his execution- ers his beloved remains, received them with na- tional enthusiasm, consigned them to a tomb in the very bosom of its capital, and has 1 eared over them such a mausoleum as honors the grave of no other mortal. Such is Napoleon as described by his enemies. The reason is obvious why the character of Na- poleon should have been maligned: He was re- garded justly as the foe of Aristocratic Privilege. The English oligarchy was determined to crush him. After deluging Europe in blood and woe, during nearly a quarter of a century, for the ac- complishment of this end, it became necessary to prove to the world — and especially to the British people, who were tottering under the burden of taxes which these wars engendered — that Napo- leon was a tyrant, threatening the liberties of the world, and that he deserved to be crushed. All the allies who were accomplices in this iniquitous crusade were alike interested in consigning to the world's execration the name of their victim, and even in France, the re-instated Bourbons, sus- tained upon the throne by the bayonets of the Allies, silenced every voice which would speak in favor of the Monarch of the People, and rewarded with smiles and opulence and honor all who would pour contempt upon his name. Thus we have the unprecedented spectacle of all the monarchic:. of Europe most deeply interested in calumniating one single man, and that man deprived of the possibility of reply. — Preface to the History of Na- poleon. PARTING OF NAPOLEON AND JOSEPHINE. Josephine remained in her chamber over- whelmed with speechless grief. A sombre night darkened over the city, oppressed by the gloom of this cruel sacrifice. The hour arrived at which Napoleon usually retired for sleep. The Emperor, restless and wretched, had just placed himself in JOHN S. C. ABBOTT. 25 the bed from which he had ejected his faithful and devoted wife, when the private door of his chamber was slowly opened, and Josephine trem- blingly entered. Her eyes were swollen with weeping, her hair disordered, and she appeared in all the dishabille of unutterable anguish. Hardly conscious of what she did in the delirium of her woe, she tottered into the middle of the room, and approached the bedside of her former hus- band. Then irresolutely stopping, she buried her face in her hands, and burst into a flood of tears. A feeling of delicacy seemed for a moment to have arrested her steps — a consciousness that she had now no right to enter the chamber of Napo- leon. In another moment all the pent-up love in her heart burst forth; and, forgetting everything in the fulness of her anguish, she threw herself upon the bed, clasped Napoleon's neck in her arms, and exclaiming, "My husband! my hus- band!" sobbed as though her heart were break- ing. The imperial spirit of Napoleon was entirely vanquished. He also wept convulsively. He as- sured Josephine of his love — of his ardent and undying lo?e. In every way he tried to soothe and comfort her. For some time they remained locked in each other's embrace. The valet-de- chambre, who was still present was dismissed, and for an hour Napoleon and Josephine continued to- gether in their last private interview. Josephine then, in the experience of an intensity of anguish such as few human hearts have ever known, parted forever from the husband whom she had so long and so faithfully loved. An attendant entered the apartment of Napoleon to remove the lights. He found the Emperor so buried beneath the bed-clothes as to be invisible. Not a word was uttered. The lights were removed, and the un- happy monarch was left alone, in darkness and silence, to the melancholy companionship of his own thoughts. The next morning the deathlike pallor of his cheek, his sunken eye, and the hag- gard expression of his countenance, attested that the Emperor had passed the night in sleeplessness and in suffering. — History of Naj)oleon Bonaparte. 26 JOHN S. C. ABBOTT. THE BURIAL OF NAPOLEON AT ST. HELENA. The morning of the 8th of May, 1821, dawned with unusual brightness upon the blackened cliff of St. Helena. A perfect calm had succeeded the storm, and not a cloud floated in the resplendent skies. An invigorating sea-breeze passed gently over the island, and all the inhabitants were as- sembled at Lougwood to pay their last token of respect to the remains of the captive who had ren- dered their island immortal. At half-past twelve o'clock at noon, the grena- diers placed the heavy triple coffin, of tin, lead, and mahogany, upon the hearse. It was drawn by four horses. Twelve grenadiers walked by the side of the coffin, to take it upon their shoulders where the bad state of the roads prevented the horses from advancing. The Emperor's house- hold, dressed in the deepest mourning, followed immediately the hearse. Their hearts were stricken with grief, deep and unaffected. The Admiral and the Governor, with the officers of the Staff, respectfully joined the procession on horseback. All the inhabitants of St. Helena — men, women, and children — in a long winding train, reverently followed. The English garrison, which had been stationed upon the island to guard the Emperor, two thousand five hundred strong, lined the whole of the left side of the road, nearly to the grave. Bands of music, stationed at inter- vals, breathed their requiems upon the still air. The soldiers, as the procession passed, fell into the line, and followed it to the grave. At length the hearse stopped. The grenadiers took the coffin on their shoulders, and carried it along a narrow path which had been constructed on the side of the mountain to the lonely place of burial. The coffin was. placed on the verge of the grave. The Abbe Vignali recited the burial ser- vice, while all were overpowered by the unwonted solemnity and sublimity of the scene. During the funeral march, the Admiral's ship in the harbor had fired minute-guns, and as the coffin descended to its chambers of massive masonry, deep in the earth, three successive volleys from a battery of fifteen guns, discharged over the grave, reverber- JOHN' S. C. ABBOTT. 27 ated along the cliffs and crags of St. Helena. The willows which overhung the tomb were immedi- ately stripped of their foliage, as each one wished to carry away some souvenir of the most extraor- dinary man the world has ever known. — History of Napoleon Bonaparte. THE PHILOSOPHY OF THK FRENCH REVOLUTION. To commence the history of the French Revolu- tion with the opening of the States-General in 1789, is as unphilosophical as to commence the history of the American Revolution with the bat- tle of Lexington. No man can comprehend this fearful drama who does not contemplate it in the light of those ages of oppression which ushered it in. It is in the horrible despotism of the old mon- archy of France that one is to see the efficient cause of the subsequent frantic struggles of the people There is often an impression that the Revolu- tion was a sudden outbreak of blind unthinking passion— a tempest bursting from a serene sky ; or like a battle in the night— masses rushing blindly in all directions, and friends and foes, in confusion and frenzy, smiting each other. But, on the con- trary, the Revolution was of slow growth— a storm which had been for centuries accumulating. The gathering of the clouds, the gleam of its em- bosomed fires, and the roar of its approaching thunders, arrested the attention of the observing, ' ag before the storm in all its fury burst upon ance. A careful historic narrative evolves order )m the apparent chaos ; and exhibits, running through the tumultuous scene of terror and of blood, the operation of causes almost as resistless as the operation of physical laws One simple moral this whole awful tragedy teaches : It is, that the laws must be so just as to command the assent of every enlightened Chris- tian mind ; and the masses of the people must be trained to such intelligence and virtue as to be able to appreciate good laws, and have the dispo- sition to maintain them. Here lies the only hope of our Republic— The French Revolution. 28 JOHN S. ('. ABBOTT. THE DEATH OP ROBESPIERRE. The day was just beginning to dawn as the long file of prisoners were led into the Place de Greve to be conducted to the hall of the Convention. First .came Robespierre borne by four men on a litter. His fractured jaw was bound up by a handkerchief, which was steeped in blood He was laid upon a table in an ante-room, while an interminable crowd pressed in and around to catch a sight of the fallen Dictator. The unhappy man was overwhelmed with reproaches and in- sults, and feigned death to escape this moral tor- ture. The blood was freely flowing from his wound, coagulating in his mouth, and choking him as it trickled clown his throat. The morning- was intensely hot. Not a breath of pure air could the wounded man inhale. Insatiable thirst and a burning fever consumed him; and thus he re- mained for more than an hour, enduring the in- tensest pangs of bodily and mental anguish. By order of the Convention, he and his confed- erates were then removed to the Committee of Genei-al Safety for examination; from which tri- bunal they were sent to the Conciergerie, where they were all thrown into the same dungeon to await their trial, which was immediately to take place before the Revolutionary Tribunal. A few hours of pain, anguish, and despair passed away, when at three o'clock in the afternoon the whole party were conveyed to that merciless Court, which was but the last stepping-stone to death. The trial lasted but a few moments. They were already condemned, and it was only necessary to prove their identity. The Convention was victori- ous, and no man of the Revolutionary Tribunal dared to resist its will. Had the Commune of Paris conquered in this strife, the obsequious Tri- bunal with equal alacrity would have consigned the deputies to the guillotine. At five o'clock the carts of the condemned re- ceived the prisoners. The long procession ad- vanced through the Rue St. Honore to the Place de la Revolution. The fickle crowd thronged the streets, heaping imprecations upon the man to whom they would have shouted hosanna had he LYMAN ABBOTT. 29 been a Victor. Robespierre, bis brother, Couthon, Henriot — all mangled, bleeding, and with broken bones — were thrown into the first cart with tho corpse of Lebas. As the cart jolted over the pave- ment, shrieks of anguish were extorted from the victims. At six o'clock they reached the steps of the guillotine. Robespierre ascended the scaffold with a firm step ; but as the executioner brutally tore the bandage from his inflamed wound, he uttered a shriek of torture which pierced every ear. The dull sullen sound of the falling axe was heard, and the head of Robespierre fell ghastly into the basket. For a moment there was silence; and then the crowd raised a shout as if a great victory had been achieved, and the long-sought blessings of the Revolution attained. Thus died Robespierre, in the thirty-fifth year of his age. His character will probably remain a mystery.— The French Revolution. ABBOTT, Lyman, son of Jacob Abbott, was born at Roxbury, Mass., Dec. 18, 1835. He graduated at the University of the City of New York in 1853; studied law with his elder brothers, Benjamin and Austin Abbott, who in conjunction wrote two clever novels, Conecut Corners and Matthew Carnaby, which were published under the nom de plume of " Benauly," made up of the initial syllable of the names of each of the writers. He subse- quently studied theology under his uncle, John S. C. Abbott, and was pastor of Congre- gational churches in various parts of the country. About 1869 he began to devote himself especially to literature, in editorial connection with a number of periodicals, although he continued to preach not unfre- quently. He has also written many separate works, among which are: The Results of Emancipation in the United States; Old Tes- tament Shadows of New Testament Truths ; Jesus of Nazareth: His Life and Teachings; and a Dictionary of Religious Knowledge. 30 LYMAN ABBOTT. THE DESTRUCTION' OF THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN. The story of Sodom and Gomorrah epitomizes the Gospel. Every act in the great, the awful drama of life is here foreshadowed. The analogy is so perfect that we might almost he tempted to believe that the story is a prophetic allegory, did not nature itself witness its historic truthfulness. The fertile plain contained, imbedded in its own soil, the elements of its own destruction. There is reason to believe that this is true of this world on which we live. A few years ago an unusually brilliant star was observed in a certain quarter of the heavens. At first it was thought to be a newly discovered sun ; more careful examination resulted in a different hypothesis. Its evanescent character indicated combustion. Its brilliancy was marked for a few hours — a few nights at most — then it faded, and was gone. Astronomers believe that it was a burning world. Our own earth is a globe of living fire. Only a thin crust intervenes between us and this fearful interior. Ever and anon, in the rumbling earthquake, or the sublime volcano, it gives us warning of its presence. These are themselves gospel messen- gers. They say if we would but hear them — "Prepare to meet thy God." The intimations of Science confirm those of Revelation: ''The heavens and the earth. . . . are kept in store, re- served unto fire against the Day of Judgment and perdition of ungodly men." What was true of Sodom and Gomorrah — what was true of the earth we live on — is true of the human soul. It contains within itself the instruments of its own punishment. There is a fearful significance in the words of the Apostle: ''After thy hardness and impenitent heart treasureth up to thyself wrath against the day of wrath." Men gather, with their own hands, the fuel to feed the flame that is not quenched ; they nurture in their own bosoms the worm that dieth not. In habits formed never to be broken: in words spoken, incapable of recall: in deeds committed, never to be forgotten; in a life wasted and cast away that can never be made to bloom again, man prepares for himself his own deserved and inevitable chastisement. LYMAN ABBOTT. 31 "Son, remember!" — to the soul who has spent its all in riotous living, there can be no more awful condemnation. — Old Testament Shadows. THE JESUITS. Jesuits is the popular name of a Society more properly entitled "The Society of Jesus "—of all the Religious Orders of the Roman Catholic- Church the most important. The Society of Jesus was founded in 1554 by Ignatius Loyola. He was a Spanish cavalier; was wounded in bat- tle; was by his wounds, which impaired the use of one of "his legs, deprived of his military ambi- tion, and during his long confinement found em- ployment and relief in reading a Life of Christ, and Lives of the Saints. This enkindled a new ambition for a life of religious glory and religious conquest. He threw himself, with all the ardor of his old devotion, into his new life; carried his military spirit of austerity and self-devotion into his religious career; exchanged his rich dress for a beggar's rags; lived upon alms; practised aus- terities which weakened his iron frame, but not his military spirit; and thus he prepared his mind for those diseased fancies which characterized this period of his extraordinary career. He possessed none of the intellectual require- ments which seemed necessary for the new leader- ship which he proposed to himself. The age de- spised learning, and left it to the priests; and this Spanish cavalier, at the age of thirty-three, could do little more than read and write. He commenced at once, with enthusiasm, the acquisition of those elements of knowledge which are ordinarily ac- quired long before that age. He entered the low- est class of the College of Barcelona, where he was persecuted and derided by the rich ecclesias- tics, to whose luxury his self-denial was a perpet- ual reproach. He fied at last from their machin- ations to Paris, where he continued his studies under more favorable auspices. Prominent among his associates here was Francis Xavier, a brilliant scholar, who at first shrunk from the ill-educated soldier; yet gradually learned to admire his in- tense enthusiasm, and then to yield allegiance to 32 LYMAN ABBOTT. it and its possessor. Several other Spaniards were drawn around the ascetic. At length, in 1534, Loyola, and five associates, in a subterranean chapel in Paris, pledged themselves to a religious life, and with solemn rites made sacred their mu- tual pledges to each other and to God. This was the beginning of the Order of the •Jesuits. The original design was a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and a mission for the conversion of Infidels. But as all access to the Holy Land was precluded by a war with the Turks, Loyola and his associates soon turned their thoughts to a more comprehensive organization, specially de- signed to meet those exigencies which the Refor- mation had brought upon the Church. Loyola introduced into the new order of which he was the founder, the principle of absolute obedience which he had acquired in his military career. The name given to its chief was the military title of " General.' ' The organization was not perfected, so as to receive the sanction of the Pope, until 1541. Its motto was Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam — "To the greater Glory of God." Its vows embraced not only the obligations of Chas- tity, Poverty, and Obedience, but also a pledge on the part of every member to go as missionary to any country which the Pope might designate. Loyola was himself the first General of the new Order. Its Constitution, due to him, is practi- cally that of an Absolute Monarchy. The General is elected by a General Congregation, selected for the purpose by the whole body of professed mem- bers in the various Provinces. He holds his office for life. A Council of Assistants aid him, but he is not bound by their vote. He may not alter the Con- stitution of the Society; and he is subject to depo- sition in certain contingencies: but no instance of the deposition of a General has ever occurred. Practically his will is absolute law, from which thei-e is no appeal. The Jesuits are not distinguished by any par- ticular dress or peculiar practices. They are per- mitted to mingle with the world, and to conform to its habits, if necessary for the attainment of their ends. Their widest influence has been ex' GILBERT A. A BECKETT. 33 hibited In political circles, where, as laymen, they have attained the highest political positions without exciting any suspicion of their connection with the Society of Jesus, and in education they have been employed as teachers, in which position they have exercised an incalculable influence over the Church It should be added that the enemies of the Order allege that, in addition to the public and avowed Constitution of the Society, there is a secret code, called Monita Secreta — "Secret Instructions'' — which is reserved exclu- sively for the private guidance of the more ad- vanced members. But as this Secret Code is dis- avowed by the Society — and since its authority is at least doubtful — it is not necessary to describe it here in detail. — Dictionary of Religious Knowl- edge. A BECKETT, Gilbert Abbott, a British humorist, born in London, 1810, died at Bou- logne, France, 1856. He wrote burlesque dramas while a mere boy, several of which were published before he had reached the age of fifteen. He was one of the founders of Punch (1841) to which he was a frequent con- tributor, as well as to other journals. In 1849 he was appointed a police magistrate, and executed the duties of his office with marked ability. After his death a pension of £100 was granted to his widow.— His son, Arthur William a Beckett, born in 1844, entered the civil service at the age of seventeen, but he soon abandoned it to engage in various literary occupations ; and in 1874 he was placed on the editorial staff of Punch, having in the mean while been called to the bar. He is the author of many novels and dramas, some of them decidedly clever. Among his tales are Fallen among Thieves (1870). The Modern Arabian Nights (1875), The Ghost of Graystone Grange (1877), and The Mystery of Mostyn Manor (1878). Among his comedies are About Town (1873), which had a run of 150 nights, Father 3 34 PETER ABELARD. and Son (1881), and Long Ago (1882).— The principal works of the elder a Beckett are TJie Comic History of England, The Comic His- tory of Rome, and The Comic Blackstone. He was looked upon as one of the wittiest writers of the day. The travesty of Black- stone, in which the treatise of that great light of the law is followed step by step, ranks among the highest among works of that class. ABE LARD, Peter, a French scholar, born near Nantes in 1079, died April 21, 1142. He was of a noble Breton family, but the name by which he is known appears to be merely a kind of nickname which was fastened upon him Avhile a student, and adopted by him. He became famous while a mere youth for his scholastic attainments ; and while a young man was the acknowledged head of the ' ' Nominalists " in their victorious controversy with the "Realists." He set up a philosoph- ical school of his own, and about 1115 was placed in the chair at Notre-Dame, being also nominated as Canon. Within the precincts of Notre-Dame was a girl named Heloise, who was under the care of her uncle, the Canon Fulbert. She was noted for her genius as well as her beauty, and became a pupil of Abelard, who was near forty — more than double her age. Illicit love sprung up be- tween them. Heloise, about to become a mother, went off with her lover. Abelard was eager to marry her upon condition that the marriage should be kept a secret, so that his prospects of ecclesiastical preferment might not be marred. Heloise Avas with difficulty persuaded to accept this sacrifice from her lover ; and when the marriage came to be a matter of public talk she denied that it had ever taken place, and fled to a convent. Her uncle believing that Abelard was trying to get rid of his wife, took a fearful venge- PETER ABELARD. 35 ance. He and some others broke into the room of their victim and inflicted the most severe mutilation upon him. The rest of the story of Abelard and Heloise reads like a ro- mance. He reappeared as a public teacher, with greater success than before; was soon charged with heresy, and obliged to burn the book which he had written. He fled into the forest, built a hut of stubble and reeds, and turned hermit. His retreat was discovered, and its neighborhood was thronged with students, who soon carried him back to Paris, where they built for him an oratory to which he gave the name of the Paraclete— the "Comforter.'' Heloise, who had become a nun, was brought to the Paraclete as the head of a new religious house, of which Abelard was the spiritual director. Abelard again fell under religious persecution, and fled to an abbey in Brittany, where he wrote his Historia Calamitatum, which called out the three famous epistles of Heloise, in which she finally accepted the task of resignation which Abelard had commended to her. Abelard was in the end twice condemned by a Council for heresy. He appealed to the Pope, and was on his way to Eorae to urge his plea, when he was stricken down by a fatal sick- ness. His remains were secretly taken to Heloise at the Paraclete, and upon her death she was buried by his side. The bones of this ill-starred pair have been repeatedly shifted from place to place, and they now repose in a conspicuous tomb in the cemetery of Pere-Lachaise. Abelard's fame as a scho- lastic philosopher was in a measure revivified when Cousin, in 1836, put forth an edition of his works, which had for the most part come down only in manuscript. But to all except a few readers he is only known by his sin- gular connection with Heloise. The letters 36 PETEK ABELAKD. which passed between them in the later years of their lives have been translated into many languages. The main purport of those of Abelard is to reconcile her to the monastic life. ABELAKD TO HELOISE. In the admirable order of Providence, by the very means the devil aimed to destroy us, was our Salvation effected. We were just then united by the indissoluble bond of marriage. It was my wish never to be separated from you; and at that moment God projected to draw us to himself. Had you been tied by no engagement, when I left the world, the persuasion of friends or the love of pleasure might easily have detained you in it. It seemed, by this care of heaven, as if we had been designed for some important purpose ; as if it were unbecoming that the literary talents we both pos- sessed should be employed in other business than in celebrating the praises of our Maker. Perhaps it was feared that the allurements of a woman would pervert my heart. It was the fate of Solo- mon. How many are the blessings with which your labors are daily crowned ! your spiritual children are numerous; whilst I, alas! can number none; and am here in vain, at St. Gildas. preaching to these sons of perdition. And would not, think you, the loss have been deplorable, if, immersed in the deplorable pleasures of the world, in lieu of the splendid offspring you now rear for heaven, you had been, with pain, the mother only of a few earthly children? Then would you have been a mere woman; and now you surpass us all, and now you change the curse of Eve into the blessing of Mary. Those hands which in holy occupation, now turn over the sacred volumes, had been un- becomingly engaged in the mean offices of domes- tic life! From such unseemly occupations we have been graciously called, even by a holy vio- lence, as was the great apostle. It has been meant, perhaps, for an example from which other learned JOHN ABERCROMBIE. 37 persons may take warning, and not presume on their own strength. Be not therefore afflicted, Heloise, nor repine at this paternal chastisement. " God corrects whom he loves." Our sufferings are momentary; they are to purify, and not destroy us. Listen to the prophet, and be comforted: " God will not judge, nor will he twice punish the same crime," says he. Attend to the important advice which truth itself has given to us; " In patience you shall pos- sess your souls." So says Solomon: "The pa- tient man is better than the warrior, and he that is the master of his own mind than the conqueror of cities." Are you not moved to compunctions and to tears when you behold the innocent Son of God suffer- ing such various torments for you and for us all? Have him ever before your eyes; carry him in your thoughts. View him going out to Calvary, and bearing the heavy weight of his cross. Join the company of people, and of the holy women who lamented and wailed round him. Learn to sympathize with his sufferings; be early at his monument, and strew perfumes on his grave. But remember, they be spiritual odors; and with your tears bedew them. — Berington's Translation. ABERCROMBIE, John, a Scottish physi- cian and author, born at Aberdeen, Nov. 11, 1781, died at Edinburgh, Nov. 14, 1841. He was recognized as at the head of the medical profession in Scotland, and in 1835 was chosen Lord Rector of Mareschal College, Aberdeen. Besides several medical works, he wrote In- quiries concerning the Intellectual Powers of Man, and The Philosophy of the Moral Feel- ings; the former being directed especially against the doctrine of Materialism ; and both works attained great popularity. MATHEMATICAL, SEASONING. The proper objects of Mathematical Reasoning are quantity and its relations; and these are capa- ble of being defined and measured with a precis- ion of which the objects of other kinds of reason- 38 JOHN ABERCROMBIE. ing are entirely unsusceptible. It is indeed always to be kept in mind that mathematical rea- soning is only applicable to subjects which can be defined and measured in this manner, and that all attempts to extend it to subjects of other kinds have led to the greatest absurdities. Notwith- standing the high degree of precision which thus distinguishes mathematical reasoning, the study of mathematics does not, as is commonly sup- posed, necessarily lead to precision in other spe- cies of reasoning, and still less to correct investi- gation in physical science. The explanation that is given of the fact seems satisfactory. The mathematician argues certain conclusions from certain assumptions, rather than from actual ascertained facts; and the facts to which he may have occasion to refer are so simple, and so free from all extraneous matter, that their truth is obvious, or is ascertained without difficulty. By being conversant with truths of this nature, he does not learn that kind of caution and severe ex- amination which is required in physical science, for enabling us to judge whether the statements on which we proceed are true, and whether they include the whole truth which ought to enter into the investigation. He thus acquires the habit of too great facility in the admission of data on premises, which is the part of every investigation, which the physical inquirer scrutinizes with the most anxious care; and too great confidence in the mere force of reasoning, without adequate at- tention to the previous processes of investigation on which all reasoning must be founded. It has been accordingly remarked by Mr. Stewart, and other accurate observers of intellectual character, that mathematicians are apt to be exceedingly credulous in regard both to opinions and to mat- ters of testimony; while, on the other hand, per- sons who are chiefly conversant with the uncertain sciences acquire a kind of scepticism in regard to statements, which is apt to lead them into the op- posite error. These observations of course apply only to what we may call a mere mathematician — a character which is now probably rare, since the close connection was established between the JOHN ABERCEOMBIE. 39 mathematical and physical sciences in the philos- ophy of Newton. — Inquiries concerning the Intel- lectual Powers. THEORIES OF MORALS. In contemplating the conduct of men as placed in certain relations to each other, we perceive some actions which we pronounce to he right, and others which we pronounce to he wrong. In form- ing our opinion of them in this manner, we refer to the intentions of the actor; and, if we are satis- fied that he really intended to do what we per- ceive to be the tendency of his conduct, or even if he purposed something which he was prevented from accomplishing, we view him with feelings of moral approbation or disapprobation ; or, in other words, apply to him the award of praise or blame. Such is our simple idea of Virtue or Vice, as ap- plied either to the act or the agent. We have a conviction that there is a line of conduct to which ourselves and others are bound by a certain kind of obligation-. A departure from this constitutes moral demerit, or Vice; a correct observance of it constitutes Virtue. This appears to be the simple view of our pri- mary impression of Vice and Virtue. The next question is, what is the origin of the impression; or on what ground is it that we conclude certain actions to be right, and others wrong ? Is it merely from a view of their consequences to our- selves or others '? or do we proceed upon an abso- lute conviction of certain conduct being right, and certain other wrong, without carrying the mind further than the simple act, or the simple inten- tion of the actor — without any consideration of the effect or tendencies of the action? This is the question which has been so keenly agitated in the speculations of ethical science: namely, respect- ing the origin and nature of moral distinctions. On the one hard, it is contended that these moral impressions are in themselves immutable, and that an absolute connection of their immuta- bility is lixed upon us, in that part of our consti- tution which we call Conscience; in other words, there is a certain conduct to which we are bound 40 JOHN ABERCROMBIE. by a feeling of obligation, apart from all other considerations whatever; and we have an impres- sion that a departure from this, in ourselves or others, constitutes Vice. On the other hand, it is maintained that these distinctions are entirely ar- bitrary, or arise out of circumstances; so that what is Vice in one case may be Virtue in an- other. Those who have adopted the latter hy- pothesis have next to explain what the circum- stances are which give rise, in this manner, to our impressions of Vice and Virtue — moral approba- tion or disapprobation. — The various modes of ex- plaining this impression have led to the Theories of Morals. — Philosophy of the Mural Feelings. hume's theory. According to the Theory of Utility, as warmly supported by Mr. Hume, we estimate the virtue of an action and an agent entirely by their Useful- ness. He seems to refer all our mental impres- sions to two principles, Reason and Taste. Rea- son gives us simply the knowledge of Truth or Falsehood, and is no motive of action. Taste gives an impression of Pleasure or Pain, and so constitutes Happiness or Misery, and becomes a motive of action. To this he refers our impres- sions of Beauty and Deformity, Vice and Virtue. He has. accordingly, distinctly asserted that the words ''right*' and " wrong" signify nothing more thai; "sweet" or " sour," "•pleasant" or '•painful," being only effects upon the mind of the spectator produced by certain conduct: and this resolves itself into the impression of its "use- fulness." An obvious objection to this system of Utility was, that it might be applied to the effects of inanimate matter as correctly as to the deeds of a voluntary agent. A printing-press or a steam- engine might be as meritorious as a man of ex- tensive virtue. To obviate this. Mr. Hume was driven to a distinction which, in fact, amounted to a giving up of the doctrine: namely, that the sense of Utility must be combined with a feeling of Ob- ligation. This leads us back to the previous question, on what this feeling is founded, and at once recognizes a principle distinct from the mere JOHN ABERCROMBIE. 41 perception of utility. Virtuous conduct may in- deed always contribute to general Utility, or gen- eral Happiness ; but tbis is an effect only, not the cause or principle which constitutes it Virtuous. This important principle has been Avell stated by Professor Mills of Oxford. He defines Morality to be, "an obedience to the law or constitution of man's nature, assigned him by the Deity, in con- formity to His own essential and unchangeable attribute, the effect of which is the general happi- ness of His creatures." — Philosophy of the Moral Feelings. paley's theory. This eminent writer is decidedly opposed to the doctrine of a Moral Sense, or Moral Principle; but the system which he proposes to substitute in its place must be acknowledged to be liable to con- siderable objections. He commences with the prop- osition that Virtue is doing good to mankind, in obedience to the will of God, and for the sake of everlasting happiness. The Good of Mankind, therefore, is the subject, the Will of God the rule, and everlasting Happiness the motive of human Virtue. The will of God, he subsequently goes on to show, is made known to us partly by Revela- tion, and partly by what we discover of his de- signs and dispositions from his works, or as we usually call it, the Light of Nature. From this last source he flunks it is clearly to be inferred that God wills and wishes the happiness of his creatures; consequently actions which promote that will and wish must be agreeable to Him, and the contrary. The method of ascertaining the will of God concerning any action, by the Light of Natm-e, therefore, is to inquire into the tendency of the action to promote or diminish general hap- piness. Proceeding on these grounds, he then arrives at the conclusion, that whatever is "ex- pedient" is "right;" and that it is the utility of any moral rule which constitutes the obligation of it. In his further elucidation of this theory, Dr. Paley admits that an action may be useful in an individual case which is not right. To constitute it right, it is necessary that it shall be "expedient 42 JOHN ABERCROMBIE. upon the whole — at the long run — in all its effects collateral and remote, as well as those which are immediate and direct."— Philosophy of the Moral Feelings. THEORY OF ADAM SMITH. This system is usually called the Theory of Sym- pathy. According- to this ingenious writer, it is required for our moral sentiments respecting an action, that we enter into the feeliugs both of the agent and of him to whom the action relates. If we sympathize with the feelings and intentions of the agent, we approve of his conduct as right; if not, we consider it as wrong. If, in the individual to whom the action refers, we sympathize with a feeling of gratitude, we regard the agent as worthy of praise; if with a feeling of resentment, the con- trary. We thus observe our feelings respecting the conduct of others, in cases in which we are not personally concerned; then apply these rules to ourselves, and thus judge of our own conduct. This very obvious statement, however, of what every man feels, does not supply the place of a fundamental rule of right and wrong. It applies only to the application of a principle, not to the origin of it. Our sympathy can never be supposed to constitute an action right or wrong; but it ena- bles us to apply to individual cases a principle of right and wrong derived from another source; and to clear our judgment in doing so, from the blend- ing influence of those selfish feelings by which we are so apt to be misled when we apply it directly to ourselves. In estimating our own conduct, we then apply to it those conclusions which we have made with regard to the conduct of others; or we imagine others applying the same process in regard to us, and consider how our conduct would appear to an impartial observer.— Philosophy of the Moral Feelings. After having stated these and other theo- ries of morals, and pointed out their several errors and deficiencies, Mr. Abercrombie enunciates his own views upon the matter: EDMOND ABOUT. 43 abercrombie's theory. The important distinction which these observa- tions have been intended to illustrate may be briefly recapitulated in the following manner: The as- pect of actions, as right or wrong, is founded upon a principle in the human mind entirely distinct from the exercise of Reason; and the standard of moral rectitude derived from this source is, in its nature, fixed and immutable. But there are many cases in which the exercise of Reason may be em- ployed in referring particular actions to this stand- ard, or trying them, as it were, by it. Any such mental process, however, is only to be considered as a kind of test applied to individual instances, and must not be confounded with the standard to which it is the office of this test to refer them. Right or virtuous conduct does, in point of fact, contrib- ute to general Utility, as well as to the advantage of the individual, in the time and extended sense of that term ; and these tendencies are perceived by the Reason. But it is neither of these which con- stitute it Right. This is founded entirely on a dif- ferent principle: the immutable rule of Moral Rectitude. It is perceived by a different part of our constitution— the Moral Principle, or Con- science; and, by the operation of this principle we pronounce it Right, without any reference to its consequences either to ourselves or others.— Phi- losophy of the Moral Feelings. ABOUT, Edmond- Francois- Valentin, a French literateur, born at Dieuze, depart- ment of Meurthe, Feb. 14, 1828 ; died early in 1885. In 1848 he Avon the prize of honor at the Lycee Charlemagne, and in 1851 was sent to the French School at Athens, Greece, where he devoted himself to archaeological studies. In 1855 he wrote La Greee Con- temporaine ; and in the same year published Tolla, a novel, which was charged with being a plagiarism. He received the decoration of the Legion of Honor in 1858; and in the fol- lowing year he put forth at Brussels the Roman Question— which was said to. have 44 EDMOXD ABOUT. been inspired by the Emperor Napoleon III., — in which he advocated the abolition of the temporal power of the Pope. In the preface to this work he says : " If I have sought a publisher in Brussels, while I had an excel- lent one in Paris, it is not because I feel any alarm on the score of the regulations of our press, or the severity of our tribunals. But as the Pope has a long arm, which might reach me in France, I have gone a little out of the way to tell him the plain truths con- tained in these pages." In 1866 M. About was commissioned by the Emperor to draw up a report on the state of public opinion in France. Upon the breaking out of the Franco-German war, he became a war-cor- respondent of the newspaper La Soir, and his letters attracted much attention. In 1872 he became Editor of the Radical journal Le XIXe Steele, and in the autumn of that year was arrested at Strasbourg by the Germans, in consequence of his work entitled Alsace. In 1873 he succeeded Philarete de Chasles as Paris correspondent of the London Athe- naeum. — The works of M. About cover a wide range of topics, including fiction, the drama, and politics; and many of them have been translated into English. THE SPIIUTL "AL AND THE TEMPORAL POWER OF THE POPE. The earliest Popes were not Kings and had no budgets. Consequently they had no annual de- ficits to make up. Consequently they were not obliged to borrow millions of M. de Rothschild. Consequently they were more independent than the crowned Popes of more recent times. Ever since the Spiritual and the Temporal have been joined, like two Siamese powers, the most august of the two has lost its independence. Every day. or nearly so, the Sovereign Pontiff finds himself called , upon to choose between the general in- terests of the Church and the private interests EDMOND ABOUT. 45 of his Crown. Think you that he is sufficiently estranged from the things of this world to sacrifice heroically the Earth, which is near, to the Heaven which is remote? Besides, we have history to help us. I might, if I chose, refer to certain bad Popes who were capable of selling the dogma of the Holy Trinity for half-a-dozen leagues of terri- tory; but it would be hardly fair to argue from bad Popes to the confusion of indifferent ones. Think yon, however, when the Pope legalized the perjury of Francis I., after the treaty of Ma- drid, he did it to make the morality of the Holy See respected, or to stir up a war useful to his Crown? When he organized the traffic in Indul- gences, and threw one-half of Europe into heresy, was it to increase the number of Christians, or to give a dowry to a young lady ? . . . . When he suppressed the Order of the Jesuits, was it to re- enforce the army of the Church, or to please his master in France? When he terminated his rela- tions with the Spanish- American provinces upon their proclaiming their independence, was it in the interests of the Church or of Spain? .... But this union of powers, which would gain by separation, compromises not only the independ- ence but the dignity of the Pope. The melan- choly obligation to govern men obliges him to touch many things which he had better leave alone. Is it not deplorable that bailiffs must seize a debtor's property in the Pope's name? that judges must condemn a murderer to death in the name of the Head of the Church? that the executioner must cut off heads in the name of the Vicar of Christ? There is to me something scandalous in the association of these two words, Pontifical Lottery. And what can the hundred and thirty-nine millions of Catholics think, when they hear their Spiritual Sovereign expressing through his Finance Minister, his satisfaction at the progress of vice as proved by the success of i the lotteries?— The Roman Question, Transl. of. COAPK. 46 EDMOXD ABOUT. CHARACTER OF POPE PIUS IX. Pius IX. plays his part in the gorgeous shows of the Eoman Catholic Church indifferently well. The faithful who have come from afar to see him perform Mass are a little surprised to see him take a pinch of snuff in the midst of the azure- tinted clouds of incense. In his hours of leisure he plays billiards for exercise, by order of his physicians. He believes in God. He is not only a good Christian, but a devotee. His morals are pure as they always have been, even when he was a young priest. He has nephews, who, wonderful to relate, are neither rich nor powerful, nor even Princes: and yet there is no law which prevents him from spoiling his subjects for the benefit of his family. The character of this respectable old man is made up of devotion, simplicity, vanity, weak- ness, and obstinacy, with an occasional touch of rancor. He blesses with unction, and he pardons with difficulty. He is a good Priest, and an in- efficient King. His intellect, which raised such great hopes, and caused such cruel disappoint- ment, is of a very ordinary capacity. The Ro- mans formed an exaggerated opinion of him at his accession, and have done so ever since. In 1847, when he honestly manifested a desire to do good, they called him a great man; whereas in point of fact he was simply a worthy man, who wished to act better than his predecessors had done, and thereby to win some applause in Eu- rope. Now in 1859 he passes for a violent re- actionist, because events have discouraged his good intentions; and. above all, because Cardinal Antonelli, who masters him by fear, violently draws him backward. I consider him as merit- ing neither past admiration nor present hatred. I pity him for having loosened the rein upon his people, without possessing the firmness to re- strain them seasonably. I pity still more that infirmity of character which allows more evil to be done in his name than he has ever himself done good Xow he is out of humor with his people, with the French and with himself. . . . He knows the ABIGAIL ADAMS. 47 nation is suffering; but he allows himself to be persuaded that the misfortunes of the Nation are indispensable to the safety of the Church. Those about him take care that the reproaches of his conscience shall be stifled by the recollection of 1848, and the dread of a new revolution. He stops his eyes and his ears, and prepares to die calmly between his furious subjects on the one hand, and his dissatisfied protectors on the other. Any man wanting in energy, placed as he is, would behave exactly in the same manner. The fault is not his, it is that of weakness and old age. —The Roman Question, Transl. of Coape. THE OUTLOOK IN 1859. At the worst, and as a last alternative, the Pope might retain the city of Rome, his palaces and temples, his cardinals and prelates, his priests and monks, his princes and footmen : and Europe would contribute to feed the little colony. But will the Pope and the Cardinals easily resign themselves to the condition of mere Ministers of Religion? Will they renounce their political in- fluence? Will they in a single day forget their habits of interfering in our affairs, of arming Princes against one another, and of discreetly stirring up citizens against their rulers? I much doubt it. But on the other hand Princes will avail themselves of the lawful rights of self- defence. They will read history, and they will find there that the really strong governments are those which have kept religious authority in their own hands; that the Senate of Rome did not grant the priests of Carthage liberty to preach in Italy ; that the Queen of England and the Em- peror of Russia are the heads of the Anglican and Russian religions; and they will see that by right the sovereign metropolis of the churches of France should be in Paris. — The Roman Question. Transl. of Coape. • ADAMS, Abigail (Smith), wife of President John Adams, born at Weymouth, Mass.. in 1744, died at Quincy, Mass. ,*Oct. 28, 1818. She was married to Mr. Adams in 1764, and was his constant associate during his whole public 48 ABIGAIL ADAMS. career. Their correspondence during his long absences on official duty take almost the form of a journal by both parties. Some of the most characteristic productions of John Adams were written in letters to his wife. In 1785 Mrs. Adams went to Europe, where her husband was residing in a diplomatic capacity. They took up their residence at Auteuil, a village some miles from Paris. In letters home Mrs. Adams describes their way of life: LIFE FN FRANCE. The house we have taken is large, commodious, and agreeably situated near the woods of Bou- logne, 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 priv- ilege which this enjoys, of having the saloon, as it is called — the apartment where we receive com- pany — upon the first floor. The dining-room is upon the right hand, and the saloon 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 beautiful garden. Out of the dining-room you pass through an entry into the kitchen. In this entry are stairs which you ascend; at the top of which is a long gallery fronting the street, with six windows, and op- posite to each window you open into the cham- bers, 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. These floors will by no means bear water; so the method of cleaning them is to have them waxed, and then a man-servant 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 ABIGAIL ADAMS. 49 room in a few moments as he found it. The din- ing-rooms, of which you make no other use, are laid with small stones, like the red tiles for shape and size. The servants' rooms 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 were passing through a cow-yard. You may easily suppose that I have been fully employed, beginning housekeeping anew, and arranging my family, to my no small expense and trouble; fori 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 pro- cure, etc. The expenses of living abroad I have always supposed to be high, but my ideas were nowise adequate to the thing. I could have fur- nished myself in the town of Boston with every thing I have, twenty or thirty per cent, cheaper. 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. . . . 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 cal- culate at one hundred guineas a year. The differ- ence between coming to this negotiation to France and remaining at the Hague, where a house was already furnished at an expense of a thousand pounds sterling, will increase the expense here by six or seven hundred guineas, at a time, too, when Congress have cut off five hundred guineas from what they have hitherto given. For our coach- man and horses alone 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 perform the whole. . . . We have a servant who acts as mmtre 4 50 ABIGAIL ADAMS. cPhotel, and who is so very gracious as to act as footman, too, to save the expense of another ser- vant, upon condition that we give him a gentle- man's suit of clothes instead of a livery. Thus with seven servants, and hiring a char-woman upon occasion, we may possibly make out to keep house. With less, we should be hooted at as ridiculous, and could not entertain any com- pany. . . . I have become steward and book-keeper, de- termined to know with accuracy what our ex- penses are, and to prevail upon Mr. Adams to re- tuni to America, if he finds himself straitened, as I think he must be. Mr. Jay went home be- cause he could not support his family here, with the whole salary; what then can be done, cur- tailed as it now is, with the additional expense ? Mr. Adams is 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 t£ times at these entertainments, than at twenty serious conversations; but the policy of our -j' country has been, and still is, to be penny-wise and pound-foolish. But my own interest apart, the system is bad for that nation which degrades its own ministers, by obliging them to live in narrow circumstances 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 was an ally to the King of France. This mourning is ordered by the Court, and is to be worn eleven days only. Poor Mr. Jefferson had to hie away for a tailor to get a whole black 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 which every one worships in this country; and. from the highest *<> T he lowest, vou must submit. To be ou<" " f I ABIGAIL ADAMS. 51 fashion is to be more criminal than to be seen in a state of nature— to which Parisians are not averse. — Letter to her Sister, Sept. 5, 1784. In 1785 Mr. Adams took up his abode in London, as Minister Resident at the British Court. Mrs. Adams gives some chatty ac- counts of her experiences in this new sphere of life: PRESENTATION AT THE BRITISH COURT. The ceremony of presentation here is considered as indispensable. 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 exceedingly expensive is, that you cannot go twice the same season in the same dress, and a Court dress you cannot make use of anywhere else. I directed my mantua-maker to let my dress be elegant, but plain, as I could possibly appear with decency. Accordingly, it is white lutestring, covered and full-trimmed with white crape, festooned with lilac ribbon and mock point-lace, over a loop of enormous extent. There is only a narrow train of about three yards in length, to the gown waist, which is put into a ribbon on the left side — the Queen only having her train borne. Ruffle cuffs for married ladies, treble lace ruffles, a very dress- cap with long lace lappets, two white plumes, and a blonde lace handkerchief. This is my rigging. I should have mentioned two pearl pins in my hair, ear-rings and necklace of the same kind. . . . At two o'clock we went to the circle, which is the drawing-room of the Queen. We passed through several apartments, lined as usual, with spectators on these occasions. 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 all of tbem; though they very prudently speak in a whisper, so that only the person who stands next you can hear what is said. The King enters the room, and goes round 52 ABIGAIL ADAMS. to the right; the Queen and Princesses to tho 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, he has a certain countenance which I have often remarked; a red face, and white eyebrows. The Queen has a similar countenance, and the numer- ous 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 to me, Lord Onslow said : " Mrs. Adams ; " upon which I drew off my right 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 1 replied, "No, Sire." — "Why, don't you love walk- ing?" says he. — I answered that I was rather in- dolent 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 standing. The Queen was evidently embarrassed when I was presented to her. I had disagreeable fe'Mngs too. She, however, said, "Mrs. Adams, nave you got into your house? Pray, how do you like the situation of it?" Whilst the Princess Royal looked compassionate, and asked me if I was not very much fatigued ; and observed that it was a very full drawing- room. Her sister, who came next, Princess Au- gusta, after having asked your niece if she was ever in England before, and upon her answering " Yes," inquired of me how long ago, and sup- posed it was when she was very young. And all this is said with much affability, and the ease and freedom of old acquaintance. The manner in which they make their tour around 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 Au- gusta, and their lady-in-waiting behind them. They are pretty, rather than beautiful, well- ABIGAIL ADAMS. 53 shaped, with fair complexions, and a tincture of the King's countenance. The two sisters look much alike ; they were both dressed in black and silver silk, with a 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. 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 man- tua-maker; for, after having declared that I would not have any foil or tinsel about me, they fixed upon the dress I have described. The Tories are very free with their compli- ments. Scarcely a paper escapes without some scurrility. We bear it with silent contempt; hav- ing met with a polite reception at Court, it bites them like a serpent, and stings them like an ad- der. As to the success the negotiations may meet with, time alone can disclose the result. But if this nation does not suffer itself to be again duped, by the artifice of some and the malice of others, it will unite itself with America on the most liberal principles and sentiments. — Letter* to her Sister, June, 17S5. Mr. Adams became President by the elec- tion of 1796; and was defeated at the next election in 1800. The Seat of Government being transferred to Washington, President Adams and his family took up their residence there late in November, for the few months which were to intervene until the close of his term. Mrs. Adams, writing to her daughter, gives some account of the aspects of the nev. Federal capital. . _:■--- 54 ABIGAIL ADAMS. WASHINGTON IN 1800. I arrived here without meeting with any ac- cident worth noticing except losing ourselves when we left Baltimore, and going eight or nine miles on the Frederick road, by which means we were obliged to go the other eight through the woods, where we wandered two hours without rinding a guide or the path. Fortunately a strag- gling black came up with us, and we engaged him as a guide, to extricate us out of the difficulty. But woods are all you see, from Baltimore until you reach the City, which is so only in name. Here and there is a small cot, without a glass window, interspersed among the forests, through which you travel miles without seeing any human being. In the City there are buildings enough, if they were compact and finished, to accommodate Con- gress and those attached to it; but as they are, and scattered as they are, 1 see no great comfort for them. The house is upon a grand and superb scale, requiring about thirty servants to attend and keep the apartments in proper order, and per- form the ordinary business of the house and stables ; an establishment very well proportioned to the President's salary! The lighting the apart- ments, from the kitchen to parlors and chambers, is a tax indeed ; and the fires we are obliged to keep, to secure us from daily agues is another very cheering comfort. To assist us in this great castle, and render less attendance necessary, bells are wholly wanting; not one being hung through the whole house, and promises are all you can obtain. If they will put me up some bells, and let mo have wood enough to keep fires, I design to be pleased. I coidd content myself almost anywhere for three months; but surrounded with forests, can you believe that wood is not to be had, because people cannot be found to cut and cart it? ... . Tou must keep all this to yourself; and, when asked how I like it, say that I write to you that the situation is beautiful — which is true. The house is made habitable; but there is not a single apartment finished; and all inside, except the ABIGAIL ADAMS. 55 plastering has been done since Briesler came. We have not the least fence, yard, or other con- venience, without; and the great unfinished au- dience-room I make a drying-room of, to hang up clothes in. The principal stairs are not up, and will not be this winter. Six chambers are made comfortable; two are occupied by the President and Mr. Shaw; two lower rooms, one for a com- mon parlor, and one for a levee-room. Up stairs there is the oval room, which is designed for the drawing-room, and has the crimson furniture in it; it is a very handsome room now; but when completed it will be beautiful. If the twelve years, in which this place has been considered the future Seat of Government, had been improved, as they would have been if in New England, very many of the present inconveniences would have been removed. It is a beautiful spot, capable of every improvement; and the more I view it the more I am delighted with it. . . . — Letter to her Daughter, Nov. 21, 1800. AT THE WHITE HOUSE. Two articles we are very much distressed for: the one is bells, but the more important one is wood; yet you cannot see wood for trees. No arrangement has been made, but by promises never performed, to supply the new-comers with fuel. Of the promises Briesler had leceived his full share. He had procured nine cords of wood; between six and seven of that was kindly burnt up to dry the walls of the house, which ought to have been done by the Commissioners; but which, if left to them, would have remained undone to this day. Congress poured in: but shiver, shiver. No wood-cutters nor carters to be had at any rate. We are now indebted to a Pennsylvania wagon to bring us, through the First Clerk in the Treasury Office, one cord and a-half of wood, which is all we have for this house where twelve fires are con- stantly required; and where, we are told, the roads will soon be so bad that it cannot be drawn. Briesler procured two hundred bushels of coals, or we must have suffered. This is the situation of almost every person. The public officers have 56 CHARLES FRANCIS ADAMS. been sent to Philadelphia for wood-cutters and wagons. . . . The vessel which has my clothes and other mat- ters is not arrived. The ladies are impatient for a drawing room; I have no looking-glasses but dwarfs for this house ; nor a twentieth part lamps enough to light it. Many things were stolen, many more were broken, by removal. Amongst the number, my tea china is more than half miss- ing. Georgetown affords nothing. My rooms are very pleasant and warm whilst the doors of the hall are closed. . . . My visitors, some of them, come three and four miles. The return of one of them is the work of one day. Most of the ladies reside in George 1 town, or in scattered parts of the city at two and three miles distance. . . . We have all been very well as yet. If we can by any means get wood, we shall not let our fires go out; but it is at a price indeed: from four dollars it has risen to nine. Some day it will fall; but there must be more in- dustry than is to be found here, to bring half enough to the market for the consumption of the inhabitants. — Letter to her Daughter, Nov. 27, 1800. ADAMS, Charles Francis, son of President John Quincy Adams, was born at Boston, Aug. 18, 1807. His father having been ap- pointed to diplomatic positions in Europe, the early boyhood of the son was passed abroad. Returning to the United States in 1817 he en- tered Harvard College, where he graduated in 1825, and in 1838 was admitted to the bar. But he never engaged in legal practice, hav- ing previously married the daughter of a wealthy merchant of Boston. He entered into political life about 1840, as a member of the Legislature of Massachusetts, and in 1818 was nominated by the " Free Soil " party as their candidate for the Vice Presidency. The new ' ' Republican " party was organized some years after, and in 1858 Mr. Adams was elected as representative in Congress from Massachusetts. In 18R1 he was sent as Minis- CHARLES FRANCIS ADAMS. 57 ter to Great Britain, holding the position dur- ing the whole civil war and until 186S, when he was recalled at his own request. In 1871- 72 he acted as arbitrator for the United States in the commission appointed to settle the questions between Great Britain and the United States arising during the civil war. In 1872 he was prominent in organizing the "Liberal Bepublican" movement, and was brought forward as a candidate for the Presi- dency. Mr. Horace Greeley was however, chosen as the candidate of the party, and was also accepted by the Democratic party, but he failed in securing an election. In 1872 Mr. Adams formally joined the Democratic party, by whom, in 1870, he was nominated for Governor of Massachusetts. The contributions of Mr. Charles Francis Adams to literature have been very numer- ous, including several able papers furnished to the North American Review and other pe- riodicals. But his most notable literary works are biographico-historical, relating to his grandfather, John Adams, his grand- mother, Abigail Adams, and his father, John Quincy Adams. His Life and Works of John Adams, in 10 volumes, appeared in 1850-56. The preface to this work sets forth his own ideas in respect to the task which had de- volved upon him : THE CAREER OF JOHN ADAMS. The editor had reason to know that he was looked upon as the successor to this duty, and that, in this view all the manuscripts, books, and papers relating to it were to be committed to his care. Whatever might have been his doubts of his own abilities to execute it, little room was left him to indulge them. To say that he has ac- quitted himself of his obligation to his own satis- faction, is more than he will venture to pretend. All that he will venture to claim for himself is an earnest desire to be right, and an endeavor, by no 58 CHARLES FRANCIS ADAMS. trifling amount of industry, to become so. That he may in many instances have fallen short of his aim will not surprise him. Infallibility in such a department of investigation is altogether out of the question. The writer has detected too many mistakes in his own work, and observed too many in the productions of others, to cherish a spirit of dogmatism So much has been said upon the duties of editors in publishing the papers committed to their care, that a few words may be necessary to explain the principles upon which this work has been con- ducted : In all cases the best copy attainable has been closely adhered to, saving only the cor- rection of obvious errors of haste, or inadvertency, or negligence. Yet as a considerable number of the letters have been taken not from the originals — of which it is not known that they are yet ex- tant — but from the copy-book containing the rough drafts, it is by no means improbable that, in case of a possibility of collation with the real letters, many discrepancies, not to say interpola- tions, and even erasures — may be discovered. Should such instances be brought to light, it is proper that this explanation should stand upon record to guard against charges of alteration. Against such variations it would have been im- possible to provide, without materially contract- ing the valuable materials for the work. For all others, the editor has acted upon his own respon- sibility, and for reasons which appear to him sat- isfactory. — Preface to the Works of John Adams. Mr. Charles F. Adams, in closing this ex- haustive work relating to his grandfather, adds : " These volumes by no means exhaust the valuable materials in the possession of the editor for the illustration of the era of the Revolution ; neither do they in the least en- croach upon the yet larger stores in reserve for the other work intended for publication at a future period, and destined in giving the Life of John Quincy Adams, to elucidate the history of the generation immediately sue CHARLES FRANCIS ADAMS. 59 ceeding. "—Nearly a score of years elapsed before Charles Francis Adams fairly entered upon the second part of the work which he regarded as having devolved upon him, by the publication of The Memoirs of John Quincy Adams (13 vols. 1874-76). The preface to this work clearly sets forth his own view upon what he designates as " the next, and far the most difficult part" of these biographico-his torical memorials : THE CAREER OF JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. The papers left by John Quincy Adams were not only much more numerous, but they embraced a far wider variety of topics. Whilst the public career of the father scarcely covered 28 years, that of the son stretched beyond 53. The chief difficulties of the enterprise has grown out of the exuberance of the materials. Not many persons have left behind them a greater variety of papers than John Quincy Adams, all more or less marked by characteristic modes of thought, and illustrat- ing his principles of public life and private action. Independently of a Diary kept almost continuously for 65 years, and numbers of other productions — official and otherwise — there is a variety of dis- cussion and criticism on different topics, together with correspondence, public and private, which, if it were all to be published, as was that of Vol- taire, would be likely quite to equal in quantity the hundred volumes of that expansive writer. But this example of Voltaire is one which might properly serve as a lesson for warning rather than for imitation. . . . The chief objects to be attained by publishing the papers of eminent men seem to be the elucida- tion of the history of the times in which they acted and of the extent to which they exercised a personal influence upon opinion, as well as upon events. Where the materials to gain tbese ends may be drawn directly from their own testimony, it would be far more advisable to adopt them at once, as they stand than to substitute explana- tions or disquisitions, the offspring of imperfect 60 HANNAH ADA3JS. impressions gathered long afterward at second- hand. It so happens that in the present instance there remains a record of life carefully kept hy John Quincy Adams for nearly the whole of his active days. It may reasonably be doubted whether any attempt of the kind has been more completely executed by a public man Very fortunately for this undertaking, the days have passed [1874] when the bitterness of party-spirit prevented the possibility of arriving at calm judgments of human action during the period to which it relates. Another more fearful conflict, not restrained within the limits of contro- versy, however passionate, has so far changed the currents of American feeling as to throw all ear- lier recollections at once into the remote domain called ' History.' It seems, then, a suitable moment for the submission to the public of the testimony of one of the leading actors in the ear- lier era of the Republic. In my labors I have con- fined myself strictly to the duty of explanation and illustration of what time may have rendered obsolete in the text. Whatever does there appear remains just as the author wrote it. Whether for weal or woe, he it is who has made his own ped- estal, whereon to take his stand, to be judged by posterity, so far as that verdict may fall within the province of all later generations of mankind. — Preface to Memoirs of John Quincy Adams. ADAMS, Hannah, born at Dedham, Mass., in 1756, died near Boston in 1832. She was the first woman in America to devote herself to authorship. Her father, a man of good education, kept a small country store, dealing among other things in books. He also boarded some students of divinity, from whom the daughter learned Greek and Latin, which she subsequently taught. Her first work A View of Religious Opinions, was published in 1784, and a second and enlarged edition in 1791. " The emolument I derived from this," she says, ' ' not only placed me in a comfort- able situation, but enabled me to pay the HANNAH ADAMS. (51 debts I had contracted during mine and my sister's illness, and to put out a small sum at interest." In 1799 she published A Summary History of New England, from the settlement at Plymouth to the adoption of the Federal Constitution. In gathering materials for this work among old manuscripts, she seri- ously impaired her eyesight, and had to em- ploy an amanuensis to prepare the copy for the printers. Her most elaborate work, The History of the Jews since the destruction of Jerusalem, was in 1818 reprinted in London, "at the expense and for the benefit of the London Society for Promoting Christianity amongst the Jews/' She commenced an Auto- biography, which was continued down to her death by Mrs. H. F. Lee. During the later years of her life she enjoyed a comfortable annuity, raised by her friends. CHURCH AND STATE IN MASSACHUSETTS. Most of the Massachusetts settlers had, while in their native country, lived in communion with the Established Church. The rigorous severity used to enforce ceremonies, by them deemed un- lawful, occasioned their removal to New England. The Massachusetts churches, in general, were formed on the Congregational model, and main- tained Calvinistic doctrines. The colony had no settled plan of church discipline till after the ar- rival of Mr. John Cotton, whose opinion in civil and religious concerns was held in the highest estimation. He gradually modelled all their church administrations, and determined their ecclesiastical constitutions. ... In consequence of the union thus formed between Church^ and State, on the plan of the Jewish Theocracy, the ministers were called to sit in Council, and give their advice in matters of religion, and cases of conscience which came before the Court, and without them they never proceeded to any act of an ecclesiastical nature. None were allowed to vote in the election of rulers hut freemen, and freemen must he church 02 HANNAH ADAMS. members ; and as none could be admitted into the church but by the Elders, who first examined and then propounded them to the brethren for their vote, the Clergy acquired hereby a vast ascendancy over both rulers and people, and had, in effect, the keys of the State as well as the Church in their hands. The Magistrates on the other hand, regu- lated the gathering of the churches, interposed in the settlement and dismission of ministers, arbi- trated in ecclesiastical controversies, and con- trolled synodical assemblies. This coercive power of the Magistrates was deemed absolutely neces- sary to preserve the order of the Gospel. — History of New England. MERITS OF THE MASSACHUSETTS COLONISTS. Though the conduct of our ancestors, in the ap- plication of the power of the civil magistrate to religious concerns, was fraught with error, and the liberal sentiments of the present age place their errors in the most conspicuous point of view, yet their memory ought ever to be held in venera- tion. And while we review the imperfections which, at present, cast a shade over their charac- ters, we ought to recollect those virtues by which they gave lustre to the age in which they lived ; viz. : their ardent love of liberty, when tyranny prevailed in Church and State; the fortitude with which they sacrificed ease and opulence, and en- countered complicated hardships, in order to en- joy the sacred rights of conscience; their care to lay a foundation for solid learning, and establish wise and useful institutions in their infant State; the immense pains they took in settling and culti- vating their lands, and defending the country against the depredations of the surrounding In- dians; and, above all, their supreme regard for religion. . . . The Massachusetts Colony rapidly increased. A dreary wilderness in the space of a few years had become a comfortable habitation, furnished with the necessaries and conveniences of life. It is remarkable that previously to this period, all the attempts at settling " the Northern Patent," upon secular views, had proved abortive. They HANNAH ADAMS. (33 were accompanied with such public discourage- ment as would probably have lost the continent to England, or have permitted only the sharing of it with the other European Powers, as in the West India Islands, had not the spirit of religion given rise to an effectual colonization. — History of New England. THE HEBREW NATIONALITY. The history of the Jews is remarkable above that of all other nations for the number and cruelty of the persecutions they have endured. They are venerable for the antiquity of their ori- gin. They are discriminated from the rest of mankind by their wonderful destination, peculiar habits, and religious rites. Since the destruction of Jerusalem, and their universal dispersion, we contemplate the singular phenomenon of a nation subsisting for ages without its civil and religious polity, and thus surviving its political existence. But the Jews appear in a far more interesting light, when considered as a standing monument of the truth of the Christian Religion; as an an- cient Church of God, to whom were committed the Sacred Oracles; as a people selected from all nations to make known and preserve the knowl- edge of the True God. To them the Gospel was first preached, and from them the first Christian Church in Jerusalem was collected. To them we are indebted for the Scriptures of the New as well as of the Old Testament. To them were given the spirit of Prophesy, and the power of working Miracles. From them were derived an illustrious train of Prophets and Apostles. "To them pertaineth the adoption and the glory, the service of God and the promises; and of them, as concerning the flesh, Christ came." .... The preservation of this extraordinary people during their calamitous dispersion exhibits the faithfulness of the Deity in fulfilling his gracious promise, that "when they are in the land of their enemies, He will not cast them away, nor destroy them utterly." Though from the destruction of Jerusalem to the sixteenth century, there are few countries in which they have not been successively G4 JOHN ADAMS. banished, recalled, and again expelled; yet they have never been banished from one country with- out finding an asylum in another. . . One of the great designs of their being preserved and con- tinued a distinct people appears to be that their singular destiny might confirm the divine author- ity of the Gospel, which they reject; and that they might strengthen the faith of others in those sacred truths, to which they refuse to yield their own assent. — History of the Jews. ADAMS, John, second President of the United States, born at Braintree, Mass., Oct. 2, 1735, died at Qnincy, Mass., July 4, 1826. He graduated at Harvard College in 1755; took charge of a Grammar School at Worces- ter, and read law with the only lawyer in the town : and in 1758 commenced practice in his native county of Suffolk, of which Boston was the shire town. In 1764 he married Abigail Smith, a daughter of the minister of the neighboring town of Weymouth. The dis- putes between Great Britain and the Ameri- can colonies, growing primarily out of the Stamp Act were growing warm, and Adams took a prominent part on the side of the Colo- nists, although he did not concur in the vio- lent early acts of their leaders. The dispute which was allayed by the repeal of the Stamp Act, broke out afresh upon the passage by Parliament of the Boston Port Bill, and the destruction of the tea in Boston harbor. The Congress of 1774 w as a consequence of these proceedings, Adams being appointed one of the five delegates from Massachusetts to this Congress, which was convened at Philadel- phia. He was prominent among those who were in favor of resisting the aggressions of England upon the rights of the Colonies. His Diary and his numerous Letters, now in- cluded in the edition of his Life and Works, prepared by his grandson, Charles Francis JOHN ADAMS. 65 Adams, throw much light upon this seeding period of the American nation. The " Continental Congress of 1775," al- though composed of nearly the same mem- bers as the Congress of the preceding year, found that higher duties had devolved upon it. The earlier Congress had rather to delib- erate upon what ought to be done. The Con- tinental Congress was forced by the course of things to decide what could be done, and what must be clone. Adams had made up his mind that any reconciliation with the Mother Country was hopeless. Other members thought otherwise, and a most respectful pe- tition to the king was agreed upon. No harm could be done by such a petition, and, as it turned out, no good was done by it. Adams and his associates carried the main practical point : The Colonies were to put themselves into a "state of defence," while still assert- ing that "the war on their part was defen- sive only, and without any intention to throw off their allegiance." The meeting of the Congress early in 1776 evinced clearly that a separation between the Mother Country and the Colonies was to be effected by armed force. The decisive point was reached early in May, when a resolution moved by E. H. Lee was passed, averring that the United States " are and ought to be free and independent." Three committees were appointed to prepare the necessary measures. Adams was a mem- ber of two of these committees : that on the Declaration of Independence being the most significant. The Declaration itself was drawn up by Jefferson, though the original docu- ment was somewhat modified so as to meet the views of Adams, upon whom was de- volved the arduous task of carrying the Dec- laration thi-ough the somewhat undecided Congress. 5 66 JOHN ADAMS. For the ensuing twelve years John Adams was one of the most notable men in America. He was recognized as having "the clearest head and the firmest heart of any man in Congress." Early in 1778 he was sent to Europe to take practically the lead in conduct- ing our foreign affairs, first as Commissioner to France, and subsequently as Minister to the Netherlands and to Great Britain. In the mean time it had become clear to all men that the Confederation of States was not a form of Government suited to meet the exi- gencies of the times. Early in 1788 Adams, at his own urgent request, was recalled from his mission abroad. Upon his return he was re-appointed as a delegate from Massachusetts to the Continental Congress which had been assembled mainly to draw up a new form of Constitution for the United States. This Con- gress had, however, already completed their work, and Mr. Adams had nothing to do with the actual framing of the Constitution of the United States. This document, as originally framed, prescribed that each of the Presiden- tial Electors— the number of which was pro- visionally fixed at 69 — should cast two ballots for different persons. The person receiving the highest vote, provided that it was more than half of the whole number cast, was thereby elected as President. The person re- ceiving the next highest number, whether a majority of the whole or not, was to be Vice- President. Washington received 1 vote from each of the Electors, and was thus unani- mously chosen as President. The remaining Electoral votes were given to eleven per- sons. Of these Mr. Adams received 34, the highest number cast for any one person, though lacking one of being a majority of the whole ; and he was therefore declared to have been chosen Vice-President, and President of JOHN ADAMS. 67 the Senate ex officio. At the second Presiden- tial election, in 1792, Washington again re- ceived an entire electoral vote. Adams also received a majority of the remaining vote, and was thus chosen again as Vice-Presi- dent. Washington having positively declined to hold the Presidency for a third term, the elec- tion of 1797 took a singular turn. Three can- didates were presented for the first place: Adams, Jefferson, and Thomas Pinckney. Jefferson was recognized as the leader of the Anti-Federal or ''Republican" party; while both Adams and Pinckney were the recog- nized candidates of the Federal party for the first and second places. But a considerable portion of the party wished that Pinckney should receive the higher vote, and thus be chosen as President. A large number of Eastern Federalist Electors withheld their votes from Pinckney ; and the general upshot was that Adams had 71 Electoral votes, being a majority of the whole, and the highest number for any. He was thus chosen Presi- dent, while Jefferson, having 69 votes, be- came Vice-President. At the next Presidential election, in 1800, Adams and Charles C. Pinckney were the Federal candidates, receiving 65 and 64 votes. Jefferson and Burr were the Eepublican can- didates, each receiving 73 votes. The choice for President thus devolved upon the House of Representatives, and this body selected Jefferson as President, Burr being Vice-Presi- dent. The public life of John Adams fairly ended with this defeat. He retired to his home in Braintree, and wrote much matter, some of it of decided value. He died on the fiftieth anniversary of the signing of the Dec- laration of Independence. On the same clay died Thomas Jefferson, long the associate, 68 JOHN ADAMS. and subsequently the bitter political opponent, of Adams. It is pleasant to call to mind that when both of these patriots had come to be very old men, they forgot the previous ani- mosities of their political life. Most of the ten large volumes which make up the Works of John Adams, are of mere temporary and local significance. But some of them contain passages deserving a place in the permanent record of human thought. Prominent among these works is his Defence of the Constitutions of Government of the United States of America, first published in London, in 1787, while the author was our Minister in England. It was written in the form of about fifty letters, and before the present Constitution of the United States had been framed. He speaks therefore of the characteristics of the Governments of the Thirteen independent Colonies or States which constituted the Confederation ; and of these he says : THE GOVERNMENTS OF THE THIRTEEN STATES. It will not be pretended that the persons em- ployed in the'formation of these Governments had any interviews with the gods, or were in any de- gree under the inspiration of heaven, any more than those at work upon ships or houses, or labor- ing upon merchandise or agriculture. It will be forever acknowledged that these Governments were contrived merely by the use of reason and the senses. Neither the people nor their conven- tions, committees or sub-committees considered legislation in any other light than ordinary arts and sciences, only as of more importance. Called without exception, and compelled without previ- ous inclination — though undoubtedly at the best period of time, both for England and America — to erect suddenly new systems of laws for tbeir future government, they adopted the methods of a wise architect, in erecting a new palace for the residence of his sovereign. . - . Unembarrassed JOHN ADAMS. 69 by attachments to noble families, hereditary lines and successions, or by considerations of royal blood, even the pious mystery of holy oil had no more influence than that other of holy water. And their leaders — or, more properly followers — were men of too much honor to attempt it. Thirteen Governments, thus naturally founded on the authority of the People alone — without a pretence of miracle or mystery, which are destined to spread over the northern part of that whole quarter of the globe — are a great point gained in favor of the rights of mankind. The experiment is made, and has completely succeeded. It can be no longer called in question, whether authority in magistrates, and obedience of citizens, can be grounded on reason, morality, and the Christian religion, without the monkery of priests or the knavery of politicians. — Preface to the Defence. THE OUTLOOK IN 17S7. The arts and sciences, in general, during the three or four last centuries, have had a regular course of progressive improvement. The inven- tions in the mechanic arts, the discoveries in natu- ral philosophy, navigation and commerce, and the advancement of civilization and humanity, have occasioned changes in the condition of the world, and the human character, which would have as- tonished the most refined nations of antiquity. A continuation of such exertions is every day ren- dering Europe more and more like one commu- nity, or single family. The checks and balances of republican Governments have been in some de- gree adopted by the courts of princes. ... A control has been established over ministers of state and the royal councils, which approaches in some degree the spirit of republics. The press has great influence, even where it is not expressly tolerated; and the public opinion must be re- spected by a minister, or his place becomes inse- cure And if religious toleration were es- tablished, and personal liberty a little more pro- tected, by giving an absolute right to demand a public trial in a certain reasonable time, and the States [Estates] invested with a few more privi- 70 JOHN ADAMS. leges — or, rather, restored to some that have been taken away — these Governments would be brought to as great a degree of perfection — they would ap- proach as near to the character of governments of Laws and not of Men, as their nature will proba- bly admit of. — Preface to the Defence. The Diary of John Adams, though not kept up unremitingly during his whole life, con- tains many interesting passages. In Jan., 1759, not long after he had begun the prac- tice of law, he writes : EARLY PLANS FOE LIFE. What am I doing? Shall I sleep away my whole seventy years? No, by everything I swear 1 will renounce this contemplative, and betake myself to an active, roving life by sea or land ; or else I will attempt some uncommon, unexpected enter- prise in law. Let me lay the plan, and arouse spirit enough to push boldly. I swear, I'll push myself into business. I'll watch my opportunity to speak in Court, and will strike with surprise: surprise bench, bar, jury, auditors and all. Ac- tivity, boldness, forwardness, will draw attention. I will not lean with my elbows on the table for- ever, like so-and-so; but I will not forego the pleasui*es of ranging the woods, climbing cliffs, walking in fields, meadows, by rivers, lakes, etc., and confine myself to a chamber for nothing. I'll have some boon in return, exchange : Fame, fort- une, or something In Parson Wibird's company something is to be learned of human nature, human life, love, courtship, marriage He has his mind stuffed with remarks and stuffed with remarks and stories of human virtues and vices, wisdom and folly, etc. But his opinion, out of poetry, love, court- ship, marriage, politics, war, grace, decency, etc., is not very valuable. His soul is lost in dronish effeminacy. I'd rather be lost in a whirlwind of activity, study, business, great and good designs of promoting the honor, grandeur, wealth, happi- ness of mankind. — Diary for 1759. JOHN ADAMS. 71 THE YEAR 1765. This has been the most remarkable year of my life. That enormous engine, fabricated by the British Parliament for battering down all the rights and liberties of America — I mean the Stamp Act — has raised and spread through the 'whole continent a spirit which will be recorded to our honor with all future generations Such, and so universal, has been the resentment of the peo- ple that every man who has dared to speak in fa- vor of the stamps, or to soften the detestation in which they are held, has been seen to sink into universal contempt and ignominy. The people, even to the lowest ranks, have become more atten- tive to their liberties, more inquisitive about them, and more determined to defend them than they were ever before. The crown officers have everywhere trembled; and all their little tools and creatures have been afraid to speak, and ashamed to be seen. This spirit, however, has not been sufficient to banish from persons in authority that timidity which they have discovered from the beginning. The Executive Courts have not yet dared to pro- nounce the Stamp Act void, nor to proceed to business as usual, though it should seem that ne- cessity alone would be sufficient to justify business at present, though the Act should be allowed to be obligatory. The stamps are in the castle ; the Governor has no authority to unpack the bales; the Act has never been proclaimed nor read in the Province; and yet the probate office is shut, the custom-houses are shut, and all business seems at a stand How long we are to remain in this languid condition — this passive obedience to the Stamp Act — is not certain. But such a pause cannot be lasting and it is to be expected that the public offices will very soon be forced open, unless such favorable ao- counts should be received from England as to draw away the fear of the great; or unless a greater dread of the multitude should drive away the fear of censure from Great Britain. It is my opinion that by this inactivity we discover coward- ice, and too much respect for the Act. This rest 72 JOHN ADAMS. appears to be — by implication at least — an ac- knowledgment of tbe authority of Parliament to tax us. And if this authority is once acknowl- edged and established, the ruin of America will become inevitable. — Diary o/1765. The letters written by Adams to his wife are often extremely interesting. In them he lays bare his inmost heart upon matters of public import. Thus, late in July, 1775, when the first Continental Congress was in session, and the question of revolution or no revolu- tion was becoming the important issue of the time, he writes of Franklin and some other members of that Congress : ADAMS UPON FRANKLIN AND OTHERS. Dr. Franklin has been very constant in bis attendance upon Congress from tbe beginning. His conduct has been composed and grave, and, in the opinion of many gentlemen, very reserved. He has not assumed anytbing, nor affected to take the lead; but bas seemed to cboose that Congress should pursue their own sentiments, and adopt their own plans. Yet he bas not been backward; has been very useful to us on many occasions, and discovered a disposition entirely American. He does not hesitate at our boldest measures, but rather seems to think us too ir- resolute and backward. He thinks us at present in rather an odd state; neither at peace nor at Avar; neither dependent nor independent. But he thinks that we sball soon assume a char- acter more decisive. He thinks that we have tbe power of preserving ourselves; and that, even if we should be driven to tbe disagreeable neces- sity of assuming a total independency, and set up a separate State, we can maintain it. The people in England have thought that the opposition was wholly owing to Dr. Franklin; and I suppose their scribblers will attribute the proceeding of Congress to him; but there cannot be a greater mistake. He has had but little share farther than to co-operate and to assist. He is, JOHN ADAMS. 73 however, a great and a good man. I wish his colleagues from this city [Philadelphia] were all like him; particularly one [John Dickinson], whose abilities and virtues, formerly trumpeted so much in America, have been found wanting. There is a young gentleman from Pennsylvania whose name is Wilson, whose fortitude, rectitude, and abilities, too, greatly outshine his master's. Mr. Biddle, the Speaker, has been taken off by sickness; Mr. Mifflin is gone to the camp; Mr. Morton is ill too; so that this Province has suf- fered by the timidity of two overgrown fortunes. The dread of confiscation, or caprice — I know not what — has influenced them too much. Yet they were for taking arms, and pretended to be very valiant. — This letter must be secret, clear, or at least communicated with great discretion. — Letter, July 23, 1775. It was almost a year longer before the ques- tion of Independence came to a final decision in the Continental Congress. On July 3, 1776, Adams wrote to his wife : THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. Yesterday the greatest question was decided which ever was debated in America; and a greater, perhaps, never was or will be debated among men. A Eesolution was passed, without one dissenting Colony, " that these United Colo- nies are, and of right ought to be, free and inde- pendent States, and as such they have, and of right ought to have, full power to make war, conclude peace, establish commerce, and do all other acts and things which other states may rightfully do." You will see in a few days, a Declaration setting forth the causes which have impelled us to this mighty revolution, and the reasons which will justify it to God and man. . . . When I run through the whole period from 1761 to this, I am surprised at the suddenness as well as the greatness of this revolution. Britain has been filled with folly, and America with wisdom: at least this is my judgment. Time must deter- mine. It is the will of Heaven that the two 74 JOHN ADAMS. countries should be sundered forever. It may be the will of Heaven that America shall suffer calamities still more wasting, and distresses yet more dreadful Had a Declaration of Independency been made seven months ago, it would have been attended with many great and glorious effects. We might, before this hour, have formed alliances with foreign States. We should have been masters of Quebec, and been in possession of Canada But the delay of this Declaration to this time has many great advantages attending it. The hopes of reconciliation which were fondly entertained by multitudes of honest and well-meaning, though weak and mistaken people, have been gradually, and at last totally extinguished. Time has been given for the whole people maturely to consider the great question of Independence .... so that the whole people, in every Colony of the Thirteen, have now adopted it as their own act. This will cement the union, and avoid those heats, and perhaps convulsions, which might have been occasioned by such a Declaration six months ago. But the day is past. The second day of July, 1776, will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of tbis continent to the other, from this time forward forever. . . . I am well aware of the toil and blood and treasure which it will cost us to maintain this Declaration and defend these States. Yet through all the gloom I can see the rays of ravishing light and glory. I can see that the end is worth more than all the means; and that posterity will triumph in that day's transaction, even though we should rue it — which I trust in God we shall not. — Letter. July 3. 177C. JOHN ADAMS. 75 CHARACTER OF NEW ENGLANDERS. If ever I get through this scene of politics and war, I will spend the remainder of my days in endeavoring to instruct my countrymen in the art of making the most of their virtues and abilities; an art which they have hitherto too much neg- lected. A Philosophical Society shall be estab- ■ lished at Boston, if I have wit and address to accomplish it, some time or other My coun- trymen want art and address. They want knowl- edge of the world. They want the exterior and accomplishments of gentlemen, upon which the world has. set so high a value. In solid abilities and virtues they vastly excel, in general, any people on this continent. Our New England people are awkward and bashful; yet they are perty—QsientatiouSj and vain : a mixture which excites ridicule and gives disgust. They have not the faculty of showing themselves to the best advantage, nor the art of concealing this faculty : an art and faculty which some people possess in the highest degree. Our deficiencies in this re- spect are owing wholly to the little intercourse we have with strangers, and to our inexperience of the world. These imperfections must be remediectpTor New England must produce the heroeSj tha statesmen, the philosophers, or Amer- ica will make no great figure for some time. — Letter, Aug. 3, 1776. \ THE BEAX FOR THE UNITED STATES. Dr. Franklin proposes a device for the seal: Moses lifting up his wand and dividing the lied Sea, and Pharaoh in his chariot overwhelmed with the waters; this motto, "Rebellion to tyrants is obedience to God." — Mr. Jefferson proposed the children of Israel in the wilderness, led by a cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night; and on the other side, Hengist and Horsa, the Saxon chiefs from whom we claim the honor of being descended, and whose political principles and form of gov- ernment we have assumed. — I proposed the Choice of Hercules, as engraved in some editions of Lord Shaftesbury's works: the hero resting on his club; Virtue pointing to her rugged mountain It 76 JOHN ADAMS. on one hand, and persuading him to ascend; Sloth, glancing on her flowery paths of pleasure, wantonly reclining on the ground, displaying the charms both of her eloquence and person, to seduce him into vice. But this is too complicated a group for a seal or medal, and it is not original. —Letter, Aug. 14, 1776. MILITARY DISCIPLINE AND OBEDIENCE. There is such a mixture of the sublime and the beautiful, together with the useful, in military discipline, that I wonder every officer we have is not charmed with it A disciplinarian has affixed to him commonly the ideas of cruelty, severity, tyranny, etc.; but if I were an officer, I am convinced that I should be the most effect- ive disciplinarian in the army. I am convinced that there is no other effective way of indulging benevolence, humanity, and the tender social passions in an army. There is no other way of preserving the health and the spirits of the men. There is no other way of making them active and skilful in war; no other way of guarding an army against destruction by surprise; and no other method of giving them confidence in one another— of making them stand by one another in the hour of battle. Discipline in an army is like the laws in civil society. There can be no liberty in a commonwealth where the laws are not revered and most sacredly observed ; nor can there be happiness or safety in an army for a single hour where the discipline is not observed.— Obedience is the only thing wanting now for our salvation :— obedience to the laws in the States, and obedience to officers in the army.— Letter, Aug. 24. 1777. COST OF LIVING IN PHILADELPHIA. The business of the country has been in so critical and dangerous a situation for the last twelve months that it was necessary that Massa- chusetts should have a full representation; but the expenses of living are grown so enormous that I believe it will be necessary to reduce the number of delegates to three, after the campaign is over JOHN ADAMS. 77 Prices current: Four pounds a week for board, besides finding your own washing, shaving, can- dles, liquors, pipes, tobacco, wood, etc. Thirty shillings a week for [the board of] a servant. (It ought to be thirty shillings for a gentleman and four pounds for the servant, because he generally eats twice as much, and makes twice as much trouble. ) Shoes, five dollars a pair. Salt, twenty- seven dollars a bushel. Butter, ten shillings a pound. Punch, twenty sliillings a bowl. All the old women and young children are gone down to the Jersey shore to make salt. Salt-water is boiling all round the coast, and I hope it will increase; for it is nothing but heedlessness and shiftlessness that prevents us from making salt enough for a supply; but necessity will bring us to it. As to sugar, molasses, rum, etc., we must leave them off. Whiskey is used here instead of rum, and I don't see but it is just as good. Of this the wheat and rye countries can easily distill enough for the use of the country. If I could get cider, I would be content. — Letter, Aug. 29, 1777. HOPES AND FOEECASTINGS. The question now is, whether there will be a general engagement. I think it is not good policy for us to attack them, unless we can get a favor- able advantage of them in the situation of the ground, etc. I think it would be imprudent, perhaps, for us, with our whole force, to attack them with all theirs But will not Mr. Howe be able to compel us to a general engage- ment? Perhaps he may. but Washington will manoeuvre it with him a good deal to avoid it. A general engagement, in which Howe should be defeated, would be ruin to him. If we should be defeated, his army would be crippled, and perhaps we might suddenly re-enforce our army. which he could not. All that he could gain by a victory would be the possession of this town [Philadelphia], which would be the worst posi- tion he could be in; because it would employ his whole force, by sea and land, to keep it and the command of the river. 78 JOHN ADAMS. Their principal dependence is not upon their arms, I believe, so much as upon the failure of our revenue. They think they have taken such measures — by circulating counterfeit bills — so to depreciate the currency that it cannot hold its credit longer than this campaign. But they are mistaken. We must disappoint them by re- nouncing all luxuries, and by a severe economy. General Washington sets a fine example. He has banished wine from his table, and entertains his friends with rum-and-water. This is much to the honor of his wisdom, his policy, and his patriot- ism. And the example must be followed by banishing sugar and all imported articles from our families. If necessity should reduce us to a simplicity of dress and diet becoming repub- licans, it would be a happy and a glorious neces- sity Washington has a great body of militia as- sembled and assembling, in addition to a grand Continental army. Whether he will strike or not, I can't say. He is very prudent, and will not unnecessarily hazard his army. I should put more to risk, if I were in his shoes; but perhaps he is right I wish that Stark had the com- mand in the Northern Department. I am sick of Fabian systems in all quarters. The officers drink: "A long and moderate war!" My toast is: "A short and violent war!" They would call me mad, rash, etc.; but I know better. I am as cool as any of them — and cooler too — for my mind is not inflamed with fear nor anger; where- as I believe theirs are with both The General has harangued his army, and pub- lished general orders, in order to prepare their minds for something great. Whether he expects to be attacked, or whether he designs to offend, I can't say If there should be no general battle, and the two armies should lounge away the remainder of the campaign, in silent in- activity, gazing at each other, Howe's reputation would be ruined in his own country and in all Europe, and the dread of him would cease in all America. The American mind, which, I think, has more firmness now than it ever had before, JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. 79 since this war began, would acquire a confidence and strength that all the efforts of Great Britain afterwards would not be able to relax The moments are critical here. We know not but the next will bring us an account of a general engagement begun; and when once begun, we know not how it will end. All that we can do is to pray that we may be victorious; at least, that we may not be vanquished. But if it should be the will of Heaven that our army should be defeated, and Philadelphia fall into Mr. Howe's hands, still America is not conquered. America would yet be possessed of great resources, and capable of great exertions. It may be the design of Providence that this should be the case; because it would only lay the foundations of American Independence deep- er, and cement them stronger. It would cure Americans of their vicious and luxurious and eliminate appetites, passions, and habits. — a more dangerous army to American liberty than Mr. Howe's. However, without the loss of Philadelphia, we must be brought to an entire renunciation of foreign commodities: at least of AVest Indian produce. People are coming to this resolution very fast here. Loaf-sugar at four dollars a pound, wine at three dollars a bottle, etc., will soon introduce economy in the use of these articles. This spirit of economy would be more terrible to Great Britain than anything else; and it would make us more respectable in the eyes of all Europe. Instead of acrimonious alterca- tions, I wish that my countrymen would agree in this virtuous resolution of depending upon themselves alone. Let them make salt, and live without sugar and rum. — Letters, Avg. 29. Sept. 8, 1777. ADAMS, John Quincy, sixth President of the United States, eldest son of John Adams, was born at Braintree, Mass., July 11, 1767, died at Washington, Feb. 23, 1848. jn 1777 he accompanied, his father on his first Euro pean mission, and was placed at a school near 80 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. Paris for more than a year, where he acquired the French language. He went to Europe with his father a second time in 1780 ; and in 1782 he went to Russia as Secretary of Lega- tion to Mr. Dana, who had been made Minis- ter at St. Petersburg. In 1786 he returned to America, and entered the junior class at Har- vard College; afterwards studied law and commenced practice in Boston in 1791. He soon attracted attention by his papers on public matters contributed to the Boston Cen- tinel, mainly in defence of the policy of Pres- ident Washington, by whom, in 1794, he was appointed Minister to Holland. His father, having become President of the United States in 1797, appointed him Minister at Berlin, act- ing by the express advice of Washington, who wrote that he considered young Adams " the ablest person in the American diplomatic ser- vice," and that "merited promotion ought not to be withheld from him merely because he was the President's son. " Upon the acces- sion of Jefferson to the Presidency, Adams was recalled, raid in 1801 he resumed the practice of law in Boston. In 1803 he was chosen to the United States Senate from Mas- sachusetts. He was elected by the Federal party, with whom he continued to act for four years. This party was now signally de- feated throughout the nation. Mr. Adams supported the war measures of the Republican party, and was not re-elected to the Senate. In 1806 he was made Professor of Rhetoric and Belles-lettres in Harvard College. Mr. Madison became President in 1809, and appointed Adams as Minister to Russia. In 1813 he was placed at the head of the commis- sion for negotiating the Treaty of Ghent, which put an end to the war with Great Brit- ain ; and he was soon made resident Minister at London. He returned to America in 1817 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. 81 to fill the post of Secretary of State in the first administration of Mr. Monroe. When Mon- roe's second term drew to a close, six candi- dates for the Presidency were brought foi*- ward, all of them prominent in the Republican party, and three of them members of Monroe's Cabinet. Adams received the support of the majority of the former Federalists, who had now no real existence as a party. At the election, held in 1824, Jackson re- ceived 99 electoral votes; Adams 84; Craw- ford 41 ; Clay 37. No one having a majority, the election devolved upon the House of Rep- resentatives. Crawford received the vote of four States. Jackson that of seven; Adams receiving the vote of thirteen States, was. chosen as President. At the next election, in 1828, he was signally defeated for the Presi- dency by Andrew Jackson. In 1831 he ac- cepted the Anti-Masonic nomination for Con- gress from the Suffolk district of Massachu- setts, which he continued to represent until his death seventeen years later, making him- self specially prominent in maintaining the right of petition upon the subject of slavery, which had been virtually denied to the abo- litionists. — In Nov. , 1846, while on the point of leaving Boston for Washington, he had a shock of paralysis, which kept him from his seat for several months. He resumed his weat but rarely spoke in Congress after that. On Feb. 21, 1848, he had a second stroke while in the House, and died two days later, never recovering more than partial consciousness. John Quincy Adams was busy with his pen during the greater part of his life. His Jour* nal, which has been edited by his son, Charles Francis Adams, embodies a mass of highly important information in regard to persons and events of his time. His Lectures on Rhetoric and Oratory, delivered during his 82 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. Harvard Professorship, are rather above the majority of treatises of this class. Of his public Speeches, besides those pronounced in Congress, the most important is The Jubilee of the Constitution, delivered before the New York Historical Society, April 30, 1839, being the fiftieth anniversary of the inauguration of Washington as first President of the United States. SECESSIO>T~AND NULLIFICATION. Recent events in our history [i.e. those of 1832, et seq.] to which the rising generation of our coun- try cannot and ought not to close their eyes, have brought again into discussion questions which at the period to which we are now reverting [1789] were at the deepest and most vital interest to the continued existence of the Union itself. The question whether any one State of the Union had the right to secede from the Confederacy at her pleasure, was then practically solved. The ques- tion of the right of the people of any one State to nullify within her borders any legislative act of the General Government was involved in that cf the right of Secession, without, however, the most obnoxious feature of the modern doctrine of nul- lification and secession — the violation of the plighted faith of the nullifying or seceding State. Rhode Island had not only neglected to comply with the requisitions of the Confederation-Con- gress to supply the funds necessary to fulfil the public engagements; but she alone had refused to invest the Congress with powers indispensable for raising such supplies. She had refused to join in the united effort to re-vivify the suspended ani- mation of the Confederacy; and she still defied the warning of her sister States, that if she perse- vered in this exercise of her sovereignty and inde- pendence, they would leave her alone in her glory, and take up their march in united column. North Carolina, not more remiss than her sister States in the fulfilment of her obligations, .after joining them in the attempt to draw the bonds of union closer together by a now compact, still re- JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. 83 fused to ratify it. Rhode Island and North Car- olina still held back. The Union and Washing- ton marched on without them. Their right to se- cede was not contested ; no unfriendly step to in- jure was taken; no irritating measure to provoke them was proposed. The door was left open for them to return, whenever the proud and wayward spirit of State Sovereignty would give way to the attractions of clearer-sighted self-interest and kin- dred sympathies; and when within two years they did return, without invitation or repulsion, they were received with open arms. The questions of secession, or of resistance un- der State authority, against the execution of the laws of the Union within any State can never again be presented under circumstances so favor- able to the pretensions of the separate States, as they were at the organization of the Constitution of the United States. At that time Rhode Island and North Carolina might justly have pleaded that their sister States were bound to them by a compact into which they had voluntarily entered, with stipulations that it should undergo no altera- tion but by unanimous consent. That the Consti- tution was a confederate Union founded upon principles totally different, and to which not only they were at liberty to refuse their assent, but which all the other States combined could not, without a breach of their own faith, establish among themselves without the free consent of all the partners to the prior contract; that the Con- federation could not otherwise be dissolved ; and that, by adhering to it, they were only performing their own engagements with good faith, and claiming their own unquestionable rights. The justification of the people of the eleven States which had adopted the Constitution of the United States, and of that provision of the Consti- tution itself, which had prescribed that the ratifi- cation of nine States should suffice to absolve them from the bonds of the old Confederation, and to establish the new Government, as between them- selves, was found in the principles of the Declara- tion of Independence. The Confederation had failed to answer the purposes for which govern- 84 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. ments are instituted among men. Its powers, or its impotence, operated to the destruction of those ends which it is the object of government to pro- mote. The People, therefore — who had made it their own only by their acquiescence — acting un- der their responsibility to the Supreme Ruler of the Universe, absolved themselves from the bonds of the old Confederation, and bound themselves by the new and closer ties of the Constitution They passed upon the old Confederation the same sentence which they had pronounced in dissolving their connection with the British nation; and they pledged their faith to each other anew to a far closer and more intimate connection. It is ad- mitted — it was admitted then — that the people of Rhode Island and of North Carolina were free to reject the new Constitution; but not that they could justly claim the continuance of the old Confederation. The law of political necessity — expounded by the judgment of the Sovereign Con- stituent People, responsible only to God — had abolished that. The People of Rhode Island and of North Carolina might dissent from the more perfect Union, but they must acquiesce in the ne- cessity of the separation. Of that separation they soon felt the inconvenience to themselves, and re- joined the company from which they had strayed. The number of primitive States has since doubled by voluntary and earnest applications for admis- sion. It has often been granted as a privilege and a favor; sometimes delayed beyond the time when it was justly due — and never declined by any one State entitled to demand it. — The Jubilee of the Constitution. OTJK EBAL AND GERIZIM. When the children of Israel, after forty years of wandering in the wilderness, were about to enter upon the Promised Land, their leader, Moses, who was not permitted to cross the Jordan with them, just before his removal from among them, com- manded that when the Lord their God should have brought them into the land, they should put the curse upon Mount "Ebal and the blessing upon Mount Gerizim. JOHN gUINCY ADAMS. 85 Fellow citizens ! the Ark of your Covenant is the Declaration of Independence. Your Mount Ebal is the Confederacy of separate State Sovereignties; and your Mount Gerizim is the Constitution of the United States. In that scene of tremendous and awful solemnity, narrated in the Holy Scriptures, there is not a curse pronounced upon the people upon Mount Ebal, not a blessing promised them upon Mount Gerizim, which your posterity may not suffer or enjoy from your«and their adherence to, or departure from the principles of the Declara- tion of Independence, practically interwoven in the Constitution of the United States. Lay up these principles then, in your hearts and in your souls; bind them for signs upon your hands, that they may be as frontlets between your eyes; teach them to your children — speaking of them when sitting in your houses, when walking by the way, when lying down and when rising up; write them upon the doorplates of your houses, and upon your gates; cling to them as to the issues of life; adhere to them as to the cords of your eternal salvation! So may your children's children, at the next return of this day of jubilee, after a full century of experience under your National Consti- tution, celebrate it again in the full enjoyment of all the blessings recognized by you in the com- memoration at this day, and of the blessings prom- ised to the children of Israel upon Mount Gerizim, as the reward of obedience to the Law of God. — The Jubilee of the Constitution. John Quincy Adams made several trans- lations from French and. German authors. Among these is a decidedly clever rendering of the Oberon of Wieland. He also wrote no little poetry. His longest poem, Dermot Mac- Morrogh, relates the Conquest of Ireland, in the twelfth century, by the English. It com- prises four cantos, containing in all nearly three hundred stanzas, and is worthy of higher appreciation than has been accorded to it. The poem concludes with setting forth the fate of the traitor Dermot, and the subju- gation of Ireland : 86 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. THE FATE OF ERIN. And now the priestly legates in their turn, Absolve the royal penitent from guilt: No more the Holy Pontiff's bowels earn For vengeance, on the blood of Becket spilt: Profuse his gracious favor, in return Confirms the deed on fraud and falsehood built; And grants what Adrian had bestowed before: The right supreme to Erin's verdant shore. Thus was the shame of servitude her lot; And has been since from that detested day, When Dermot all his country's claims forgot, And basely barters all her rights away. Oh! could the Muse be beard, his name should rot In fresh, immortal, unconsumed decay, And be with Arnold's name transmitted down, First in the roll of infamous renown He first with daring and relentless hand, Had torn of friendship and of love the ties; Had rent of wedlock's sacred vows the band, And taken fraud and falsehood for allies. Expelled with justice from his native land, To Albion's tyrant for revenge he flies; Betrays his trust, pays homage for his throne; And seals his country's ruin with his own And now concentrated, burst forth his rage. He cursed the day on which he had been born; For on the record of his life no page Could speak of comfort to his state forlorn; No cordial drop of memory to assuage, Of fell Remorse the vital-searching thorn. A burning fever seized on every vein, And mortal madness fastened on his brain. And to their wildered senses, Erin's saints Appear with lighted torches in their hands, Applying scorpion scourges till he faints, And then reviving him with blazing brands; While o'er his head a frowning Fury paints In letters which he reads and understands: " Expect no mercy from thy Maker's hand! Thou hadst no mercy on thy Native Land! " John quincy adams. 87 And to the shades the indignant spirit fled: And thus was Erin's conquest first achieved; Thus Albion's monarch first became her head. — And now her freedom shall be soon retrieved. For (mark the Muse, if rightly she has read, Let this her voice prophetic be believed), Soon, soon shall dawn the day — as dawn it must, When Erin's sceptre shall be Erin's trust. And here I hang my harp upon the willow; And will no longer importune the Muse, Nor woo her nightly visits to my pillow, Nor more implore her favor or abuse. — Brave sons of Erin, o'er the Atlantic billow! The harp is yours! will you to hear refuse? — Take, take it back: yourselves the strain prolong; And give your Dermot's name to deathless song. For, oh ! if ever on the roll of Time Since man has on this blessed planet dwelt, A soul existed saturate with crime, Or the deep curse of after ages felt, Yours was his country, Erin was his clime; Nor yet has justice with his name been dealt. My voice, alas, is weak, and cannot sing. Touch, touch yourselves the never-dying string! — From Dermot MacMorrogh. Among the minor poems of John Quincy Adams, which appeared under the title of Poems of Religion and Society, perhaps the best is the jeu d'esprit, in twenty-live stanzas, entitled : THE WANTS OF MAN. I. " Man wants but little here below, nor wants that little long." 'Tis not with me exactly so; but 'tis so in the song. My wants are many, and if told, would muster many a score; And were each wish a mint of gold. I still should long for more. 88 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. ii. What first I want is daily bread, and canvass- backs and wine; And all the realms of nature spread before me when I dine. Four courses scarcely can provide my appetite to quell , With four choice cooks from France beside, to dress my dinner well. VI. I want when Summer's foliage falls, and Autumn strips the trees, A house within the city walls, for comfort and tin- ease. But here, as space is somewhat scant, and acres somewhat rare, My house in town I only want to occupy a square. VII. I want a steward, butler, cook; a coachman, footman, grooms; A library of well-bound books, and picture-gar- nished rooms; Correggios, Magdalen, and Night, the Matron of the Chair; Guido's fleet Coursers in their flight, and Claudes at least a pair. XII. I want — who does not want? — a wife, affectionate and fair. To solace all the woes of life, and all its joys to share ; Of temper sweet, of yielding will, of firm yet placid mind, With all my faults to love me still, with sentiment refined. XIII. And as Time's car incessant runs, and Fortune fills my store, I want of daughters and of sons from eight to half a score. I want — alas, can mortal dare such bliss on earth to crave? That all the girls be chaste and fair, the boys all wise and brave. JOHN QUINCY ADAMS. 89 XVII. I want a warm and faithful friend, to cheer the adverse hour; Who ne'er to flatter will descend, nor bend the knee to power: A friend to chide me when I'm wrong, my inmost soul to see. And that my friendship prove as strong for him as his to me ; XVIII. I want a kind and tender heart, for others' wants to feel; A soul secure from Fortune's dart, and bosom armed with steel, To bear divine chastisement's rod; and mingling with my plan, Submission to the will of God, with charity to man. XXI. I want the genius to conceive, the talents to un- fold, Designs the vicious to retrieve, the virtuous to up- hold ; [soul, Inventive power, combining skill, a persevering Of human hearts to mould the will, and reach from pole to pole. - XXIII. I want the voice of honest praise to follow me be- hind ; And to be thought in future days the friend of human kind; That after ages, as they rise, exulting may pro- claim, In choral union to the skies, their blessings on my name. XXIV. These are the wants of mortal man: I cannot want them long. For life itself is but a span, and earthly bliss a song. — My last great want — absorbing all — is, when be- neath the sod, And summoned to my final call, the mercy of my God. 90 JOSEPH ADDISON. xxv. And oh! while circles in my veins of "life the pui pie stream, And yet a fragment small remains of natnre'_ transient dream, My soul, in humble hope unscared, forget not thou to pray That thus thy want may be prepared to meet the Judgment Day. TO A SUN-DIAL. Thou silent herald of Time's ceaseless flight! Say, couldst thou speak, what warning voice were thine, Shade, who canst only show how others shine! Dark, sullen witness of resplendent Light In day's broad glare, and when the noontide bright Of laughing Fortune sheds the ray divine, Thy ready favors cheer us; but decline The clouds of morning and the gloom of night. Yet are thy counsels faithful, just and wise: They bid us seize the moments as they pass. Snatch the retrieveless sunshine as it flies, Nor lose one sand of life's revolving glass. Aspiring still, with energy sublime, By virtuous deeds to give Eternity to Time. ADDISON, Joseph, an English poet and essayist, born at Milton. Wiltshire, May 1, 1672, died at Holland House, Kensington, June 17, 1719. He was the son of Rev. Lance- lot Addison, Dean of Lichfield, who was an author of some distinction in his day. He was educated at Charter House School, Lon- don, and at Queen's and Magdalen Colleges, Oxford, where he distinguished himself by his Latin verses. While quite a young man he secured the favor of Dryclen and other men of letters, and likewise of Lords Halifax and Somers, through whose influence be re- ceived a pension of £300 to enable him to travel, and especially to perfect himself in the French language, in order to be prepared for official employment. His continental JOSEPH ADDISON. 91 travels lasted from 1(599 to the close of 1703, when he returned to England. King William III. had died in the mean time ; Addison's patrons had gone out of power ; his pension was stopped, and for some time he was hard pressed by pecuniary difficulties; but he was known to the leaders of both parties as a man of genius. The great war of the Spanish Succession had brought the Whigs and Tories of England into some sort of harmony. On the 13th of August, 1704, was fought the great battle of Blenheim, and the Ministry looked about for some man who could properly cele- brate the victory in verse. They sent the Chancellor of the Exchequer to the garret occupied by Addison, to engage his services; offering him a government commissionership worth £200 a year, as an earnest of still greater favors. The result of this interview was The Cam- paign, a poem of some five hundred lines, in- scribed to the Duke of Marlborough, whom it celebrates. The poem became famous, and laid the foundation for the fortunes of the poet. Apart from its merits as a poem for the thne, The Campaign ranks high among the works of its class. Its special merit is that it discards wholly all the old fashion of ascribing a great victory to the personal prowess of its hero as a man-at-arms. Addi- son was perhaps the first man to recognize in verse that a battle is won by brains, not by brawn. He reserved his praise for those qualities which made Marlborough one of the greatest commanders of any age: energy, sagacity in planning, and firmness of mind amid the confusion, uproar, and slaughter of the battle field. The conclusion of the poem, which might stand for its "Argument," rea ds : 92 JOSEPH ADDISON". THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH. Thus would I fain Britannia's wars rehearse, In the smooth records of a faithful verse; That, if such numbers can o'er Time prevail, May tell posterity the wondrous tale. When Actions unadorned are faint and weak, Cities and Countries must be taught to speak; " And Rivers from their oozy beds arise; Gods may descend in factions from the skies, Fiction may deck the truth with spurious rays, And round the Hero cast a borrowed blaze. Marlbro's exploits appear divinely bright, And proudly shine in their own native light; Raised of themselves their genuine charms they boast, And those who paint them truest praise them most. — The Campaign. The most famous passage in the poem is the twenty lines which form the prelude to the Battle of Blenheim, crowned as it is by the three concluding couplets which compare Marlborough to an angel guiding the whirl- wind. " The extraordinary effect which this simile produced," says Macaulay, " when it first appeared, and which to the following generation seemed inexplicable, is doubtless to be chiefly attributed to a line which most readers now regard as a feeble parenthesis : ' Such as of late o'er pale Britannia passed. ' Addison spoke, not of a storm, but of the storm. The great tempest of November, 1703, the only tempest which in our latitude has equalled the cage of a tropical hurricane, had left a dreadful recollection in the minds of all men. No other tempest was ever in this country the occasion of a parliamentary ad- dress or of a public fast. London and Bristol had presented the appearance of cities just sacked, and the prostrate trunks of large trees, and the ruins of houses, still attested, in all the southern counties, the fury of the blast." JOSEPH ADDISON. 03 MARLBOROUGH AT BLENHEIM. But O, my Muse, what numbers wilt thou find To sing the furious troops in battle joined! Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound, The victor's shouts and dying groans confound, The dreadful burst of cannon rend the skies, And all the thunder of the battle rise. — 'Twas then great Marlbro's mighty soul was proved, That in the shock of charging hosts unmoved, Amidst confusion, horror, and despair. Examined all the dreadful scenes of war: In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed, To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid, Inspired repulsed battalions to engage. And taught the dreadful battle where to rage. — So when an Angel by Divine command With rising tempests shakes a guilty land — Such as of late o'er pale Britannia past — Calm and serene he drives the furious blast; And pleased the Almighty's orders to perform, Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm. — The Campaign. Addison's commissionership — apparently a sinecure — placed him in comfortable circum- stances, and he amused himself in literary productions. He published the Narrative of his Travels in Italy — a country which he looked upon only through classical eyes ; the lively Opera of Rosamond, which failed upon the stage, owing to the bad music which was set to it ; the Drummer, a comedy, the trag- edy of Cato, and a large number of pam- phlets, and poems, none of which, excepting two or three Hymns, are of special account ex- cept as the productions of one who had gained a name in other departments of literature. But while he was thus amusing rather than oc- cupying himself with literature his political prospects were growing brighter and brighter. The Whigs came into power; and the leaders of the party looked out for Adotenn, l "hom 94 JOSEPH ADDISON". everybody liked. He was made Under Secre- tary of State, Chief Secretary for Ireland, and finally Secretary of State. He was also re- turned to Parliament in 1708, and held a seat there, for one constituency or another, until his death, eleven years later. But he made no figure in the House of Commons, never attempting but once to make a speech. In- deed we find no evidence in him of any great capacity for political affairs. And yet, says Macaulay, "Addison, without high birth, and with little property, rose to a post which Dukes, the heads of the great Houses of Tal- bot, Russell, and Bentinck, have thought it an honor to fill. Without opening his lips in debate, he rose to a post, the highest that Chatham or Fox ever reached: and this he did before he had been nine years in Parlia- ment. " In 1716, at the age of forty-four, and three years before his death, he married the dowa- ger Countess of Warwick, to whose graceless son, Lord Warwick, he had been a kind of Mentor. This marriage was far enough from a happy one ; and during its brief continu- ance Addison was never so happy as when he could escape from the magnificent draw- ing-room of his titled and imperious wife, and have a chat and a bottle of wine at a London tavern with some of his old friends and cro- nies. He died in perfect peace. Among his last words were those to his unworthy son-in- law: "See, how a Christian can die." His public funeral was a magnificent one. His remains were laid at rest in the vaults of the magnificent Chapel of Henry VII. in West- minster Abbey. He was as good as forgotten almost as soon as he was dead. Neither his rich and titled widow, nor any one of his contemporary friends, ever thought of com- memorating him by even a simple tablet on JOSEPH ADDISON. 95 the walls of the Abbey. Three generations passed before the omission Avas supplied, al- most in our own day, by his bust erected in the "Poets' Corner." As a poet or dramatist Addison cannot be placed high even in the third rank of Brit- ish Authors. His tragedy of Cato contains some passages of fine declamation, the best of which is Cato's Soliloquy on Immortality. The Letter from Italy, addressed to Lord Halifax, has some noble passages ; and one or two of his Hymns and religious Odes stand among the classics of our language. The most notable passage in his versified Ac- count of the Greatest English Poets, is that upon the author of the Faery Queen : UPON EDMUND SPENSER. Old Spenser next, warmed with poetic rage, In ancient tales amused a barbarous age; An age, that yet, uncultivate and rude, Where'er the poet's fancy led, pursued Through pathless fields, and unfrequented floods, To dens of dragons and enchanted woods. But now the mystic tale, that pleased of yore, Can claim an understanding age no more; The long-spun allegories fulsome grow, While the dull moral lies too plain below. We view well pleased, at distance, all the sights— Of arms and palfreys, battles, fields, and fights, Of damsels in distress, and courteous knights. But when we look too near, the shades decay, And all the pleasing landscape fades away. — Account of the Greatest British Poets. ON ITALY. Now has kind Heaven adorned this happy land, And scattered blessings with a wasteful hand! But what avails her unexhausted stores. Her blooming mountains and her sunny shores, Where all the gifts that heaven and earth impart, The smiles of Nature and the charms of Art, While proud Oppression in her valleys reigns, And Tyranny usurps her happy plains? 96 JOSEPH ADDISON. The poor inhabitant beholds in vain The reddening orange and the swelling grain; Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines; Starves in the midst of Nature's bounty curst And in the loaded vineyard dies for thirst. — Letter from Italy, ODE ON THE CREATOR. The spacious firmament on high. And all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. The unwearied sun, from day to day, Does his Creators power display, And publishes in every land The work of an Almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wondrous tale, And, nightly to the listening earth, Repeats the story of her birth ; While all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial ball? What though no real voice, nor sound, Amid their radiant orbs be found? — In Reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice ; Forever singing as they shine : " The Hand that made us is Divine." THE DIVINE CARE. I. Now are thy servants blest, O Lord I Now sure is their defence ! Eternal AVisdom is their guide, Their help Omnipotence. II. In foreign realms and lands remote, Supported by thy care. Through burning climes I passed unhurt And breathed the tainted air. JOSEPH ADDISON. 97 xv. Think, my soul, devoutly think, How, with affrighted eyes, Thou sawest the wide-extended deep In all its horrors rise. VI. Yet then from all my griefs. O Lord, Thy mercy set me free; Whilst in the confidence of prayer My soul took hold on thee. VII. For though in dreadful whirls we hung High on the broken wave, I knew thou wert not slow to hear, Nor impotent to save. VIII. The storm was laid, the winds retired, Obedient to thy will ; The sea that roared at thy command, At thy command was still. IX. In midst of dangers, fears, and death, Thy goodness I'll adore; I'll praise Thee for thy mercies past, And humbly hope for more. x. My life, if Thou preserve my life, Thy sacrifice shall be: And death, if deatli must be my doom, Shall join my soul to Thee. But Addison owes his great place in English literature mainly to his Essays, and especially to those embodied in The Spectator, a weekly periodical, the first Number of which ap- peared March 1, 1711, and the last of the first Series (No. 555), Dec. 6, 1712. Addison, how- ever, had previously commenced writing Essays, especially in The Tattler, established in 1709 by his friend Eichard Steele, to which he contributed about sixty short essays, all of which appeared subsequently in his "Works." Among these Tattler essays arc 7 98 JOSEPH ADDISON. some of more than mere temporary value, showing the power of keen observation, felic- itous description and keen satire, which were soon to be more fully manifested in The Spec tator : LITEBABY VERMIS. The whole creation preys upon itself; every living creature is inhabited. A flea has a thou- sand invisible insects that tease him as he jumps from place to place, and revenge our quarrels upon him. A very ordinary microscope shows us that a louse itself is a very lousy creature. A whale, besides those seas and oceans in the sev- eral vessels of his body, which are filled with innumerable shoals of little animals, carries about with it a whole world of inhabitants; insomuch that, if we believe the calculations some have made, there are more living creatures, which are too small for the naked eye to behold, about the leviathan, than there are of visible creatures upon the face of the whole earth. Thus every nobler creature is, as it were, the basis and support of multitudes that are his inferiors. This consideration very much comforts me, when I think on those numberless vermin that feed upon this paper, and find their sustenance out of it: I mean the small wits and scribblers that every day turn a penny by nibbling at my lucubrations. This has been so advantageous to this little species of writers, that, if they do me justice, I may expect to have my statue erected in Grub Street, as being a common benefactor to that quarter. They say, when a fox is very much troubled with fleas, he goeth into the next pool, with a little lock of wool in his mouth, and keeps his body under water till the vermin get into it; after which he quits the wool, and diving, leaves his tormentors to shift for themselves, and get their living where they can. 1 would have these gentle- men take care that I do not serve them after the same manner; for though I have kept my temper pretty well, it is not impossible that I may some time or other disappear, and what will then be- I JOSEPH ADDISON. 99 come of them ? Should I lay down my Paper, what a famine would there be among the hawk- ers, printers, booksellers, and authors! It would be like Dr. B 's dropping his cloak, with the whole congregation hanging upon the skirts of it. To enumerate some of these doughty antago- nists: I was threatened to be answered weekly by the Tit for Tat ; I was undermined by the Whis- perer, haunted by Tom Brown 's Ghost, scolded at by a Female Tattler, and slandered by another of the same character, under the title of Atalantis. I have been annotated, re-tattled, examined, and condoled. But it being my maxim, "Never to speak ill of the dead," I shall let these authors rest in peace; and take great pleasure in thinking that I have sometimes been the means of their getting a belly-full. When I see myself thus sur- rounded by such formidable enemies, I often think of the Knight of the Red Cross, in Spenser's Den of Error, who, after he has cut off the dragon's head, and left it wallowing in a flood of ink, sees a thousand monstrous reptiles making their mon- strous attempts upon him — one with many heads another with none, and all of them without eyes. If ever I should want such a fry of little Authors to attend me, I shall think my Paper in a very decaying condition. They are like ivy about an oak, which adorns the tree at the same time that it eats into it; or like a great man's equipage, that do honor to the person on whom they feed. For my part, when I see myself thus attacked, I do not consider my antagonists as malicious but hungry; and therefore am resolved never to take any notice of them. As to those who detract from my labors without being prompted to it by an empty stomach— in return for their censures, I shall take pains to ex- cel, and never fail to persuade myself that their malice is nothing but their envy or ignorance. Give me leave to conclude, like au Old Man and a Moralist, with a Fable. The Owls, Bats, and several other Birds of Mght, were one day together in a thick shade, where they abused their neighbors in a very sociable manner. This Satyr at last fell upon the Sun. 100 .lo.SEPH ADDISON. whom they all agreed to be very troublesome, impertinent, and inquisitive. Upon which the Sun, who overheard them, spoke to them after this manner: ••Gentlemen, I wonder how you dare abuse one that you know could in an instant scorch you up, and burn every mother's son of you. But the only answer I shall give you, or the re- venge I shall take of you, is to shine on." — The Tattler, No. 229, Sept. 26, 1710. HINTS FOR CHARLATANS. The very foundation of Poetry is Good Sense, if we may allow Horace to be a judge of the art: •• Scribendi recte recte sapere est, et printipium, et fans." And if so, we have reason to believe that the same man who writes well can prescribe well, if he has applied himself to the study of both. Besides, when we see a man making professions of two different sciences, it is natural for us to believe that he is no pretender in that which we are no judges of, when we find him skilful in that which we understand. Ordinary Quacks and Charlatans are thoroughly sensible how necessary it is to support themselves by these collateral assistances; and therefore always lay their claim to some supernumerary accomplishments which are wholly foreign to their profession. About twenty years ago it was impossible to walk the streets without having an advertise- ment thrust into your hand of a Doctor •' who was arrived at the Knowledge of the Green and Red Dragon, and had discovered the Female Fern Seed. ,, Nobody ever knew what this meant, but the Bed and Green Dragon so amused the people, that the Doctor lived very comfortably upon them. About the same time there was pasted a very hard word upon every corner of the streets. This, to the best of my recollection, was " Tetkachyma gogon," which drew great shoals of spectators about it. who read the Bill that it introduced with unspeakable curiosity, and when thoy wore sick would have nobody but this Learned Man for their physician. I once received an advertisement of one " who hail studied Thirtg Years 1>u Candlp-iim him, he had only laid down his Memory. He was followed by another worthless rogue, who flung away his Modesty instead of his Ignorance I saw, with unspeakable pleasure, the whole species thus delivered from its sorrow; though, at the same time, there was scarce a mortal in this vast multitude who did not discover in this vast heap what he thought pleasures and blessings of life; and wondered how the owners of them ever came to look upon them as burthens and griev- ances. As we were regarding very attentively this confusion of miseries — this chaos of calamity- Jupiter issued out a second proclamation, that every one was now at liberty to exchange his af- fliction, and to return to his habitation with any such other bundle as should be delivered to him. Upon this Fancy began again to bestir herself, and parcelling out the whole heap with incredible activity, recommended to every one his particular packet. The hurry and confusion at this time was not to be expressed. A venerable gray- headed man, who had laid down the Colic, and who I found wanted an Heir to his estate, snatched up an undutiful son that had been thrown 108 JOSEPH ADDISON. into the heap by his angry father. The grace- less youth, in less than a quarter of an hour, had the old gentleman by the beard, and had like to have knocked his brains out; so that meeting the true father, who came towards him in a fit of the gripes, he begged him to take his son again, and give him back his colic; but they were inca- pable either of them to recede from the choice they had made. A poor galley-slave who had thrown down his chains, took up the Gout in its stead; but made such wry faces that one might easily perceive he was no great gainer by the bar- gain. It was pleasant enough to see the several ex- changes that were made: Sickness against Pov- erty, Hunger against Want of Appetite, and Care against Pain. The female world were very busy among themselves bartering for features. One was trucking a lock of gray hair for a carbuncle ; another was making over a short waist for a pair of round shoulders ; and a third was cheapening a bad face for a lost reputation. But on all these occasions there was not one of them who did not think the new blemish as soon as she had got it into her possession, much more disagreeable than the old one. I made the same observation on every other misfortune or calamity which every one in the assembly brought upon himself in lieu of what he had parted with The heap was at last distributed among the two sexes, who made a most piteous sight as they wandered up ami doAvn under the pressure of their several burthens. The whole plain was filled with murmurs, and complaints, groans and lam- entations. Jupiter at length, taking compassion on the poor mortals, ordered them a second time to lay down their loads, with a design to give every one his own again. They discharged them- selves with a great deal of pleasure, after which the Phantom who had led them into such gross delusion was commanded to disappear. There was sent in her stead a goddess of a quite differ- ent figure: her name was Patience. She had no sooner placed herself by this mount of sorrows. but — what I thought very remarkable, the whole JOSEPH ADDISON. 108 heap sank to such a degree that it did not appear a third part so big as it was before. She after- wards returned every man his own proper calam- ity, and teaching him how to bear it in the most commodious manner, he marched off with it con- tentedly: being very well pleased that he had not been left to his own choice as to the kind of evil which fell to his lot.— The Spectator, No. 558, June 23, 1714. Addison in 1713 contributed about fifty pa- pers to Steele's Guardian, and wrote a con- siderable number of political and other es- says ; but his fame rests mainly upon the Spectator in its first form. Of the 550 Num- bers about 250 were by Addison; and these are by far the best in the work. Macaulay even affirms that "his worst essay is as good as the best essay of any of his coadjutors." As the Spectator continued only two years Addi- son must have written an average of between two and three essays every week. The sub- jects of these are of the most varied. On Monday, perhaps, there would be an ingen- ious allegory; on Tuesday an Eastern apo- logue ; on Wednesday, a bit of character paint- ing, on Thursday, a sketch from common life ; on Friday, a good-natured but keen hit at some fashionable foible ; on Saturday, a relig- ious meditation w T ell-fitted for the ensuing day of rest ; and so on for alternate days for more than a hundred weeks, the author being all the while in constant occupation in impor- tant public offices. Selections can give only a very general idea of the manner and tone of essays so varied. A VISIT TO WESTMINSTEB AISBEY. When I am in a serious humor, I very often walk by myself in Westminster Abbey: where the gloominess of the place and the uses to which it is applied, with the solemnity of the building, and the condition of the people who lie in it. arc apt 110 JOSEPH ADDISON. to fill the mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather thought!" ulness which is not disagreeable. I yesterday passed a whole day in the church- yard, the cloisters, and the church, amusing my- self with the tombstones and inscriptions that I met with in those several regions of the dead. Most of them recorded nothing else of the buried person but that he was born upon one day, and died upon another. The whole history of his life being comprehended in those two circumstances, that are common to all mankind. I could not but look upon these registers of existence, whether of brass or marble, as a kind of Satire upon the de- parted persons, who had left no other memorial of them but that they were born and that they died. Upon my going into the Church, I entertained myself with the digging of a grave; and saw in every shovelful of it that was thrown up, the fragment of a bone or skull intermixed with a kind of fresh mouldering earth, that some time or other had had a place in the composition of an hu- man body. Upon this, I began to consider with myself what innumerable multitudes of people lay confused together under the pavement of that ancient cathedral; how men and women, friends and enemies, priests and soldiers, monks and pre- bendaries, were crumbled amongst one another, and blended together in the same common mass ; how beauty, strength, and youth, with old age, weakness, and deformity lay undistinguished in the same promiscuous mass of matter. After having thus surveyed this great Magazine of Mortality, as it were, in the lump, I examined it more particularly by the accounts which I found on several of the monuments which are raised in every quarter of that ancient fabric. Some of them were covered with such extravagant epi- taphs, that, if it were possible for the dead person to be acquainted with them, he would blush at the praises which his friends have bestowed upon him. There are others so excessively modest that they deliver the character of the person departed in Greek or Hebrew. I found there were poets who had no monuments, and likewise monuments JOSEPH ADDISON. Ill which had no poets. I observed indeed that the present war had filled the Church with many of these uninhabited monuments, which had been erected to the memory of persons whose bodies were perhaps buried in the plains of Blenheim, or in the bottom of the ocean. I could nut but be very much delighted with several modern epi- taphs, which are written with great elegance of expression and justness of thought, and therefore do honor to the living as well as to the dead. I have left the repository of our English Kings for the contemplation of another day, when I shall find my mind disposed for so serious an amuse- ment. I know that entertainments of this nature are apt to raise dark and dismal thoughts in timorous minds and gloomy imaginations. But for my own part, though I am always serious, I do not know what it is to be melancholy, and can therefore take a view of Nature in her deep and solemn scenes, with the same pleasure as in her most gay and delightful ones. By this I can improve my- self with those objects which others consider with terror. When I look upon the tombs of the Great, every emotion of envy dies within me; when 1 read the epitaphs of the Beautiful, every inordi- nate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of Parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tombs of the Parents themselves I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow. When I see Kings lying side by side with those who deposed them ; when I consider rival Wits placed side by side, or the Holy Men that divided the world with their contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment on the little competitions, fac- tions, and debates of Mankind. When I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that died yes- terday, and some six hundred years ago, I con- sider that Great Day when we shall all of us be contemporaries, and make our appearance to- gether. — Spectator, No. 26. 112 JOSEPH ADDISON. VISIT TO THE ROYAL EXCHANGE. There is no place in the town which I so much love to frequent as the Royal Exchange. It gives me a secret satisfaction, and in some measure gratifies my vanity, as I am an Englishman, to see so rich an assembly of countrymen and foreign- ers consulting together on the private business of mankind, and making this metropolis a kind of Emporium for the whole earth. I must confess that I look upon High-Change to be a great Coun- cil, in which all considerable nations have their representatives. Factors in the trading world are what Ambassadors are in the politic world: they negotiate affairs, and maintain a good correspond- ence between those wealthy societies of men that are divided from one another by seas and oceans, or live on the different extremities of a continent. I am infinitely delighted in mixing with these several Ministers of Commerce, as they are dis- tinguished by their different walks and different languages. Sometimes I am jostled among a body of Americans; sometimes I am lost in a crowd of Jews; and sometimes make one in a group of Dutchmen. I am a Dane, Swede, a Frenchman at different times, or, rather, fancy myself like the old philosopher, who, upon being asked what countryman he was, replied that he was "a Citi- zen of the World." .... This grand scene of business gives me an infinite variety of solid and substantial entertainments. As I am a great lover of Mankind, my heart natu- rally overflows with pleasure at the sight of a prosperous and happy multitude, insomuch that at many public solemnities, I cannot forbear at expressing my joy with tears that have stolen down my cheeks. For this reason I am wonder- fully delighted to see such a body of men thriving in their own private fortunes, and at the same time promoting the public stock; or, in other words, raising estates for their own families, by bringing into their country whatever is wanting, and carrying out of it whatever is superfluous. Nature seems to have taken special care to dis- seminate her blessings among the different regions of the world, with an eve to this mutual inter' .JOSEPH ADDISON. 113 course and traffic among mankind, that the na- tives of the several parts of the globe might have a kind of dependence upon one another, and be united together by their common interest. Al- most every degree produces something peculiar to it. The food often grows in one country, and the sauce in another. The fruits of Portugal are corrected by the sauce of Barbadoes; the infu- sion of a China plant sweetened with the pith of an Indian cane ; the Philippine Islands give a flavor to our European bowls. The single dress of a woman of quality is often the product of an hundred climates: the muff and the fan come together from the different ends of the earth; the scarf is sent from the torrid zone, and the tippet from beneath the pole ; the brocade petticoat rises out of the mines of Peru, and the diamond neck- lace out of the bowels of Indostan. If we consider our own country in its natural prospect, without any of the benefits and advan- tages of commerce, what a barren, uncomfortable spot of earth falls to our share! Natural histo- rians tell us that no fruit grows originally among us, besides hips and haws, acorns and pig-nuts; with other delicacies of the like nature ; that our climate of itself, and without the assistance of art, can make no further advances towards a plum than to a sloe, and carries an apple to no greater a perfection than a crab; that our melons, our peaches, our figs, our apricots, and cherries, are strangers among us, imported in different ages; and that they would all degenerate and fall away into the trash of our own country, if they were wholly neglected by the planter, and left to the mercy of our sun and soil. Nor has traffic more enriched our vegetable world than it has improved the whole face of nature among us. Our ships are laden with the harvest of every climate; our tables are stored with spices and oils and wines. Our rooms are filled with pyramids of China, and adorned with the workmanship of Japan. Our morning's draught comes to us from the remotest corners of the earth. We repair our bodies by the drugs of America, and repose ourselves under Indian 8 114 JOSEPH ADDISON. canopies. My friend, Sir Andrew, calls the vine- yards of France our gardens; the Spice-Islands our hot-beds; the Persians our silk-weavers, and the Chinese our potters. Nature indeed furnishes with the bare necessaries of life; but traffic gives us a great variety of what is useful, and at the same time supplies us with everything that is convenient and ornamental. .... For these reasons, there are not more useful members in a commonwealth than Merchants. They knit mankind together in a mutual inter- course of good offices; distribute the gifts of nature; find work for the poor, and wealth to the rich, and magnificence to the great. Our English merchant converts the tin of his own country into gold, and exchanges his wool for rubies. The Mahometans are clothed in our British manu- factures, and the inhabitants of the frozen zone warmed with the fleeces of our sheep. When I have been standing upon the Change, I .have often fancied one of our old Kings standing in person where he is represented in effigy, and looking down upon the wealthy concourse of people with which that place is every day filled. In this case how would he be surprised to hear all the languages of Europe spoken in this little spot of his former dominions, and to see so many pri- vate men, who in his time would have been the vassals of some powerful baron, negotiating like Princes for greater sums of money than were formerly to be met with in the royal treasury! Trade, without enlarging the British territories, has given us a kind of additional Empire. It has multiplied the number of the rich, made our landed estates infinitely more valuable than they were formerly, and added to them estates as valu- able as the land themselves.— Spectator, No. 69. THE DISSECTION OF A BEAU'S HEAD. I was invited to the dissection of a Beau's Head. An operator opened it with a great deal of nicety; and upon a cursory and superficial view, it ap- peared like the head of another man ; but upon applying our glasses to it, we made a very odd discovery, namely, that what we looked upon as JOSEPH ADDISON. 115 brains were not such in reality, but an heap of strange materials wound up in that shape and texture, and packed together with wonderful art in the several cavities of the skull. For, as Homer tells us that the blood of the gods is not real blood, but only something like it, so we found that the brain of a beau is not a real brain, but only something like it. The Pineal Gland, which many of our modern philosophers suppose to be the Seat of the Soul, smelt very strongly of essence and orange-llower water, and was encompassed with a kind of horny substance, cut into a thousand little faces or mir- rors, which were imperceptible to the naked eye ; insomuch that the Soul, if there had been any here, must have been always taken up in con- templating her own beauties. We observed a large antrum or cavity in the Sinciput, that was filled with ribbons, lace, and embroidery, wrought together in a most curious piece of network, the parts of which were like- wise imperceptible to the naked eye. Another of these antrums or cavities was stuffed with invisi- ble billet-doux, love-letters, pricked dances, and other trumpery of the same nature. In another we found a kind of powder, which set the whole company sneezing, and by the scent discovered itself to be " right Spanish." The several other cells were stored with commodities of the same kind, of which it would be tedious to give the reader an exact description. There was a large cavity on each side of the head, which I must not omit. That on the right side was filled with fictions, flatteries, and false- hoods, vows, promises, and protestations ; that on the left with oaths and imprecations. There issued out a duct from each of these cells, which ran into the root of the tongue, where both joined together, and passed into one common duct to the tip of it. We discovered several little roads or canals running from the ear into the brain, and took particular care to trace them out through their several passages. One of them extended itself to a bundle of sonnets and little musical in- struments; others ended in several bladders llo JOSEPH ADDISON. which were filled with wind or froth. But the large canal entered into a great cavity of the skull, from whence there went another canal into the tongue. This great cavity was filled with a kind of a spongy substance, which the French anatomists call Galimatias, and the English, "Non- sense." The skins of the forehead were extremely tough and thick; and what very much surprised us. had not in them any single blood-vessel that we were able to discover, either with or without our glasses; from which we concluded that the party when alive must have been entirely deprived of the faculty of blushing. The Os Cribriforme was exceedingly stuffed, and in some places damaged by snuff. We could not but take notice in particular of that small muscle, which is not often discovered in dissec- tions, and draws the nose upwards, when it ex- presses the contempt which the owner of it has, upon seeing anything he does not like, or hearing anything he does not understand. I need not tell my learned reader, this is that muscle which per- forms the motion so often mentioned by the Latin poets, when they talk of a man's ''cocking his nose," or " playing rhinoceros." We did not find anything remarkable in the Eye, saving only that the Musculi amatorii, or, as we may translate it into English, the " Ogling Mus- cles," were very much worn and decayed with use; whereas, on the contrary, the Elevator, or the muscle which turns the eye towards Heaven, did not appear to have been used at all. 1 have only mentioned in this dissection such new discoveries as we were able to make, and have not taken any notice of those parts which are to be met with in common heads. As for the skull, the face, and indeed the whole outward shape and figure of the head, we could not dis- cover any difference from what we discover in the heads of other men. We were informed that the person to whom this head belonged had passed for a Man above iive-and-thirty years, during which time he ate and drank like other people; drc sedwcll, talked lend, laughed frequently, and JOSEPH ADDISON. 117 on particular occasions has acquitted himself tol- erably at a ball or an assembly; to which one of the company added, that -a certain knot of ladies took him for a Wit. — Spectator, No. 275. THE TRANSMIGRATION OF RUG, THE MONKEY. Will Honeycomb told us that Jack Freelove, who was a fellow of whim, made love to one of those ladies who throw away all their fondness upon parrots, monkeys, and lap-dogs. Upon going to pay her a visit one morning he wrote a very pretty epistle upon this hint. Jack, says Will, was conducted into the parlor, where he diverted himself for some time with her favorite monkey, which was chained in one of the windows; till at length observing a pen and ink lie by him, he writ the following letter to his mistress, in the person of her monkey; and upon her not coming down so soon as he expected, left it in the win- dow, and went about his business. The lady soon after coining into the parlor, and seeing her mon- key look upon a paper with great earnestness, took it up, and to this day is in some doubt — says Will — whether it was written by Jack or the Mon- key: " Madam — Not having the gift of speech, I have for a long time waited in vain for an opportunity of making myself known to you; and having at present the convenience of pen, ink, and paper by me, I gladly take the occasion of giving you my history in writing, which I could not do by word of mouth : " You must know, Madam, that about a thou- sand years ago I was an Indian Brachman, and versed in all those mysterious secrets which your European philosopher, called Pythagoras, is said to have learned from our fraternity. I had so ingratiated myself by my great skill in the occult sciences with a Daemon whom I used to converse with, that he promised to grant me whatever I should ask of him. I desired that my soul might never pass into the body of a brute creature; but this he told me was not in bis power to grant me. I then begged that into whatever creature I should chance to transmigrate, I might still retain my 118 JOSEPH ADDISON. memory, and be conscious that I was the same person who had lived in different animals. " This he told me was within his power, and accordingly promised, on the word of a Daemon, that he would grant me what 1 desired. From that time forth I lived so very unblamably, that I was made President of a College of Braclimans — an office which I discharged with great integrity till the day of my death. " I was then shuffled into another human body, and acted my part so well in it that 1 became First Minister to a Prince who lived upon the banks of the Ganges. I here lived in great honor for several years; but by degrees lost all the inno- cence of the Brachman, being obliged to rifle and oppress the people to enrich my sovereign; till at length I became so odious that my master, to re- cover his ci'editwith his subjects, shot me through the heart with an arrow, as I was one day address- ing myself to him at the head of his army. " Upon my next remove I found myself in the woods under the shape of a Jackall, and soon lifted myself into the service of a lion. I used to yelp near his den about midnight, which was his time of rousing and seeking after his prey. He always followed me in the rear, and when I had run down a fat buck, a wild goat, or an hare, after he had feasted very plentifully upon it him- self, would now and then throw me a bone that was half-picked, for my encouragement; but upon my being unsuccessful in two or three chases, he gave me such a confounded grip in his anger, that I died of it. "In my next transmigration I was again set up- on two legs, and became an Indian Tax-gatherer, but having been guilty of great extravagances, and being married to an expensive jade of a wife, I ran so cursedly in debt, that I durst not show my head. I could no sooner step out of my house but I was arrested by somebody or other that lay in wait for me. As I ventured abroad one night in the dusk of the evening, I was taken up and hurried into a dungeon, where I died a few months after. '' My soul then entered into a flying fish, and in JOSEPH ADDISON. 110 that state I led a most melancholy life for the space of six years. Several fishes of prey pursued me when I was in the water, and if I betook myself to my wings, it was ten to one but I had a flock of birds aiming at me. As I was one day flying amidst a fleet of English ships, I observed a huge Sea-gull whetting his bill, and hovering just over my head. Upon my dipping into the water to avoid him, I fell into the mouth of a monstrous shark that swallowed me down in an instant. " I was some years afterwards, to my great sur- prise, an eminent Banker in Lombard Street; and remembering how I had formerly suffered for want of money, became so very sordid and avaricious that the whole town cried shame upon me. I was a miserable little old fellow to look upon; for I had in a manner starved myself, and was nothing but skin and bone when I died. "I was afterwards very much troubled and amazed to find myself dwindled to an Emmet. I was heartily concerned to make so insignificant a figure, and did not know but some time or other I might be reduced to a mite, if I did not mend my manners. I therefore applied myself with great diligence to the offices that were allotted to me, and was generally looked upon as the notablest ant in the whole molehill. I was at last picked up, as I was groaning under a burden, by an unlucky cock-sparrow that lived in the neighborhood, and had before made great depredations upon our commonwealth. " I then bettered my condition a little, and lived a whole summer in the shape of a Bee; but being tired of the painful and penurious life I had undergone, in my last two transmigrations, I fell into the other extreme, and turned Drone. As I one day headed a party to plunder an hive, we were received so warmly by the swarm which defended it, that we were for the most part left dead upon the spot. " I might tell of many other transmigrations which I went through : How I was a Town Rake, and afterwards did penance in a bay Gelding for ten years: As also how I was a Tailor, a Shrimp, and a Tom-tit. In the last of these my shapes I 120 JOSEPH ADDISON. was shot in the Christmas holidays by a young jackanapes, who would needs try his new gun upon me. '• But I shall pass over these, and several other stages of life to remind you of the young Beau, who made love to you about six years since. You may remember, Madam, how he masked and danced, and sung, and played a thousand tricks to gain you; and how he was at last carried off by a cold that he had got under your window one night r in a serenade. I was that unfortunate young fellow whom you were then so cruel to. " Xot long after my shifting that unlucky body, I found myself upon a hill in Ethiopia, where I lived in my present grotesque shape, till I was caught by a servant of the English factory, and sent over into Great Britain. I need not inform you how I came into your hand. You see, Madam, this is not the first time you have had me in a chain. I am, however, very happy in this my eap- tivity, as you often bestow on me those kisses and caresses which I would have given the world for when I was a man. I hope this discovery of my person will not tend to my disadvantage ; but that you will still continue your accustomed favors to Your most devoted and humble Servant, Pugg. "P. 8. 1 would advise your little Shock-dog to keep out of my way; for, as I look upon him to be the most formidable of my rivals, I may chance one time or other to give him such a snap as he won't like." — Spectator, No. 343, Some of Addison's Essays in the Spectator form connected series, each of which would constitute a considerable volume. Among these are the critiques upon Milton's Para- dise Lost, and upon the English Ballads. Of these Macaulay says: "They are always luminous, and often ingenious. The very Avorst of them must be regarded as creditable to him, when the character of the school in which he had been trained is fairly con- sidered. The best of them were much too good for his readers. In truth, he was not JOSEPH ADDISON. 121 so far behind our generation as he was before his own." The Essays in which Sir Soger de Coverly and his friends appear as characters "can hardly " continues Macaulay, "be said to form a plot ; yet they are related with such truth, such grace, such wit, such humor, such pathos, such knowledge of the human heart, such knowledge of the ways of the world, that they charm us on the hundredth perusal. We have not the least doubt that if Addison had written a novel on an extensive plan, it would have been superior to any that we pos- sess. As it is, he is entitled to be considered not only as the greatest of the English Essay- ists, but as the forerunner of the great English Novelists." These papers are brought to a fitting close by the account of the death of the good old Knight : THE DEATH OF SIR ROGER DE COVERLY. We last night received a piece of ill news at our Club, which very sensibly afflicted every one of us. I question not but my readers themselves will be troubled at the hearing of it. To keep them no longer in suspense, Sir Roger de Coverly is dead. He departed this life at his house in the country, after a few weeks' sickness. Sir Andrew Freoport has a letter from one of his correspondents in those parts, that informs him the old man caught a cold at the county-sessions, as he was warmly promoting an Address of his own penning in which he succeeded according to his wishes. But this particular comes from a Whig Justice of the Peace, who was always Sir Roger's enemy and an- tagonist. I have letters from the Chaplain and Captain Sentry, which mention nothing of it, but are filled with many particulars to the honor of the death of the good old man. I have likewise a letter from the Butler who took such care of me last summer when I was at the Knight's house. As my friend the Butler mentions, in the simplic- ity of his heart, several circumstances the others have passed over in silence, I shall give my reader 122 JOSEPH ADDISON. a copy of his letter, without any alteration or diminution : " Honored Sir — Knowing that you were my mas- ter's good friend, I could not forbear sending you the melancholy news of his death, which has af- flicted the whole country, as well as his poor ser- vants, who loved him, I may say, better than we did our lives. I am afraid he caught his death the last county-sessions, where he would go to see justice done to a poor widow woman, and her fatherless children, that had been wronged by a neighboring Gentleman; for you know my good master was always the poor man's friend. " Upon his coming home the first complaint he made was, that he had lost his roast-beef stomach, not being able to touch a sirloin, which was served up according to custom; and you know he used to take great delight in it. From that time forward he grew worse and worse, but still kept a good heart to the last. Indeed we were once in great hopes of his recovery, upon a kind message that was sent him from a widow Lady whom he had made love to the forty last years of his life ; but this only proved a lightening before his death. He has bequeathed to this Lady, as a token of his love, a great pearl necklace, and a couple of silver bracelets set with jewels, which belonged to my good old Lady, his mother. "He has bequeathed the fine white gelding that he used to ride a-hunting upon, to his Chaplain, because he thought he would be kind to him ; and he has left you all his books. He has moreover, bequeathed to the Chaplain a very pretty ten- ement with good lands about it. It being a very cold day when he made his will, he left for mourn- ing, to every man in the parish, a great frieze-coat, and to every woman a black riding-hood. " It was a very moving sight to see him take leave of his poor servants, commending us all for our fidelity, whilst we were not able to speak a word for weeping. As we most of us are grown gray-headed in our dear master's service, he has left us pensions and legacies, which we may live very comfortably upon the remaining part of our days. He has bequeathed a great deal more in JOSEPH ADDISON. 123 charity, which is not yet come to my knowledge; and it is peremptorily said in the parish, that' he has left money to build a steeple to the Church; for he was heard to say some time ago, that if he lived two years longer, Coverly Church should have a steeple to it. The Chaplain tells everybody that he made a very good end, and never speaks of him without tears. " He was buried, according to his own direc- tions, among the family of the Coverlies, on the left hand of his father, Sir Arthur. The coffin was carried by six of his tenants, and the pall held by six of the Quorum. The whole parish followed the corpse, with heavy hearts, and in their mourning suits, the man in frieze, and the women in riding-hoods. "Captain Sentry, my master's nephew, has taken possession of the Hall-house, and the whole estate. When my old master saw him a little be- fore his death, he shook him by the hand, and wished him joy of the estate which was falling to him, desiring him only to make a good use of it, and to pay the several legacies and the gifts of charity, which he told him he had left as quit-rents upon the estate. The Captain truly seems a courteous man, though he says but little. He makes much of those whom my master loved, and shows great kindness to the old house-dog, that you know my poor master was so fond of. It would have gone to your heart to have heard the moans the dumb creature made on the day of my master's death. He has never joyed himself since; no more has any of us. It was the melancholiest day for the poor people that ever happened in Worcester- shire. This being all from, Honored Si*, Your most Sorrowful Servant, Edwakd Biscuit. "P.S'. My master desired, some weeks before he died, that a book which comes up to you by the carrier should be given to Sir Andrew Free- port in his name." This letter, notwithstanding the poor Butler's manner of writing it, gave us such an idea of our good old friend that there was not a dry eye in the Club. Sir Andrew, opening the book, found it to be a collection of Acts of Parliament. There 124 iESCHINES. was in particular the Act of Uniformity, with some passages in it marked by Sir Roger's own hand. Sir Andrew found that they related to two or three points which he had disputed with Sir Roger the last time he appeared at the Club. Sir Andrew, who would have been merry at such an incident on another occasion, at the sight of the old man's hand-writing burst into tears, and put the book into his pocket. Captain Sentry informs me that the Knight has left rings and mourning for every one in the Club. — Spectator, No. 517. iESCHINES, an Athenian orator, and the most noted rival of Demosthenes, born at Athens, 389 B.C.; died at Samos, 314 B.C. The accounts of his origin are contradictory. He entered into public service at an early- age ; became an actor, served with credit in the army, and afterwards appeared as a pub- lic orator. In 347 B.C., he was one of the ten ambassadors, among whom was Demosthenes, who were sent by the Athenians to negotiate a peace with Philip of Macedon. ^Eschines favored the alliance with Philip, and zealously opposed the policy advocated by Demos- thenes. In 338 B.C., iEschines after the bat- tle of Chaeronea, an Athenian, named Ctesi- phon, proposed that the State should bestow the honor of a golden crown upon Demos- thenes. iEschines brought a charge against Ctesiphon of having introduced an illegal measure into the assemblage. The case was not brought to trial until six years after, when Philip was dead. The action though nominally against Ctesiphon, was really an impeachment of Demosthenes. The oration of Demosthenes On the Crown, in reply to iEschines, is one of his most famous pro- ductions. Ctesiphon, or, rather, Demos- thenes, was acquitted, and iEschines was mulcted in a heavy fine for having brought forward a factious resolution. He was uiv .ESCHINES. 125 able to pay the fine, and went to the island of Samos, where he taught oratory with great success. Only three of his orations are extant : one on his Embassy, one against Timarchus, and the one against Ctesiphon. AGAINST CTESIPHON [The Exordium.] You see, Athenians, what forces are prepared, what numbers are formed, and ar- rayed, what soliciting through the Assembly, by a certain party: and all this to oppose the fair and ordinary course of justice in the State. As to m#, I stand in firm reliance, first, on the Immortal Gods; next on the Laws and you, convinced that Faction never can have greater weight with you than Law and Justice. . . . Let it also be re- membered that the whole body of our citizens hath now committed their State, their Liberties into your hands. Some of them are present wait- ing the event of this trial; others are called away to attend on their private affairs. Show the due reverence to these ; remember your oaths and your laws; and if we convict Ctesiphon of having pro- posed decrees, illegal, false, and detrimental to the State, reverse these illegal decrees, assert the freedom of your Constitution, and punish those who have administered your affairs in opposition to your Laws, in contempt of your Constitution, and in total disregard of your interests. If with these sentiments impressed on your minds, you attend to what is now to be proposed, you must, I am convinced, proceed to a decision just and re- ligious — a decision of the utmost advantage to yourselves and to the State. As to the general nature of this prosecution, thus far have I pre- mised, and I trust, without offence. Let me now request your attention to a few words about the laws relative to persons accountable to the Public, which have been violated by the decree proposed by Ctesiphon. . . . [The Peroration.] And now bear witness for me, thou Earth, thou Sun; O Virtue and Intelligence, and thou, O Erudition, which teacheth us the just distinction between Vice and Virtue, I have stood 126 ^ESCHYLUS. up, I have spoken in the cause of Justice. I have supported my prosecution with a dignity befitting its importance. I have spoken as my wishes dic- tated ; if too deficiently, as my abilities admitted. Let what hath now been offered, and what your own thoughts must supply, be duly weighed ; and do you pronounce such a sentence as justice and the intei'ests of the State demand. — Transl. of Leland. AESCHYLUS, the earliest of the three great Greek tragic poets, born at Eleusis, 525 B.C., died at Gela, in Sicily, 455 B.C. He was of a noble family, tracing its descent from Codrus the last King of Athens. His first attempt as a tragic poet was made at the age of twenty- five. He subsequently distinguished himself as a soldier, being present at the battles of Marathon, Salamis, and Plataea, He gained his first tragic prize at an early age, and subsequently another for a "trilogy" or series of three dramas presented consecu- tively at a single representation. One of these was the Persians, which is still extant. He gained in all thirteen prizes for tragedy ; but when he was fifty seven years of age, he was defeated for the prize by Sophocles. He soon after left Athens and took up his resi- dence in Sicily, because, as is said by some, he had suffered this defeat by Sophocles ; but according to others, the reason was that he was charged with impiety in having divulged the Eleusinian mysteries into which he had been initiated. A legend of very doubtful authenticity states that he was killed by a tortoise which an eagle let fall upon the bald head of the poet, which he mistook for a stone. ^Eschylus is said to have been the author of seventy dramas, of which all but five were tragedies. Of these seven are ex- tant entire, and there are fragments of several others preserved in quotations by various AESCHYLUS. 127 authors. The extant dramas are, the Seven Against Thebes, the Suppliants,. the Persians, the Prometheus Bound, the Agamemnon, the Libation- Bearers, and the Eumenides. iEschy- lus is the grandest of the Attic tragic poets. His artistic creed is that there is a blind, over-ruling, omnipresent, inevitable Fate, or Necessity, against which neither gods nor men can contend successfully, and from which they cannot escape; and yet it is the glory and the duty of the great good man to strug- gle to the end with undaunted resolution. Running all through his dramas is the idea of "ancestral guilt, continually reproducing itself and continually punished from genera- tion to generation ; of hapless kindred crimi- nals, who would not be such if they could avoid it ; but who are goaded on to the com- mission of ever new atrocities by the hered- itary curse of their doomed race : predestined murderers, adulterers, and paracides, inex- tricably involved in the dark net of Neces- sity." " TOE BINDING OF PROMETHEUS. [Peometheits is led in by IIeph^estos and others: Hepii-estos speaks:] thou, Themis, wise in Counsel, son, Full of deep purpose, lo! against my will, 1 fetter thee against thy will with bonds Of bronze that none can loose, to this lone height, Where thou shalt know nor voice nor face of man, But scorching in the hot blaze of the Sun, Shalt lose thy skin's fair beauty. Thou shalt long For starry-mantled night to hide day's sheen, For sun to melt the rime of early dawn; And evermore the weight of present ill Shall wear thee down. Unborn as yet is- he Who shall release thee: this the fate thou gain'st As due reward for thy philanthropy. For thou, a god, not fearing wrath of gods, In thy transgression gav'st their power to men; 128 JSSCHYLUS. And therefore on this rock of little ease Thou shalt keep thy watch, nor lying down, Nor knowing sleep, nor ever bending knee; And many groans and wailing profitless Thy lips shall utter; for the mind of Zeus Remains inexorable. Who holds a power But newly gained is ever stern of mood. — Prometheus Bound, Transl. o/Plumptre. THE SOLILOQUY OF PROMETHEUS. O divine aether, and ye swift-winged winds, and ye fountains of rivers, and countless dimplings of the waves of the deep! and thou Earth, mother of all, and to the all-seeing orb of the Sun, I appeal ! Look upon me, what treatment I, a God, am en- during at the hand of the gods! Behold with what indignities mangled I shall have to wrestle through time of years innumerable. Such an ignominious bondage hath the new ruler of the immortals devised against me. Alas! alas! I sigh over the present suffering, and that which is com- ing on. How, where, must a termination of these toils arise? And yet what is it I am saying? I know beforehand all futurity exactly, and no suf- fering will come upon me unlooked for. But I needs must bear my doom as easily as may be, knowing, as I do that the might of Necessity can- not be resisted. — But it is not possible for me either to hold my peace, or not to hold my peace, touching these my fortunes. For having bestowed boons upon mortals, I am enthralled unhappily in these hardships. And I am he that hath searched out the source of fire, by stealth borne-off en- closed in a fennel-stalk, which hath shown itself a teacher of every art to mortals, and a great resource. Such then as this is the vengeance that I endure for my trespasses, being riveted in fetters beneath the naked sky. — Prometheus Bound, Lit- eral Transl of Buckley. THE WARNIXG OF HERMES TO PROMETHEUS. I have, methinks, said much in vain; For still thy heart, beneath my shower of prayers, Lies dry and hard — nay, leaps like a young horse Who bites against the new bit in his teeth, /ESCHYLUS. tt\l And tugs and struggles against the new-tried rein — Still fiercest in the feeblest thing of all — Which sophism is, since absolute Will disjoined From perfect Mind is worse than weak. Behold, Unless my words persuade thee, what a blast And whirlwind of inevitable woe Must sweep persuasion through tbec! For at lirst The Father will split up this jut of rock With the great thunder and the bolted flame. And hide thy body where a hinge of stone Shall catch it like an arm; and when thou hast passed A long black time within, thou shalt come out To front the sun while Zeus's winged hound, The strong carnivorous eagle, shall wheel down To meet thee, self-called to a daily feast, And set his fierce beak in thee, and tear off The long rags of thy flesh, and batten deep Upon thy dusky liver. Do not look For any end moreover to this curse, Or ere some god appear, to accept tby pangs On his own head vicarious, and descend With unreluctant step the darks of hell And gloomy abysses around Tartarus. Then ponder this !— this threat is not a growth Of vain invention; it is spoken and meant! King Zeus's mouth is impotent to lie Consummating the utterance by the act: — So, look to it, thou !— take heed— and nevermore Forget good counsel to indulge self-will. —Prometheus Bound, Transl. of Elizabeth Bar- ret Browning. the reacon-lights. Hephaistos— sending a bright blaze from Ide, Beacon did beacon send, from fire the poster, Hitherward : Ide to the rock Hermaian Of Lemnos; and a third great torch o' the island Zeus's seat received in turn, the Athoan summit. And — so upsoaring as to stride sea over, The strong lamp-voyager, and all for joyance— Did the gold-glorious splendor, any sun like, Pass on— the pine-tree — to Makistos's watch-place: Who did not— tardy— caught, no wits about him, 9 130 ^ESCHYLUS. By sleep — decline his portion of the missive. And far the beacon's light, in stream Euripos Arriving, made aware Messapios's warders. And up they lit in turn, played herald onwards, Kindling with dame a heap of gray old heather, And strengthening still, the lamp, decaying nowise, Springing o'er Plain Asopos — full-moon-fashion. Effulgent — towards the crag of Mount Kithairon, Roused a new rendering-up of fire the escort — And light — far-escort, lacked no recognition ()' the guard — as burning more than burnings told you. And over Lake Goxgopis light went leaping. And at Mount Aigiplanktos safe arriving, Enforced the law — " to never stint the fire-stuff." And they send, lighting up with ungrudged vigor, Of flame a huge beard, ay, the very foreland, .So as to strike above, in burning onward, The look-out which commands the Strait Saronic. Then did it dart until it reached the outpost, Mount Arachnaios here, the city's neighbor: And then darts to this roof of the Atreidai This light of Ide's fire not unf orefathered ! Such are the rides prescribed the flambeau-bearers; He beats that's first and also last in running. Such is the proof and token I declare thee, My husband having sent me news from Troia: Troia do the Achaioi hold this same day. — Agamemnon, Transl. of Robert Browning. THE DOOM OF CLYTEMN.ESTRA. [roCiA'TEMN.ESTRA enter Orestes, her son, and Pylades: the Chorus of Captive Women, is also present.} Orest. — 'Tis thee I seek ; he there has had enough. (Jlyt. — Ah me! my loved ^EgisthosI Art thou dead? Orest. — Loved thou the man? Then on the self- same tomb Shalt thou now lie, nor in his death desert him. Clyt. (baring her bosom).— Hold, boy! respect this breast of mine, Whence thou, my son, full oft, asleep, with tooth- less gums, AESCHYLUS. 131 Hast sucked the milk that sweetly fed thy life. Orest— What shall I do, my Pylades? Shall I Through this respect forbear to slay my mother? Pylad. — Where then are Loxia's other oracles, The Pythian counsels, and the fast-sworn vows ? Have all men hostile rather than the gods. Orest. — My judgment goes with thine; thou speakest well. [To Clytcemnestra.] Follow; I mean to slay thee where he lies. For while he lived thou held'st him far above My father. Sleep thou with him in thy death, Since thou lov'st him, and whom thou should' st love hatest. Clyt. — I reared thee, and would fain grow old with thee. Orest. — What! thou live with me. who did'st slay my father ! Clyt. — Fate, O my son! must share the blame of that. Orest. — This fatal doom, then, it is Fate that sends. Clyt. — Dost thou not fear a parent's curse, my son? Orest. — Thou, though my mother, did'st to ill chance cast me. Clyt. — No outcast thou, so sent to house allied. Orest. — I was sold doubly, though of free sire born . Clyt. — Where is the price, then, that I got for thee? Orest. — I shrink for shame from pressing that charge home. Clyt. — Nay, tell thy father's wantonness as well. Orest. — Blame not the man that toils when thou'rt at ease. Clyt. — 'Tis hard, my son, for wives to miss their husbands. Orest. — The husband's toil keeps her that sits at home. Clyt. — Thou seem'st, my son, about to slay thy mother ! Orest. — It is not I that slay thee, but thyself. Clyt. — Take heed, beware a mother's vengeful hounds. 132 .ESCHYLFS. Great. — How, slighting this, shall I escape my father's ? Clyt. — I seem, in life, to wail as to a tomb. Orest. — My father's fate ordains this doom for thee. Clyt. — Ah me: the snake is here I bore and nursed. Orest. — An o'er-true prophet was that dread, dream-born. Thou slewest one thou never should' st have slain; Now suffer fate should never have been thine. [Exit Orestes, leading Clyt^emnestra into the palace, and followed by Pylades. — The Cho- rus sing responsively:] i. Late came due vengeance on the sons of Priam ; Just forfeit of sore woe ; — Late came there, too. to Agamemnon's house Twin lions, two-fold Death. The exile who obeyed the Pythian best Hath gained his full desire, Sped on his way by counsel of the Gods. . . . in. And so on one who loves the war of guile Revenge came subtle-souled; And in the strife of hands the Child of Zeus In very deed gave help. (We mortals call her Vengeance, hitting well The meetest name for her,) Breathing destroying wrath against her foes. TV. She it is whom Loxia summons now, Who dwelletb in Parnassia's cavern vast, Calling on Her who still Is guileful without guile. Halting of foot, and tarrying over-long: The will of Gods is strangely overruled ; It may not help the vile; 'Tis meet to adore the Power that rules in Heaven : At last we see the Light. — The Libation-Bearers, Transl. o/Pltjmptre. .ESOP. 133 iESOP, a fabulist, said to have been born in Phrygia, about 620 b.c. It is said that he was brought to Athens while young, and sold as a slave to Iadnion of Samos, who gave him his freedom. Croesus, King of Lydia, sub sequently invited him to his court, employed him in positions of trust ; finally as his am- bassador at Delphi, where he was charged with sacrilege, and was put to death by being thrown from a precipice. He visited Athens during the sovereignty of Pisistratus, where he wrote the Fable of Jupiter and the Frogs. His genuine works are supposed to have perished ; the collection of fables which go under his name being either imitations, or entirely spurious pi*oductions of a later age. So great, however, was his reputation that a statue of him was executed by the famous sculptor, Lysippus. The current story that he was a misshapen dwarf, is wholly fictitious. He stands, therefore, as a representative of a class of writers, rather than as a distinct in- dividual. JUPITER AND THE FROGS. The Frogs, grieved at having no established ruler, sent ambassadors to Jupiter, entreating for a King. He, perceiving their simplicity, cast down a huge log into the pond. The Frogs, terri- fied at the splash occasioned by its fall, hid them- selves in the depths of the pool. But no sooner did they perceive that the log continued motion- less, than they swam again to the top of the water, dismissed their fears, and came so to de- spise it as to climb up, and to squat upon it. After some time they began to think themselves ill-treated in the appointment of so inert a ruler, and sent a second deputation to Jupiter to pray that he would set over them another sovereign. He then gave them an Eel to govern them. When the Frogs discovered his easy good-nature, they yet a third time sent to Jupiter to beg that he would once more choose for them another King. 134 ^ESOP. Jupiter, displeased at their complaints, sent a Heron, who preyed upon the Frogs day by day, till there were none left to croak upon the pond. — Transl. of Townsend. THE TKEES AND THE AXE. A man came into the forest, and made a peti- tion to the Trees to provide him a handle for his axe. The Trees consented to his request, and gave him a young ash-tree. Xo sooner had the man fitted from it a new handle to his axe, than he began to use it, and quickly felled with his strokes the noblest giants of the forest. An old Oak, lamenting when too late the destruction of his companions, said to a neighboring Cedar: ••The first step has lost us all. If we had not given up the rights of the Ash, we might yet have retained our own privileges, and have stood for ages." — Transl. of Townsexd. THE OLD MAX AXD DEATH. An Old Man that had travelled a long way with a great bundle of faggots, found himself so weary that he flung it down, and called upon Death to deliver him from his most miserable existence. Death came straightway at his call, and asked him what he wanted. "Pray, good Sir," said the Old Man, " just do me the favor to help me up with my bundle of faggots." — Transl. of James. Once upon a time there was a fierce war between the Birds and the Beasts. For a long time the issue of the contest was uncertain, and the Bat, taking advantage of his ambiguous nature — part Bird and part Beast — kept aloof, and remained neutral. At length, when the Beasts seemed to be getting the better of it, tJie Bat joined their forces, and appeared active in the fight; but a rally being made by the Birds, which proved success- ful, the Bat was found at the end of the day among the ranks •of the winning party. A peace being speedily concluded, the Bat's conduct was condemned alike by both parties; and, being ac- knowledged by neither, and so excluded by the JESOF. 13o terms of the truce, he was obliged to skulk off as best he could ; and has ever since lived in holes and corners, never daring to show his face except in the duskiness of twilight.— Trans?, of James. THE BELLY AND THE OTHER MEMBERS. In former days when all a man's limbs did not work together as amicably as they do now, but each had a will and a way of its own, the Mem- bers began to find fault with the Belly for spend- ing an idle, luxurious life,>hile they were wholly occupied in laboring for its support, and minister- ing to its wants and pleasures. So they entered into a conspiracy to cut off its supplies for the fu- ture. The Hands were no longer to carry any food to the Mouth, nor the Mouth to receive the food, nor the Teeth to chew it. They had not long persisted in this course of starving the Belly into subjection, ere they all began, one by one, to fail and flag, and the whole Body to pine away. Then the Members were convinced that the Belly also— cumbersome and useless as it seemed — had an important function of its own; that they could no more do without it, than it could do without them ; and that if they would have the constitu- tion of the Body in a healthy state, they must work together, each in his proper sphere, for the common good of all. — Transl. of James. THE FOX AND THE HEDGEHOG. A Fox, swimming across a very rapid river, was carried by the force of the current into a deep ravine, where he lay for a long time very much bruised and sick, and unable to move. A swarm of hungry blood-sucking Flies settled upon him. A Hedgehog, passing by, compassionated his suf- ferings, and inquired if he should drive away the Flies that were tormenting him. " By no means," replied the Fox; "pray, do not molest them."— " How is that?" said the Hedgehog; " do you not want to be rid of them?"— " No," returned the Fox; "for these Flies which you see are full of blood, and sting me but little; and if you rid me of these which are already satiated, others more hungry, will come in their place, and will drink 136 .ESOP. up all the blood 1 have left." — Transl. of TOWN- SEND. THE EAGLE AND THE ARROW. An Eagle sat on a lofty rock, watching the movements of a Hare whom he sought to make his prey. An Archer, who saw him from a place of concealment, took an accurate aim, and wounded him mortally. The Eagle gave one look at the arrow that had entered his heart, and saw in that single glance that its feathers had been furnished by himself. " It is a double grief to me," he exclaimed, '• that I should perish by an arrow feathered from my own wings." — Transl. of TOWNSEND. THE OAK AND THE WOOD-CUTTERS. The Wood-cutters cut down a Mountain Oak, split it in pieces, making wedges of its own branches for dividing the trunk, and for saving of their labor. The Oak said, with a sigh, "I do not care about the blows of the axe aimed at my roots; but I do grieve at being torn in pieces by these wedges made from my own blanches." — Transl. of TOWNSEND. THE AVOLF AND THE LAMB. As a Wolf was lapping at the head of a running brook, he spied a stray Lamb paddling at some distance down the stream. Having made up his mind to seize her, he bethought himself how he might justify his violence: "Villain!" said he, running up to her, "how dare you muddle the water that I am drinking? " — " Indeed," said the Lamb, humbly, " I do not see Iioav I can disturb the water, since it runs from you to me, not from me to you." — " Be that as it may," replied the wolf, " it was but a year ago that you called me many ill names." — " Oh, Sir," saitl the lamb, trembling, " a year ago I was not born." — " Well," replied the Wolf, "if it was not you, it was your father, and that is all the same ; but it is no use trying to argue me out of my supper." And with- out another word he fell upon the poor helpless Lamb, and tore her to pieces. — Transl. of James. LOUIS AGASSIZ. 137 THE SHEPHERD-BOY AND THE WOLF. A Shepherd-boy, who tended his flock not far from a village, used to amuse himself at times in crying out "Wolf!" Twice or thrice his trick succeeded. The whole village came running out to his assistance; and all the return they got was to be laughed at for their pains. At last, one day the Wolf came indeed ; and the Boy cried out in earnest. But the neighbors, supposing him to be at his old sport, paid no heed to his cries, and the Wolf devoured the sheep.— So the Boy learned, when it was too late, that Liars are not believed even when they tell the truth.— Transl. of James. THE BUNDLE OF STICKS. A Husbandman who had a quarrelsome family, after having tried in vain to reconcile them by words, thought he might more readily prevail by an example. So he called his sons and bade them lay a bundle of sticks before him. Then having tied them up into a faggot, he told the lads, one after another, to take it up and break it. They all tried, but tried in vain. Then, untying the faggot, he gave them the sticks to break one by one. This they did with the greatest ease. Then said the father: "Thus, my sons, as long as you remain united, you are a match for all your enemies; but differ and separate, and you are undone. — Transl. of James. AGASSIZ, Louis, a naturalist and author, born in Switzerland, May 28, 1807, died in America, Dec. 14, 1873. Before coining to America, in 1846, he had distinguished him- self by his researches in various departments of Natural History and Science, notably by his great works, written in French, upon Fos- sil Fishes, and upon the Glaciers of the Alps. Towards the close of 1847 the Scientific School at Cambridge, Mass., was founded by Mr. Abbott Lawrence, and Agassiz accepted the position of Professor of Zoology and Geology in the new institution. He subsequently for a short time held the chair of Comparative 138 LOUIS ACASSIZ. Anatomy in the Medical College at Charles- ton, S. C. ; and in 1868 was appointed a non- resident Professor in Cornell University, at Ithaca, N. Y. His services in various depart- ments of Natural History, both as an original observer and investigator, and as a lecturer and author, were unequalled by those of any other man who ever lived ; and from time to time he made long journeys and voyages for investigation and research. These travels in- cluded the whole country from Lake Superior to the Gulf of Mexico, and from the Atlantic Coast to the Valley of the Mississippi. In 1865 he took charge of a Scientific Expedition, most liberally provided for by a merchant of Boston, to explore the waters of Brazil. A narrative of this expedition Avas published, written mainly by Mrs. Agassiz. He subse- quently made a scientific excursion to the Rocky Mountains; and in December, 1871, accompanied by several other men of science, he set out on a voyage around Cape Horn, in the U. S. Coast Survey Steamer Hassler. The results of this voyage, undertaken for deep-sea dredging, were of great importance in the study of oceanic faunae. — The influence of Agassiz upon the scientific development of the United States was profound and far-reach- ing. Joined with his great scientific ability, he had the faculty of communicating the re- sults of his investigations, and propounding his theories, in an atti'active form. He there- fore deservedly holds a high place not only in Science, but also in Literature. THE GROWTH OF CORAL REEFS. A Coral Reef is a structure built up from a defi- nite depth successively and gradually, not by one kind of Coral, but by a great variety of kinds com- bining together, and forming by their joint work a wall which, from a given depth, may end in reaching the surface of the water. And while it LOUIS AGASSIZ. Vo'J is growing, this wall is all the time changing its builders. It is not one kind that commences and completes the structure to the summit. One kind does a part of the work, and then ceases ; another kind comes in and continues the work for awhile, and ceases in its turn; and so on till it is com- pleted. Here we have a slanting shoie: suppose at six hundred feet distance from the shore the depth is ten or twelve fathoms. It will he a favorable level for the formation of a succession of reefs; for the animals which begin to work live at that depth. They commence building a wall in that form: steep towards the ocean, slant- ing gently towards the shore, rising in the end to the level of the water. The steepness of the out- ward wall, and the gentle sloping towards the land, are the result of those fostering influences which accelerate the growth of the reef under conditions which are most favorable to the devel- opment of different corals. . . . But one thing must be remembered : The Radi- ates which begin the reef, after building it up to a certain height, necessarily create conditions that are unfavorable to their growth. The condi- tion of the water inside, towards the land, is so altered that the first set of Corals can no longer prosper there. The space inside becomes almost an inland pool, even though the water washes over the top of the reef. And now another kind of Coral sets in, and begins to build. The work goes on, but not so rapidly, perhaps, as before. The first set stops at a certain height, the second set carries it up higher toward the surface. The second set are more hardy, and require less of the immediate action of the Sea to sustain their growth. But there are still other kinds which never build the reef itself; namely, those which grow under its shelter. They may be compared to the underbrush of the forest, which does not begin until the forest trees have reached a certain height. So we have the reef-builders and the underbrush. And then a third set of reef-buildei s may come in, and bring it up to the surface of the water; and after they have grown, the underbrush fills up the bottom towards the land. 1-10 LOUIS AGASSIZ. Now comes a question which, for a length of time, was one of the most perplexing in the study of these animals : Having ascertained that differ- ent portions of the reef, at different depths, arc built by different species, and that all these Corals are immovably attached to each other, the ques- tion arises, whence did these new Corals come which have built up the later portions of the reef'.' — On examining these animals we find, along the portions which divide the internal cavity, bunches of eggs. They have long been known as such But what was not known is the fact that the young which are hatched from these eggs are free, and swim in the water. They are little pear- shaped bodies surrounded with innumerable fringes which keep them revolving in the water. They move about at will until they find a proper resting-place, where they fix themselves and grow. Whenever there is a reef which has grown up to the level — say. of six fathoms — where the second set of Corals come in, there will be found these little floating animals, which subsequently attach themselves to the reef at their proper level, and grow. Then another set come in, in the same way, and so build up the reef. The succession of these different species of animals is now readily explained. Each one of these little young animals undergoes a transformation from a free swimming body to a Polyp. — Graham Lectures. METAMORPHOSES OF AXIMALS. Under the name of Metamorphoses are included those changes which the body of an animal under- goes after birth, and which are modifications, in various degrees of its organization, form, and mode of life. Such changes are not peculiar to certain classes, as has been so long supposed, but are common to all animals without exception. Vegetables also undergo metamorphoses, but with this essential difference, that in vegetables the ■ process consists in an addition of new parts to the old ones. A succession of leaves, differing from those which preceded them, comes in each season ; new branches and roots are added to the old stem. and woody layers to the trunk. LOUIS AGASSIZ. 141 In animals the whole body is transformed, in such a manner that all the existing parts contrib- ute to the formation of the modified body. The chrysalis becomes a butterfly; the frog, after hav- ing been herbivorous during its tadpole state, be- comes carnivorous, and its stomach is adapted to this new mode of life ; at the same time, instead of breathing by gills, it becomes an air-breathing animal; its tail and gills disappear, lungs and legs are formed; and finally it lives and moves upon the land. The nature, the duration, and importance of metamorphoses, and also the epoch at which they take place, are infinitely varied. The most strik- ing changes naturally presenting themselves to the mind, when we speak of metamorphoses, arc those occurring in insects. Not merely is there a change of physiognomy and form observable, or an organ more or less formed, but their whole organization is modified. The animal enters into Hew relations with the external world, while at the same time new instincts are imparted to it. It has lived in water, and respired by gills; it is now furnished with tracheae, and breathes air. It passes by with indifference objects which were before attractive; and its new instincts prompt it to seek conditions which would have been most pernicious during its former period of life. All these changes are brought about without destroy- ing the individuality of the animal. The mosquito, which to-day haunts us with its shrill trumpet, and pierces us for our blood, is the same animal that a few days ago lived obscure and unregarded in stagnant water, under the guise of a little worm. . . . The different external forms which an insect may assume is well illustrated by the canker- worm. Its eggs are laid upon posts and fences, or upon the branches of the apple, elm, and other trees. They are hatched about the time the tender leaves of these trees begin to unfold. The cater- pillar feeds on the leaves, and attains the full growth at the end of about four weeks, being then not quite an inch in length. It then descends into the ground, and enters the earth 1o the depth of 142 LOUIS AGASSIZ. four or five inches, and having excavated a sort of cell, is soon changed into a chrysalis or nymph. At the usual time in the Spring it bursts its skin, and appears in its perfect state in the form of a moth. In this species, however, only the male has wings. The perfect insects soon pair; the female crawls up a tree, and, having deposited her eggs, dies. Transformations no less remarkable are observed among the Crustacea. The Antifa, like all Crus- tacea, is reproduced by eggs. From these eggs little animals issue, which have not the slightest resemblance to the parent. They have an elon- gated foi-m, a pair of tentacles, and four legs, with which they swim freely in the water. Their free- dom, however, is of but short duration. The little animal soon attaches itself by means of its tentacles — having previously become covered with a transparent shell, through which the outlines of the body, and also a very distinct eye, are easily distinguishable. It is plainly seen that the ante- rior portion of the animal has become considera- bly enlarged; subsequently the shell becomes completed, and the animal casts its skin, losing with it both its eyes and its tentacles. On the other hand, a thick membrane lining the shell, pushes out, and forms a stem, by means of which the animal fixes itself to immersed bodies, after the loss of its tentacles. The stem gradually en- larges, and the animal soon acquires a definite shape. There is, consequently, not only a change of organization in the course of the metamorpho- ses, but also a change of faculties and mode of life. The animal, at first free, becomes fixed; and its adhesion is effected by totally different organs at different periods of life: first by means of tentacles, which were temporary organs; and afterwards by means of a fleshy stem, especially developed for that purpose. The metamorphoses of the Mollusca, though less striking, are not less worthy of notice. Thus, the oyster is free when young, like the clam, and most other shell-fishes. Others, which are at first attached or suspended to the gills of the mother, afterwards become free. Some naked LOUIS AGASSIZ. 143 gasteropods are born with a shell, which they part with shortly after leaving the egg. The study of metamorphoses is therefore of the utmost importance for understanding the real affinities of animals, very different in appearance; as is readily shown by the following instances: The butterfly and the earth-worm seem, at the first glance, to have no relation whatever. They differ in their organization no less than in their outward appearance. But on comparing the cater- pillar and the worm, these two animals are seen closely to resemble each other. The analogy, however, is only transient; it lasts only during the larva state of the caterpillar, and is effaced as it passes to the chrysalis and butterfly conditions: the latter becoming a more and more perfect ani- mal, whilst the worm remains in its inferior state. . . . Similar instances are furnished by animals be- longing to all types of the animal kingdom. . . . In the type of the Vertebrata the considerations drawn from metamorphoses acquire still greater importance in regard to classification. The stur- geon and the white-fish are two very different fishes; yet, taking into consideration their exter- nal form and bearing merely, it might be ques- tioned which of the two should take the highest rank; whereas the doubt is very easily resolved by an examination of their anatomical structure. The white-fish has a skeleton, and moreover a vertebral column composed of firm bone. The sturgeon, on the contrary, has no bone in the vertebral column except the spines, or apophyses of the vertebras ; the middle part or body of the vertebra is cartilaginous. If, however, we observe the young white-fish just after it has issued from the egg, the contrast will be less striking. At this period the vertebras are cartilaginous, like those of the sturgeon, its mouth is also transverse, and its tail undivided. At that period the white-fish and the sturgeon are much more alike. But this similarity is only transient. As the white-fish grows its vertebrae become ossified, and its resem- blance to the sturgeon is comparatively slight. As the sturgeon has no such transformation of the 144 LOUIS AOASSIZ. vertebrae, and is in some sense arrested in its de- velopment, while the white-fish undergoes subse- quent transformation, we conclude that, compared with the white-fish, it is really inferior in rank. . . . Nevertheless, the metamorphoses which occur in animals after birth will, in many instances present but trifling modifications of the relative rank of animals, compared with those which may be de- rived from the study of changes previous to that period; as there are many animals which undergo no changes of great importance after their escape from the egg, and occupy, nevertheless, a high rank in the zoological series: as, for example, birds and mammals. The question is, whether such animals are developed according to different plans, or whether their peculiarity in that respect is merely apparent. To answer this question, let us go back to the period anterior to birth, and see if some parallel may not be made out between the embryonic changes of these animals, and the metamorphoses which take place subsequently to birth in others. AVe have already shown that embryonic develop- ment consists in a series of transformations; the young animal enclosed in the egg differing in each period of its development from what it was be- fore. But because these transformations precede birth, and are not therefore generally oliserved. they are not less important. To be satisfied that these transformations are in every respect similar to those which follow birth, we have only to com- pare the changes which immediately pi-ecede birth with those which immediately follow it, and we shall readily perceive that the latter are simply a continuation of the former, till all are completed. The young white-fish, as we have seen, is far from having acquired its complete development when born; much remains to be changed before its development is complete. But the fact that it has been born does not prevent its future evolu- tion, which goes on without interruption. Similar inferences may be drawn from the development of the chick. The only difference is that the young chicken is born in a more mature state; the most important transformations having taken LOUIS AGASSIZ. L45 place during the embryonic period, while those to be undergone after birth are less considerable, though they complete the process begun in the embryo. - In certain mammals, known under the name of Marsupials (the opossum and kangaroo), the link between the transformations which take place be- fore birth, and those occurring at a later period, is especially remarkable. These animals are brought into the world so weak and undeveloped that they have to undergo a second gestation, in a pouch with which the mother is furnished; and in which the young remain, each one fixed to a teat, until they are entirely developed. Even those animals which are born nearest to the complete states undergo, nevertheless, embryonic transfor- mations. Huminants acquire the horns, and the lion his mane. Most mammals, at their birth, are destitute of teeth, and incapable of using their limbs; and all are dependent on the mother, and the milk secreted by her, until the stomach is capable of digesting other aliment. If it be thus shown that the transformations which take place in the embryo are of the same nature and of the same importance as those which occur afterwards, the circumstance that some precede and others succeed birth cannot mark any radical difference between them. Both are pro- cesses of the life of the individual. Now, as life does not commence at birth, but goes still further back, it is quite clear that the modifications which supervene dnnng the former period are essentially the same as the later ones. And hence that meta- morphoses, far from being exceptional in the case of insects, are one of the general features of the animal kingdom. We are therefore perfectly en- titled to say that all animals, without exception, undergo metamorphoses. . . . It is only by connecting the two kinds of trans- formation — namely those which take place before and those after birth — that we are furnished with the means of ascertaining the relative perfection of an animal. In other words, these transformations become, under such circumstances, a natural key to the gradation of types. At the sane time, they 10 146 GRACE AGUILAR. force upon us the conviction that there is an im- mutable law presiding over all these changes, and regulating them in a peculiar manner to each ani- mal. . . . From the facts observed in the study of fossils, we may conclude that the oldest fossjl fishes did not pass through all the metamorphoses which our osseous fishes undergo; and conse- quently that they were inferior to analogous spe- cies of the present epoch, which have bony verte- brae. Similar considerations apply to the fossil Crustacea and to the fossil echinoderms, when compared with their living types; and it will prob- ably be found true of all classes of the animal kingdom, when they are fully studied as to their geological succession. — Outlines of Comparative Physiologrj. AGUILAR, Grace, an English writer, mainly of religious fiction, was born at Hack- ney, near London, in 1816; died at Frankfort- on-the-Main, Germany, in 1847. She was of Spanish Hebrew descent, and remained true to the faith of her fathers. She became deaf and dumb some time before her death, and was obliged to converse with her fingers in the sign-language used by deaf mutes. She wrote The Magic Wreath, a small volume of poems ; Records of Israel ; Jewish Faith, its Consolations; Records of Israel ; Women of Israel; Vale of Cedars; Days of Bruce; Woman's Friendship; Home Scenes and Heart Studies ; and Home Influence, which is the most popular of all her works. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. "I am sure I cannot play a note now," said Emmeline, " it will be no use trying." " Emmeline," exclaimed her mother, adding gravely, " I am afraid you have danced too much instead of not enough." The tone, still more than the words, was enough. Poor Emmeline was just in that mood when tears are quite as near as smiles: her own petulance seemed to reproach her too. and she suddenly GRACE AGUILAR. 147 burst into tears. Many exclamations of sympathy and condolence burst from her mother's friends : —"Poor child!" "She has over-tired herself!" " We cannot expect her to play now! " — But Mrs. Greville saying, with a smile, that her little friend's tears were always the very lightest April showers, successfully turned the attention of many from her; while Mrs. Hamilton, taking her hand from her face, merely said, in a low voice — " Do not make me more ashamed of you. What would papa think if he were to see you now ? " Her little girl's only answer was to bury her face still more closely in her mother's dress, very much as if she would like to hide herself entirely, but on Mrs. Allan saying, very kindly — "Do not distress yourself, my dear. I would not have asked to hear you play, if I had thought you would dislike it so much. I dare say you are very tired, and so think you will not succeed." She raised her head directly, shook back the fair ringlets that had fallen over her face, and though the tears were still on her cheeks and rilling her eyes, she said, with a blending of child- ish shyness and yet courageous truth, impossible to be described : " No, ma'am, I am not too tired to play. I did not cry from fatigue, but because I was angry with mamma for not letting me dance anymore; and angry with myself for answering her so pet- tishly; and because — because — I thought she was displeased — and that I deserved it." " Then come and redeem your character," was Mrs. Hamilton's only notice of a reply that actu- ally made her heart throb with thankfulness that her lessons of truth were so fully understood and practised by owe naturally so gentle and timid as herEmmeline; while Mrs. Allan knew not what to answer, from a feeling of involuntary respect. It would have been so easy to escape a disagreea- ble task by tacitly allowing that she was too tired to play, and what careful training must it have been to have so taught truth. "Mrs. Allan would not ask you before, because she knew you did not like to play while the room 148 LUCY A1K1N. was so very full ; therefore ought you not to do your very best to oblige her ? " Emmeline looked timidly up in her mother's face, to be quite sure that her displeasure had subsided, as her words seemed to denote; and quite satisfied, her tears were all checked, and taking Mrs. Allan's offered hand, she went di- rectly to the music-room. — Home Influence. AIKIN, John, an English literateur, bom in 1747, died in 1822. He studied medicine and surgery, but finally devoted himself to literary labor. The entire list of his writings comprises about fifty works. The best known of these is Evenings at Home, in which he was aided by his sister Mrs. Bar- bauld (q.v.). He edited at different times several periodical publications, among which are the* Monthly Magazine (1796-1807) and Dodsley's Annual Register (1811-15). He was the principal writer of a General Biography, which occupied most of his time for nearly twenty years, and extended to ten quarto volumes (1799-1815), which Mr. Roscoe praises as "a work which does not implicitly adopt prescriptive errors, but evinces a sound judg- ment, a manly freedom of sentiment, and a correct taste." Towards the end of his life he undertook the compilation of the Select Works of the British Poets, from Johnson to Beattie, which was afterwards carried on by others, though continuing to bear his name. The Evenings at Home, still holds a place in our literature, while the more laborious works which he produced or compiled have been superseded by others. Nevertheless, the name of Dr. John Aikin deserves to re- tain a place in the History of English Litera- ture. AIKIN, Lucy, daughter of Dr. John Aikin. mentioned above, and niece of Mrs. Barbauld, hereafter to be spoken of, was born in 1781. WILLIAM HARIilSON A1NSWOKTH. 11U and died in 1864. She began her career of authorship while at an early age, writing sev- eral books for the young, of which only the titles are now remembered. She soon turned her work towards historical subjects upon a somewhat large scale, putting forth Memoirs of the Court of Queen Elizabeth (1818) ; Me- moirs of the Court of James I. (1822), which the Edinburgh Bevieiv characterized as "an admirable historical work, nearly as enter- taining as a novel, and far more instructive than most histories;" Memoirs of the Court of Charles I. (1833) ; and the Life of Addison (1843). This last work is especially notable from the fact that it furnished at least the text for one of Macaulay's most brilliant bio- graphico-literary essays, that upon the Life of Joseph Addison, in which he pays a well deserved tribute to the general merits of the work of Lucy Aikin, which had just ap- peared. AINSWORTH, William Harrison, an English novelist, born at Manchester, Feb. 4, 1805, died Jan. 3, 1882. He was the son of a solicitor, and was designed for the legal pro- fession ; but while quite young embraced the profession of literature; and acquired great notoriety as the writer of sensational novels, founded mainly upon historical or semi-his- torical themes. He was for some time the editor of Bentley's Miscellany, and about 1842 started Ainsivorth's Magazine, a periodical which he conducted for many years, and in which most of bis writings originally ap- peared. Among the best-known of his tales, which gained a great, though not a wholly reputable popularity, are John Cheverton (1825), which was praised by Sir Walter Scott, Rooku-ood, Crichton, Jack Sheppard, The Tower of London, Old St. Pa ids, Wind- sor Casfle, St. James's Palace, The Lanea- 150 THOMAS AIRD. shire Witches, The Star Chamber. The Flitch of Bacon, The Spanish Match, John Lair, the Projector, Constable Bourbon, Old Court, Merrie England, Hilary St. Ives, Middleton Pomphret, and the League of Latham, the last being issued in 1876 ; so that Mr. Ains- worth's career as a popular novelist extended over more than half a century ; and the Avorks of few of his contemporaries enjoyed so wide a popularity among the less cultivated class of readers. AIRD, Thomas, a Scottish literateur, born Aug. 28, 1802, died April 25, 1876. He was educated at the University of Edinburgh ; and was for many years editor of the Dumfries Herald. Besides a volume of highly imagina- tive poems, most of which first appeared in Blackwood's Magazine, he published several volumes of prose sketches. A VISION OF THE ifVIL SPIIUT: Beyond the North where Ural hills from polar tempests run, A glow went forth at midnight hour as of un- wonted sun. Upon the North, at midnight hour a mighty noise was heard, As if with all his trampling waves the Ocean were unbarred; And high a grizzly Terror hung upstarting from below. Like fiery arrow shot aloft from some unmeasured bow. "Twas not the obedient Seraph's form that burns before the Throne, Whose feathers are the pointed flames that trem- ble to be gone : With twists of faded glory mixed, grim shadows wove his wing; An aspect like the hurrying storm proclaimed the Infernal Kin7 before this Book of Table-Talk appeared in print, Mr. Alcott developed somewhat of the fundamental idea which led him in after years to become an oral teacher : CONVERSATION AS A MEANS OF INSTRUCTION. In conversation all the instincts and faculties of out being arc touched. They find full and fair scope. It tempts forth all the powers. Man faces his fellow man. He feels the quickening life and light, the social affections are addressed; and these bring all the faculties in train. Speech comes unbidden. Nature lends her images. Im- agination sends abroad her winged words. We see thought as it springs from the soul, and in the very process of growth and utterance. Reason plays under the mellow light of fancy. The Gen- ius of Soul is waked, and eloquence sits on her tuneful lip. Wisdom finds an organ worthy her serene utterance. Ideas stand in beauty and maj- esty before the soul. And genius has ever sought this organ of utterance. It has given full testi- mony in its favor. Socrates — a name that Chris- tians can see coupled with that of their Divine S a g e — descanted thus on the profound themes in which he delighted. The market-place, the work- shop, the public, streets, were his favorite haunts of instruction. And the divine Plato has added his testimony, also, in those enduring works, wherein he sought to embalm for posterity both the wisdom of his master and the genius which was his own. Rich text-books these for the study of philosophic genius; next in finish and beauty to the specimens of Jesus as recorded by John.— Spiritual ( 'ulture. The "Orphic Sayings "—one hundred in number— appeared in The Dial for July, 1840, and January, 1841. They are pregnant and brief; sometimes of only a line or two; all told they fill barely a score of pages. Some of them are notable as indicative of the au- thor's turn of thought at this period of his life. 168 AMOS BRONSON ALCOTT. SOME OKPHIC SAYINGS. i. The Heart-Dial. — Thou art, my heart, a soul- flower, feeling ever and following the motions of fchy sun. Opening thyself to her vivifying ray. ami pleading thy affinity with the celestial orbs. Thou dost the livelong day dial on Time thine own eternity. . . . viii. Mysticism. — Because the soul is herself mysterious, the saint is a mystic to the worldling. He lives to the soul; he partakes of her properties; he dwells in her atmosphere of light and hope. But the worldling, living to sense, is identified with the flesh; he dwells amidst the dust and vapors of his own lusts, which dim his vision, and obscure the heavens wherein the saint beholds the lace of God. ... x. Apothe- osis. — Every soul feels at times her own possi- bility of becoming a God ; she cannot rest in the human; she aspires to the godlike. Men shall become ds. Every act of admiration, prayer, praise, worship, desire, hope, implies ami predicts the future apotheosis of the soul. . . . xxv. The Prophet. — The prophet, by disciplines of meditation and valor, faithful to the spirit of the heart, his eve purified of the motes of tradition, his life of the vestiges of usage, ascends to the heights of immediate intuition, lie rends the veil of sense; he bridges the distance between faith and sight, and beholds the Spiritual verities without script- ure or mediation. In the presence of God he com- munes with flim face to face. . . . xxxvin. Time. — Organizations are mortal: the seal ol death is lixed on them even at birth. The young Future is nurtured by the Past, yet aspires to a nobler life, and revises in his maturity the tra- ditions and usages of his day, to be supplanted by the sons and daughters whom he begets and ennobles. Time, like fabled Saturn, now gener- ates, and, ere even their sutures be closed, de- vours his own offspring. Only the children of the soul are immortal; the births of Time are premature and perishable. . . . xlviii. Beauty. — All departures from perfect beauty are degrada- tions of the divine image. God is the one type which the Soul strives to incarnate in all organiz- AMOS BliONSON ALCOTT. 1G9 ations. Varieties are historical: the one form embodies all forms; all having- a common likeness at the base of difference. Human heads are im- ages, more or less perfect, of the Soul's or God's head. But the divine features do not fix in flesh, in the coarse and brittle clay. Beauty is fluent; Art of the highest order represents her always in flux, giving fluency and motion to bodies solid and immovable to sense. The Line of Beauty symbolizes motion. . . . lxix. Popularity. — The saints are alone popular in heaven, not on earth ; elect of God, they are spurned by the world. They hate their age, its awards, their own af- fections even, save as those unite them with Justice, with Valor, Avith God. Whoso loves father or mother, wife or child, houses or lands, pleasures or honors, or life, more than these, is an idolater, and worships the idols of sense; his life is death; his love hate; his friends foes; his fame infamy lxix. Genius and Sanctity. — A man's period is according to the directness and intensity of his light. Not erudition, not taste, not intellect, but character, describes his orbit, and determines the worlds he shall enlighten. Genius and Sanctity cast no shadow; like the sun at broad noon, the ray of these orbs pours direct intense on the world, and they are seen in their own light. . . . Lxxni. Barrenness. — Opinions are Life in foliage; deeds in fruitage. .Always was the fruitless tree accursed. . . . lxxxiii. Retribu- tion. — The laws of the Soul and of Nature are forecast and pre-ordained in the spirit of God and are ever executing themselves through Con- science in man, and Gravity in things. Man's body and the world are organs through which the retributions of the Spiritual universe are justified to reason and sense. Disease and misfortune arc memoranda of violations of the Divine Law, writ- ten in the letter of Pain and Evil. . . . lxxxvii. Tradition. — Tradition suckles the young ages, who imbibe health or disease, insight or ignorance, valor or pusillanimity, as the stream of life flows down, from urns of sobriety or luxury, from times of wisdom or folly, honor or shame. . . . xcvii. Immortality. — It is because the Soul is immortal 170 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. that all her organs decease, and are again re- newed. Growth and decay, sepulture and resur- rection, tread fast on the heels of the other. Birth entombs death ; death encradles birth. The incorruptible is ever putting off corruption; the immortal mortality. Nature, indeed, is but the ashes of the departed soul, and tbe body her urn. ... c. Silence. — Silence is the initiative to "Wisdom. Wit is silent, and justifies her children by their reverence of the voiceless oracles of the breast. Inspiration is dumb, a listener to the ora- cles during her nonage; suddenly she speaks, to mock the emptiness of all speech. Silence is the dialect of heaven; the utterance of the Gods. — Orphic Sayings. ALCOTT, Louisa May, an American au- thor, daughter of Amos B. Alcott, born at Gerniantown, Penn., in 1833. Her earliest work, Fairy Tales, was published in 1855. During the early part of the civil war she acted as a hospital nurse, and in 1863 issued a volume of Hospital Sketches made up from letters which she had written to her friends at home. About this time she became a con- tributor to the Atlantic Monthly, and began her distinctive career as a writer of books about young people and for young people. The principal of these are : Moods (1SG4) ; Morn- ing Glories (1867) ; Little Women (1868), which was her first decided success; An Old Fash- ioned Girl (1869); Little Men (1871); Work (1873); Eight Cousins (1875), and its sequel, Rose in Bloom (1877), which, perhaps, rank first among her books ; Under the Lilacs (1878) ; Jack and Jill (1880) . Besides these she has put forth at different times several volumes of short stories, among which are Cupid and Choiv-Choiv, Silver Pitchers, and Aunt Joe's Scrap-Bag. MEG, JO, BETH, ASD AMY. "Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying on the rug. LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. 171 "It's so dreadful to be poor," sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress. " I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and others nothing at all," added little Amy, with an injured sniff. " We've got father and mother," said Beth con- tentedly from her corner. The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but dark- ened again as Jo said, sadly — " We haven't got father, and shall not have him for[a long time." She didn't say " perhaps never," but each silently added it, thinking of father far away, where the fighting was. Xobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone — " You know the reason mother proposed not having any presents this Christmas was because it is going to be a hard Winter for every one; and she thinks wc ought not to spend money for pleas- ure, when our men arc suffering so in the army. We can't do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don't;" and Meg shook her head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted. "But I don't think the little we should spend would do any good. We've each got a dollar, and the army wouldn't be much helped by our giving that. I agree not to expect anything from mother or you ; but I do want to buy Undine and Siiltram for myself; I've wanted it so long," said Jo, who was a bookworm. "I planned to spend mine in new music," said Beth, with a little sigh which no one heard but the hearth-brush and the kettle-holder. " I shall get a nice box of Faber's drawing-pen- cils; I really need them," said Amy, decidedly. " Mother didn't say anything about our money, and she won't wish us to give up everything. Let's each buy what we want, and have a little fun; I'm sure we work hard enough to earn it," cried Jo, examining the heels of her boots in a gentlemanly manner. " I know I do — teaching those tiresome children 1*72 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. nearly all day, when I'm longing to enjoy myself at home," began Meg, in the complaining tone again. " You don't have half such a hard time as I do," said Jo. " How would you like to be shut up for hours with a fussy, nervous old lady, who keeps you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you're ready to fly out of the window or cry?" " It's naughty to fret; but I do think washing- dishes, and keeping things tidy, is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross; and my hands get so stiff, I can't practice well at all;" and Beth looked at her rough hands, with a sigh that any one could hear that time. " I don't believe any of you suffer as I do," cried Amy; "for you don't have to goto school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you don't know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your father if he isn't rich, and insult you when your nose isn't nice." " If you mean libel, I'd say so, and not talk about labels, as if papa was a pickle-bottle," ad- vised Jo, laughing. "I know what I mean, and you needn't be statirical about it. It's proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary" returned Amy, with dignity. "Don't peck at one another, children. Don't you wish we had the money papa lost when we were little, Jo ? Dear me ! how happy and good we'd be, if we had no worries!" said Meg, who could remember better times. " You said, the other day, you thought we were a deal happier than the King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in spite of their money." "So I did, Beth, Well, I think we are; for though we have to work, we make fun for our- selves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say." " Jo does use such slang words!" observed Amy with a reproving look at the long figure stretched on the rug. Jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle. " Don't, Jo; it's so boyish! " LOUISA MAY ALf'OTT. 173 " That's Why f do it." " I detest rade, unladylike girls!" " I hate affected niminy-piminy chits!" " 'Birds in their little nests agree,' " sang Beth, the peace-maker, with such a funny lace that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the "peck- ing " ended for that time. "Really, girls, you are both to be blamed," said Meg, beginning to lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. " You are old enough to leave off boy- ish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn't matter so much when you were a little girl; but now you are so tall, and turn up your hair, you should remember that you area young lady." " I'm not! and if turning up my hair makes me one, I'll wear it in two tails till I'm twenty," cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down a chestnut mane. " I hate to think I've got to grow up, and be Miss March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China-Aster! It's bad enough to be a girl anyway, when I like boy's games and work and manners! I can't get over my disappointment in not being a boy, and it's worse than ever now, for I'm dying to go and fight with papa, and I can only stay at home and knit, like a pokey old woman! " And Jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball bounded across the room. " Poor Jo! It's too bad, but it can't be helped; so you must be contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us girls," said Beth, stroking the rough head at her knee, with a hand that all the dish-washing in the world could not make ungentle in its touch. "As for you, Amy," continued Meg, " you are altogether too particular and prim. Your airs are funny now; but you'll grow up an affected little goose, if you don't take care. I like your nice manners and refined ways of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant; but your absurd words are as bad as Jo's slang." " If Jo is a tom-boy and Amy a goose, what am I, please ? " asked Beth, ready to share the lect- ure. 174 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. " You're a dear, and nothing else," answered Meg warmly; and no one contradicted her, for the " Mouse " was the pet of the family. The clock struck six; and having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls ; for mother was coming, and every one brightened to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp; Amy got out of the easy-chair without being asked; and Jo forgot how tired she was, as she sat up to hold the slip- pers nearer to the blaze. " They are quite worn out; Marmee must have a new pair." " I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth. "Xii, /shall!" cried Amy. " I'm the oldest," began Meg; but Jo cut in with a decided — " T'm the man of the family now papa is away, and / shall provide the slippers, for he told me to take special care of mother while he was gone." " I'll tell you what we'll do," said Beth; " let's each get her something for Christmas, and notget anything for ourselves." "That's like you, dear! What will we get ? " exclaimed Jo. Every one thought soberly for a minute; then Meg announced, as if the idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, "I shall give her a nice pair of gloves." " Army shoes — the best to be had," cried Jo. " Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed," said Beth. "I'll get a little bottle of cologne; she likes it, and it won't cost much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils," added Amy. " How will we give the things ? " asked Meg. " Put them on the table, and brine; her in, and see her open the bundles. Don't you remember how we used to do on our birthdays ? " answered Jo. " I used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the big chair with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the presents with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses; LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. 175 but it was dreadful to have you sit looking at me "while I opened the bundles," said Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea, at the same time. ''Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then surprise her. We must go shopping to-morrow afternoon, Meg; there is so much to do about the play for Christmas night," said Jo, marching up and down, with her hands behind her back, and her nose in the air. "I don't mean to act any more after this time; I'm getting too old for such things," observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about " dressing-up " frolics. " You won't stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown w T ith your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewellery. You are the best actress we've got, and there'll be an end of every- thing if you quit the boards," said Jo. "We ought to rehearse to-night. Come here, Amy, and do the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a looker in that." " I can't help it; I never saw any one faint, and I don't choose to make myself all blaek-and-blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down easily, I'll drop; it I can't, I shall fall into a chair and be graceful; I don't care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol," returned Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece. " Do it this way: clasp your hands so, and stag- ger across the room, crying frantically, ' Eoder- igo! Save me! Save me! ' " and away went Jo, with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling. Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and jerked herself along as if she went by machinery; and her "Ow!" was more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo gave a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her bread burn as she watched the fun, with interest. "It's no use! Do the best you can when the 176 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. time comes, and if the audience laugh, don't blame mc. Come on, Meg." Then things went on smoothly; fox - Don Pedro defied the world in a speech of two pages, with- out a single break; Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful incantation over her kettlef ul of simmering toads, with weird effect; lioderigo rent his chains asunder manfully; and Hugo died in ago- nies of remorse and arsenic, with a wild " Ha! ha!" " It's the best we've had yet," said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and rubbed his elbows. " I don't see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. You're a regular Shakes- peare!" exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her sisters were gifted with wonderful gen- ius in all things. " Not quite." replied Jo modestly. " I do thiiik The Witch's Curse, an Operatic Tragedy, is rather a nice thing; but I'd like to try Macbeth, if we only had a trap-door for Banquo. I always wanted to do the killing part. ' Is that a dagger that I see before me ? ' ' muttered Jo, rolling her eyes and clutching the air, as she had seen a famous tragedian do. " No, it's the toasting-fork, with mother's shoe on it instead of the bread. Be th's stage-struck! " cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a general burst of laughter. — Little Women. WHAT THE SWALLOWS DID. A man lay on a pile of new-made hay, in a great barn, looking up at the swallows who darted and twittered above him. He envied the cheerful lit- tle creatures; for he wasn't a happy man, though he had many friends, much money, and the beau- tiful gift of writing songs that everybody loved to sing. He had lost his wife and little child, and would not be comforted; but lived alone, and went about with such a gloomy face that no one liked to speak to him. He took no notice of friends and neighbors; neither used his money for himself nor others; found no beauty in the world, no happiness anywhere; and wrote such sad songs it made one's heart ache to sing them. LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. 177 As he lay alone on the sweet-smelling hay, with the afternoon sunshine streaming in, and the busy birds chirping overhead, he said sadly to himself — "Happy swallows, I wish I was one of you; for you have no pains nor sorrows, and your cares are very light. All Summer you live gayly together; and when Winter comes, you lly away to the lovely South, unseparated still." " Neighbors, do you hear what that lazy creat- ure down there is saying?" cried a Swallow, peeping over the edge of her nest, and addressing several others who sat on a beam near by. " We hear, Mrs. Skim; and quite agree with you that he knows very little about us and our affairs," answered one of the swallows, with a sprite chirp, like a scornful laugh. " We work harder than he does any day. Did he build his own house, I should like to know ? Does he get his daily bread for himself ? How many of his neighbors does he help ? How much of the world does he see, and who is the happier for his being alive ? " "Cares, indeed!" cried another; "I wish he'd undertake to feed and teach my brood. Much he knows about the anxieties of a parent ! " And the little mother bustled away to get supper for the young ones, whose bills were always gaping wide. " Sorrows we have too," softly sighed the fourth swallow. " He> would not envy me, if he knew how my nest fell, and all my children were killed; how my dear husband was shot, and my old mother died of fatigue on our Spring journey from the South." " Dear Neighbor Dart, he would envy you, if he knew how patiently you bear your troubles; how tenderly you help us with our little ones how cheerfully you serve your friends; how faithfully you love your lost mate ; and how trustfully you wait to meet him again in a lovelier country than the South." As Skim spoke, she leaned down from her nest to kiss her neighbor; and as the little beaks met, the other birds gave a grateful and approving mur- mur; for Neighbor Dart was much beloved by all the inhabitants of Twittertown. 12 178 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. " I for my part, don't envy him/' said Gossip Wing, who was fond of speaking her mind. " Men and women call themselves Superior Beings; but upon my word, I think they are vastly inferior to us. Now look at that Man, and see how he wastes his life. There never was any one with a better chance for doing good; and yet he mopes and dawdles his time away most shamefully." " Ah! he has had a great sorrow, and it is hard to be gay with a heavy heart, an empty home ; so don't be too severe, Sister Wing," and the white tie of the little widow's cap was stirred by a long sigh, as Mrs. Dart glanced up at the nook where her nest once stood. " No, my dear, I won't; but really I do get out of patience when I see so much real misery which that Man might help, if he*d only forget himself a little. It's my opinion he'd be much happier than he now is, wandering about with a dismal face and a sour temper." "I quite agree with you; and I dare say he'd thank any one for telling him how he may find comfort. Poor soul! I wish he could understand me; for I sympathize with him, and would gladly help him if I could." And, as she spoke, kind-hearted Widow Dart skimmed by him with a friendly chirp, which did comfort him; for— being a poet — he could under- stand them, and lay listening, well pleased while the little gossips chattered on together. " I am so tried at home just now, that I know- nothing of what is going on, except the bits of news Skim brings me; so I enjoy your chat im- mensely, I'm interested in your views on this subject, and beg you'll tell me what you'd have that Man do to better himself," said Mrs. Skim, settling herself on her eggs with an attentive air. "Well, my dear, I'll tell you; for I've seen a deal of the world, and any one is welcome to my experience," replied Mrs. Wing, in an important manner; for she was proud of her " views," and very fond of talking. " In my daily flights about the place, I see a great deal of poverty and trouble, and often wish I could lend a hand, Now this Man has plenty of money and time; and he might LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. 179 do more good than I can tell, if he'd only set about it. Because he is what they call a Poet is no reason he sliould go moaning up and down, as if he had nothing to do but make songs. We sing, but we work also; and are wise enough to see the necessity of both, thank goodness! " "Yes, indeed we do," cried all the birds in a chorus; for several more had stopped to hear what was going on. " Now, what I say is this," continued Mrs. Wing, impressively: " If I were that Man, I'd make myself useful at once. There is poor little Will getting more and more lame every day because his mother can't send him where he can be cured. A trifle of that Man's money w r ould do it, and he ought to give it. Old Father Winter is half-starved, alone there in his miserable hovel, and no one thinks of the good old man. Why don't that lazy creature take him home, and care for him, the little while he has to live ? Pretty Nell is working day and night to support her father, and is too proud to ask help, though her health and courage are going fast. The Man might make her's the gayest heart alive by a little help. There in a lonely garret lives a young man studying his life away, longing for books and a teacher. The Man has a library full, and might keep the poor boy from despair by a little help and a friendly word. He mourns for his oavii lost baby: I advise him to adopt the orphan whom nobody will own, and who lies wailing all day on the poor-house floor. Yes: if he wants to forget sorrow and find peace, let him fill his empty heart and home with such as these, ami life won't seem dark to him any more." " Dear me! how well you express yourself. Mrs. Wing! it's quite a pleasure to hear you; and I heartily wish some persons could hear you; it would do 'em a deal of good." said Mrs. Skim; while her husband gave an approving nod, as he dived off the beam, and vanished through the open doors. " I know it would comfort that Man to do these things; for I have tried the same cure in my small way, and found great satisfaction in it," began 180 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT. little Madam Dart, in her soft voice; but Mrs. Wing broke in, saying, with a pious expression of countenance. " I flew into church one day, and sat on the or- gan, enjoying the music, for every one was sing- ing, and I joined in, though I didn't know the air. Opposite me were two great tablets with golden letters on them. I can read a little — thanks to my friend, the Learned Eaven — and so I sprit out some of the words. One was 'Love thy Neighbor;' and, as I sat there, looking down on the people, I wondered how they could see those words week after week, and yet pay so little heed to them. Goodness knows, I don't consider my- self a perfect Bird; far from it; for I know I am a poor, erring Fowl; but I may say I do love my Neighbor, though I am an Inferior Creature." And Mrs. Wing bridled up, as if she enjoyed the phrase immensely. " Indeed you do, Gossip," cried Dart and Skim; for Wing was an excellent Bird, in spite of the good opinion she had of herself. "Thank you: Well, then, such being the known fact, I may give advice on the subject, as one hav- ing authority; and, if it were possible, I'd give that Man a bit of my mind." "You have. Madam, you have; and I shall not forget it. Thank you, Neighbors, and Good- Night," said the Man, as he left the barn, with the first smile on his face which it had worn for many days. "Mercy on us! I do believe the creature heard every word we said," cried Mrs. Wing, nearly tumbling off her beam, in her surprise. " He certainly did; so I'm glad J was guarded in my remarks." replied Mrs. Skim, laughing at her neighbor's dismay. " Dear me! dear me! what did I say ?" cried Mrs. Wing in a great twitter. " You spoke with more than your usual blunt- ness, and some of your expressions were rather strong, I mustconfess; but I don't think any harm will come of it. We are of too little consequence for our criticisms or opinions to annoy Him said Mrs. Dart, consolingly. JOSEPII ALDEN. 181 " 1 don't know that, Ma'am," returned Mrs. Wing sharply; for she was much ruffled and out of temper. " A Cat may look at a King; and a Bird may teach a Man, if the Bird is the wisest. He may destroy my nest, and take my life ; but I feel that I have done my duty, and shall meet affliction with a firmness which will be an example to that indolent, ungrateful Man." In spite of her boasted firmness, Mrs. Wing dropped her voice, and peeped over the beam, to be sure the Man was gone before she called him names; and then flew away, to discover what he meant to do about it. — Morning (J lories. ALDEN, Joseph, D.D. , an American edu- cator and author, born in Greene County, N. Y., in 1807. He graduated at Union Col- lege in 1828; studied theology at Princeton Seminary, N. J. ; was a college tutor for two years ; and in 1834 was ordained pastor of a Congregational church in Massachusetts. From 1835 to 1852 he was Professor of Rhet- oric in Williams College, Mass. ; from 1852 to 1857 Professor of Moral Philosophy in Lafay- ette College, Penn. ; from 1857 to 1867, Presi- dent of Jefferson College, Penn. ; and in 1867 w^as made Principal of the .State Normal School at Albany, N. Y. He contributed largely to periodicals, especially to the Neiv York Observer, of which he was for a time Editor. His separate volumes, most of which were designed primarily for the young and especially for Sunday Schools, number not less than 300. Among his tales are Alice Gordon, or the Uses of Orphanage ; Elizabeth Benton, or Religion in Connection icith Fash- ionable Life; The Lawyer's Daughter; and The Schoolmistress. He has also written, The Example of Washington : The Patriot's Fireside, etc. His most important work, however, is the Elements of Intellectual Phi- losophy. 182 THOMAS BAILEY ALDUICH. CONCEPTIONS OF THE INFINITE. There has been a great deal written about the Absolute and the Infinite which conveys no mean- ing to such as have not the faculty of understand- ing the unintelligible. For example, Mansel says : " That which is conceived of as absolute and in- finite must be conceived of as combining within itself the sum not only of all actual but of all pos- sible modes of being.'' — There is no such thing as a General Infinite. There are infinite things or attributes, just as there are true propositions. But the Infinite and the True arc not independent entities. We cognize infinite objects, and can thus form an abstract idea of Infinity. The idea is not definable. As we say, "Truth is that in which all true proportions agree," so we may say, that the Infinite is that in which all infinite objects agree. That is infinite which has no limit. That which we cognize as limitless is to us infinite. We must distinguish between the Infinite and the Indefinite. God's wisdom is infinite ; it transcends all our powers of expression. So of his Mercy and his Benevolence. Infinite existence is ever- lasting existence. When we speak of God as the Infinite Existence, we mean that all his attributes are infinite. The human mind can form no ade- quate apprehension of infinite things; and yet it is not, properly speaking, a negative apprehension which w T e have of it. The fact that we cannot know everything about a subject or object does not prove that we cannot know anything about it. The fact that we cannot by searching find out God to perfection, does not prove that we can- not know many things respecting him. God is infinite: that is, His existence and attributes are without limit— transcend all our power of appre- hension. We know nothing that can be added to them.— Elements of Intellectual Philosophy. ALDPJCH, Thomas Bailey, an American literateur, born at Portsmouth, N. H.. Nov. 11, 1836. He entered the counting-house of his uncle, a New York merchant, where he remained three years ; began to write for va- THOMAS BAILEY ALDEICH. 183 rious periodicals, and subsequently acted as proof-reader in a printing office. He became connected with the Boston Atlantic Monthly, of which he was made editor in 1S83. Most of his numerous poems and prose tales ap- peared originally in periodicals, and were af- terwards collected into volumes. In 1874 he brought together in one small volume, under the title of Cloth of Gold, and other Poems, such of his poetical works as he then cared to perpetuate, prefixed by a Prelude, and clos- ing with an Envoie. PRELUDE TO CLOTH OF GOLD. You ask me if by rule or no Our many-colored songs are wrought? — Upon the cunning loom of thought, We weave our fancies so and so. , The busy shuttle comes and goes Across the rhymes, and deftly weaves A tissue out of autumn leaves With here a thistle, there a rose. With art and patience thus is made The poet's perfect Cloth of Gold: When woven so, nor moth nor mould Nor time can make its colors fade. l'envoie to cloth of gold. This is my youth — its hopes and dreams. How strange and shadowy it all seems After so many years ! Turning the pages idly, so, I look with smiles upon the woe, Upon the joy with tears! Go, little Book. The old and wise Will greet thee with suspicious eyes, With stare or furtive frown ; But here and there some golden maid May like thee: — Thou'lt not be afraid Of young eyes, blue or brown. To such a one, perchance, thou'lt sing As clearly as a bird of spring, 184 THOMAS BAILEY ALDEICH. Hailing the apple-blossom : And she will let thee make thy nest, Perhaps, within her snowy breast. Go; rest thou in her bosom. THE CRESCENT AND THE CROSS. Kind was my friend who in the Eastern land '\emembered me with such a gracious hand, Arid sent this Moorish Crescent which has been Worn on the haughty bosom of a queen. No more it sinks and rises with unrest To the soft music of her heathen breast; No barbarous chief shall bow before it more, No turbaned slave shall envy and adore- I place beside this relic of the Sun A Cross of cedar, brought from Lebanon; One borne, perchance, by some pale monk who trod The desert to Jerusalem — and his God ! Here do they lie, two symbols of two creeds, Each meaning something to our human needs; Both stained with blood, and sacred made by faith, By tears, and prayers, and martyrdom, and death! That for the Moslem is, but this for me ! The waning crescent lacks divinity: it gives me dreams of battles, and the woes Of women shut in dim scaglios. But when this Cross of simple wood I see, The Star of Bethlehem shines again for me, And glorious visions break upon my gloom:-' The patient Christ, and Mary at the Tomb: A TURKISH LEGEND. A certain Pasha, dead five thousand years, Once from his harem fled in sudden tears, And had this sentence on the city's gate Deeply engraven, " Only God is great" So these four words above the city's noise Hung like the accents of an angel's voice, And evermore, from the high barbican, Saluted each returning caravan. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 185 Lost is that city's glory. Every gust Lifts, with crisp leaves, the unknown Pasha's dust; And all is ruin — save one wrinkled gate Whereon is written, " Only God is great." LITTLE MAUD. I. O where is our dainty, our darling, the daintiest darling of all? Where is the voice on the stairway, where is the voice in the hall? The little short steps in the entry, the silvery laugh in the hall? Where is our dainty, our darling, the daintiest darling of all? Little Maud? ii. The peaches are ripe in the orchard; the apricots ready to fall ; And the grapes reach up to the sunshine over the garden wall. rosehud of women! where are you? (She never replies to our call!) Where is our dainty, our darling, the daintiest darling of all, Little Maud? E3YPT. Fantastic sleep is busy with my eyes: 1 seem in some vast solitude to stand Once ruled of Cheops: upon either hand A dark illimitable desert lies, Sultry and still — a realm of mysteries; A wide-browed Sphinx, half buried in the sand, With orbless sockets stares across the land, The woef idlest thing beneath these brooding skies, Where all is woeful, weird-lit vacancy. 'Tis neither midnight, twilight, nor moonrise. Lo! while I gaze beyond the vast sand-sea The nebulous clouds are downward slowly drawn, And one bleared star, faint-glimmering like a bee, Is shut in the rosy outstretched hand of Dawn. 180 THOMAS BAILEY ALDKICH. EDGAIt ALLAN POE. He walked with demons, ghouls, and things Unsightly — terrors and despairs — And ever in the blackened airs A dismal raven ftapt its wings. He wasted richest gifts of God; But here's the limit of his woes: — Sleep rest him ! See above him grows The very grass whereon he trod. Behold ! within this narrow grave Is shut the mortal part of him. Behold ! he could not wholly dim The gracious genius Heaven gave; — For strains of music here and there, Weird murmuring*, vague, prophetic tones, Are blown across the silent zones Forever in the midnight air. DECEMBER. Only the sea intoning, only the wainscot-mouse, Only the wild wind moaning over the lonely house. Darkest of all Decembers ever my life has known, Sitting here by the embers stunned, helpless, alone ; Dreaming of two graves lying out in the damp and chill, One where the buzzard, flying, pauses at Malvern Hill; The other — Alas! the pillows of that uneasy bed Rise and fall with the billows over our sailor's head. Theirs the heroic story: — Died, by frigate and town ! Theirs the Calm and the Glory, theirs the Cross and the Crown. Mine to linger and languish here by the wintry sea. Ah. faint heart! in thy anguish, what is there left to thee? Only the sea intoning, only the wainscot-mouse, Only the wild wind moaning over the lonely house. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 1S7 BY THE POTOMAC. The soft new grass is creeping o'er the graves By the Potomac! and the crisp ground-flower Lifts its hlue cup to catch the passing shower; The pine-cone ripens, and the long moss waves Its tangled gonfalons above our braves. Hark, what a hurst of music from yon bower! — The Southern nightingale that, hour by hour, In its melodious madness raves. — Ah, with what delicate touches of her hand, With what sweet voices, Nature seeks to screen The awful crime of this distracted land; Sets her birds singing, while she spreads her green Mantle of velvet where the murdered lie, As if to hide the horror from God's eye. BEFORE THE BAIN. We knew it would rain, for all the morn A spirit on tender robes of mist Was lowering its golden buckets down Into the vapory amethyst Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens ; Scooping the dew that lay in the llowers; Dipping the jewels out of the sea, To sprinkle them over the land in showers. We knew it would rain, for the- poplars showed The white of their leaves; the amber grain Shrunk in the wind; and the lightning now Is tangled in tremulous clouds of rain! AFTEB THE BAIN. The rain has ceased, and in my room The sunshine pours an airy flood; . And on the church's dizzy vane, The ancient cross is bathed in blood. From out the dripping ivy leaves, Antiquely carven, gray and high, A dormer, facing westward, looks Upon the village like an eye. And now it glimmers in the Sun, A square of gold, a disc, a speck: And in the belfry sits a Dove With purple ripples on her neck. 188 ARCHIBALD ALEXANDER. Some of the poems of Mr. Aldrich are of considerable length. Thus Baby Bell con- tains about 100 lines; The Metempsychosis somewhat more ; and Judith, some 300 lines. His prose novelettes are numerous. Among them are : Daisy's Necklace ; Out of his Head ; The Story of a Bad Boy ; Margery Daw ; Pru- dence Palfrey ; The Queen of Sheba ; The Still- water Tragedy. ALEXANDER, Archibald, D.D., an Amer- ican clergyman and scholar, born in Rock- bridge County, Virginia, in 1772, died at Princeton, N. J., in 1851. He was educated at Hampden Sydney College; studied theol- ogy, and was licensed to preach in 1791. He was chosen President of Hampden Sydney College in 1796 ; became pastor of a Presby- terian church in Philadelphia in 1807; and in 1812, upon the organization of the Presbyte- rian Theological Seminary at Princeton, was appointed Professor of Theology in that insti- tution, retaining that position until his death. He wrote, Outlines of the Evidences of Christi- anity: Treatise on the Canon of the Old and New Testaments; History of the Patriarchs ; History of the Israelites ; Annals of the Jewish Nation; Advice to a Young Christian ; Bible Dictionary; Counsels from the Aged to the Young; Thoughts on Religious Experience; African Colonization ; History of the Log Col- lege ; and a work on Moral Science, which was published after his death. Of this last work the Westminster Review says: " Though not aspiring to the dignity of a trea- tise, it forms a most compact and convenient text-book. It is a calm, clear stream of abstract reasoning, flowing from a thoughtful, well-in- structed mind, without any parade of logic, but with an intuitive simplicity and directness which gives an almost axiomatic force. From this char- acteristic we could almost have conjectured what JAMES WADDELL ALEXANDER. 189 is stated in the Preface, that the study of ethical philosophy was the author's favorite pursuit for at least threescore years ; and that for forty years it formed a branch of academical instruction in connection with his theological course." ALEXANDER, James Waddell, D.D., son of Rev. Archibald Alexander, born in Louisa County, Virginia, in 1804, died in 1859. He graduated at Princeton College in 1820 ; was a tutor there until 1827, when he became pastor of a Presbyterian church at Charlotte Court House, Va,, and in 1829 of one at Trenton, N. J. In 1833-34 he was Professor of Belles- Lettres and Latin in Princeton College ; was pastor of the Duane Street Presbyterian church, Ncav York, 1S44-49; Professor of Ecclesiastical History, Church Government, and Sacred Rhetoric in Princeton Theological Seminary, 1849-51. In 1851 the Duane Street church was reorganized as the Fifth Avenue church, New York, and he again became its pastor, a position which he held until his death. He was a frequent contributor to re- ligious and literary periodicals; and wrote many books, among which are more than thirty small volumes for the American Sun- clay School Union; Memoirs of Rev. Archi- bald Alexander, his father; Consolation; Sacramental Discourses; Thoughts on Family Worship; Plain Words to a Young Communi- cant : Thoughts on Preaching; Discourses on Christian Faith and Practice ; and TheAmer- ican Mechanic and WorJciugiuau's Compan- ion. ON EXTEMPORANEOUS PREACHING. " You have expressed;" he says, addressing a young preacher, " fears as to your ever becoming an extemporaneous preacher. Many who have excelled in this way, have had fears like yours. My counsel is, that you boldly face the obstacles and begin exabrupto. The longer you allow your- 190 JAMES WADDELL ALEXANDER. self to become fixed in another and exclusive habit, the greater will be your difficulty in throw- ing it aside. Some of the authors whom I respect recommend a beginning by gradual approaches; such as committing to memory a part, and then going on from that impulse. This is what Cicero illustrates by the fine comparison of a boat which is propelled by its original impulse, and comes up to the shore even when the oars are taken in. Others tell you to throw in passages extemporane- ously amidst your written materials; as one who swims with corks, but occasionally leaves them. Doubtless many have profited by such devices; yet if called on to prescribe the very best method, I should not prescribe these. Again, therefore, I say begin at once. When one once inquired of the celebrated Gilbert Stuart how young persons should be taught to paint, he replied: " Just as puppies are taught to swim — chuck them in!" No one learns to swim in the sea of preaching without going into the water. As I am perfectly convinced that any man can learn to preach extempore who can talk extem- pore — always provided that he has somewhat to say — my earnest advice to you is that you never make the attempt without being sure of your mat- ter. Of all the defects of utterance I have ever known, the most serious is having nothing to utter. In all your experiments, therefore, secure by pre-meditation a good amount of material, and let it be digested and arranged in your head according to an exact partition and a logical con- catenation. The more completely this latter pro- vision is attended to, the less will be the danger of losing your self-possession or your chain of ideas. Common sense must admit that the great thing is to have the matter. All speaking which does not presuppose tins is a- sham. And of method it may be observed that even if divisions and subdivisions are not formally announced, they should be clearly before the mind, as affording a most im- portant clew in the remembrance of what has been prepared. If you press me to say which is absolutely the besl practice in regard to " notes," properly so < ailed, I unhesitatingly say. use none. JOSEPH ADDISON ALEXANDER. 101 Carry no scrap of writing into the pulpit. Let your scheme, with all its branches, be written on your mental tablet. Do not prepare your words. If you would avail yourself of the plastic power of excitement in a great assembly to create for the gushing thought a mould of fitting diction, you will not spend a moment on the words; following Horace: " Ver- baque provisam rem non invita sequentur." Noth- ing more effectually ruffles that composure of mind which the speaker needs, than to have a dis- jointed train of half-remembered words floating in the mind. For which reason few persons have ever been successful in a certain method which I have seen proposed, to wit: that a young speaker should prepare his manuscript, give it a thorough reading beforehand, and then preach with a gen- eral recollection of its contents. The result is that the mind is in a libration and pother betwixt the word in the paper and the probably better word which comes to the tip of the tongue. Generally speaking, the best possible word is the one which is born of the thought in the presence of the assembly. And the less you think about words as a separate affair, the better they will be.— Thoughts on Preaching. ALEXANDER, Joseph Addison, D.D., son of Rev. Archibald Alexander, born in Phila- delphia in 1809, died in 18G0. He graduated at Princeton College, in 1S26, and was Adjunct Professor of Ancient Languages and Litera- ture, 1S30-33. He was a Professor in Prince- ton Theological Seminary from 1S51 until his death, holding successively the chairs of Ori- ental and Biblical Literature, of Church His- tory and Government, and of New Testament Literature and Biblical Greek. He published two volumes of Sermons ; Essays on the Prim- itive Church Offices; Commentaries on various books of the New Testament; The Psalms Translated and Explained ; and Isaiah Trans- lated and Explained. The last two being his most notable works. 192 JOSEPH ADDISON ALEXANDER. THE DOWNFALL OF BABYLONIA: Isaiah XX. 8. And it shall be (or come to pass) in the day of Jehovah's causing thee to rest from thy toil (or suf- fering), and from thy commotion (or disquietude), and from the hard service which was wrought by thee (or imposed upon thee). In this verse and the fol- lowing context, the Prophet, in order to reduce the general promise of the foregoing verse to a more graphic and impressive form, recurs to the down- fall of Babylon as the beginning of the series of deliverances which he had predicted, and describes the effect upon those most concerned, by putting into the mouth of Israel a song of triumph over their oppressor. This is universally admitted to be one of the finest specimens of Hebrew, and indeed of ancient composition. 4. Then shalt thou raise this song over the king of Babylon, and say, How hath the oppressor ceased, the golden [city] ceased ! The meaning of the first clause is, of course, that Israel would have occa- sion to express such feelings. The King here in- troduced is an ideal personage, whose downfall represents that of the Babylonian monarchy. 5. This verse contains the answer to the question in the one before it. Jehovah hath broken the staff of the wicked, the rod if the rulers. The rod and staff are common figures for dominion; and their being broken, for its destruction. 6. Smiting nations in anger by a stroke without ces- sation, riding ridtions in wrath by a rule without re- straint (literally, which he or one indefinitely, did not restrain). The participles may agree gram- matically either with the rod or with the King who wields it. The English Version applies the last clause only to the punishment. But the great majority both of the oldest and the latest writers make the whole descriptive of the Babylonian tyr- anny. 7. At rest, quiet, is the whole earth. They burst forth into singing (or a shout of joy). There is no inconsistency between the clauses, as the first is not descriptive of silence, but of tranquillity and rest. " The land had rest" is a phrase employed in the Book of Judges to describe the condition of the country after a great national deliverance. JOSEPH ADDISON ALEXANDER. 193 The verb to burst is peculiarly descriptive of an ebullition of joy long suppressed, or suddenly suc- ceeding grief. 8. Not only the earth and its inhabitants take part in this triumphant song or shout, but the trees of the forest. Also (or even) the cypresses rejoice with respect to thee, [the cedars of] Lebanon |say- ing], Now that thou art fallen (literally lain down), the feller (or woodman, literally the cutter) shall not come up against us. Now that we are safe from thee, we fear no other enemy. As to the meaning of the figures in this verse, there are various opin- ions; but the only one that seems consistent with a pure taste is that which supposes this to be merely a part of one great picture, representing universal nature as rejoicing. Both here and elsewhere in the sacred books inanimate nature is personified, and speaks herself, instead of being merely spoken of. 9. The bold personification is now extended from the earth and its forest to the invisible or lower world, the inhabitants of which are represented as aroused at the approach of the new victim, and as coming forth to meet him. Hell from beneath is moved (or in <:ommotion)for thee (i.e. on account of thee) to meet thee [at] thy coming; it rouses for thee the giants (the gigantic shades or spectres), all the chief ones (literally he-goats) of the earth ; it raises from their thrones all the kings of the nations. The word translated Hell has already been explained as meaning, first, a grave or individual sepulchre, and then the grave as a general receptacle, indis- criminately occupied by all the dead without re- spect to character; as when we say, the rich and the poor, the evil and the good lie down together in the grave, not in a single tomb, which would be false, but underground, and in a common state of death and burial. The English word Hell, though now appropriated to the condition or the place of future torments, corresponds, in etymology and early usage, to the Hebrew word in question. The passage comprehends two elements, and only two: religious verities or certain facts, and poetical embellishments. It may not be easy to distinguish clearly between these ; but it is only between these 13 194 JOSEPH ADDISON ALEXANDER. that we are able, or have any occasion, to distin- guish. The admission of a third, in the shape of superstitious fables, is as false in rhetoric as in the- ology. The shades or spectres of the dead might be conceived as actually larger than the living man, since that which is shadowy or indistinct is commonly exaggerated by the fancy. Or there may be an allusion to the Canaanitish giants who were exterminated by the divine command, and might well be chosen to represent the whole class of departed sinners. Or, in this particular case, we may suppose the kings and great ones of the earth to be distinguished from the vulgar dead as giants or gigantic forms. 10. All of them shall answer and say to thee: Thou also art made weak as ice, to us art thou likened! This is a natural expression of surprise that one so far superior to themselves should now be a partaker of their weakness and disgrace. The interrogative form given to the last clause by all the English versions is entirely arbitrary, and much less ex- pressive than the simple assertiou or exclamation preferred by the oldest and the latest writers. 11. Down to the grave is brought thy pride (or pomp), the music of thy harps ; under Ihee is spread the worm; thy covering is vermin. The word harp is evidently put for musical instruments or music in general, and this for mirth and revelry. Some suppose an allusion to the practice of em- balming; but the words seem naturally only to suggest the common end of all mankind, even the greatest not excepted. The imagery of the clause is vividly exhibited in Gill's homely paraphrase : "Nothing but worms over him and worms under him; worms his bed, and worms his bed-clothes." 12. How art thou fallen from heaven, Lucifer, son of the morning— felled to the ground, thou that didst lord it over the nations. In the two other places where the word translated Lucifer occurs, it is an imperative, signifying howl. This sense is also put upon it here by the Peshito; but all the other an- cient versions and all the leading Pabbins make the word a noun denoting bright one, or more specifically bright star; or, according to the an- cients, more specifically still, the Morning Star JOSEPH ADDISON ALEXANDER. 195 or harbinger of daylight, called in Greek Heos- phoros, and in Latin Lucifer. The same deriva- tion and interpretation is adopted by the latest writers. Some, of the Fathers— regarding Luke x. IS, as an explanation of this verse— apply it to the fall of Satan, from which has arisen the pop- ular perversion of the beautiful name Lucifer to signify the Devil. In the last clause the figure of a fallen star is exchanged for that of a prostrate tree. The last clause is a description of the Baby- lonian tyranny. 13. His fall is aggravated by the impious extrav- agance of his pretensions. And (yet) thou hadst said in thy heart (or to thyself), The heavens will I mount (or scale), above the stars of God will I raise mi/ throne, and I will sit in the mount of meeting (or assembly) in the sides of the North. He is here de- scribed as aiming at equality with God himself. There are two distinct interpretations of the last clause; one held by the early writers, the other by the moderns. According to the first, it relates to the mountain where God agreed to meet the peo- ple, and to make himself known to them (Ex. xxv. 22; xxix. 42. 4:!). According to this view of the passage, it describes the King of Babylon as insult- ing God by threatening to erect his throne upon those consecrated hills, or even affecting to be God, like Antichrist, of whom Paul says, with ob- vious allusion to this passage, that he opposeth and exalteth himself above all that is called God, or is worshipped, so that he, as God, sitteth in the temple of God, showing himself that he is God (II. Thess. ii. 4). Whether the weight of argument preponderates in favor of the old interpretation or against it, that of authority is altogether in favor of the new one. This makes the Babylonian speak the language of a heathen, and with reference to the old and wide-spread oriental notion of a very high mountain in the extreme north, where the gods were believed to reside, as in the Greek Olym- pus. This is the Meru of the Hindu mythology, and the Elborz or Elborj of the old Zend books. The meaning of the clause, as thus explained, is " I will take my seat among, or above, the gods upon their holy mountain." This interpretation 19G JOSEPH ADDISON ALEXANDER. is supposed to be obscurely hinted in the Septua- gint version. As the expression is in this ease put into the mouth of a heathen, there is not the same objection to it as in the other cases, where it seems to be recognized and sanctioned by the writer. The general meaning is of course the same on either hypothesis. The expression stars of God does not merely describe them as his creatures, but as being near him in the upper world, or heaven. 14. I will mount above the cloud-heights ; I will make myself like the Most High. This is commonly regarded as a simple expression of unbounded ar- rogance ; but there may be an allusion to the oriental custom of calling their kings sods, or to the fact that the Syrian and Phoenician kings did actually so describe themselves (Ezek. xxvni. 2, 6, 9; II. Mace. ix. 21.) According to some writers, the singular noun is used here to denote the cloud of the Divine presence in the tabernacle and temple. This would agree well with the old inter- pretation of verse 13; but according to the other, cloud is a collective, meaning clouds in general. 15. But instead of being exalted to heaven. thou shalt be brought down to hell, to the depths of the pit. Against the strict application of the last clause to the grave is the subsequent description of the royal body as unburied. But the imagery is un- questionably borrowed from the grave. Some un- derstand by sides the horizontal excavations in the oriental sepulchres or catacombs. But according to its probable etymology the Hebrew word does not mean sides in the ordinary sense, but rather binder parts, and then remote parts or extremities, as it is explained by the Targum here and in verse 13. The specific reference may be either to ex- treme height, extreme distance, or extreme depth, according to the context. Here the last sense is required by the mention of the pit; and the word is accordingly translated in the Vulgate prof nu- dum. 1(3. Those seeing thee shall gaze (or stare) at thee, they shall look at thee attentively [and say], Is this the man that made the earth shake, fl/at made the kingdoms tremble? The scene in the other world JOSEPH ADDISON ALEXANDER. 197 is closed; and the Prophet, or triumphant Israel, is now describing what shall take place above ground. The gazing mentioned in the first clause is not merely the effect of curiosity, but of incred- ulous surprise 19. With the customary burial of kings lie now contrasts the treatment of the Babylonian's body. And thou art cast out from thy grave, like a despised branch, the raiment of the slain, pierced tvith the sword, going down to the stones of the pit [even] like a trampled carcass [as thou art]. That the terms of the prediction were literally fulfilled in the last king of Babylon, is highly probable from the hat- red with which this impious king — as Xenophon calls him — was regarded by the people. Such a supposition is not precluded by the same histo- rian's statement that Cyrus gave a general per- mission to bury the dead, for his silence in rela- tion to the king rather favors the conclusion that lie Avas made an exception, either by the people or the conqueror. There is no need, however, of seeking historical details in this passage, which is rather a prediction of the downfall of the empire than the fall of any individual monarch. 20. Thou shall not be joined with them [the other kings of the nation] in burial, because thy land thou hast destroyed, thy people thou hast slain. Let the seed of evil-doers he named no more forever. The only natural interpretation of these words is that which applies them to the Babylonian tyranny as generally exercised. The change here brought against the king implies that his power was given him for a very different purpose. The older writ- ers read the last clause as a simple prediction. Thus, the English Version is " The seed of evil- doers shall never be renowned." But the later writers seem to make it more emphatic by giving the future the force of an imperative or optative. Some of the older writers understand the clause to mean that the names of the wicked shall not be perpetuated by transmission in the line of their descendants; others explain the verb as meaning " to be called," i.e., proclaimed or celebrated. It is now pretty generally understood to mean, or to express ^ wish, that the posterity of such should 198 ALFONSO II.— ALFONSO X. not be spoken of at all, implying both extinction and oblivion. — Isaiah, Translated and Explained. ALFONSO II., King of Castile, flourished during the latter half of the twelfth century, succeeding to the crown in 11G2, and dying in 1196. His court was famous for the trouba- dours who were drawn thither by the mon- arch's patronage of their art. The King is remembered for one pretty song : PARTING AND MEETING. Many the joys my heart has seen, From various sources flowing: From gardens gay and meadows green, From leaves and flowerets blowing, And spring her freshening hours bestowing. All these delight the bard; but here Their power to sadden or to cheer In this my song will not appear. Where naught but love is glowing. When I remember our farewell, As from her side I parted, Sorrow and joy alternate swell, To think how, broken-hearted, While from her eyelids tear-drops started, " Oh, soon " she said, " my loved one, here, Oh, soon, in pity re-appear! " Then back I'll fly, for none so dear As her from whom I parted. — Transl. of Taylor. ALFONSO X., King of Castile, born in 1221, ascended the throne in 1252, was deposed by his son, Sancho, in 1282, and died in 1284. His acquaintance with geometry, astronomy, and the occult sciences of his time gained for him the appellation of el Sabio, "the Learned." The works in prose attributed to him, range over a great variety of subjects, historical, scientific, and legal, although many of them were merely written or compiled by his order. He caused the Bible to be trans- lated into Castilian, and thereby performed ALFONSO X. 199 for the Spanish language a cervice very simi lar to that performed for the German by Mar- tin Luther. Mariana says of him : "He was more fit for letters than for the government of his subjects; he studied the heavens, and watched the stars; but forgot the earth and lost his kingdom." The following letter, written in 1282, just at the time of his troubles with his son, is said by Mr. Ticknor to be " a favorable specimen of Castilian prose at a period so early in the history of the lan- guage " : LETTER TO DON ALONZO TEREZ DE GUZMAN. My affliction is great, because it has fallen from such a height that it will be seen from afar; and as it has fallen on me who was the friend of all the world, so in all the world will men know this my misfortune, and its sharpness, which I suffer un- justly from my son, assisted by my friends and my prelates, who, instead of setting peace between us have put mischief, not under secret pretences or covertly, but with bold openness. And thus I find no protection in mine own land— neither de- fender nor champion; and yet have I not deserved it at their hands, unless it were for the good lhave done them. And now, since in mine own land they deceive, who should have served and assisted me, needful is it that I should seek abroad those who will kindly care for me; and since they of Castile have been false to me, none can think it ill that I seek help among those of Benamarin.* For if my sons are mine enemies, it will not be wrong that I take mine enemies to be my sons; enemies accord ing to the law, but not of free choice. And such is the good King Aben Jusaf ; for I love and value him much, and lie will not despise me or fail me; for we are at truce. I know also how much you are his. and how much he loves you, and with good cause; and how much he will do through your good counsel. Therefore look not *A raw of African princes who ruled in Morocco, and sub- jected all Western Africa. 200 ALFONSO X. at the things past, but at the things present. Con- sider of what lineage you are come, and that at some time hereafter I may do you good ; and that if I do it not, that your own good deed shall be its own good reward. Therefore my cousin. Alonzo Perez de Guzman, do so much for me with my lord and your friend that, on the pledge of the most precious crown that I have, and the jewels thereof, he should lend me so much as he may hold to be just. And if you can obtain his aid, let it not be hindered of coming quickly; but rather think how the good friendship that may come to me from your lord will be through your hands. And so may God's friendship be with you. — Done in Seville, my only loyal city, in the thirtieth year of my reign, and in the first of these my Troubles. The Kino— TransL of Ticknoh. The noblest monument which Alfonso X. reared to himself was a code of Spanish Com- mon Law, designated Las Siete Partidas, '"The Seven Parts," from the number of di- visions in the work. Sixty years after the death of Alfonso, this Code was proclaimed as of binding authority in all the territories held by the kings of Castile and Leon, and has been the basis of Spanish jurisprudence ever since. "The Partidas," says Mr. Ticknor, " read very little like a collection of statutes, or even like a code, such as that of Justinian or Napoleon. . . . They are a kind of digested result of the opinions and reading of a learned monarch and his coadjutors in the thirteenth century, on the relative duties of a king and his subjects, or the entire legislation and po- lice, ecclesiastical, civil and moral, to which, in their judgment, Spain should be subjected ; the whole interspersed with discussions con- cerning the customs and principles on which • the work itself, or some particular part of it, is founded." ALFONSO X. 201 UPON TYItANTS, AND THEIR WAYS. A tyrant doth signify a cruel lord who by force or by craft or by treachery, hath obtained power over any realm or country; and such men be of such nature that, when once they have grown strong in the land, they love to work their own profit, though it be in the harm of the land, rather than the common profit of all; for they always live in an ill fear of losing it. And that they may be able to fulfil this their purpose unencumbered, the wise of old have said that they use their power against the people in three manners: The first is, that they strive that those under their mastery be ever ignorant and timorous; be- cause when they be such, tbey may not be bold to rise against tbem, nor to resist their wills. The second is, that the people be uot kindly and united among tbemselves, in such wise that they trust not one another; for, while they live in disagree- ment, they shall not dare to make any discourse against their lord, for fear faitli and secrecy should not be kept among themselves. And the third way is, that they strive to make the people poor and to put them upon great undertakings, which they can never finish; whereby they may have so much harm, that it may never come into their hearts to devise anything against their ruler. And above all this, have tyrants ever 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 to trust their counsel and the guard of their persons rather to foreign- ers, who will serve at their will, than to men of the land, who serve from oppression. And, moreover, we say that, though any man may have gained mastery of a kingdom by any one of the lawful 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 turneth his mastery which was rightful, into the wrongful, as Aristotle hath said in the book in which he treateth of the Rule and Government of 202 ALFONSO X. Kingdoms. —Partida II., Tit. I., Transl. of Tick- nob. the education of princesses. The governesses are to endeavor, as much as may be, that the king's daughters be moderate and seemly in eating and in drinking, and also in their carriage and dress, and of good manners in all things; and especially that they be not given to anger: for besides the wickedness that lieth in it, it is the thing in the world tbat most easily leadeth women to do ill. And they ought to teach them to be handy in performing those works that belong to noble ladies : for this is a matter that becometh them much, since they obtain by it cheerfulness and a quiet spirit; and besides, it taketh away bad thoughts, which it is not conven- ient they should have. — Partida II., Tit. VII., Transl. o/Ticknoi:. Of the poetry of Alfonso X. , says Mr. Tick- nor, "We possess, besides works of very- doubtful genuineness, two, about one of which there has been little question, about the other none. Of his Cdntigas, or ' Chants ' in honor of the Madonna, there are extant no less than four hundred and one : and by his last will he directed these poems he perpetually chanted in the church of St. Mary of Murcia, where he desired his body might be buried. Only a few of them have been printed Del Tesoro. 'The Treasury,' is a treatise on the philosopher's stone, and the greater portion of it is concealed in an unexplained cipher ; the remainder, being partly in prose and partly in octave stanzas, which are the oldest extant in Castilian verse; but the whole is worthless and its genuineness doubtful : "—an opinion from which we dissent. the philosopher's stoxe. Fame brought this strange intelligence to me. That in Egyptian lands there lived a sage, Who read the secrets of the coming age, And could anticipate futurity; ALFONSO X. 203 He judged the stars, and all their aspects; he The darksome veil of hidden things withdrew, Of unborn days the mysteries he knew, And saw the future as the past Ave see. . . . He made the magic stone, and taught me too: We toiled together first; but soon alone I formed the marvellous gold-creating stone, And oft did I my lessening wealth renew. Varied the form and fabric, and not few This treasure's elements, the simplest, best, And noblest, here ingenuously confessed, I shall disclose, in this my verse to you. And what a list of nations have pursued This treasure. Need I speak of the Chaldee, Or the untired sons of learned Araby; All, all, in chase of this most envied good? — Egypt and Syria, and the tribes so rude Of the Orient, Saracens and Medians, all Laboring in vain, though oft the echoes fall Upon the West, of their song's amplitude? If what is passing now I have foretold In honest truth and calm sincerity, So will I tell you of the events to be Without deception; and the prize I hold Shall be in literary lore enrolled. Such power, such empire never can be won By ignorance or listlessness; to none But to the learned state my truths be told. So, like the Theban Sphinx, will I propound My mysteries, and in riddles truth will speak. Deem them not idle words; for if you seek, Through their dense darkness, light may oft bo found. Muse, meditate, and look in silence round; Hold no communion of vain language; learn And treasure up the lore — if you discern What's here in hieroglyphic letters bound. My soul hath spoken and foretold; I bring The voices of the stars to chime with mine: He who shall share with me this gift divine, Shall share with me the privilege of a king. 204 HENRY ALFORD. Mine is no mean, no paltry offering: Cupidity itself must be content With such a portion as 1 here present; And Midas' s wealth to ours a trifling thing. So when our work in this our sphere was done, Deucalion towered sublimely o'er the rest; And proudly dominant he stood confessed On the tenth mountain ; thence looked kindly on The Sovereign Sire, who offered him a crown, Or empires vast, for his reward ; or gold, From his vast treasure, for his heirs, untold: So bold and resolute was Deucalion. I'll give you honest counsel, if you be My kinsman or my countryman: If e'er His gift be yours, its treasury all confer On him who shall unveil the mystery; Offer him all and offer cheerfully. And offer most sincerely. Weak and small To your best offering, though you offer all. Tour recompense may be eternity. — From Bel Tesoro. — Transl. Anon. ALFOKD, Henry, D.D., an English poet, divine, and scholar, bora in London in 1810 ; died Jan. 12, 1871. He was educated at Trin- ity College, Cambridge ; took orders, and was made Vicar of Wymesw T old, in Leicester- shire. In 1853 he took up his residence in London, becoming preacher at the Quebec Street chapel, where he acquired much celeb- rity as a preacher, and was for several years before and after Examiner in Logic and Moral Philosophy in the University of London. He had already, in 1811, delivered a masterly course of the Hidsean Lectures at Cambridge, and in the same year published his scholarly Chapters on the G-reeh Poets. In 1857 he was made Dean of Canterbury. He began his lit- erary career in 1831 by the publication of a little volume of Poetical Fragments, which was followed in 1835 by The School of the Heart and other Poems. From time to time HENRY ALFORD. 205 he put forth many poems, notable among which were a series of Hymns for various seasons of the Christian year, which hold a high place in modern Hymnology. About 1852 he made for an American publisher a complete collection of his poetical works, which was dedicated to Longfellow. After that he wrote little poetry, the current of his thought being turned in other directions, especially toward Biblical criticism. By way of Prologue to his collected poems he prefixed the following : PROLOGUE TO COLLECTED POEM*. Not war, nor hurrying troops from plain to plain, Nor deeds of high resolve, nor stern command. Sing I. The brow that carries trace of pain Long and enough the sons of Song have scanned: Nor lady's love in honeysuckle bower, With helmet hanging high, in stolen case: Poets enough, I deemed, of heavenly power Ere now had lavished upon themes like this. — My harp and I have sought a holier meed. The fragments of God's image to restore, The earnest longings of the soul to feed, And balm into the spirit's wounds to pour. One gentle voice hath hid our task God-speed: And now we search the world to hear of more. EPILOGUE TO " THE SCHOOL OF THE HEART." Thus far in golden dreams of youth I sung Of Love and Beauty — Beauty not the child Of change, nor Love the growth of fierce desire, But calm and blessed botli — the heritage Of purest spirits, sprung from trust in God. Further to pierce the veil asks riper strength, And for men resting on conclusions fixed By patient labor, wrought in manly years. Here rest we then: our message thus declared, Leave the full echoes of our harp to ebb Back from the sated ear: teaching meanwhile Our thoughts to meditate new melodies, Our hands to touch the strings with safer skill. •20G HENRY ALFORD. HYMN FOR SAINT ANDREW'S DAY. Of all the honors man may wear, Of all his titles proudly stored, No lowly palm his name shall bear, " The first to follow Christ the Lord." Such name thou hast, who didst incline, Fired with the great Forerunner's joy, Homeward to track the steps divine, And watch the Saviour's blest employ. Lord, give to us, Thy servants, grace To hear whene'er thy preachers speak, When Thou commandest, Seek My face, Thy face in earnest hope to seek. Mr. Alford put forth several volumes of Sermons delivered at the Quebec Street chapel, and in 1865 a small volume of Meditations on the Advent. From these we present some extracts : A CHRISTIAN HOUSEHOLD. The household is not an accident of Nature, but an ordinance of God. Even Nature's pro- cesses, could we penetrate their secrets, figure forth spiritual truths; and her brightest and noblest arrangements are but the representatives of the most glorious of those truths. The very state out of which the household springs is one — as Scripture and the Church declare to us — not to be taken in hand unadvisedly, lightly, or wan- tonly, seeing that it sets forth and represents to us the relation between Christ and His Church. The household is a representation, on a small scale as regards numbers, but not as regards the interests concerned, of the great family in heaven and earth. Its whole relations and mutual duties are but reflections of those which subsist between the Redeemer and the people for whom He hath given Himself. The household, then, is not an institution whose duties spring from beneath — from the ne- cessities of circumstances merely; but is an appointment of God, whose laws are His laws, and whose members owe direct account to Him, HENRY ALFORD. 207 The father of a household stands most immedi- ately in God's place. His is the post of greatest responsibility, of greatest influence for good or evil. His it is— in the last resort — to fix and de- termine the character which his household shall bear. According as he is good or bad, godly or ungodly, selfish or self-denying, so will, for the most part, the complexion of the household be also. As he values that which is good— not in his professions, for which no one cares, but in his practice which all men observe— so will it most likely be valued also by his family as they grow up and are planted out in the world. Of all the influences which can be brought to bear on man, paternal influence may be made the strongest and most salutary; and whether so made or not, is ever of immense weight in one way or the other. For, remember, that paternal influence is not that which the father tries to ex- ert merely, but that which, in matter of fact, he does exert. That superior life, ever moving in advance of the young and observing and imitative life of all of us— that source from which all our first ideas came — that voice which sounded deeper into our hearts than all other voices, day by day, year by year, through all our plastic childhood — will all through life, almost in spite of ourselves, still keep in advance of us, still continue to sound. No other example will ever take so firm hold; no other superiority be ever so vividly and con- stantly felt. And again remember, this example goes for what it is really worth. Words do not set it; religious phrases do not give it its life and power. It is not a thing of display and effort, but of inner realities, and recurring acts and habits. It is not the raving of the wind around the precipice— not the sunrise and sunset, clothing it with golden glory— which moulded it, and gave it its worn and rounded form ; but the unmarked dropping of the silent waters, the melting of the yearly snows, the gushing of the inner springs. And so it will be, not what the outward eye sees in him, not that which men repute him, not public praise nor public blame, that will enhance or undo a father's 208 HENRY ALFORD. influence in his household, hut that which he really is in the hearts of his family, that which they know of him in private ; the worth to which they can testify, hut which the outer world never saw; the affections which flow in secret, of which they know the depth, but others only the surface. And so it will be with a father's religion. None so keen to see into a man's religion as his own household. He may deceive others; he may de- ceive himself; he can hardly long succeed in de- ceiving them. If religion with him be a mere thing put on — an elaborate series of outward duties, attended to for expediency's sake — something be- fitting his children, but not equally fitting him: oh, none will so soon and so thoroughly learn to appreciate this, as those children themselves. There is not any fact which, when discovered, will have so baneful an effect on their young lives as such an appreciation. No amount of external devotion will ever counterbalance it, no use of religious phraseology, nor converse with religious people without. But if, on the other hand, his religion is really a thing in his heart — if he moves about day by day as seeing One invisible — if the love of Christ is really warming the springs of his inner life — then, however inadequately this is shown in matter or in manner, it will be sure to be known and thoroughly appreciated by those who are ever living their lives around him. — Ser- moiisat Quebec Chapel. ON PROVIDENCE. And here again, passing from the mere general consideration of a belief in an overruling God to our belief in the God and Father of Our Lord Jesus Christ, we shall find our grounds of comfort immensely strengthened, and our vision exceed- ingly cleared. During this present time, our ascended and glorified Saviour is waiting till all things are put under His feet. The whole moral world is by degrees being subdued to Him. By various dispensations of God's Providence the good is prevailing, the evil is being defeated and put out. Now, if ever, is it true that the good man is God's especial care, and that all scope is HENRY ALFORD. 209 given for all the best and highest graces of human- ity to expand and flourish. The perfect pattern of the Redeemer is before us; the witnessing Spirit is within us; the many mansions arc being pre- pared for us by Him who will return to take us thither. He that will love life and see good days, is not dependent on promises of earthly prosper- ity. His life is hid with Christ in God; his good days are to come in that place whither his Saviour Christ has gone before him. What a comfort it is for us to feel, in the midst of dark and perplexing circumstances, that the mighty and all-wise Being who is overruling all things for His glory, and bringing good out of man's evil, is our own God; that His covenanted mercies are ours; that in Christ Jesus all His promises are forever ratified to each one, even the least and most helpless among us. What a power- ful motive does it furnish to all good, what a dis- couragement to all evil, to remember that we have now no mere general assurance that God is on the side of good, but a positive promise that all power in heaven and earth is given to Him who laid down His life for the truth; and that one day all who have followed Him in the paths of truth and holi- ness shall be like Him — partakers in His victory — changed into His spotless purity — inheritors of the new heaven and earth wherein dwelleth right- eousness ; which He hath purchased for them, and wherein they shall reign with Him, when truth shall finally have been established, and all evil shall forever have been put down. — Medita- tions on Advent. Dean Alford, as he was generally" designated during the later years of his life, was a fre- quent contributor to current literature. One of his latest productions was a very clever Plea for the Queen's English. But apart from his work as a preacher the most important work of his life was his critical edition of the Greek Testament, of which the first volume appeared in 1844, the second in 1S52, the third and fourth in 1855-57. This edition is in many 14 210 ALFRED THE GREAT. respects — especially for its almost exhaustive collection of the Various Readings found in the extant manuscripts — perhaps the most valuable edition ever put forth. ALFRED The Great, King of England, born 849, died Oct. 28, 901. He succeeded to the crown, upon the death of his father, Ethelwulf, in 872, but was for a time driven from the throne by the Danes, who overran the kingdom of the West-Saxons. But after many adventures and some severe reverses, he completely routed the invaders in 879, and firmly established his sway. In 891 there was another furious invasion of the North- men, who gave much trouble during most of the remaining years of his reign. Alfred was, says the Saxon Chronicler Ethelwerd, ' ' the immovable pillar of the Western Sax- ons; full of justice, bold in arms, learned in speech, and above all things imbued with the divine instructions; for he translated into his own language, out of Latin, unnumbered volumes, of so varied a nature and so excel- lently, that the sorrowful book of Boethius seemed not only to the learned but even to those who heard it read, as if it were brought to life again/' In 1849, a great public meeting was held at the town of Wantage in Berkshire, the place of his birth, to celebrate the one thou- sandth year since the birth of Alfred ; it was then resolved that ' ' a Jubilee Edition of the works of King Alfred the Great should be im- mediately undertaken, to be edited by the most competent Anglo-Saxon scholars who might be willing to combine for the purpose." The work was completed not long after, in two large volumes, and was dedicated to Queen Victoria, who traces her descent to Alfred. In the Preface the Editor, the Rev. J t A. Giles, says: "These works extend to ALFRED THE GREAT. 211 almost every kind of learning then known, or, rather, they reach even beyond the ut- most excellence of all contemporary learning. They comprise Poetry, History, Geography, Moral Philosophy, and Legislation ; and they form, in fact, the most valuable portion of Anglo-Saxon Literature. It is no disparage- ment to these writings that they are mostly paraphrases of ancient Latin authors. This was the necessary result of the ignorance in which the whole English nation were then sunk." Alfred the Great is one out of not more than half a dozen kings who deserve a place among •authors. Indeed it would be hard to name more than these three or four: David (and perhaps Solomon) of Israel, Alfred of Eng- land, and Frederick the Great of Prussia. King Alfred set forth the principles which guided him in the work which he undertook and performed in this direction. He of course writes in Anglo-Saxon : Covetousness and the possession of this earthly power I did not well like, nor strongly desired at all this earthly kingdom; but I desired materials for the work that I was commanded to do. This was that I might unfractiously and becomingly steer and rule the power committed to me. For no man may show any -craft or rule, nor steer any power without tools and materials. . . . These are the materials of a King's work, and his toi ils to govern with: That he may have his land fully peopled; that he should have his prayer-men, and army-men, and work-men. Without these tools no king may show his skill. . . . It often occurs to my mind to consider what manner of wise men there formerly were in the English nation, both Spiritual and Temporal; and how the kings who then had the government of the people obeyed God and his written will; how well they behaved both in war and peace, and in 212 ALFEED THE GEEAT. their domestic government; and how they pros- pered in knowledge and religion. I considered also how earnest God's ministers then were, as well about preaching as about learn- ing; and how men came from foreign countries to seek wisdom and doctrine in this land ; and how we who live in these times are now obliged to go abroad to get them. To so low a depth has learn- ing fallen among the English nation, that there have been very few on this side of the Humber who were able to understand the English of their service, or to turn an epistle out of Latin into English; and I know there were not many beyond the Humber who could do it. There were so few that I cannot think of one on the south side of the Thames when I first began to reign. . . . I called to mind that the law was first written in the Hebrew tongue; and that when the Greeks learned it, they translated it into their own lan- guage, besides many other books. And after them the Latins, when they learned it, translated it, by means of wise interpreters into their own language, as all other Christian people, too, have turned some part of it also into their own tongue. For which reason I think it best that we also should turn into the language which we all of us know, some such books as are deemed most use- ful for all men to understand; and that we do our best to effect, as we easily may. with God's help, if we have quietness, that all the youth of free- born Englishmen, such as have wealth enough to maintain them, be brought up to learn, that, when at an age when they can do nothing else, they may learn to read the English language then; and that afterwards the Latin tongue shall be taught to those whom they have it in their power to teach and promote to a higher condition. Alfred's period of literary activity most probably was confined mainly to the ten or twelve years of peace after the defeat of the Danes in 878. The translation of Boethius appears to have been begun in 881 ; and the last of his works was probably written in 893 ; for after that the whole of his time would be ALFRED THE GREAT. 213 most likely taken up by the critical position of his kingdom, menaced as it was by foreign foes. The translation, or rather paraphrase, of the De Consolatione Philosophic^ of Boe- thius must have been a labor of love with Alfred. Boethius, who nourished about a.d. 500, was perhaps the last of the Eoman writ- ers who was versed in Greek literature, and whose productions deserve to rank by the side of those of the Augustan age. The 47 Metres into which Alfred rendered the work of Boethius, are among the best specimens of Anglo-Saxon Poetry. Metre VI. On Change, is one of the shortest of these. It is here given in the original, with a literal line-for-line translation, which will serve to show the marked affinity between the Anglo-Saxon and our present English : ON CHANGE. Tha se Wisdom eft Word-hord onleac, Sang soth-eividas, And thus self a ewozth : Thonne sio sunne Sweotolost scineth Hadrost of hefone, Hicethe Moth athistrod Ealle ofer eorthan Othre steorran ; Fortfuem Mora birhtu Ne bith auht So gesettanne With thaere sunnan leoht. Thonne smolte bltewth Sou than and westan. Wind under wolcnum, Thonne weaxath hrathe Feldes blostman, Faegan Hunt hi moton. Ac se stearea storm Thonne he strong cymth Northan and eastern, lie genimeth hrathe Thaere rosen white And eac tha ruman see, Wortherne yst Then wisdom afterward Word-hoard unlocked, Sang various maxims, And thus himself ex- pressed : When the Sun Clearest shineth Serenest in the heaven, Quickly are obscured All over the earth Other stars; Because their brightness Is not aught When set beside With that Sun's light. When mildly bloweth Southern and western Wind under clouds, Then wax rathly The field's blossoms, Joyful that they may. But the stark storm, When he strong cometh Northern and eastern. He taketh away rathly The roses' beauty. And eke the roomy sea, Bv northern storm 214 VITTOKIO ALFIEEI. Nede gebceded Of necessity bidden That hio strange geond- That it be strongly styred stirred up, On stathu beateth On the shore beateth Ea la I thmt on eorthan Alas that upon earth Auhtfceslices Aught fast-fixed Weorces on worulde Work in the world Ne wunath cefre 1 Ne'er abideth forever! ALFIERI, "Vittorio, an Italian dramatic poet, born at Asti, in Piedmont, Jan. 17, 1749, and died at Florence, Oct. 8, 1803. His father, a nobleman of considerable estate, died while the son was an infant, and he was sent to the Academy and University at Turin, where he received a very indifferent education. Of philosophy and science he acquired next to nothing ; of Latin hardly enough to read the most elementary books. His own provincial dialect was so different from the Tuscan, or recognized Italian, that the works of Dante, Petrarch, and Tasso were almost unintelli- gible to him; and he had subsequently to learn the language in which he was to im- mortalize himself, as though it were a for- eign tongue. He, however, learned French, and this was the only language which he could fairly read at the age of seven-and- twenty. At the age of seventeen he received permis- sion to travel, and passed two years in vari- ous parts of Italy, in France, England, and Holland. In 1709, having become of age, and receiving possession of his large fortune, he set out again upon his travels, visiting Aus- tria, Prussia, Denmark, Sweden, Holland, England, Russia, France, Spain, and Portu- gal, returning to Italy in 1772. His life up to this time was extremely dissolute, measured even by the loose standard of his own time and country. In 1776, when he was in his twenty -eighth year, he formed a deep and last- ing attachment for the Countess of Albany, VITTOEIO ALFIERI. 215 wife of Charles Edward Stuart, best known in history as the "Young Pretender" to the English Crown. She was a little younger than Alfieri, and lived most unhappily with her husband, now verging upon threescore, whose character had become in every way disreputable since his hope of the English crown had vanished. There is nothing to show that the intimacy was a " guilty " one, in the ordinary acceptation of the word. He himself declares that their intimacy "never exceeded the bounds of honor," although his "attentions were such as to warrant the jeal- ousy of her husband and his brother, the Car- dinal of York." Charles Edward died in 1788, and she soon afterward took up her residence with Alfieri, but there is no positive evidence that they were ever married. The last half of the life of Alfieri was marked by many eccentricities, of which there is no need of special mention. His first serious thought of becoming an author dates at about 1772. His earliest dra- matic work was Cleopatra, which was brought upon the stage at Turin in 1775. From that time he set himself resolutely to become a tragic poet. It is in this character alone that he is of special interest to after ages, although he wrote six or more comedies, several odes, a volume of autobiography, and other prose. His tragedies, nineteen in num- ber, are all cast in the antique mould, or, rather, such an idea of the antique spirit as he could gather from the French of Corneille and Racine. His tragedies are almost inde- pendent of scenery and incident. In no one of them are there more than six speaking characters, and of these rarely more than three are upon the stage at any one time. There is indeed often a crowd of " Citizens," "Soldiers," "Councillors," and "Guards," 216 VITTOKIO ALFIEEI. but they act only the part of the ' ' Chorus " of the ancient drama, breaking in upon and emphasizing the declamation of the real characters. And these characters were al- most entirely Alfieri himself, whether they wore the toga of Brutus, the chlamys of Agis, or the cassock of Eaimondi de Pazzi. More than half the subjects are taken from ancient Greek and Roman legend. Philip II. of Spain and the mysterious Don Carlos, Mary Stuart, and Saul, King of Israel, each have a place. If we were to assign the one governing mo- tive running through the tragedies of Alfieri, it should be the hatred of kingly rule. ' • When we think of Alfieri, " says Mariotti, ' ' we must bring ourselves back to his age. The regeneration of Italian character was yet merely intellectual and individual, and Alfieri was born from that class which was the last to feel the redeeming influence. Penetrated with the utter impossibility of distinguishing himself by immediate action, he was forced to throw himself on the last resources of lit- erature. He had exalted ideas of its duties and influence : he had exalted notions of the dignity of man : — an ardent, though a vague and exaggerated love of liberty, and of the manly virtues which it is wont to foster. He invaded the stage. He wished to effect upon his contemporaries that revolution which his own soul had undergone. He wished to w T ake them from their long lethargy of servitude ; to see them thinking, willing, striving, resist- ing." The dedications to some of Alfieri's trag- edies are quite as notable as anything in the dramas themselves. The tragedy of Agis, the Spartan King who was put to death by his subjects, is dedicated to Charles I. of England, or rather to his shade, for his head had fallen a century and a-half before. Tht VITTORIO ALFIERI. 217 First Brutus is dedicated to George Washing- ton, in a few months to be the first President of the United States. The Second Brutus is dedicated to " the Future People of Italy," such as they might be in a generation yet to come; such as, it may be hoped, they have measurably now come to be. These three Dedications are worthy to stand among the things by which Alfieri should be commemo- rated : Dedication to Agis. — May, 1786. To the Most Sacred Majesty of Charles the First, King of Great Britain, etc. : It seems to me that I may dedicate my Agis, without meanness or arrogance, to an unfortunate and dead King. — As you received your death from the sentence of an unjust Parliament, this King of Sparta received his by a similar one of the Ephori. But just as the effects were similar, so were the causes different. Agis, by restoring equality and liberty, wished to restore to Sparta her virtue and her splendor; hence he died full of glory, leaving behind him an everlasting fame. You, by attempting to violate all limits to your authority, falsely wished to procure your own private good; hence nothing remains of you; and the ineffectual compassion of others alone accom- panies you to the tomb. — The designs of Agis, generous and sublime, were afterwards happily prosecuted, and with much £'lory to himself, by Cleomenes, his successor, who found the whole prepared. Your designs, common to the herd of monarchs, were and are perpetually attempted by many other princes, and also carried into ef- fect, but uniformly without fame. In my opinion, one can in no way make a tragedy of your ti api- cal death, the cause of it not being sublime. I should always have thought, even if I had not at- tempted to do it, that from the death of Agis, the true grandeur of the Spartan King being consid- ered, a noble tragedy might have been con- structed. — Both the one and the other were and will be a memorable example to the people, and a 218 VITTORIO ALFIEKI. terrible one to kings; but with this remarkable difference between them, that many others have been and will be like to that of Your Majesty, but never one like to that of Agis. Dedication to The First Brutus.— Dec. 17S8. To the most illustrious and Free Citizen, General Washington : The name of the Deliverer of America alone can stand in the title-page of the tragedy of the Deliv- erer of Rome.— To you, most excellent and most rare Citizen, I therefore dedicate this; without first hinting at even a part of the so many praises due to yourself, which I now deem all compre- hended in the sole mention of your name. Nor can this my slight almsion appear to you contam- inated by adulation; since, not knowing you by person, and living disjoined from you by the im- mense ocean, we have but too emphatically noth- ing in common between us but the love of glory. Happy are you, who have been able to build your glory on the sublime and eternal basis of love to your country, demonstrated by actions. I, though not born free, yet having abandoned in time my Lares, and for no other reason than that I might be able to write loftily of Liberty— I hope by this means at least to have proved what might have been my love for my country, if I had indeed for- tunately belonged to one that deserved the name. In tins single respect, I do not think myself wholly unworthy to mingle my name with yours. Dedication to The Second Brutus. — Jan. 1789. To the Future People of Italy: I hope that I shall be pardoned the insult by you, O generous and free Italians, that I inno- cently offered to your grandfathers, or great- grandfathers, in presenting to them the Two llru- tuses, tragedies in which, instead of Ladies, inter- locutors and actors, the People was introduced among many most lofty personages. I also feel how enormous the offence was to attribute tongue, hand, and intellect to those who — from having entirely forgotten that they themselves had ever received these gifts from nature — thought it im- VITTORIO ALF1ERI. 219 possible that their successors should ever re-ac- quire them. — " But if my words are destined to be seeds which fructify in honor to those whom I arouse from death," I flatter myself that perhaps justice will be repaid me by you, and not dissev- ered from some praise. Indeed I am certain that if on this account I received blame from your an- cestors, it would not, however, be exempted to- tally from esteem; since all could never hate and despise him whom no individual hated, and who manifestly constrained himself — as far as was within his power — to benefit all, or at least the majority. The tragedy of The First Brutus, among the latest of those of Alfieri, is based upon the well-known Roman legend. The action of the drama takes place wholly in and near the Forum in Rome, and occupies not more than two days. The first act opens with Brutus and Collatinus, the husband of Lucretia, ha- ranguing the citizens in the Forum, and in- citing them to rise against the House of Tar- quin. The body of Lucretia is then brought in, and the Act thus concludes : People. — Atrocious sight! Behold the murdered lady in the Forum. Brutus. — Yes, Romans, fix — if ye have power to do it — Fix on that immolated form your'eycs. That mute, fair form, that horrible generous wound, That pure and sacred blood — Ah! all exclaim, " To-day resolve on liberty, or we Are doom'd to death. Naught else remains!" People.— All, all, Yes, free we all of us will be, or dead. Brutus. — Then listen now to Brutus. — The same dagger Which from her dying side he lately drew. Brutus now lifts; and to all Rome he swears That which first on her very dying form He swore already. — While I wear a sword, 220 VITTORIO ALFIEEI. While vital air I breathe, in Rome henceforth No Tarquin e'er shall put his foot— I swear it; Nor the abominable name of king, Nor the authority, shall any man Ever again possess. — May the just gods Annihilate him here, if Brutus is not Lofty and true of heart! — Further I swear, Many as are the inhabitants of Rome, To make them equal, free, and citizens; Myself a citizen and nothing more. The laws alone shall have authority, And I will be the first to yield them homage. People.— The laws, the laws alone! We with one voice To thine our oaths unite. And be a fate Worse than the fate of Collatinus ours If we are ever perjured! Brutus. — These, these are True Roman accents. Tyranny and tyrants, At your accordant hearty will alone, All, all have vanished. Nothing now is needful Except 'gainst them to close the city gates; Since Fate, to us propitious, has already Sequestered them from Rome. People. — But you meanwhile AVill be to us at once Consuls and Fathers. You to us wisdom, we our arms to you, Our swords, our hearts, will lend. Brutus— In your august And sacred presence, on each lofty cause, We always will deliberate. There cannot From the collective People's majesty ]'«• anything concealed. But it is just That the Patricians and the Senate bear A part in everything. At the new tidings They are not all assembled here. Enough- Alas, too much so — the iron rod of power Has smitten them with terror. Now yourselves To the sublime contention of great deeds Shall summon them. Here then we will unite. Patricians and Plebeians; and by us Freedom a stable basis shall receive. People. — From this day forth we shall begin to live. VITTORIO ALFIERI. 221 In the next three Acts the story is devel- oped. Brutus and Collatinus are made con- suls. Tarquin sends a message to the Ro- mans, proposing that his guilty son shall be given up to punishment for his crime. A number of the Patricians form a conspiracy to restore the Tarquins. Among these are Titus and Tiberius, the sons of Brutus, who are led to believe that thus only can the life of their father be preserved. The plot is dis- covered, and the conspirators are appre- hended. The fifth Act opens in the Forum. Collatinus and Brutus are on the rostrum. The conspirators are led in in chains, Titus and Tiberius last. People. — Ah! how many, How many may the traitors be? — Oh heaven! Behold the sons of Brutus! Collatinus. — Ah! I cannot Longer restrain my tears. Brutus. — A great day, A noble day is this, and evermore Will be a memorable one for Rome. — Oh ye, perfidiously base, who dared Your scarce-awakened country to betray, Behold ye all before assembled Borne. Let each of you, if it be possible, Defend himself before her. — All are silent. — Rome and the Consuls ask of you yourselves, Whether to you, convicted criminals, The punishment of death be due? [All are silent.] To death Then all of you are equitably sentenced. The People's majesty, with one consent, Pronounces the irreversible decree. Why should we longer tarry? — Oh! my colleague Weeps and is silent. Silent is the Senate; Silent the citizens. People. — Oh fatal moment! — Yet just and necessary is their death. Titus. — One innocent alone amongst us all, Now dies, and this is he. | Points to his In-other.} 222 VITTOEIO ALFIERI. People— Ob pity! See, He of his brother speaks. Tiberius. — Believe him not: Or we are both equally innocent, Or equally transgressors. In the paper My name is written next to his. Brutus.— No one Whose name is written on that fatal scroll Can be called innocent. Some may, perchance,"] Have been less culpable in their intent, But only to the gods the intent is known. And it would be an arbitrary judgment, And thence unjust, the guilty to absolve, As to condemn them from the inference Drawn from professed intention. It would be A spurious judgment, such as Kings assume; Not such as by a just and simple People Is held in reverence. People who alone To the tremendous sacred laws submit; And who, save of the letter of those laws, In their decrees, of naught avail themselves. Collatinus.— Romans, 'tis true that these un- happy youths Were with the rest of the conspirators Involved. But that they were solicited, Confounded, tampered with, and finally, By the iniquitous Mamilius In an inextricable snare entrapped, Is also as indubitably true. He made them think that all was in the power Of the expelled Tarquinii; thence their names- Would you believe it— also they subscribed Only to save their sire from death. People.— oh heaven! And is this true indeed? We then should save These two alone. Bruins— Alas! what do I hear?— Is this the People's voice?— Just, free, and strong, Ye would now make yourselves, and how? would ye Lay, as the base of such an edifice, A partial application of your laws? — That I. a father, might not weep, would ye Now make so many other citizens. Sons, brothers, fathers. W eep?— To the keen axe, Which they have merited, shall now so many. VITTORIO ALFIERI. 223 So many others yield their passive necks, And shall two culprits oidy be exempt From this, because they seem not what they are? — They were the Consul's sons, although in deeds They were not so. 'Mong the conspirators With their own hand were they enrolled. — Or all Or none of them should die. — Absolve them all, And at once ruin Rome. Save two alone, And if it seem so, it would be unjust. — Now, less a just than a compassionate, judge, Hath Collatinus these two youths defended, Asserting that they wished to save their father. — Perhaps this was true; but perhaps the others wished, Their fathers some, their brothers some, and some Their sons to save; and not on this account Are they less guilty; since they rather chose To sacrifice their country than their friends. — The father in his heart may weep for this ; Rut in the first place should the genuine Consul Secure the safety of his Native Country; And afterwards, by mighty grief o'erwhelmed, Fall on the bodies of his lifeless sons. — Ye will behold, ere many hours are past, To what excess of danger, by these men, Ye have been brought. To fortify our hearts In strength imparted by the strength of others, In individual strength to make us strong, Inflexible as champions of Freedom, Cruel, though just, 'tis indispensable That we abide this memorable test. — Depart, oh lictors; be the culprits all Bound to the columns; let the hatchet fall Upon them. — I have not a heart of steel. — Ah ! Collatinus, this is the time for thee To pity me : perform for me the rest. [Brutus sinks on his seat, and turns away his eyes from the spectacle. Collatinus sees the conspirators bound to the columns. People. — Oh cruel sight!— The wretched father dares Not look at them. — And yet their death is just. Brutus. — The punishment approaches. The de- linquents Have heard the sentence of the Consuls. — Now 224 WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE ALGER, Think on the pangs of the distracted father. — The cleaving hatchet o'er each neck impends. — Oh heaven! my very heart is rent in twain! — I with my mantle am constrained to hide The insufferable sight! — This may at least Be granted to the father. — But ye, fix ye on them your eyes. — Xow Rome, Free and eternal, rises from that blood. Collatinus. — Oh superhuman strength ! Valerius. — Of Rome is Brutus The Father and the Ood. People. — Yes, Brutus is The Father and the God Of Rome. Brutus. — I am The most unhappy man that ever lived. [The curtain falls while the lictors stand ready to strike the blow.] ALGER, William Rounseville, an Ameri- can clergyman and author, horn at Freetown, Mass., Dec. 11, 1823. He graduated at Har- vard College, and at the Cambridge Divinity School in 1847; became pastor ol a Unitarian congregation at Roxbury, Mass., and in 1855 succeeded Theodore Parker as minister of the Society of "Liberal Christians," in Boston. In 1876 he became minister of the Unitarian church of the Messiah, in New York, of which ( trville Dewey and Samuel Osgood— who afterwards became an Episcopalian — had been pastors. Mr. Alger held this position for three years, and was succeeded by Rob- ert Collyer. All these successive ministers of the Church of the Messiah have won a place in the literature of their day. After vacating his pastoral charge in New York, Mr. Alger preached for three years at various places in the West, and about 1882 returned to New England, to devote himself to general litera- ture, which had indeed been his main vocation almost from the first. His principal works are: A Symbolic Hist- ory of the Cross of Christ (1851); The Poetry WILLIAM IIOUNSEVILLE ALGER. 225 of the Orient (1856) ; A Critical History of the Doctrine of a Future Life, to which Ezra Abbot appended a notable Appendix, else- where noticed (1861) ; The Genius of Solitude (1866) ; Friendships of Women (1867) ; Pray- ers offered in the Massachusetts House of Rep- resentatives (1868) ; Life of Edwin Forrest (1877); and The School of Life (1881). The most notable of his works is the Critical History of a Future Life. In the opening paragraph of this work he thus propounds the great theme to be elucidated and dis- cussed : THE PROBLEM OF A FUTURE LIFE. Fausing, in a thoughtful hour, on the Mount of Observation, whence the whole Prospect of Life is visible, what a solemn vision greets us. We see the vast procession of existence flitting across the landscape, from the shrouded ocean of Birth, over the illuminated continent of Experience, to the shrouded ocean of Death. Who can linger there and listen unmoved to the sublime lament of things that die! Although the great exhibition below endures, yet it is made up of changes, and the spectators shift as often. Each rank of the past, as it advances from the mists of its com- mencing career, wears a smile caught from the morning light of Hope ; but as it draws near to the fatal bourne it takes on a mournful cast from the shadows of an unknown realm. The places we occupy were not vacant before we came, and will not be deserted when we go; but are forever rilling and emptying afresh. We appear : there is a short flutter of joys and pains — a bright glimmer of smiles and tears — and we are gone. But whence did we come ? and whither do we go ? Can human thought divine the answer ? It adds no little solemnity and pathos to these reflec- tions to remember that every considerate person in the unnumbered successions that have preceded us has, in his turn, confronted the same facts, en- gaged in the same inquiry, and been swept from his attempts at a theoretic solution of the prob- 226 WILLIAM KOUNSEVILLE ALGER. lcm into the solemn solution itself ; while the con- stant refrain in the song of existence soundeth behind him: " One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh; but the earth abideth forever." Widely regarding the history of human life from the beginning, what a vision- ary spectacle it is! How miraculously perma- nent in the whole; how sorrowfully evanescent in the parts ! What pathetic sentiments it awak- ens! Amidst what awful mysteries it hangs. Mr. Alger goes on, through several hun- dreds of pages, to set forth the manifold and multiform views which have been held of the Human Soul ; of its origin and future condition and destiny, as conceived by men of all ages and countries ; and then gives his own conclusions as to the whole matter of the Future Life— premising that, " If the boon of a future Immortality be not ours, therefore to scorn the gift of the Present Life is to act not like a wise man. who with grateful piety makes the best of what is given; but like a spoiled child, who, because he cannot have both his oranges and his gingerbread, at once pettishly flings his gingerbread in the mud." THE HEBE AND THE HEREAFTER. The Future Life — outside of the realm of Faith — to an earnest and independent inquirer, and con- sidered as a scientific question, lies in a painted mist of uncertainty. There is room for hope, and there is room for doubt. The wavering evidences in some moods preponderate on that side, in other moods on this side. Meanwhile it is clear that, while he lives here, the best thing he can do is to cherish a devout spirit, cultivate a noble charac- acter, lead a pure and useful life in the service of Wisdom, Humanity, and God; and, finally, when the appointed time arrives, meet the issue with reverential and affectionate conformity, without dictating terms. Let the vanishing man say — like Riickert's dying flower — " Thanks to-day for all the favors I have received from sun and stream REV. ARCHIBALD ALISON". 227 ami earth and sky; for nil the ornaments, from .Men and God, which have made my little life an ornament and a bliss. Farewell all! Content to have had my turn, I now fall asleep without a murmur or a sigh.". . . . When we die, may the Spirit of Truth, the Comforter of Christ, be our Confessor; the last inhaled breath our Cup of Ab- solution; the tears of some dear friend our Ex- treme Unction. No complaint for past trials, but a grateful acknowledgment for all blessings our parting word. And then, resigning ourselves to the Universal Father, assured that whatever ought to be, and is best for us to be, will be. Either absolute Oblivion shall be welcome ; or we will go forward to new destinies, whether with preserved identity, or with transformed consciousness and powers, being indifferent to us, since the Will of Ood is done. — Critical History of a Future Life. ALISON, Rev. Archibald, a Scottish di vine and author, born at Edinburgh, Nov. 13, 1757, died there May 17, 1S39. He was educated at the University of Glasgow and at Balliol College, Oxford; took orders in the Church of England, and received several val- uable preferments : finally returning to Edin- burgh in 1800, and becoming senior minister in St. Paul's Chapel, where his eloquent dis- courses attracted much attention. His Essays on the Nature and Principles of Taste, first published in 1790, is established as an English classic. In 1S11 he published two volumes of Sermons. Those upon the Four Seasons are especially admirable. EFFECT OF SOUNDS AS MODIFIED BY ASSOCIATION. The howl of the wolf is little distinguished from the howl of the dog, either in its tone or in its strength; but there is no comparison between their sublimity. There are few, if any sounds so loud as the most common of all sounds, the low- ing of a cow; yet this is the very reverse of sub- limity. Imagine this sound, on the contrary, ex- 228 REV. ARCHIBALD ALISON. pressive of fierceness or strength, and there can be no doubt that it would become sublime. The hooting of the owl at midnight, or amid ruins, is strikingly sublime; the same sound at noon, or during the day, is very far from being so. The scream of the eagle is simply disagreeable when the bird is either tame or confined; it is sublime only when it is heard amid rocks and deserts, and when it is expressive to us of liberty and inde- pendence, and savage majesty. The neighing of a war-horse on the field of battle, or of a young untamed horse when at large among mountains, is powerfully sublime; the same sound in a cart- horse, or a horse in a stable, is simply indifferent, if not disagreeable. No sound is more absolutely mean than the grunting of swine; the same sound in the wild boar — an animal remarkable for fierceness and strength — is sublime. The low and feeble sounds of animals which are considered the reverse of sublime, are rendered so by association. The hissing of a goose, and the rattle of a child's plaything, are both contempti- ble sounds; but when the hissing comes from the mouth of a dangerous serpent, and the noise of the rattle is that of the rattlesnake, although they do not differ from the others in intensity, they are both of them highly sublime. There is certainly no resemblance between the noise of thunder and the hissing of a serpent; between the growling of a tiger and the explosion of gunpowder; between the scream of the eagle and the shouting of a multitude: yet all of these are sublime. In the same manner there is as little resemblance be- tween the tinkling of the sheep-fold bell and the murmuring of the breeze; between the hum of the beetle and the song of the lark; between the twittering of the swallow and the sound of the curfew: yet all these are beautiful. — Essays on Taste. ASSOCIATIONS OF THE PAST. Even the peasant, whose knowledge of former times extends but to a few generations, has yet in his village some monuments of the deeds or vir- tues of his forefathers, and cherishes with a fond REV. ARCHIBALD ALISON. 220 Veneration the memorial of those good old times to which his imagination turns with delight, and of which he loves to recount the simple tales that tradition has brought him. And what is it that constitutes the emotion of sublime delight which every man of common sensibility feels upon his first prospect of Rome '? It is not the scene of destruction which is before him. It is not the Tiber, diminished in his imagination to a paltry stream, flowing amidst the ruins of that magnifi- cence which it once adorned. It is not the tri- umph of Superstition over the wreck of human greatness, and its monuments erected upon the very spot where the first honors of humanity have been gained. It is ancient Rome which fills his imagination. It is the country of Caesar, of Cicero, and Virgil which he sees before him. It is the Mistress of the World which he sees, and who seems to him to rise again from the tomb to give laws to the universe. All that the labors of his youth, or the studies of his maturer age, have acquired with regard to the history of this great people open at once on his imagination, and pre- sent him with a field of high and solemn imagery which can never be exhausted. Take from him these associations — conceal from him that it is Rome which he sees — and how different would be his emotion. — Essays on Taste. THE LESSONS OF AUTUMN. There is an "Eventide" in the day: an hour when the sun retires and the shadows fall, and when Nature assumes the appearance of soberness and silence. It is an hour from which every- where the thoughtless lly, as peopled only, in their imagination, with images of gloom. It is the hour, on the other hand, which in every age the wise have loved, as bringing with it senti- ments and affections more valuable than all the splendors of the Day. Its first effect is to still all the turbulence of thought or passion which the Day may have brought forth. We follow with our eyes the descending sun ; we listen to the de- caying sounds of labor and of toil; and, when all the fields are silent around us, we feel a kindred 230 REV. ARCHIBALD ALISON. stillness to breathe upon our souls, and to calm them from the agitations of society. From this first impression there is a second, which naturally follows it: In the Day we are living with men; in the Eventide we begin to live with Nature; we see the world withdrawn from us, the shades of Night darken over the habitations of men, and we feel ourselves alone. It is an hour fitted, as it would seem, by Him who made us, to still, but with gentle hand, the throb of every unruly pas- sion, and the ardor of every impure desire; and while it veils for a time the world that misleads us, to awaken in our hearts those legitimate affections which the heat of the Day may have dissolved. In the momen when Earth is over- shadowed, Heaven opens to our eyes the radiance of a sublimer being; our hearts follow the suc- cessive splendors of the scene, and while we for- get for a time the obscurity of earthly concerns, we feel that there are " yet greater things than these." There is, in the second place, an " Eventide " in the Year: a season when the sun withdraws his propitious light; when the winds arise and the leaves fall, and Nature around us seems to sink into decay. It is said, in general, to be " the sea- son of melancholy; and if by this word be meant that it is the time of solemn and serious thought, it is undoubtedly the season of melancholy. Yet it is a melancholy so soothing, so gentle in its approach, and so prophetic in its influence, that they who have known it feel, as instinctively, that it is the doing of God. and that the heart of man is not thus finely touched but to fine issues. We rise from our meditations with hearts soft- ened and subdued, and we return into life as into a shadowy scene, where we have " disquieted ourselves in vain.'' Yet a few years, we think, and all that now bless, or all that now convulse humanity, will also have perished. The mightiest pageantry of life will pass: the loudest notes of triumph or of con- quest will be silent in the grave; the wicked, wherever active, "will cease from troubling," and the weary, wherever suffering, "will be at SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. 281 rest." Under an impression so profound, we feel our own hearts better. The cares, the animosi- ties, the hatreds, which society may have engen- dered, sink unperceived from our bosoms. In the general desolation of Nature we feel the littleness of our own passions; we look forward to that kindred Evening which time must bring to all; we anticipate the graves of those we hate as of those we love. Every unkind passion falls with the leaves that fall around us; and we return slowly to our homes, and to the society which surround us, with the wish only to enlighten or to bless them. — Sermons on the Seasons. ALISON, Sir Archibald, a Scottish histo- rian, son of the Eev. Archibald Alison, born at Kenley, Shropshire, England, where his father was then vicar, Dec. 29, 1792, died near Glasgow, Scotland, May 23, 1867. His father returned to his native Scotland in 1800, and with his family took up his residence in Edin- burgh. The son was educated at the Univer- sity of Edinburgh ; studied law, and was ad- mitted to the bar in 1S14. He then travelled on the Continent, and published an account of his travels in France. He rose to eminence in his profession ; was made Deputy Advocate- general in 1822 ; member of the Crown Coun- cil in 1822 ; and Sheriff of Lanarkshire in 1834 ; having in the mean while published several valuable legal works. He was successively Lord Rector of Marischal College, Aberdeen, and of Glasgow University, and was created a baronet in 1S52. His works are very nu- merous, including many Essays, Political, Historical, and Miscellaneous, originally con- tributed to Blackwood's Magazine, and in 1850 published separately in three volumes ; Prin- ciples of Population (2 vols. 1S40) combating the theory of Malthus; England in 1815 and 1845 discussing the Currency question; and the Life of the Duke of Marlborough (1847; 232 SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. third and very much enlarged edition, 1855). His principal works, however, are the History of Europe from the commencement of the French Eevolution to the Restoration of the Bourbons (1839-42), and a continuation, bring- ing the narrative down to the accession of Louis Napoleon (1852-59). This Continua- tion is acknowledged to be of very slight value. " The author had not exercised much care in its composition. It is hastily and in- accurately written, and is disfigured by blun- ders, omissions, and inconsistencies. The dif- fuse style of the narrative, which was felt as a drawback on the earlier History, is still more conspicuous in this Continuation." The first History achieved a great temporary suc- cess, and was translated not only into all European languages, but also into Arabic and Hindustani. Upon the whole, even this work is regarded as of no very high authority, al- though it has not a few distinguishing merits. Perhaps the descriptions of military opera- tions are the best features of the work. The prejudices of the author stood in the way of his being an impartial and reliable historian of the causes of events, and his moral reflec- tions, in which he is extremely diffuse, "are quite unworthy of the author of the narrative portions of the history." His hatred of the French Eevolution itself led him to adopt the most exaggerated statements of the atrocities committed during the " Eeign of Terror." He adopts without qualification the statement of Prudhomme that " 18,063 persons were guillo- tined by order of the Revolutionary Tribu- nal," whereas the number fell somewhat short of 2500. He sums up— still following Prudhomme— the number of the victims of the Revolution at more than a million, among whom were: ''900,000 men, 15,000 women, and 22,000 children, slain in La Vendee: " and SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. 233 this, he says, does not include the whole num- ber of victims. In setting forth the immedi- ate causes which brought about the Revolu- tion, he enumerates fairly the enormous wrongs and oppressions under which the peo- ple labored; but adds, strangely enough, that " the immediate source of the convulsion was the Spirit of Innovation which overspread France." The value of Alison's History of Europe rests upon the vigor of isolated pas- sages, rather than upon its merits as a whole. In writing the Life of the Duke of Marlbor- ough, he was not swayed by his prejudices, and the work is of high value. CHARACTER OF LOUIS XIV. OF FRANCE. Louis XIV., whose unmeasured ambition and diplomatic address had procured the splendid be- quest of the Spanish succession to his family, was one of the most remarkable sovereigns who ever sat upon the throne of France It is the fate of all men who have made a great and dura- ble impression on human affairs, and powerfully affected the interests, or thwarted the opinions of large bodies of men, to be represented in opposite colors to future times. The party, whether in Church or State, which they have elevated, the nation whose power or glory they have augmented, praise, as much as those whom they have op- pressed and injured, whether at home or abroad, strive to vilify their memory. But in the case of Louis XIV. this general propensity has been greatly increased by the opposite, and, at first sight, inconsistent features of his character. There is almost equal truth in the magniloquent eulogies of his admirers, and the impassioned in- vectives of his enemies. He is not less great and magnanimous than he is represented by the elegant flattery of Racine or Boileau, nor less cruel and hard-hearted than he is painted by the austere jus- tice of Sismondi or D'Aubigm ; . Like some other men, but more so than most, he was made up of lofty and elevated, of selfish and frivolous qualities. He could alternately 234 SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. boast, with truth, that "there was no longer any Pyrenees," and rival his youngest courtiers in frivo- lous and often heartless gallantry. In his younger years he was equally assiduous in his application to 1 usiness, and carried away by personal vanity. When he ascended the throne his first words were. " I intend that every paper, from a diplomatic de- spatch to a private petition, shall be submitted to me;" and his vast powers of application enabled him to compass the task. Like Louis Philippe, he was his own Prime-Minister; and even when he acted through others, he never failed to communi- cate the impress of his own lofty mind and great capacity to the conduct of all his subordinate au- thorities. From the magnificent publication lately given to the world by the French Gove niment, and his correspondence with his generals, there pre- served, it is evident that he rivalled Napoleon him- self in the vigilant superintendence which he kept up over all his officers, and the skill with which he directed, from his cabinet at Versailles, the movements of his armies at once in Flanders and Germany, Italy and Spain. Discerning in the choice of his Ministers — swayed only, at least in matters of State, by powerful intellects — patriotic and unselfish in the choice of his Ministers — he collected round himself the first talent in France, and yet preserved his ascendency over them all. Yet at the same time he deserted his Queen for Madame La Valliere, soon after broke La Val- liere' s heart by abandoning her for Madame de Montespan, and in the end forgot both in the arms of Madame de Maintenon. In mature life his ambition to extend the bounds and enhance the glory of France was equalled by his desire to win the admiration or gain the favor of the fair sex. In his later days he alternately engaged in devout austerities with Madame de Maintenon, and with mournful resolution as- serted the independence of France against Europe in arms. Never was evinced a more striking ex- emplification of the saying, so well known among the world, that " no man is a hero to his valet-de- chambre;" nor a more remarkable confirmation of the truth so often proclaimed by divines, that SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. 235 characters <>f imperfect goodness constitute the great majority of mankind.— Life of the Duke of Marlborough. CHARACTER OF JAMES II. OF ENGLAND. James II. was a sovereign of no ordinary charac- ter, and the important events of his reign have im- pressed his name in an indelible manner on the records of history. In his person a dynasty was overturned, a form of government changed, a race of sovereigns sent into exile, and a new impulse communicated to the Reformed religion. He con- summated the Waterloo of the royal dynasty of the Stuarts; he established, without intending it, the Protestant faith in the British Empire on an im- perishable foundation James did this, like Charles X. in after times, from the force of his will, and the absence of corresponding strength of understanding; from the sincerity of his conscien- tious opinions, and the want of thai intermixture of worldly prudence which was necessary to give his measures lasting success. A less honest man would never have thought of hazarding the name of royalty for that of religion; a more able one would probably have succeeded in- rendering his religion victorious. It is the mixture of zeal with rashness, sincerity with imprudence, warlike cour- age with civil incapacity, which has generally in- duced royal martyrdom. Yet James II. was not destitute of abilities, and he was actuated by that sincerity of intention and earnestness of purpose which is so important an element in every elevated character. He had none of the levity or insouciance of his brother Charles. Charles was at heart a Catholic, but he never would have sacrificed three Crowns for a Mass. In the arms of the Countess of Castlemaine, or the Duchess of Portsmouth, he forgot alike the cares and the duties of royalty. James was not without his personal frailties as well as Charles, but thej r did not form a ruling part of his character. (last in a ruder mould, moved by more serious feelings, he was actuated in every period of his life by lofty and respectable, because generous and disinter- ested, passions. Patriotism was at first his ruling 236 SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. motive. England had not a more gallant admiral. Nelson or Collingw.ood did not more gallantly steer into the midst of the enemy's fleet, or engage with more dogged resolution, yard-arm to yard- arm, with a powerful and redoubtable foe It was mainly owing to his efforts and patriotic perseverance that the navy of England was put on a footing commensurate with the commercial and political importance of the State, and the fleet equipped which, four years after he had been ex- pelled from the throne, broke the naval power of France at La Hogne, and determined for above a century the maritime contest between Frauce and England. And thus, although James was a bigoted Catho- lic, and sincerely desirous of seeing that faith re- stored in his dominions, he did more, directly or indirectly, without intending it, than any other man, to establish the Protestant faith in Europe; for he reared the fleet which gave to Protestant England the empire of the seas, and by paving the way for the accession of William III. to the throne, he placed her at the head of the grand league for the support of the Reformed faith in Europe, and broke the strength of Louis XIV., the great Rom- ish supporter. In the prosecution of his object of changing the national religion he was rash, vehement, and in- considerate. Deterred by no considerations of pru- dence, influenced by no calculation of his means to his end, he permitted, if he did not actually sanction, atrocious cruelty and oppression towards his unhappy Protestant subjects; and drove on his own objects without the slightest regard to the means of effecting them which he possessed, or the chances of success which they presented. He uniformly maintained, to the last hour of his life, that it was perfect liberty of conscience, and not any exclusive supremacy, which he intended to establish for his Roman Catholic subjects; and several acts of his reign unquestionably favor this opinion. . . . The constancy of James in mis- fortune was as remarkable as, and more respectable than his vehemence in prosperity. With mournful resolution he continued to assert to his dying hour „ SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. 237 the cause of Legitimacy against that of Revolution ; and died an exile in a foreign land, the martyr of religious fidelity and royal resolution. —Life of the Duke of Marlborough. EPOCHS IN THE FHEXCH REVOLUTION. The History of Europe during the French Rev- olution naturally divides itself into four periods: — The First Period, commencing with the convoca- tion of the States-General in 1789, terminates with the execution of Louis XVI., and the establishment of a Republic in France, in 1793. This period em- braces the history of the vast changes of the Con- stituent Assembly; the revolt and overthrow of the throne on the 10th of August; the trial and death of the King The Second Period opens with the strife of the Girondists and the Jacobins; and, after recounting the fall of the latter body, enters upon the dreadful era of the Reign of Terror, and follows out the subsequent struggles of the now exhausted factions, till the establishment of a regular Military Government by the suppression of the revolt of the National Guard of Paris, in Oc- tober, 1795. . . . The Third Period, commencing with the rise of Napoleon, terminates witlr the seizure of the reins of power by that extraordinary man, and the first pause in the general strife by the Peace of Amiens. It is singularly rich in splendid achievements. . . . The Fourth Period opens with brighter auspices to France under the firm and able government of Napoleon, and ter- minates with his fall in 1815. Less illustrated than the former period by his military genius, it was rendered still more memorable by his resistless power and mighty achievements. . . . The first two periods illustrate the conse- quences of democratic ascendency upon the civil condition; the last two, their effect upon the mil- itary struggles and external relations of the na- tions. In both, the operation of the same Law of Nature may be discerned, for the expulsion of a destructive passion from the frame of society, by the efforts which it makes for its own gratification. In both, the principal actors were overruled by an unseen Power, which rendered their vices and am- i7 23S SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. bition the means of ultimately effecting - the cle- liverance of mankind, (fenerations perished dur- the vast transaction; but the Law of Nature was unceasing in its operation The illustrations of this Moral Law compose the great lesson to be learned from the eventful scenes of this mighty drama. — Preface to the History of Europe. THE REVOLUTIONARY TRIUMVIRATE. The principal powers of government fell into the hands of Danton, Marat, and Robespierre. Danton had been chiefly instrumental in bring- ing about the insurrection of the 10th of August. He was, shortly after, from his situation as Min- ister of Justice, invested with supreme authority in the capital, and was subsequently chiefly in- strumental in bringing about the subsequent mas- sacres in the prisons. Yet Danton was not a mere bloodthirsty tyrant. Bold, unprincipled, and dar- ing, he held that the end, in every case, justified the means: that nothing was blamable, provided it led to desirable results; that nothing was im- possible to those who had fhe courage to attempt it. Like Mirabeau, he was the slave of sensual passions; like him, he was the terrific leader, dur- ing his ascendency, of the ruling class; but he shared the character, not of the Patricians who commenced the Revolution, but of the Plebeians who consummated its wickedness. Inexorable in general measures, he was indulgent, humane, and even generous to individuals; the author of the massacres of the 2d of September, he saved all those who fled to him, and spontaneously liberated his personal adversaries from prison. Individual elevation, and the safety of his party, were his ruling objects. A Revolution appeared a game of hazard, where the stake was the life of the losing party. The strenuous supporter of exterminating cruelty after the 10th of August, he was among the first to recommend a return to humanity after the period of danger was past. Robespierre possessed a very different character. Without the external energy of his rival, without his domineering character of undaunted courage, he was endowed with qualities which ultimately SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. 239 raised him to the head of affairs. Though not splendid, his talents were of the most powerful kind. Ungainly in appearance, with a feeble voice and vulgar accent, he owed his elevation chiefly to the inflexible obstinacy with which he maintained his opinions at a time when the pop- ular cause had lost many of its supporters. Under the mask of patriotism was concealed the incessant influence of vanity and sellishness; cau- tious in conduct, slow but implacable in revenge, he avoided the perils which proved fatal to so many of his adversaries, and ultimately estab- lished himself on their ruin. Insatiable in his thirst for blood, he disdained the more vulgar passion for money: at a time when he disposed of the lives of every man in France, he resided in a small apartment, the only luxury of which con- sisted of images of his figure, and the number of mirrors which, in every direction, reflected its form. While other leaders of the populace af- fected a squalid dress and dirty linen, he alone ap- peared in elegant attire. An austere life, a de- served reputation for incorruptibility, a total dis- regard for human suffering, preserved his ascend- ency with the fanatical supporters of liberty, even though he had little in common with them, and nothing grand or generous in his character The approach of death revealed his real weakness. When success was hopeless, his firmness deserted him, and the assassin of thousands met his fate with less courage than the meanest of his victims. Marat was the worst of the triumvirate. Na- ture had impressed the atrocity of his character on his countenance. Hideous features, the expres- sion of a demon, revolted all who approached him. For more than three years his writings had inces- santly stimulated the people to cruelty. Buried in obscurity, he revolved in his mind the means of augmenting the victims of the Revolution. His principles were, that there was no safety but in destroying the whole enemies of the Revolution. He was repeatedly heard to say that there would be no security to the State till 2K0,(H.)<) heads had fallen. The Revolution produced many men who carried into execution more sanguinary measures; 24U Sill ARCHIBALD ALISON. none who exercised so powerful an influence in recommending them. Death cut him short in the midst of Ids relentless career. The hand of fe- male heroism prevented his falling a victim to the savage exasperation which he had so large a share in creating. — History of Europe, Chap. VI. CLEMENCY OF NAPOLEON AFTEK THE 18TH BKU- MAIRE. Napoleon rivalled Caesar in the clemency with which he used his victory. No persecutions or massacres, few arrests or imprisonments, followed the triumph of Order over Revolution. On the contrary, numerous acts of mercy, as wise as they were magnanimous, illustrated the rise of the Consular Throne. The law of hostages and the forced loan were abolished ; the priests and per- sons proscribed by the revolution of the 18th Fructidor were permitted to return; the emi- grants who had been snipwreeked on the coast of France, and thrown into prison, where they had been confined for four years, were set at liberty. Measures of severity were at first put in force against the violent Republicans; but they were relaxed and finally abandoned. Thirty-seven of this obnoxious party were ordered to be trans- ported to Guiana, and twenty-one to be put under the observation of the police; but the sentence of transportation was soon changed to one of surveil- lance, and even that was shortly abandoned. Nine thousand State prisoners who languished at the fall of the Directory in the State prisons of France, received their liberty. Their number, two years before, had been sixty thousand. The ele- vation of Napoleon was not only unstained by blood, but not even a single captive long lamented the car of the victor. A signal triumph of the principles of humanity over those of cruelty, glo- rious alike to the actors and the age in which it occurred ; and a memorable proof how much more durable the victories gained by moderation are, than those achieved by violence and stained by blood.— History of Europe, Chap. XX VII. SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. 241 CLOSE OF THE BATTLE OF MARENGO. Matters were in this desperate state, when at four o'clock the main body of Dessaix at length made its appearance at St. Juliano. " What think you of the day?" said .Napoleon to his lieuten- ant, when he arrived with its division. " The battle," said Dessaix, "is completely lost; but it is only four o'clock; there is time to gain another one." Napoleon and he alone were of this opin- ion; all the others counselled a retreat. In pursu- ance of this resolution, the remains of Victor and Lannes's corps were re-formed, under cover of the cavalry, which was massed in front of St. Juliano, a masked battery prepared under the direction of Marmont, and Dessaix advanced at the head of his corps, consisting of little more than four thou- sand men, to arrest the progress of the enemy. Napoleon, advancing to the front, rode along the line, exclaiming, "Soldiers! we have retired far enough. You know it is always my custom to sleep on the field of battle." The troops replied by enthusiastic shouts, and immediately advanced to the charge. Zach, the Austrian commander, little anticipat- ing such an onset, was advancing at the head of his column, five thousand strong, when he was received by a discharge from twelve pieces, sud- denly unmasked by Marmont, while at the same time Dessaix debouched from the village at the head of his division. The Imperialists as- tonished at the appearance of so considerable a body, where they expected to find only fugitives in disorder, and apprehensive of falling into a snare, paused and fell back; but Zach soon suc- ceeded in restoring order in the front, and checked the advance of the enemy. At this mo- ment Dessaix was struck by a ball in the breast, and soon after expired. His last words were: "Tell the First Consul that my only regret in dy- ing is to have perished before having done enough to live in the recollection of posterity." This ca- tastrophe, however, was far from weakening the ardor of his soldiers. The second in command, Boudet, succeeded in inspiring them with the de- sire of vengeance, and the fire rolled rapidly and 242 SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON, sharply along the whole line. But the Imperial- ists had now recovered from their surprise; the Hungarian grenadiers advanced to the charge; the French, in their turn, hesitated and broke; and victory was more doubtful than ever. At this critical moment, a happy inspiration seized Kellermann, which decided the fate of the day. The advance of Zach's columns had, with- out their being aware of it, brought their right flank before his mass of cavalry, eight hundred strong, which was concealed from their view by a vineyard where the festoons, conducted from tree to tree, rose above the horses" heads, and effect- ually intercepted the sight. Kellermann instantly charged with his whole force, upon the flank of the Austrians as they advanced in open column: and the result must be given in his own words: 1,4 The combat was engaged; Dessaix soon drove back the enemy's tirailleurs on their main body; but the sight of that formidable column of 0000 Hungarian grenadiers made our troops halt. I was advancing in line along their flank, concealed by the festoons; a frightful discharge took place; our line broke, wavered and fled. The Austrians rapidly advanced to follow up their success, in all the security and confidence of victory. I see it; I am in the midst of them; they lay down their arms. The whole did not occupy so much time as it took me to write these six lines." — Zach's grenadiers, cut through the middle by this unex- pected charge, and exposed to a murderous fire in front from Dessaix' s division, which had rallied upon receiving this unexpected aid, broke and fled. Zach himself, with 2000 men, were made prisoners; the remainder, routed and dispersed, fled in the utmost disorder to the rear, overthrow- ing in their course the other divisions which were advancing to their support. This great achievement was decisive of the fate of the battle. The remains of Victor's and Lannes*s corps no sooner beheld their success than they regained their former spirit, and turned fiercely upon their pursuers. The infantry of Kaim, overwhelmed by the tide of fugitives, gave way; the cavalry, which already inundated the Slit ARCHIBALD ALISON. 243 field, was seized with a sudden panic, and, instead of striving to restore the day, galloped, off to the rear, trampling down in their progress the unfor- tunate fugitives who were flying before them. A general cry arose, "to the bridges! to the bridges!" and the whole army disbanding, rushed in confusion to the Bormida. In the general con- sternation Marengo was carried, after a gallant defence, by the Republicans; the cannoniers, find- ing the bridges choked up by the fugitives, plunged, with their houses and guns, into the stream, where twenty pieces stuck fast, and fell into the hands of the enemy: At length Melas, who hastened to the spot, rallied the rear-guard in front of the bridges, and by its heroic resistance gained time for the army tp re-cross the river. The troops, regaining their ranks, re-formed upon the ground they had occupied at the commence- ment of the day; and after twelve hours' incessant fighting, the sun set upon this field of carnage The Imperialists had to lament the loss of 7000 men killed and wounded, besides 3000 prisoners, eight standards, and twenty pieces of cannon. The French sustained an equal loss in killed and wounded, besides 1000 prisoners taken in the early part of the day. But although the disproportion was not so great in the trophies of victory, the ef- fect was prodigious in the effect it produced on the respective armies and the ultimate issue of the campaign. The Austrians had fought for life or death, with their faces towards Vienna, to cut their way, sword in hand, through the French army. Defeat in these circumstances was irre- parable ruin The French, on the other hand, had now firmly established themselves on the plains of Piedmont, and could by merely retaining their present position effectually cut off the Im- perialists, and hinder their rendering any assist- ance to the Hereditary States. In these circum- stances, the victory gave the Republicans— as that under the walls of Turin had given the Imperial- ists a century before — the entire command of Italy. Such a result was in itself of vast import anee; but coming as it did in the outset of Napo- leon's career as First Consul, its consequences 244 SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. were incalculable. It fixed him on the throne, re- vived the military spirit of the French people, and precipitated the nation into that career of con- quest which led them to Cadiz and the Kremlin. — History of Europe, Chap. XXXI. THE CONFLAGRATION OF MOSCOW. On the night of the 13th of September, 1812, a fire broke out in the Bourse, behind the Bazar, which soun consumed that noble edifice, and spread to a considerable part of the crowded streets in the vicinity. This, however, was but the prelude to more extended calamities. At mid- night on the 15th, a bright light was seen to illu- minate the northern and western parts of the city, and the sentinels on watch at the Kremlin soon discerned the splendid edifices in that quarter to be in flames. The wind changed repeatedly dur- ing the night; but to whatever quarter it veered the conflagration extended itself; fresh fires were every instant breaking out in all directions; and Moscow soon exhibited the spectacle of a sea of flame agitated by the wind. The fury of an au- tumnal tempest added to the horrors of the scene; and it seemed as if the wrath of Heaven had com- bined with the vengeance of man to consume the invaders in the city they had conquered. But it was e-hiehy during the nights of the 18th and 19th that the conflagration attained its great- est violence. At that time the whole city was wrapped in flames; and the volumes of fire of va- rious colors ascended to the heavens in many places, diffusing a prodigious light on all sides, and attended by an intolerable heat. These bal- loons of flame were accompanied in their ascent by a frightful hissing noise and loud explosions, the result of the vast stores of oil, tar, rosin, spirits, and other combustible materials with which the greater part of the shops were filled. LargB pieces of painted canvas unrolled from the outside of the buildings by the violence of the heat, floated on lire in the atmosphere, and sent down on all sides a flaming shower, which spread the conflagration in quarters even the most removed from those where it originally commenced. The SIK ARCHIBALD ALISON. 245 wind, naturally high, was raised by the rarefaction of the air to a perf ect hurricane . The howling of the tempest drowned even the roar of the confla- gration ; the whole heavens were filled with the whirl of the burning volumes of smoke which rose on all sides, and made midnight as bright as day. The return of day did not diminish the terrors of the conflagration. An immense crowd of hitherto unseen people, who had taken refuge in cellars or vaults of the buildings, issued forth as the flames reached their dwellings. The streets were speedily filled with multitudes, flying in every direction with the most precious articles of their furniture; while the French army, whose discipline this fatal event had entirely dissolved, assembled in drunken crowds, and loaded them- selves with the spoils of the city. Never, in modern times had such a scene been witnessed Often the French soldiers, tormented by hunger and thirst, and loosened from all discipline by the horrors which surrounded them, not content with the booty in the streets, rushed headlong into the burning edifices, to ransack the cellars for the stores of wines and spirits which they contained; and beneath the ruins great numbers perished miserably, the victims of intempei'ance and the surrounding fire For thirty-six hours the con- flagration continued, and during that time above nine-tenths of the city were destroyed. The re- mainder, abandoned to pillage, and deserted by its inhabitants, offered no resources for the army. Moscow had been conquered ; but the victors had gained only a heap of ruins. — History of Europe. Chap. LXVL THE RESTORATION OF THE BOURBONS. Paris presented a melancholy aspect after the second restoration of Louis XVIII. The whole charm of the Restoration even in the eyes of the Royalists was gone ; its hopes to the Nation were at an end. The bridges, and all the principal points of the town, were occupied by strong- bodies of infantry and artillery; patrols of cav- alry were to be seen at every step; the reality of subjugation was before their eyes. Blucher kept 246 SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. aloof from all intercourse with the Court, and haughtily demanded a contribution of a hundred million of francs for the pay of his troops, as Na- poleon had done from the Prussians at Berlin. Already the Prussian soldiers insisted with loud cries that the pillar of Austerlitz should lie pulled down, as Napoleon had destroyed the pillar of Rosbach; and Blucher was so resolute to destroy the bridge of Jena, that he bad actually begun operations by running mines under the arches, for blowing it up. A long negotiation ensued on the subject between him and Wellington; and it was only by the latter placing a sentinel on the bridge, and declaring that, if it was blown up, lie would consider it a rupture with Great Britain, that the destruction of that beautiful monument was prevented. The manner of the Prussian officers and soldiers was often rude and harsh, and beyond the limits of Paris their troops indulged in every species of pillage But a more melancholy humiliation awaited the French Nation. The Allied sovereigns now arrived in Paris, and insisted on the restoration of the objects in Art in the Museum of the Louvre, which had been pillaged from their re- spective States by the orders of Napoleon. Tbe justice of this demand could not be contested: it was only wresting the prey from tbe robber. . . . The restitution of the objects of Art was accord- ingly resolved on, and forthwith commenced un- der ohe care of British and Prussian soldiers who occupied the Place de Carrousel during the time tlie removal was going forward. Nothing wounded the French so profoundly as tins breaking up of the trophies of tbe war. It told them, in language not to be misunderstood, that conquest had now reached their doors. The iron went into the soul of the Nation. . . . The breaking up of the Museum was an ominous event to the French Nation; for the neighboring Powers had Territories as well as Paintings to re- claim; and the Spirit of Conquest, as well as Re- venge, loudly demanded the cession of many of the most important provinces which bad been added by the Bourbon princes to the Monarchy of SIP ARCHIBALD ALISON. 247 Clovis. Austria insisted upon getting - back Lor- raine and Alsace; Spain put in a claim to the Basque Provinces; Prussia insisted that her se- curity would lie incomplete unless Mayence, Lux- emburg, and all the frontier provinces of France adjoining her territory, were ceded to her; and the King of the Netherlands claimed the whole of the French fortresses of the Flemish barrier. It was with no small difficulty — and more from the jealousy of the different Powers among each other than any other cause — that these natural re- prisals on French rapacity were prevented from taking place. The negotiation was protracted at Paris till late in the Autumn. Russia — which had nothing to gain by the proposed partition — sup- ported France thoughout its whole continuance; and the different Powers, to support their preten- sions in this debate, maintained their armies, who had entered France on all sides; so that above 800,000 foreign troops were quartered on its inhab- itants for several months. At length, however, by the persevering efforts of M. Nesselrode and M. Talleyrand, all difficulties were adjusted, and the second Treaty of Paris was concluded in Novem- ber, 1815, between France and the whole Allied Powers. By this treaty, and the conventions which were signed the same day, conditions of a very onerous kind were imposed upon the French Government. The French frontier was restored to the state in which it stood in 1790, by which means the whole of the territory, far from inconsiderable, gained by the treaty of 1811, was resumed by the Al- lies. . . . Seven hundred millions of francs was to be paid to the Allied Powers for the expenses of the war; in addition to which, it was stipulated that an army of 150, 000 men, composed of 30,000 from each of the Great Powers of England, Rus- sia, Austria, and Prussia, and the lesser Powers of Germany, was to occupy, for a period of not less than three, or more than five, years, the whole frontier foi tresses of France; and this large force was to be maintained entirely at the expense of the French Government. In addition to this, the different Powers obtained indemnities for the 248 SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. spoliations inflicted upon them by France during the Revolution, which amounted to the enormous sum of 735,000,000 of francs; 100,000,000 of francs were also provided to the smaller Powers as an indemnity for the expenses of the war; so that the total sums which France had to pay, be- sides maintaining the Army of Occupation, was no less than 1,535,000,000 of francs. Truly, France now underwent the severe but just law of retalia- tion. She was made to feel what she had formerly inflicted on Germany, Italy, and Spain. Great Britain, in a worthy spirit, gave up the whole sum falling to her out of the indemnity for the war — amounting to nearly 125,000,000 francs — to the King of the Netherlands, to erect the famous barrier against France which Joseph II. had so insanely demolished. And the Allied Powers unan- imously gave the highest proof of their sense of Wellington being the first of European generals, by conferring upon him the command of the Army of Occupation. . . . But the pomp and splendor of military display did not alone terminate the war in France. The muffled drum is in prospect. The Allied Powers, irritated beyond endurance by the treachery and defection of the whole French army, and the per- fidy with which the party of Napoleon had re- volted to his side, insisted peremptorily upon measures of severity being adopted by the French Government. A very long list of proscriptions was at first rendered by the European Powers; and it was with the utmost difficulty that they were reduced, by the efforts of Talleyrand sup- ported by Lord Castlereagh, to fifty-eight, of persons to be banished. But banishment was not enough. The flagrant treason of the Hundred Days demanded the blood of some of the principal offenders; and Ney, Labedoyere, and Lavalette were selected to bear the penalty. They were brought to trial accordingly, and all three con- victed, upon the clearest evidence, of high treason. The life of Lavalette was saved by the heroic de- votion of his wife, who, in visiting him in prison, changed dresses with her husband, and thus effected his escape; but Ney and Labedoyere were SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. 240 both executed, and met their fate with that heroic courage which never fails deeply to im- press mankind. . . , The place of Ney's execu- tion is still to be seen in the gardens of the Lux- emburg; and few spots in Europe will excite more melancholy emotions in the mind of the traveller. — History of Europe, Chap. LXXVIL EPOCHS IN EUROPEAN HISTORY, 1815-52. The First Period, commencing with the entry of the Allies into Paris, after the fall of Napoleon, terminates with the passing of the Currency Act of 1819 in England, and the great creation of Peers in the democratic interest during the same year in France. The effects of the measures pur- sued during this period were not perceived at the time; but t'hey are very apparent now. The seeds which produced such decisive results in after times were all sown during its continuance. The Second Period begins with the entire estab- lishment of a Liberal Government and system of administration in France in 1819, and ends with the revolution which overthrew Charles X. in 1830. Foreign transactions begin, during this era, to become of importance; for it embraces the revolutions of Spain, Portugal, Naples, and Pied- mont in 1820; the rise of Greece as an independ- ent State in the same year; and the important wars of Russia with Turkey and Persia in 1828 and 1S29; and the vast conquests of England in India over the Goorkhas and Burmese Empire. The topics it embraces are more varied and ex- citing than those in the first; but they are not more important. They are the growth which followed the seeds previously sown. England and Fiance were still the leaders in the movement; the convulsions of the world were but the con- sequences of the throes in them. The Third Period commences with the great debate on the Reform Bill — of two years' continu- ance — in England in 1831, and ends with the over- throw of the Whig Ministry, by the election of October, 1841. The great and lasting effects in the change in the Constitution of Great Britain, by the passing of the Reform Act, partially de- 250 SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. veloped themselves during this period, and the return of Sir Robert Peel to power was the first great reaction against them. During the same time, the natural effects of the revolution in France appeared in the government — unavoidable in the circumstances — of mingled force and cor- ruption of Louis Philippe, and the growth of dis- content in the inferior classes of society, from the disappointment of their expectations as to the re- sult of the previous convulsion. Foreign episodes of surpassing interest signallize this period: for it contains the heroic effort of the Poles to restore their national independence in 1831 ; the revolt of Ibrahim Pasha, the bombardment of Acre, and the narrow escape of Turkey from ruin; our in- vasion of Afghanistan, and subsequent disaster there. The Fourth Period commencing with the noble constancy in adversity displayed by Sir Robert Peel and the English Government in 1842, termi- nates with the overthrow of Louis Philippe, and consequent European Revolutions in February, 1848. If these years were fiaught with internal and social changes of the very highest moment to the future destinies of Great Britain, and of the whole civilized world, they were not less distin- guished by the brilliancy of her external tri- umphs. They witnessed the second expedition into Afghanistan, and capture of Cabul; the conclusion of a glorious peace with China under the walls of Nankin; the conquest of Scinde and desperate passage of arms on the Sutlej. Never did appear in such striking colors the im- mense superiority which the arms of Civilization had acquired over those of Barbarism, as in this brief and animating period. The Fifth Period commences with the over- throw of Louis Philippe in February, 1848, and terminates with the seizure of supreme power by Louis Napoleon in 1852. It is, beyond all ex- ample, rich in external and internal events of the very highest moment, and attended by lasting consequences in every part of the world. It wit- nessed the spread of revolution over Germany and Italy, and the desperate military strife to which SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. 251 it gave rise; the brief but memorable campaign in Italy and Hungary; and the bloodless suppression of revolution in Great Britain and Ireland by the patriotism of her People and the firmness of her Government. Interesting, however, as these events were, they yield in ultimate importance to those which, at the same period, were in progress in the distant parts of the earth. The rich territories of the Punjaub were, during this period, added to the British dominions in India, which was now bounded only by the Indus and the Himalaya snows. At the same time the spirit of republican ag- grandizement — not less powerful in the New than in the Old World — impelled the Anglo-Saxons over their feeble neighbors in Mexico: Texas was overrun, California conquered, and the discovery of gold mines, of vast extent and surpassing riches, hitherto unknown to man, changed the fortunes of the world. The simultaneous dis- covery of mines of the same precious metal in Australia acted as a magnet, which attracted the stream of migration and civilization, for the first time in the history of mankind, to the Eastern world. And now, while half a million Europeans annually land in America, and double the already marvellous increase of Transatlantic increase, a hundred thousand Anglo-Saxons yearly migrate to Australia, and lay the foundations of a second England and another Europe, in the vast seats provided there for their reception. Events so wonderful, and succeeding one an- other with such rapidity, must impress upon the most inconsiderate observer the belief of a great change going forward in human affairs, of which we arc the unconscious instruments. That change is The Second Dispersion of Mankind: the spread of Civilization, the extension of Christi- anity, over the hitherto desert and unpeopled parts of the earth. It is hard to say whether the pas- sions of Civilization, the discoveries of Science, or the treasures of the wilderness have acted most powerfully in working out this great change. — Preface to History of Europe, 1815-1S52. 252 SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. SCOTT, BYRON, WOKDSWOKTH, AND COLERIDGE. Sir Walter Scott is universally considered as the greatest writer of imagination of this century. Like most other great men the direction of his genius was. in a great degree determined by the circumstances in which he arose; but its character was exclusively his own. Close observation of nature, whether animate or inanimate, was his great characteristic; the brilliancy of fancy, the force of imagination, were directed to clothing with sparkling colors her varied creations. It is hard to say whether his genius was most conspic- uous in describing the beauties of nature, or de- lineating the passions of the heart. He was at once pictorial and dramatic. He was at first km iWn as a poet;, but charming as his poetic conceptions were, they were ere long eclipsed by the wide- spread fame of his prose romances. The novels of '• the Author of Waverley " caused the poems of Walter Scott to be for a time forgotten; but time lias re-established them in their celebrity. . . . With his great and varied powers Scott might have been a most dangerous writer, if, like Vol- taire, he had directed them to sapping the foun- dations of religion, or to the delineation of the degrading or the licentious in character. But the elevated strain of his mind preserved him from such contamination. It was on the noble — whether in high or low life — that his affections were fixed. Alike in delineating the manners of feudal times, or the feelings of the cottage, the dignity of Man was ever uppermost in his mind. No man ever threw a more charming radiance over the traditions of ancient times; but none ever delineated in a nobler spirit the virtues of the present; and his discriminating eye discovered them equally under the thatch of the cottage as in the halls of the castle. Perhaps he is the only author of numerous works of fiction of whom it may with truth be said that he never wrote a line which on his death-bed he could wish recalled. .... Waverley, Guy Mannering, The Antiquary, The Bride of Lammermoor, Old Mortality, are the perfection of romantic pictures of later times; Tlie Abbot. Quentin Durward, and Ivanhoe, of the days SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON. 253 of chivalry. But these rich veins were at length exhausted, and the prolific fancy of the author diverged into other scenes and periods in which he had not such authentic materials to work with, and where his graphic hand was no longer to the same degree perceptible. Some of his later ro- mances are so inferior to the first that it is diffi- cult to believe they have been composed by the same master spirit. It is on the earlier novels, which delineate the manners, feelings, and seems of Scotland, and a few, such as Ivunhoe, lCen.il- worth, The Talisman, and Quentin Durward, that his fame as a writer of romance will permanently rest. Bykon is the author who, next to Sir Walter Scott, has obtained the most wide-spread reputa- tion in the world. And yet his character and the style of his writings differ so widely from those of '• the Wizard of the North," it is difficult to un- derstand how, at the same time, they attained almost equal celebrity. ... It is on Childe Har- old, more than on his metrical romances, that his reputation will ultimately rest. The reputation of the latter was at first prodigious. They were so much admired not because they were founded on nature, but because they differed from it. Ad- dressed to the exclusive circles of London society, they fell upon the high-born votaries of fashion with the charm of novelty; they breathed the language of vehement passion, which was as new to them as the voice of nature, speaking through the dreamy soul of Rousseau, had been to the corrupted circles of Parisian society half a century before. As such, they excited an immense sensa- tion, and even more than the thoughtful and yet pictured pages of Childe Harold, raised the author to the very pinnacle of celebrity. ... In one class of readers the dramas of Byron have won for him a very high reputation; in another Don J nun is his passport to popularity. But though char- acterized by ardent genius, and abounding with noble lines, his dramatic pieces want the elements of durable fame. They are too wild for ordinary life, too extravagant for theatrical representation. . . . Don .J nan is different; there is much in it 18 254 SIR ARCHIBALD ALISOX. which unhappily too powerfully rouses every hu- man breast. But although Avorks of fiction in which genius is mingled with licentiousness, often at first acquire a very great celebrity, at least with one sex, they labor under an insuperable objec- tion. They cannot be the subject of conversation with the other. Works of fiction are chiefly in- teresting to both sexes, because they portray the feelings by which they are attracted to each other. When they are of such a description that neither can communicate those feelings to the other, the great object of composition is lost, and a lasting celebrity to the author is impossible. Words wo hth presented in most respects a most decided contrast to Southey, his neighbor in the mountains of Cumberland. He had not Southey's information; was not distracted by any prose compositions; and made no attempt to traverse the numerous and varied fields of thought or in- dustry which Southey has tilled with so much zeal. But on that very account he was more suc- cessful, and has left a far greater reputation. He was less discursive than his brilliant rival, but more profound. Little attended to— as works of that stamp generally are in the outset— they grad- ually but unceasingly rose in public estimation; they took a lasting hold of the highly educated youth of the next generation; and he now num- bers among his devout worshippers many of the ablest men, profound thinkers, and most accom- plished ami discriminating women of the age. Indeed, great numbers of persons, whose mental powers, cultivated taste, and extensive acquire- ments entitle their opinions to the very highest consideration, yield him an admiration approach- ing to idolatry, and assign him a place second only to Milton in English poetry. He is regarded by them in much the same light that Coethe is by the admiring and impassioned multitudes of the Fatherland. It may be doubted, however, whether with all his depth of thought, simplicity of mind, and philosophic wisdom, Wordsworth will ever get that general hold of the English mind which Goethe has done of the German mind. The reason is, that he is not equally imaginative. He is a SIR ARCHIBALD ALISON 255 great philosophic poet; and to minds of a reflect- ive turn, no writer possesses more durable or en- chaining charms. But how many arc the thought- ful and reflecting to the great body of mankind; .... As the active bears so great a proportion to the speculative part of mankind, Goethe, who depicts the feelings of the former, will always be a more general favorite than Wordsworth, who delineates the speculations of the latter. But that very circumstance only enhances the admira- tion felt for the English poet by that small but gifted portion of the human species who, mingling with the active part of the world, yet judge them with the powers of the speculative. Coleridge in some respects bore a close re- semblance to Wordsworth; but in others he was widely different. He was deep and reflecting, learned in philosophic lore, and fond of critical disquisition. He was less abstract than Words- worth, but more dramatic; less philosophic, but more pictorial. Deeply penetrated with the gen- ius of Schiller, he has transferred the marvels of two of the great German's immortal dramas on Wallenstein to the English tongue with the exact- ness of a scholar and kindred inspiration of a poet. His Ode to Mount Blanc is one of the sublimest productions in that lofty style in the English lan- guage. But he is far from having attained the world-wide fame of Gray, Burns, and Campbell in that branch of poetry. The reason is, that his ideas and images are too abstract, and too little drawn from the occurrences or objects of common life. He was deeply learned, and his turn of mind strongly metaphysical. But it is neither by learn- ing or metaphysics that lasting celebrity, either in oratory or poetry, is to be attained. Eloquence, to be popular, must be in advance of the age, and but a little in advance. Poetry, to move the general mind, must be founded on ideas common to all mankind, and feelings with which every one is familiar; but yet educe from them novel and pleas- ing conceptions. It reaches its highest flight when, from these common ideas and objects, it draws forth uncommon and elevating thoughts; concep- tions which meet with a responsive echo in every 256 ELLEN P. ALLERTON. breast, but bad never occurred, at least with equal felicity, to auy one before. — History of Europe, 1815-1852, Chap. V. ALLERTON, Ellen (Palmer), an Ameri- can poetess, born at Centreville, N. Y., in 1835. In 1862 she was married to Mr.- Alpheus Allerton, with whom she took up her home in Wisconsin, where they resided until 1879, when they removed to Hamlin, Kansas. Mrs. Allerton early manifested a fondness for lit- erature, but wrote little for publication until after her marriage, when she began to con- tribute largely, especially in verse, to the newspapers in the Far West. A volume of these poems was collected in 1885, under the title of Annabel, and other Poems. The title- poem had never before been published, and indeed hardly equals the spirit and freshness of the earlier and shorter pieces, which are imbued with the fresh vigorous spirit of civ- ilized life on the broad fertile prairies. One of these poems, which stands as a sort of motto for the whole is — MY AMBITION. I have my own ambition. It is not To mount on eagle wings and soar away Beyond tbe palings of our common lot, Scorning tbe griefs and joys of every day; I would be human— toiling like tbe rest, With tender human heart-beats in my breast. . . . And so beside my door I sit and sing My simple strains— now sad, now light and gay, Happy if this or that but wake one string, Whose low, sweet echoes give me back the lay. And happier still, if girded by my song, Some strained and tempted soul stands firm and strong. . . . I send my thought its kindred thought to greet, Out to the far frontier, through crowded town. Friendship is precious, sympathy is sweet; So these be mine, I ask no laurel crown. ELLEN P. ALLEKTON. 257 Such my ambition, which 1 here unfold; So it be granted, mine is wealth untold. One of the freshest and most characteristic of these prairie poems is the following : WALLS OF CORN. Smiling and beautiful, heaven's dome Bends softly over our prairie home. Bnt the wide, wide lands that stretched away Before my eyes in the days of May — The rolling prairie's billowy swell Breezy upland and the timbered dell, Stately mansion and hut forlorn — All are hidden by walls of corn. All the wide world is narrowed down To walls of corn, now sere and brown. What do they hold, those walls of corn, Whose banners toss on the breeze of morn? He who questions may soon be told, A great State's wealth these walls unfold. No sentinels guard these walls of corn, Never is sounded the warder's horn; Yet the pillars are hung with gleaming gold, Left all unbarred though thieves are bold : — Clothes and food for the toiling poor, Wealth to heap at the rich man's door; Meat for the healthy, and balm for him Who moans and tosses in chambers dim ; Shoes for the barefooted, pearls to twine In the scented tresses of ladies fine ; Things of use for the lowly cot, Where (bless the corn) want cometh not; Luxuries rare for the mansion grand, Gifts of a rich and fertile land. All these things, and so many more It would fill a book to name them o'er, 258 SAMUEL AUSTIN ALLIBONE. Are hid and held in walls of corn, Whose banners toss on the breeze of morn. Where do they stand, these walls of corn, Whose banners toss on the breeze of morn? — Open the atlas, conned by rule In the olden days of the district school ; Point to the rich and bounteous land That yields such fruits to the toiler's hand. " Treeless desert," they called it then, Haunted by beasts and forsook by men. Little they knew what wealth untold Lay hid where the desolate prairies rolled. Who would have dared, with brush or pen, As this land is now. to paint it then? And how would the wise ones have laughed in scorn, Had the prophet foretold these walls of corn, Whose banners toss on the breeze of morn! ALLIBONE, Samuel Austin, LL.D., an American bibliographer, born in Philadel- phia, April 17, 1816. Although actively en- gaged in mercantile business, be was an car- nest student in English literature, edited for several years'the publications of the "Ameri- can Sunday School Union/' and contributed largely to the North American Review and other periodicals. In 1882 he became libra- rian of the newly -established "Lenox Li- brary " in New York. His works, which are mainly bibliographical compilations, include a Critical Dictionary of English Literature (3 Vols., 1858-1871), Poetical Quotations, from Chaucer to Tennyson (1873). Prose Quota- tions, from Socrates to Macaulay (1875), and Great Authors of All Ages ( 1 879) . His grea t est work is the Critical Dictionary of English Literature, from the earliest period down to the latter half of the nineteenth century, SAMUEL AUSTIN ALLIBONE. 259 "containing over 46,000 authors, with forty indexes of subjects." It is safe to say that there is scarcely a writer in the language who has during the long period in question pro- duced any book worthy of remembrance, who is not described with more or less detail in these volumes. The articles relating to the great writers in our language are full as to the works themselves, and embodying also the critical estimates of them as enunciated by the best authorities. In the Preface and In- troduction to this work Mr. Allibone sets forth with some minuteness the object which he had in view in its compilation. We group together a few of his most characteristic sen- tences : PURPOSE OF THE DICTIONARY OF ENGLISH LIT- ERATURE. It has been computed that of the 650,000 vol- umes in the English language, about 50,000 would repay a perusal. Suppose a person to read 100 pages a day, or 100 volumes a year, it would re- quire 500 years to exhaust such a library. How important is it, then, to know what to read; and how shall this knowledge be obtained ? If there be an advantage in full definition, in alphabetical arrangement, and consequent facility of reference in a Dictionary of Words, why should we not have a Dictionary of Books and Authors, as well as of Words ? It is a remarkable fact that, not- withstanding the obvious advantages of such a work, there was none such in print before the present publication. There were, indeed, meagre " Compendiums " of English Literature, and "Comprehensive Cyclopaedias," the largest of which (with the exception of a book of titles of Works) contains about 850 out of more than 30,000 authors. Much of such knowledge, too, is found scattered here and there in expensive biograph- ical compilations, which can never become popu- lar, because very costly, and are, indeed, insuffi- cient authorities in literary history. Deeply la- menting this serious deficiency in the English 2fi0 SAMUEL AUSTIN ALLIBONE. Republic of Letters, the compiler determined to undertake the preparation of the long-desired work, and he has now the pleasure of presenting to the public the result of his labors extending over a long period, and pursued with unwearied zeal. The principal features of the work are the following: 1. It is arranged in alphabetical order, to insure facility of reference. — 2. While professing to chronicle only British and American authors, we have sometimes overlooked the question of nativ- ity, and enrolled a writer whose insignia of liter- ary nobility could properly be quartered on an English field; such as Anselm, Lanfranc, Benoit De Sainte Maur, Peter of Blois, and Joseph Blanco White. — 3. As a general rule, a succinct biography is given of each author of note. The length of such notice, of course, depends upon his promi- nence as an individual, and his rank as an author. Those of the first class, numbering several thou- sands, are treated at considerable length; less space is devoted to those less distinguished. — 4. Compilers of manuals of literature have almost uni- versally fallen into the great error of giving their own opinions almost exclusively upon the merits of the authors under consideration. Now these opinions may be valuable or not. This capital error is avoided in the present work. The compiler oc- casionally ventures an opinion of his own; hut this will be merely supplemental to opinions better known and more highly appreciated by the reading public. As a carefully prepared record of the opinions of great men upon great men, this book will prove an invaluable guide to the student of literary history. — 5. The laudable curiosity of the bibliomaniac, or lover of rare works, is not forgotten in these volumes. — 6. The second divis- ion of the work consists of a copious Index of Sub- jects, so that the inquirer can find at a glance all the authors of any note in the language, ar- ranged under the subject or subjects upon which they have written. The compiler thus presents to the public, in a single work, a Comprehensive Manual of English Literature — Authors and Sub- jects — a Manual which is to the Literature of the WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 261 language what an ordinary Dictionary is to the Words of the lailgtfage; . . . In conclusion, we would impress upon our readers the duty of the zealous pursuit of those paths of learning and science which lead to useful- ness, happiness, and honor. Be not dismayed by the apparently unattractive character of much of the scenery through which you must pass. Per- severe; and distaste will soon yield to pleasure, and repugnance give place to enjoyment. An ever-present and influential sense of the import- ance of the goal will do wonders in overcoming the difficulties of the way. To those Israelites whose hearts fainted for a sight of their beloved Temple, the sands of the desert and the perils of the road presented no obstacles which their energy and their faith could not surmount. The arid " Val- ley of Baca" to them became a well; for, in the beautiful language of the Psalmist, " the rain also filleth the pools."— Preface to Dictionary of Eng- lish Literature. ALLINGHAM, William, a British poet, born at Bally shannon, Ireland, in 1828. He began to contribute to literary periodicals at an early age, and, removing to England, he was appointed to a position in the Customs. For several years he was editor of Preiser's Magazine, in which many of his poems first ap- peared. Among these is Lawrence Bloomfield in Ireland, which contains nearly 5,000 lines, and sketches the characteristic features of contemporary Irish life. His first volume of Poems was published in 1850. This was followed by Day and Night Songs (1854) ; Fifty Modern Poems (1865), and Songs, Poems, and Ballads (1877), consisting of revised versions of many pieces before published, with the ad- dition of many new ones. His Lawrence Bloomfield was also republished in a separate volume in 1869. In 1874 he was married to Helen Paterson (b. in 1848), who is an artist of very decided merit in water colors and as 202 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. a draughtsman upon wood.— Although Mr. Allingham is of English descent, and has re- sided during most of his manhood in or near London, most of the themes of his poetry are derived from his native Ireland. His birth- place, Ballyshannon, is fondly referred to as The kindly spot, the friendly town, where every one is known, And not a face in all the place but partly seems my own. Mr. Allingham's poems, though not rising to the highest grade of art, are yet genuine in their way, evincing a fine feeling for na- ture, graceful fancy, and poetic diction, free from all obscurity and mysticism. TO THF. NIGHTINGALES. You sweet fastidious nightingales I The myrtle blooms in Irish vales, By Avondhu and rich Lough Lene, Through many a grove and bowerlet .screen, Fair-mirrored round the loitering skiff. The purple peak, the tinted cliff, The glen where mountain-torrents rave, ' And foliage blinds their leaping wave, Broad emerald meadows filled with flowers, Embosomed ocean-bays are ours With all their isles; and mystic towers Lonely and gray, deserted long, Less sad if they might hear that perfect song! What seared ye ? (ours, I think, of old) The sombre fowl hatched in the cold ? Kino- Henry's Normans, mailed and stern, Smiters of galloglas and kern ? Or, most and worst, fraternal feud, Which sad Ierne long hath rued ? Forsook ye, when the Geraldine, Great chieftain of a glorious line, Was haunted on his hills and slain, And, one to France and one to Spain, The remnant of the race withdrew ? Was it from Anarchy ye llew, And fierce Oppression's bigot crew, WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 263 Wild complaint, and menace hoarse, Misled, misleading voices, loud and coarse ? Come back, O birds, or come at last! For Ireland's furious days are past; And, purged of enmity and wrong, Her eye, her step, grow calm and strong. Why should we miss that pure delight ? Brief is the journey, swift the flight; And Hesper rinds no fairer maids In Spanish bowers or English glades, No loves more true on any shore, No lovers loving music more. Melodious Erin, warm of heart, Entreats you ; stay not then apart, But bid the merles and throstles know (And ere another May-time go) Their place is in the second row. Come to the west, dear nightingales! The rose and myrtle bloom in Irish vales. ALLSTON, Washington, an American painter and author, born at Georgetown, S.C., in 1779, died at Cambridge, Mass., July 8, 1843. He entered Harvard College in 1796, and afterwards began the study of medicine, which he soon abandoned for art. He went to London, where he became intimate with his countryman, Benjamin West, then Presi- dent of the Royal Academy. In 1804 he pro- ceeded to Rome, where he remained several years, finally returning to America in 1809. Two years after he again visited Europe, and gained the prize of 200 guineas offered by the British Institution. In 1819, after having been chosen an Associate of the Royal Acad- emy, he took up his permanent residence at Cambridge, Mass., devoting himself to art and letters. He is best known as a painter, the subjects of most of his pictures being drawn from the Old Testament. He was for many years engaged upon a great work, Belshazzar's Feast, which was painted over 264 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. and over, and was finally left unfinished. He was twice married; his first wife, who died in 1813, being the sister of William Ellery Chan- ning ; the second, to whom he was married in 1830, was a sister of Richard H. Dana. He had the capacity of taking a high rank among the authors, as well as the painters of his generation ; but his published writings are few. They might all be comprised in two moderate volumes. In prose there is Monaldi, an Italian romance, published in 1841, but written at least twenty years before; The Hypochondriac, a short Magazine story, and four Lectures on Art. He had intended to write two more lectures ; but although the first was written about 1830, the series was never completed, and the four were not published until after his death, when they were given to the press by Richard H. Dana, Jr., with a brief memoir of the author. This volume also contains the poetical works of Allston. These consist of The Sylphs of the Seasons, published in 1813, and some other poems written at intervals during many years. Among these are America to Great Britain, in 1810, which was, seven years later, inserted by Coleridge in his Sibylline Leaves, with the following note: "This poem, written by an American gentleman, a valued and dear friend, I communicate to the reader for its moral no less than its poetic spirit.' 1 AMERICA TO E5GLAND. All hail ! thou nohle land, Our Fathers' native soil! O, stretch thy mighty hand, Gigantic grown hy toil, O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore! For thou with magic might Canst reach to where the light Of Phcebus travels bright The world o'er! WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 2(35 The Genius of our clime From his pine-embattled steep, Shall hail the guest sublime ; While Tritons of the deep With their conchs the kindred league shall pro- claim. Then let the world combine ; — O'er the main our naval line Like the milky-way shall shine Bright in fame. Though ages long have past Since our Fathers left their home, Their pilot in the blast, O'er untravelled seas to roam, Yet lives the blood of England in our veins! And shall we not proclaim That blood of honest fame Which no tyranny can tame By its chains ? While the language free and bold Which the Bard of Avon sung, In which our Milton told How the vault of heaven rung When Satan, blasted, fell with his host; — While this, with reverence meet, Ten thousand echoes greet, From rock to rock repeat Bound our coast; — While the manners, while the arts, That mould a nation's soul Still cling around our hearts — Between let Ocean roll, Our joint communion breaking with the Sim. Yet still from either beach The voice of blood shall reach, More audible than speech: "We arc One." Several of Allston's Sonnets are of high merit. Among them are : 263 WASHINGTON ALLSTON. ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. The Earth has had her visitation. Like to this She hath not known, save when the mounting waters Made of her orb one universal ocean. For now the Tree that grew in Paradise, That deadly Tree that first gave Evil motion, And sent its poison through Earth's sons and daughters, Had struck again its root in every land, And now its frui-t was ripe— about to fall— And now a mighty Kingdom raised the hand, To pluck and eat. Then from his throne stepped forth The King of Hell, and stood upon the Earth : But not, as once, upon the Earth to crawl. A Nation's congregated form he took Till, drunk with Sin and blood, Earth to her cen- tre shook. ON ART. < ) Ail, high gift of Heaven! how oft defamed When seeming praised! To most a craft that fits, By i gathered knowledge; even so misnamed By some who would invoke thee; but not so By him— the noble Tuscan— who £ave birth To forms unseen of Man, unknown to Earth, Now living habitants. He felt the glow Of thy revealing touch, that brought to view The invisible Idea; and he knew, E'en by his inward sense, its form was true : 'Twas life to life, responding— the highest Truthi So through Elisha's faith, the Hebrew youth Beheld the thin blue air to fiery chariots grow. ON TttE LATE S. T. COLERIDGE. And art thou gone, most loved, most honored friend ! No, never more thy gentle voice shall blend With air of Earth its pure ideal tones, Binding in one, as with harmonious zones. The Heart and Intellect. And I no more Shall with thee gaze on that unfathomed deep. AMADIS OF GAUL. 2(57 The Human Soul; as when, pushed off the shore, Thy mystic bark would through the darkness sweep, Itself the while so bright! For oft we seemed As on some starless sea — all dark above, All dark below; yet, onward as we drove, To plough up light that ever round us streamed. But he who mourns is not as one bereft Of all he loved: thy living Truths are left. OX IMMORTALITY. To think for aye ; to breathe immortal breath ; And know nor hope, nor fear, of ending Death; To see the myriad worlds that round us roll Wax old and perish, while the steadfast Soul Stands fresh and moveless in her sphere of Thought: O God, omnipotent! who in me wrought This conscious world, whose ever-growing orb — When the dead Past shall all in Time absorb — Will be but as begun: O, of thine own, Give of the holy Light that veils thy throne, That darkness be not mine, to take my place Beyond the reach of light, a blot in space! So may this wondrous Life from sin made free Reflect thy Love for aye, and to thy glory be. AMADIS of Gaul is the mythical hero of one of the most famous of the romances of Chivalry. The romance was written by the Portuguese Vasco de Lobeira, who died in 1403. The original Portuguese story has per- ished, and a Spanish version made by Mon- talvo, nearly a century later, is practically the original of the romance, as we have it, which was a great favorite in its day, was translated into many languages, expanded into many times its original length, and was perhaps the best, certainly the most popular, of the romances of Chivalry. Amadis, in the romance, is the son of a king of Gaul, who is represented to have lived somewhere about the beginning of the Christian era. He goes through many adventures in all the known 268 AMADIS OF GAUL. and unknown world, and marries Oriana, daughter of Lisuarte, King of North Britain. One of the most characteristic and most pleasing passages in this romance is that which describes the early loves of Amadis and Oriana: AMADIS AND ORIANA. Now Lisuarte brought with him to Scotland Brisena, his wife, and a daughter that he had by her when he dwelt in Denmark, named Oriana, about teu years old, and the fairest creature that ever was seen; so fair that she was called " With- out Peer," since in her time there was none equal to her. And because she suffered much from the sea, he consented to leave her there, asking the King Laguines, and his Queen, that they would take care of her. And they were very glad there- with; and the Queen said, "Trust me that I will have such a care of her as a mother would." And Lisuarte, entering into his sbij>s, made haste back into Great Britain, and found there some who had made disturbances, such as are wont to be in such cases. And for this cause, he remembered not him of his daughter, for some space of time. But at last, with much toil that he took, he obtained his kingdom; and he was the best King that ever was before his time; nor did any afterwards better maintain Knighthood in its rights, till King Arthur reigned, who surpassed all the kings before him in goodness; though the number that reigned between these two was great. And now Lisuarte reigned in peace and cjuiet- ness in Great Britain. The Child of the Sea, Amadis, was twelve years old, but in size and limbs seemed to be fifteen. He served before the Queen, and was much loved of her, as he was of all the ladies and damsels. But as soon as Ori- ana, the daughter of King Lisuarte, came there, she gave to her the Child of the Sea, that he should serve her, saying, " This is a child who shall serve you." And she answered that it pleased her. And the child kept this word in his AMADIS OF GAUL. 269 heart, in such wise that it never afterwards left it; and, as this history truly says, he was never, in all the days of his life, wearied with serving her. And this their love lasted as long as they lasted. But the Child of the Sea, who knew not at all how she loved him, held himself to he very bold, in that he had placed his thoughts on her; considering both her greatness and her beauty, and never so much as dared to speak any word to her concerning it. And she, though she loved him in her heart, took heed that she should not speak with him more than with another. But her eyes took great solace in showing to her heart what thing in the world she most loved. Thus they lived silently together, neither saying aught to the other of this estate. Then came, at last, the time when the Child of the Sea under- stood within himself that he might take arms, if any there were that would make him a Knight. And this he desired, because he considered that he should thus become such a man and should do such things as that either he should perish in them, or, if he lived, that then his lady should deal gently with him. And with this desire he went to the King, who was in his garden, and kneeling before him, said: " Sire, if it please you, it is now time that I should be made a Knight," and the King said, "How, Child of the Sea, do you already adventure to maintain Knighthood? Know that it is a light matter to come by it, but a weighty thing to main- tain it. And whoso seeks to get this name of Knighthood and maintain it in its honor, he hath to do so many and such grievous things that often his heart is wearied out; and if he should be such a Knight that, from faint-heartedness or cowardice, he should fail to do what is beseeming, then it would be better for him to die than to live in shame. Therefore I hold it good that you wait yet a little." But the Child of the Sea said to him: " Neither for all this will I fail to be a Knight; for, if I had not thought to fulfil this that you have said, my heart would not so have striven to be a Knight."— Transl. o/Ticknor. 19 270 FISHER AMES. AMES, Fisher, an American statesman and writer, born at Dedham, Mass., April ( J, 1758, and died there, July 4, 1808. He gradu- ated at Harvard College in 1774; was a teacher for a short time ; studied law ; wrote occasionally on political topics in the news- papers; was chosen as representative to the State Legislature in 1788 ; and in the follow- ing year was elected as representative in the first Congress convened under the new Con- stitution. He retained his seat throughout the two terms of the administration of Wash- ington, whose policy received his earnest support. His most notable speech in Con- gress was delivered April 28, 1796, in support of a motion " that it is expedient to pass the laws necessary to carry into effect the treaty lately concluded between the United States and the King of Great Britain." His health had by this time become greatly impaired; and in the opening of this speech he said : " I entertain the hope — perhaps a rash one — that my strength will hold me out to speak a few minutes." After leaving Congress he retired to his farm at Dedham, still however writing largely upon public affairs. In February, 1S00, at the request of the Legislature of Massachusetts, he delivered a Eulogy on Washington, and in 1804 wrote an apprecia- tive Sketch of the Character of Alexander Hamilton, who had been recently killed in a duel with Aaron Burr. A collection of the Works of Fisher Ames was issued in 1854 by his son. It comprises a brief Memoir, a large number of Letters, his most important Speeches and a score or two of political, literary, and miscellaneous Essays. The Es- say on Ajnerican Literature, written early in the present century, does not present a very nattering picture of its condition and pros- pects at that period. FISHER AMES. 271 EARLY AMERICAN LITERATURE. Few speculative subjects have exercised the passions more, or the judgment less, than the in- quiry what rank our country is to maintain in the world for genius and literary attainments. It might indeed occur to our discretion that, as the only admissible proof of literary excellence is the measure of its effects, our national claims ought to be abandoned as worthless the moment they are found to need asserting. Nevertheless, by a proper spirit and constancy in praising our- selves, it seems to be supposed, the doubtful title of our vanity may be quieted in the same manner as it was once supposed the currency of the Con- tinental paper could, by a universal agreement, be established at par with specie. Yet such was the unpatriotic perverseness of our citizens, they pre- ferred the gold and silver, for no better reason than because the paper bills were not so good. And now it may happen that, from spite or envy, from want of attention or the want of our sort of information, foreigners will dispute the claims of our preeminence in genius and literature, not- withstanding the great convenience and satisfac- tion we should find in their acquiescence. As the world will judge of the matter with none of our partiality, it may be discreet to anticipate that judgment, and to explore the grounds upon which it is probable the aforesaid world will frame it. And, after all, we should suffer more pain than loss, if we should in the event be stripped of all that does not belong to us; and especially if, by a better knowledge of ourselves, we should gain that modesty which is the first evidence, and perhaps the last, of a real improvement. For no man is less likely to increase his knowledge than the coxcomb, who fancies he has already learned it out. An excessive national vanity — as it is the sign of mediocrity, if not of barbarism — is one of the greatest impediments to knowledge. It will be useless and impertinent to say, a greater proportion of our citizens have had in- struction in schools than can be found in any European state. It may be true that neither France nor England can boast of so large a portion 272 FISHER AMES. of their population who can read and write, and who are versed in the profitable mystery of the Rule-of-Three. This is not the footing upon which the inquiry is to proceed. The question is not, what proportion are stone-blind, or how many can see, when the sun shines; but what gen- iuses have arisen among us, like the sun and stars, ti ) shed life and splendor on our hemisphere. The case is no sooner made, than all the fire-fly tribe of our authors perceive their little lamps go out of themselves, like the flame of a candle, when lowered into the mephitic vapor of a well. Excepting the writers of two able works on our politics, we have no authors. To enter the lists in single combat against Hector, the Greeks did not offer the lots to the nameless rabble of their soldiery. All eyes were turned upon Agamemnon and Ajax, upon Diomed and Ulysses. Shall we match Joel Barlow against Homer or Hesiod ? Can Thomas Paine contend against Plato? Or could Findley's history of his own insurrection vie with Sallust's narrative of Catiline's ? There is no scarcity of spelling-book makers, and authors of twelve-cent pamphlets; and we have a distinguished few — a sort of literary nobil- ity — whose works have grown to the dignity and size of an octavo volume. We have many writers who have read, and who have the sense to under- stand what others have written. But a right per- ception of the genius of others is not genius. Nobody will pretend that the Americans are a stupid race; nobody will deny that we justly boast of many able men, and exceedingly useful publications. But has our country produced one great original work of genius ? If we tread the sides of Parnassus, we do not climb its heights; we even creep in our path, by the light that Euro- pean genius has thrown upon it. Is there one luminary in our firmament that shines with unbor- rowed rays ? Mr. Ames proceeds in this Essay to point out what he regarded as the probable course which American literature would run. His politioal bias here crops out most notably. FISHER AMES. 273 He was a Federalist, and the Federal party had suffered defeat. The Republicans were dominant ; and Jefferson was the exponent of what was then styled " Republicanism," what we now style "Democracy," and what in Fisher Ames's view was " Demagoguery ; " something which, in his judgment, was utterly opposed to anything which deserved the name of literature. He says : "Surely we are not to look for genius among demagogues; the man who can descend so low has seldom very far to descend. As experience evin- ces that popularity — in other words, consideration and power — is to be procured by the meanest of mankind — the meanest in spirit and understand- ing — and in the worst of ways, it is obvious that at present the excitement to genius is next to noth- ing. If we had a Pindar, he would be ashamed to celebrate our chief, and would be disgraced if he did. But if he did not, his genius would not obtain his election for a selectman in a Demo- cratic town. It is party that bestows emolument, power, and consideration, and it is not excellence in the sciences that obtains the suffrages of party." It must be borne in mind that at the time when this was written — about 1805 — Thomas Jefferson, then President of the United States, and the unquestioned chief of his party, was the best cultured man in America, and there wei - e few for whom, in this respect, superi- ority could be claimed in Europe. But in the view of Fisher Ames he was only a coarse vulgar demagogue. Mr. Ames goes on to put forth his prognostications as to the future of literature in America. He says : "But the condition of the United States is changing. Luxury is sure to introduce want, and the great inequalities between the very rich and the very poor will be more conspicuous, and compre- hend a more formidable host of the latter. Every 274 FISHER AMES. step (and we have taken many) towards a more complete, unmixed Democracy is an advance toward destruction. Liberty has never yet lasted long- in a Democracy; nor has it ever ended in anything better than Despotism. With the change in our Government, our manners and sentiments will change. As soon as our Emperor has de- stroyed his rivals, and established order in his army, he will desire to see splendor in his court, and to occupy his subjects with the cultivation of the sciences. If this catastrophe of our public liberty should be miraculously delayed or pre- vented, still we shall change. With the augmen- tation of wealth there will be an increase of the mmiberwho may choose a literary leisure. Liter- ary curiosity will become one of the new appe- tites of the nation; and, as luxury advances, no new appetite will be denied. After some ages we shall have many poor, and a few rich; many grossly ignorant, a considerable number learned, and a few eminently learned. Nature, never prod- igal of her gifts, will produce some men of genius, who will be admired and imitated." The Eulogy upon Washington is undoubt- edly the most elaborately prepared of all the writings of Fisher Ames. A few sentences must here suffice to represent some of its prominent characteristics : CHARACTER OF WASHINGTON. It is natural that the gratitude of mankind should be drawn to their benefactors. A number of these have successively arisen, who were no less distinguished for the elevation of their virt- ues than the lustre of their talents. But for their country and the whole human race, how few alas, are recorded in the long annals of ages, and how wide the intervals of time and space that divide theml In all this dreary length of way, they appear like five or six light-houses on as many thousand miles of coast. They gleam upon the surrounding darkness with an unextinguisha- ble splendor, like stars seen through a mist; but they are seen like stars, to cheer, to guide, and to FISHER AMES. 275 save. Washington is now added to that small number. By commemorating his death we are called this day to yield the homage that is due to virtue; to confess the common debt of mankind as well as our own ; and to pronounce for poster- ity, now dumb, that eulogium which they will de- light to echo ten ages hence, when we are dumb A lavish and undistinguishing eulogium is not praise. I know that some would prefer a picture drawn to the imagination. They would have our Washington represented of a giant's size, and in the character of a hero of romance. Others— I hope but few— who think meanly of human na- ture, will deem it incredible that even Washing- ton should think with as much dignity and eleva- tion as he acted; and they will grovel in the search for mean and selfish motives that could incite and sustain him to devote his life to his country. . . . Our nation, like its great leader, had only to take counsel from its courage. When Washing- ton heard the voice of his country in distress, his obedience was prompt, and though his sacrifices were great, they cost him no effort. When over- matched by numbers, a fugitive, with a little band of faithful soldiers— the States as much exhausted as dismayed, he explored his own undaunted heart, and there found resources to retrieve our affairs. We have seen him display as much valor as gives fame to heroes, and as consummate pru- dence as insures success to valor; fearless of dan- gers that were personal to him, hesitating and cautious when they affected his country; prcf er- ring fame before safety or repose, and duty before fame. Rome did not owe more to Fabius, than America to Washington. Our nation shares with liim the singular glory of having conducted a civil war with mildness, and a revolution with order. . . . However his military fame may excite the won- der of mankind, it is chiefly by his civil magis- tracy that his example will instruct them. His ] (residency will form an epoch, and be distin- guished as " The Age of Washington." Already it assumes its high place in the political region. 216 FISHER AMES. Like the Milky-Way it whitens along its allotted portion of the hemisphere. The latest generations of men will survey, through the telescope of his- tory, the space where so many virtues blend their rays, and delight to separate into groups and distinct virtues. — Eulogy upon Washington. In the brief sketch of Alexander Hamilton, the character of that great political leader is thus summed up: THE CHARACTER OF HAMILTON. His early life we pass over; though his heroic spirit in the ai my has furnished a theme that is dear to patriotism and will be sacred to glory. — In all the different stations in which a life of active usefulness has placed him, we find him not more remarkably distinguished by the extent than by the variety and versatility of his talents. In every place he made it apparent that no other man could have filled it so well; and in times of criti- cal importance, in which alone he desired employ- ment, his services were justly deemed absolutely indispensable. As Secretary of the Treasury, his was the most powerful spirit that presided over the chaos. Indeed in organizing the Federal Government in 1789, every man of either sense or candor will allow, the difficulty seemed greater than the first-rate abilities could surmount. He surmounted them; and Washington's administra- tion was the most wise and beneficent, the most prosperous, and ought to be the most popular, that ever was intrusted with the affairs of a na- tion. Great as was Washington's merit, much of it in plan, much in execution, will of course de- volve upon his Minister. As a lawyer, Hamilton's comprehensive genius reached the principles of his profession. He com- passed its extent, he fathomed its profound, perhaps even more familiarly and easily than the ordinary rules of its practice. With most men law is a trade; with him it was a science. As a statesman he was not more distinguished by the great extent of his views, than by the cau- tion with which he provided against impediments, FISHER AMES. 277 and the watchfulness of his care over right and the liberty of the subject. In none of the many revenue bills which he framed— though Commit- tees reported them— is there to be found a single clause that savors of despotic power; not one that the sagest champions of law and liberty would, on that ground, hesitate to approve and adopt. It is rare that a man who owes so much to na- ture descends to seek more from industry, but Hamilton seemed to depend on industry, as if nature had done nothing for him. His habits of investigation were very remarkable; his mind seemed to cling to a subject till he had exhausted it. Hence the uncommon superiority of his rea- soning powers — a superiority that seemed to be augmented from every source, and to be fortilied by every auxiliary — learning, wit, imagination, and eloquence Some have plausibly, though erroneously, in- ferred, from the great extent of his abilities, that his ambition was inordinate. This is a mistake. Such men as have a painful consciousness that their stations happen to be far more exalted than their talents, are generally the most ambitious. Hamilton, on the contrary, though he had many competitors, had no rivals; for he did not thirst for power, nor would he, as was well known, de- scend to office. He was perfectly content and at ease in private life. Of what was he ambitious ? Not of wealth; no man held it cheaper. Was it of popularity ? That weed of the dunghill, he knew, when rankest, was nearest to withering. A vulgar ambition could as little comprehend as satisfy his views. He thirsted only for that fame which Virt- ue would not blush to confer, nor Time to con- vey to the end of his course. The only ordinary distinction to which, we con- fess, he did aspire, was military; and for that, in the event of a foreign war, he would have been solicitous. He undoubtedly discovered the pre- dominance of a soldier's feelings; and all that is honor in the character of a soldier was at home in his heart. His early education was in the camp; there the first fervors of his genius were poured forth, and his earliest and most cordial friend- 278 FISHER AMES. ships formed. Those who knew him best, and especially in the army, will believe, that if occa- sions had called him forth, he was qualified, be- yond any man of his age, to display the talents of a great general. It may be very long before our country will want such military talents; it will probably be much longer before it will again pos- sess them. — Sketch of the Character of Alexander Hamilton. The political writings of Fisher Ames — either in the form of private letters or of newspaper articles, constitute the bulk of his Works as put forth by his son. The following is an extract from one of these newspaper articles published in the summer of 1804. The burden of this and many others of about the same date, is that the "Jacobin" admin- istration of Jefferson was like to result in something like the Imperial Despotism of Na- poleon. THE POLITICAL OUTLOOK IN 1S04. Let any man who has any understanding, exer- cise it to see that the American Jacobin Party, by rousing the popular passions, inevitably augments the powers of Government, and contracts within narrower bounds, and on a less sound foundation, the privileges of the people. Facts — yes, facts, that speak in terror to the soul — confirm this speculative reasoning. What limits are there to the prerogatives of the pi-esent Administration ? and whose business is it, and in whose power does it lie, to keep them within those limits ? Surely not in the Senate: the small States arc now in vassalage, and they obey the nod of Virginia. Not in the Judiciary: that fortress which the Constitution had made too strong for an assault, can now be reduced by famine. The Constitution : alas! that sleeps with Washington, having no mourners but the virtuous, and no monument but History. Louisiana — in open and avowed defi- ance of the Constitution — is by treaty to be added to the Union; the bread of the children of the Union is to be taken and given to the dogs. — THOMAS AMORY. 279 Judge then, good men and true— judge by the effects— whether the tendency of the intrigues of the party was to extend or contract the measure of popular liberty. Judge whether the little lin- ger of Jefferson is not thicker than the loins of Washington's administration; and after you have judged, and felt the terror that will be inspired by the result, then reflect how little your efforts can avail to prevent the continuance, nay, the perpetuity of power. Reflect, and be calm. Pa- tience is the virtue of slaves, and almost the only one that will pass for merit with their masters.— Political Essays. AMORY, Thomas, a British novelist and humorist, born, probably in Ireland, in 1692, died in London, in 1789. He was educated as a physician, but did not practice as such, having inherited a considerable estate from his father, who was secretary of the commission for con- fiscated estates in Ireland. He wrote several works of fiction, the principal of which are Memoirs of Several Ladies of Great Britain, and The Life and Opinions of John B uncle, Esq. He appears to have portrayed his own character in the delineation of the hero of this last work. "John Buncle," says Haz- litt, "is the English Rabelais. The soul of Francis Rabelais passed into Thomas Amory. Both were physicians, and enemies of too much gravity. Their great business was to enjoy life. Rabelais indulges his spirit of sensuality in wine, in dried meats, tongues, in Bologna sausages, in Botorgas. John Bun- cle shows the same symptoms of inordinate satisfaction in bread-and-butter. While Ra- belais roared with Friar John and the monks, John Buncle gossiped with the ladies, etc." John Buncle had seven successive wives. The description of the wives is ample enough ; while not a word is said of their numerous progeny. He thus explains his theory upon this matter : 280 THOMAS AMORY. buncle's wives and children. I think it unreasonable and impious to grieve immoderately for the dead. A decent and proper tribute of tears and sorrow humanity requires; but when that duty has been paid, we must re- member that to lament a dead woman is not to lament a wife. A wife must be a living woman. ... As I mention nothing of my children by so many wives, some readers may perhaps wonder at this ; and, therefore — to give a general answer once for all — I think it sufficient to observe, that I had a great many to carry on the succession ; but as they never were concerned in any extraordinary affairs, nor ever did any remarkable things, that I ever heard of — only rise and breakfast, read and saunter, drink and eat — it would not be fair, in my opinion, to make any one pay for their history. And so, instead of telling about his chil- dren, John Bunele gives profound disserta- tions upon the origin of earthquakes, on mus- cular motion, upon phlogiston and fluxions, upon the Athanasian Creed, and a score or two alike related topics. Bulwer-Lytton's " Caxton " novels are in many points near kindred with Amory's Life and Opinions of John Buncte. Among the quiet passages of this work is John Buncle's account of his first meeting with Marin da Bruce — the first of his seven duly lamented wives : BUNGLE AND MARINDA. In the year 1739 I travelled many hundred miles to visit ancient monuments and discover curious things; and as I wandered, to this purpose among the vast hills of Nortlmmberland, fortune conducted me one evening, in the month of June, whin I knew not where to rest, to the sweetest retirement my eyes have ever beheld. This is Hali-farm. It is a beautiful vale surrounded with rocks, forest, and water. I found at the upper end of it the prettiest thatched house in the world, and a garden of the most artful confusion I had ever seen. The little mansion was covered on THOMAS AMORY. 281 every side with the finest flowery greens. The streams .all round were murmuring and falling a thousand ways. All the kind of singing-birds were here collected, and in high harmony on the sprays. The ruins of an abbey enhance the beau- ties of this place; they appear at the distance of four hundred yards from the house; and as some great trees are now grown up among the remains, and a river winds between the broken walls, the view is solemn, the picture line. When I came up to the house, the first figure I saw was the lady whose story I am going to relate. She had the charms of an angel, but her dress was quite plain and clean as a country-maid. Her person appeared faultless, and of the middle size, between the disagreeable extremes ; her face, a sweet oval, and her complexion the brunette of the bright rich kind; her mouth, like a rosebud that is just beginning to blow; and a fugitive dimple, by fits, woidd lighten and disappear. The finest passions were always passing in her face; and in her long, even, chestnut eyes, there was a fluid fire, sufficient for half-a-dozen pair. She had a volume of Shakespeare in her hand as I came softly towards her, having left my horse at a distance with my servant; and her attention was so much engaged with the extremely poetical and fine lines which Titania speaks in the third act of the Midsummer Night's Dream, that she did not see me till I was quite near her. She seemed then in great amazement. She could not be much more surprised if I had dropped from the clouds. But this was soon over, upon my asking her if she was not the daughter of Mr. John Bruce, as I sup- posed from a similitude of faces, and informing her that her father, if I was right, was my near friend, and would he glad to see his chum in that part of the world. Marinda replied: "You are not wrong," and immediately asked me in. She con- ducted me to a parlor that was quite beautiful in the rural way, and welcomed me to Hali-farm, as her father would have done, she said, had I ar- rived before his removal to a better world. She then left me for awhile, and I had time to look over the room I was in. The floor was covered 282 ANACREON. with rushes wrought into the prettiest mat, and the walls decorated all round with the finest flow- ers and shells. Eobins and nightingales, the finch and the linnet, were in the neatest reed cages of her own making, and at the upper end of the chamber, in a charming little open grotto, was the finest strix capite aurito, corpore rufo, that I have seen, that is, the great eagle owl. This beau- tiful bird, in a niche like a ruin, looked vastly fine. As to the flowers which adorned this room, I thought they were all natural at my first coming in; but on inspection, it appeared that several baskets of the finest kinds were inimitably painted on the walls by Marinda's hand. These things afforded me a pleasing entertain- ment for about half an hour, and then Miss Bruce returned. One of the mauls brought in a supper — such fare, she said, as her little cottage afforded; and the table was covered with green peas and pigeons, cream-cheese, new bread and butter. Everything was excellent in its kind. The cider and ale were admirable. Discretion and dignity appeared in Marinda's behavior; she talked with judgment; and under the decencies of ignorance was concealed a valuable knowledge. — Life and Opinions of John Buncle. ANACREON, a Greek lyric poet, born in the Ionian town of Teos, in Asia Minor, about 563 B.C., and died in the neighboring town of Abdera, about 478 b. c. Of the events of his life very little is positively known, though legends of questionable authority relate many incidents ; such as that he was invited to the island of Samos to instruct Polycrates, the son of the ruler of the island in music; that he rose high in the favor of his pupil when he became ruler of the island ; that after the overthrow of Polycrates, Anacreon was in- vited to Athens by Hipparchus, the son of Pisistratus ; after whose assassination, he re- paired to Larissa, in Thessaly, which was then ruled by Echecratidas, sprung from an Ionian family ; and that, in his old age he re- ANACKEON. 2S3 turned to his native country, where he died in his eighty-fifth year, having been choked by attempting to swallow a -cherry-pit or, according to others, a dried grape. His writ- ings, consisting of odes, epigrams, elegies, iambics, and hymns, were numerous. At the time of Suidas (eleventh century a.d.), it is said that five books of these poems were still extant. Since then all of these have perished except about sixty short odes, and a few frag- ments; and even the genuineness of these odes has been warmly disputed by recent German critics, who maintain that their ver- sification shows that they belong to a period some centuries later than the time of Ana- creon. — The citizens of Teos certainly held the memory of Anacreon in high esteem. They placed his effigy upon their coins, some of which are now extant. These indeed represent a very different man from what one would expect the writer of the existing Anacreontics to have been. The face is coarse and brutal — almost Silenus-like. In Athens also a statue was erected in his honor, representing him as a drunken singer. — The "Anacreontic Odes "which are now extant, whether written by the Teian bard or not — are among the most graceful remains of Greek poetry. They are, indeed for the most part amatory or convivial; but they are wonderfully free from all taint of grossness or sensuality. The love-poems might be re- cited in the most modest household, and the drinking-songs sung at the most decorous banquet. The merit of these poems, indeed, lies in the manner rather than in the matter. There are few poems which can be less adequately represented by translation into any modern language. The best translations into English are those of George Bourne and Thomas Moore. Bourne, though amplifying 284 ANACREON. somewhat, keeps pretty close to the text, while Moore's version, though the tone is fairly preserved, is rather a paraphrase than a translation. We give specimens of both of these translators : ON HIS LYKE. While I sweep the sounding string, While the Atridse's praise I sing — Victors on the Trojan plain — Or to Cadmus raise the strain, Hark, in soft and whispered sighs, Love's sweet notes the shell replies. Late I strung my harp anew, Changed the strings — the subject too. Loud I sung Alcides's toils; Still the lyre my labor foils ; Still with Love's sweet silver sounds Every martial theme confounds. Farewell, Heroes, Chiefs, and Kings! Naught but Love will suit my strings. — Transl. o/Boukxe. THE WEAPON OF BEAUTY. Pointed horns — the dread of foes — Nature on the Bull bestows; Horny hoofs the Horse defend; Swift-winged feet the Hare befriend; Lions' gaping jaws disclose Dreadful teeth in grinning rows; Wings to Birds her care supplied ; Finny Fishes swim the tide; Nobler gifts to Man assigned, Courage firm, and Strength of Mind. From her then exhausted store Naught for Woman has she more? How does Nature prove her care? — Beauty's charms is Woman's share. Stronger far than warrior's dress Is her helpless loveliness. Safety smiles in Beauty's eyes; She the hostile flame defies; Fiercest swords submissive fall: — Lovely Woman conquers all. — Transl. o/Boubne. ANACUEON. 285 CUPID AS A GUEST. 'Twas at the solemn midnight hour, When silence reigns with awful power, Just when the bright and glittering Bear Is yielding to her Keeper's care, When spent with toil, with care opprest, Man's busy race has sunk to rest, Sly Cupid, sent by cruel Fate, Stood loudly knocking at my gate. " Who's tiiere? " I cried, " at this late hour? Who is it batters at my door? Begone! you break my blissful dreams!" — But he, on mischief bent, it seems, With feeble voice and piteous cries, In childish accents thus replies: "Be not alarmed, kind Sir; 'tis I, A little, wretched, wandering boy; Pray ope the door, I've lost my way This moonless night, alone I stray; I'm stiff with cold; I'm drenched all o'er; For pity's sake, pray, ope the door! " Touched with this simple tale of woe, And little dreaming of a foe, I rose, lit up my lamp, and straight Undid the fastenings of the gate; And there, indeed, a boy I spied, With bow and quiver by his side. Wings too he wore — a strange attire ! My guest I seated near the fire, And while the blazing fagots shine, I chafed his little hands in mine; His damp and dripping locks I wrung, That down his shoulders loosely hung. Soon as his cheeks began to glow, " Come now," he cries, " let's try this bow; For much I fear this rainy night, The wet and damp have spoiled it quite." — That instant twanged the sounding string, Loud as the whizzing gad-fly's wing. — Too truly aimed, the fatal dart My bosom pierced with painful smart. — Up sprang the boy with laughing eyes, And, " Wish me joy, mine host!" he cries: 20 286 ANACBEON. "My bow is sound in every part; Thou' It find the arrow in thy heart!" — Transl. of Bourne. The Poet — be he the Teian Anaereon or some singer otherwise unknown and unnamed — gives to "the best of Life-Painters," some hints as to the picture which should be made of the lady of his heart. It is a pretty bit of word-painting — far prettier in the original than in the best translations. Moore comes nearest to reproducing it in our language : THE IDEAL PORTRAIT. Thou whose soft and rosy hues, Mimic form and soul infuse; Best of Painters, come portray The lovely maid that's far away. Far away, my Soul, thou art, But I've thy beauties all by heart. — Paint her jetty ringlets straying, Silky twine in tendrils playing; And, if painting hath the skill To make the balmy spice distill, Let every little lock exhale A sigh of perfume on the gale. Where her tresses' curly flow Darkles o'er the brow of snow, Let her forehead beam to light, Burnished as the ivory bright. Let her eyebrows sweetly rise In jetty arches o'er her eyes, Gently in a crescent gliding, Just commingling, just dividing. But hast thou any sparkles warm The lightning of her eyes to form? — Let them effuse the azure ray With which Minerva's glances play; And give them all that liquid tire That Venus' s languid eyes respire. O'er her nose and cheek be shed Flushing white and mellowed red; Gradual tints, as when there glows In snowy milk the bashful rose. ANACREON. 287 Then her lip, so rich in blisses; Sweet petitioner for kisses; Pouting nest of bland persuasion, Ripely suing love's invasion! Then, beneath the velvet chirf, Whose dimple shades a Love within, Mould her neck, with grace descending, In a heaven of beauty ending; While airy charms, above, below, Sport and flutter on its snow. Now let a floating lucid veil Shadow her limbs, but not conceal. A charm may peep, a hue may beam ; And leave the rest to Fancy's dream. — Enough— 'tis she! 'tis all I seek; It glows, it lives, it soon will speak ! — TranSl. of Moore. The Anacreontic convivial songs would have been regarded as very tame in later days of hard-drinking. There is only one of them in which there is anything which incul- cates more than an altogether moderate in- dulgence in the wine-cup : IN PRAISE OF WINE. When the ncctar'd bowl I drain, Gloomy cares forego their reign; Richer than the Lydian king Hymns of love and joy I sing; Ivy wreaths my temples twine And while careless I recline, While bright scenes my vision greet Tread the world beneath my feet. Fill the cup, my trusty page; Anacreon, the blithe and sage, As his maxim ever said, " Those slain by wine are nobly dead.' — Transl. of Bourne. PLEA FOR DRINKING. The Earth drinks up the genial rains, Which deluge all her thirsty plains; The lofty Trees that pierce the sky Drink up the earth and leave her dry; 288 ANACREON. The insatiate Sea imbibes each hour The welcome breeze that brings the shower; The Sun, whose fires so fiercely burn, Absorbs the waves, and in her turn The modest Moon enjoys each night Large draughts of his celestial light. Then, sapient sirs, pray tell me why, If all things drink, why may not I ? — Transl. of Bouijne. MODERATION IN WINE. Haste! haste thee, boy, and bring the bowl, To quench the fever of the soul. The copious stream with skill combine; Add ten parts water, five of wine. The copious draught will thirst assuage, Nor in the breast too fiercely rage. O cease, my friends, for shame give o'er These clamorous shouts, that deafening roar. This Scythian scene all peace destroys; Turns joy to madness, mirth to noise; Let cheerful temperance rule the soul — The best ingredient in the bowl. — Transl. of Bourne. Some of the most pleasing of these odes are inspired by the various aspects of nature, animate and inanimate. UPON SriUNO. See the young, the rosy Spring, Gives to the breeze her spangled wing; While virgin Graces, warm with May, Fling roses o'er her dewy way! The murmuring billows of the deep Have languished Into silent sleep; And mark! the flitting sea-birds lave Their plumes in the reflecting wave, While cranes from hoary winter fly To flutter in a kinder sky. Now the genial star of day Dissolves the murky clouds away. And cultured field and winding stream Are sweetly tissued by bis beam. AN A ci; EON. 289 Now the earth prolific swells With leafy buds and flowery hells; Gem mini; shoots the olive twine, Clusters ripe festoon the vine; All along the branches creeping, Through the velvet foliage peeping. Little infant fruits we see, Nursing into luxury. -Transl. of Moore. TO THE CICADA. O thou, of all creation blest, Sweet insect! that delight'st to rest Upon the wild wood's leafy tops, To drink the dew that morning drops, And chirp thy song with such a glee That happiest kings may envy thee! Whatever decks the velvet field, Whate'er the circling seasons yield, Whatever buds, whatever blows, For thee it buds, for thee it grows. Nor art thou yet the peasant's fear, To him thy friendly notes are dear, For thou art mild as matin dew, And still, when Summer's flowery hue Begins to paint the bloomy plain, We hear thy sweet prophetic strain; Thyeweet prophetic strain we hear, And bless the notes, and thee revere. The Muses love thy shrilly tone ; Apollo calls thee for his own : 'Twas he who gave that voice to thee; ; Tis he that tunes thy minstrelsy. Cnworn by age's dim decline, The fadeless blooms of youth are thin©. Melodious insect! child of earth! In wisdom mirthful, wise in mirth- Exempt from every weak decay That withers vulgar frames away, With not a drop of blood to stain The current of thy purer vein; So blest an age is passed by thee, Thou seem'st a little deity. -Transl. of Mooke. 2'JO ANACKEON. TO THE SWALLOW. Once in each revolving year, Gentle bird ! we find thee here. When Nature wears her Summer vest, Thou comest to weave thy simple nest; But when the chilling Winter lowers, Again thou seek'st the genial bowers Of Memphis or the shores of Nile, Where sunny hours of verdure smile. And thus thy wing of freedom roves, Alas! unlike the plumed Loves That linger in this hapless breast, And never, never, change their nest! Still, every year, and all the year A flight of Loves engenders here; And some their infant plumage try, And on a tender winglet fly; While in the shell, impregned with fires, Cluster a thousand more Desires; Some from their tiny prisons peeping, And some in formless embryo sleeping. My bosom, like the vernal groves, Resounds with little warbling Loves; One urchin imps the other's leather, Then Twin-Desires, they wing together, And still, as they have learned to soar, The wanton babies teem with more. —Transl. of Mooke. Anacreon— if we may assume these Odes to be the production of the Teian poet— seems to have passed into a genial old age ; at times making light of the inroads of age; but at other times looking back regretfully upon his vanished youth, and forebodingly toward the unknown future. APPBOACHING AGE. "Anacreon," the women say, " Old fellow, you have had your day; Consult your mirror, mark with care How scanty now your silver hair; Old wintry Time has shed his snows, And bald and bare your forehead shows!"— ANACKEON. 291 But, faith, I know not where they've gone, Or if I've any left, or none; But this I know, that every day, Shall see me sportive blithe, and gay; For 'tis our wisdom so to do, The nearer Death appears in view. — Transl. of Bourne. LIVE WHILE WE LIVE. C<3uld glittering heaps of golden ore Life preserve or health restore, Then, with ceaseless, anxious pain, Riches would I strive to gain, That, should Death unwished for come, Pointing to the dreary tomb, I might cry, in sprightly tone, " Here's my ransom, Death! begone!" But alas, since well I know Life cannot be purchased so, Why indulge the useless sigh? Fate decrees that all shall die. Vainly to our wealth we trust, Poor or wealthy— die we must. — Present joys then let me share, Posy wine to banish care; Cheerful friends that faithful prove, Beauty's smile, and blissful love. —Transl. of Bourne. LOOKING BACKWARD AND FORWARD. Alas! my youth, my joys have fled, The snows of age have bleached my head; Tedious, toothless, trembling age, Must now alone my thoughts engage. Adieu, ye joys which once I knew, To Life, to Love, to All, adieu!— Henceforth, unhappy ! doomed to know Tormenting fears of future woe ! Oh, how my soul with terror shrinks, Whene'er my startled fancy thinks Of Pluto's dark and gloomy cave, The chill, the cheerless, gaping grave! When Death's cold hand hath closed these eyes! And stifled life's last struggling sighs, 292 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. In darkness and in dust must I, Alas! forever — ever lie! — Transl. of Bourne. ANDEKSEN. Hans Christian, a Danish dramatist, poet, and story-writer, born at Odensee, island of Fiinen, April 2, 1805, died at Copenhagen, Aug. 4, 1875. His father, a poor shoemaker, died while the son was a child. In 1819 he was sent by his mother to Copen- hagen in order to study music. Here he un- derwent many hardships, but in the end found patrons by whom he was warmly befriended ; and by their aid he was enabled to pursue his studies at the Gymnasium. He entered the University in 1828 ; but before that time he had gained considerable reputation by his poems, especially by one entitled The Dying Child. This was followed, in 1829, by a satir- ical narrative of A Journey on Foot from the Holm-canal to the Eastern Point of Amak. He now fairly commenced his literary career, publishing a volume of Poems in 1830, and another entitled Fantasies and Sketches, in 1831. All of his numerous works have been translated into German, and many of them into English, French, and other languages. These translations have given him a far more extended reputation than could have been at- tained by their issue in their original lan- guage, which is understood by comparatively few readers. The German edition of his Com- plete Works comprises about fifty small vol- umes. Many of these books were the result of travels in various parts of Europe. In 1844 he received a pension from the Danish Government ; and in 1875, upon the 70th an- niversary of his birthday, he was invested with the grand cross of the Order of Danne- brog. Some of his dramatic pieces met with a very favorable reception; but he is best known by his tales and his sketches of travel. HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 293 Prominent among; his works are The Impro- visatore, which describes in a glowing style his impressions of Italy; O.T., a novel depict- ing life in Northern Europe ; Only a Fiddler, a half-autobiographic story of homely life ; A PoeVs Bazaar, a collection of Miscellanies; and several series of Tales for Children. He also wrote The Story of my Life, bringing the somewhat imaginative narrative down to 1847. This work was continued by another hand down to the time of Andersen's death. THE DYING CHILD. Mother, I'm tired, and I would fain be sleeping. Let me repose upon thy bosom seek; But promise me thou wilt leave oft" weeping; Because thy tears fall hot upon my cheek. Here it is cold; the tempest raveth madly; But in my dreams all is so wondrous bright: I see the angel-children smiling gladly When from my weary eyes I shut out light. Mother, One stands beside me now ! and listen ! Dost thou not hear the music's sweet accord? See how his white wings beautifully glisten! Surely those wings were given by our Lord! Green, gold, and red are floating all around me: They are the flowers the angel scattereth. Shall I have also wings whilst life has bound me? Or, mother, are they given alone in death? Why dost thou clasp me as if I were going? Why dost thou press thy cheek thus unto mine? Thy cheek is hot, and yet thy tears are flowing: — I will, dear mother, will he always thine ! Do not sigh thus: it marreth my rejoicing; And if thou weep, then I must weep with thee. — Oh, I am tired; my weary eyes are closing: — Look, mother, look! the angel kisseth me! — Transl. o/Maky Howitt. JENNY LIND IN COPENHAGEN. One day, in 1840, in the hotel in which I lived in Copenhagen, I saw the name of Jenny Lind among those of the strangers from Sweden. I 294 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. was aware at that time that she was the first singer in Stockholm. I had been that same year in the neighboring country, and had there met with honor and kindness. I thought therefore, that it would not be unbecoming in me to pay a visit to the young artist. She was at this time entirely unknown out of Sweden, so that I was convinced that, even in Copenhagen, her name was known only by few. She received me very courteously, but yet distantly, almost coldly. She was, as she said, on a journey with her father to Smith Sweden, and was come over to Copenhagen for a few days in order that she might see this city. We again parted distantly, and I had the impression of a very ordinary character, which soon passed away from my mind. In the Autumn of 1843 Jenny Lind came again to Copenhagen. My friend Ilournonville, who had married a Swedish lady, a friend of Jenny Lind, informed me of her arrival here, and told me that she remembered me very kindly, and that now she had read my writings, lie entreated me to go with him to her, and to employ all my per- suasive art to induce her to take a few parts at the Theatre Royal; I should, he said, be then quite enchanted with what I should hear. I was not now received as a stranger; she cordially ex- tended her hand, and spoke of my writings and of Fredrika Bremer, who was her intimate friend. "I have never made my appearance," said she, "out of Sweden; everybody in my native land is so affectionate and kind to me, and if I made my appearance in Copenhagen and should be hissed!— ] dare not venture on it! " I said that I, it was true, could not pass judg- ment on her singing, because I had never heard it; neither did I know how she acted; but neverthe- less I was convinced that such was the disposi- tion at this moment in Copenhagen, that only a moderate voice and some knowledge of acting would be successful; I believed that she might safely venture. Bournonville's persuasion obtained for the Co- penhageners the greatest enjoyment which they ever had. Jenny Lind made her first appearance HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 2«J5 among them as Alice in Robert le Diable. It was like a new revelation in the realms of Art; the youthfully fresh voice forced itself in to every heart; here reigned Truth and Nature; everything was full of meaning and intelligence. At one concert Jenny Lind sang her Swedish songs; there was something so peculiar in this, so bewitching, people thought nothing about the concert-room; the popular melodies uttered by a being so purely feminine, and bearing the universal stamp of £en- ius, exercised their omnipotent sway; the whole of Copenhagen was in raptures. Jenny Lind was the first singer to whom the Danish students gave a serenade: torches blazed around the hospitable villa where the serenade was given. She ex- pressed her thanks by again singing some Swedish songs; and I then saw her hasten into the deepest corner, and weep for emotion. "Yes, yes," said she, "I will exert myself! I will endeavor; 1 will be better qualified than I am, when I again come to Copenhagen." On the stage she was the great artiste, who rose above all those around her; at home, in her own chamber, a sensitive young girl, with all the hu- mility and piety of a child. Her appearance in Copenhagen made an epoch in the history of our Opera. It showed me Art in its sanctity — I had beheld one of its Vestals. " There will not in a whole century," said Mendelssohn, speaking to me of Jenny Lind, " be born another being so gifted as she;" and his words expressed my full conviction. One feels, as she makes her appear- ance on the stage, that she is a pure vessel from which a holy draught will be presented to us. There is not anything which can lessen tbe im- pression which Jenny Lind's greatness on the stage makes, except her own personal character at home. An intelligent and child-like disposition exercises* here its astonishing power; she is happy, belonging, as it were, no longer to tbe world; a peaceful, quiet home is the object of her thoughts; and yet she loves Art with her whole soul, and feels her vocation in it. A noble pious disposition like hers cannot be spoiled by homage. On one occasion only did I 2913 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. hear her express her joy in her talent, and her self-consciousness. Tt was during her last resi- dence in Copenhagen. Almost every evening she appeared either in the opera or at concerts ; every hour was in requisition. She heard of a Society the object of which was to assist unfortunate children, and to take them out of the hands of their parents by whom they were misused, and compelled either to beg or steal, and to place them in other and better circumstances. Benevolent people subscribed annually a small sum each for their support; nevertheless the means for this ex- cellent purpose were small. "But have I not still a disengaged evening?" gaid she; "let me give a night's performance for the benefit of these poor children; but we will have double prices!" Such a performance was given, and returned large proceeds. When she was informed of this, and that by this means a number of poor children would be benefited for several years, her counte- ii;;nce brightened, and the tears filled her eyes. "It is, however, beautiful," said she, "that I can sing so!" Through Jenny Lind 1 first became sensible of the holiness there is in Art: through her I learned that one must forget oneself in the service of the Supreme. No books, no men, have had a better or a more ennobling influence on me as the poet, than Jenny Lind. I have made the happy discov- ery by experience, that inasmuch as Art and Life are more clearly understood by me, so much more sunshine from without lias streamed into my soul. What blessings have not compensated me for the former dark days! Repose and certainty have forced themselves into my heart. — The Story of my Life; transl. of Mary Howitt. Andersen's Stories for Children .number several scores in all, written at various inter- vals. Of these we extract but one : THE UGLY LITTLE DUCK. It was so delightful in the country, for Summer was in the height of its splendor. The corn was HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 297 yellow, the oats green, the hay, heaped into cocks in the meadow below, looked like little grass hil- locks; and the stork strutted about on its long, red legs, chattering Egyptian, for that was the language it had learned from its mother. The fields and meadows were surrounded by more or less thickly wooded forests, which also enclosed deep lakes, the smooth waters of which were sometimes ruffled by a gentle breeze. It was, indeed, delightful in the country. In the bright sunshine stood an old mansion surrounded by a moat and wall, strong and proud almost as in the feudal times. From the wall all down the way to the water grew a complete for- est of burdock leaves, which were so high that a little child could stand upright among them. It was a real wilderness, so quiet and sombre, and here sat a Duck upon her nest hatching a quantity of eggs; but she was almost tired of her tedious though important occupation, for it lasted so very long, and she seldom had any visitors. The other ducks preferred swimming about on the moat, and the canals that ran through the garden, lo visiting her in her solitude. At length, however, there was a crackling in one of the eggs, then a second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth. "Piep! piep!" sounded from here: "Piep! piep!" sounded from there, at least a dozen times. There was, all of a sudden, life in the eggs, and the little half-naked creatures, their dwellings having .become too confined for them, thrust out their heads as out of a window, look- ing quite confused. "Quick! quick!" their mother cried; so the little ones made as much haste as they possibly could. They stared about them, as if examining the green leaves; and their mother let them look as long as they liked: for green is good for the eyes. "How large the world is!" they said: and cer- tainly there lay before thenl a much more exten- sive space than in their eggs. "Do you imagine this is the whole world?" their mother answered. "Oh, no; it stretches far beyond the garden, and on the other side the mea- dow, where the parson's cows are grazing, though 298 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. I have never been there. But you are all here, I suppose?" she added with true maternal solici- tude ; and she stood up ; whereby, in spite of all her care, there was a great overthrow and confu- sion among the little ones. " No, I have not them vet," she said, sighing. "The largest of the 3 lies there still. How much longer is it to last? It is becoming really too wearing." She mustered, however, all her patience, and sat down again. "How are you getting on?" an old Duck in- quired, coming to pay her friend a formal visit. •• With one of the eggs there seems to be no end of the trouble," the over-tired mother com- plained. " The shell must be too thick, so that the . little thing cannot break through; but you must see the others, which are the prettiest little tures that a mother could ever wish for. And what an extraordinary resemblance they bear to their father, who is certainly the handsomest Drake in the whole yard; but he is giddy, and faithless as, indeed, all men are! He has not vis- ited me once here in my solitude." "Show me the egg which will not burst," the old Duck said, interrupting her. " Take my word for it, it is a Turkey's egg. [ was once played tbe same trick; and precious trouble I had, with the little ones; for they were afraid of the water. How I coaxed, scolded and fumed, but all of no use; they would not be induced to go in. Now let me examine the obstinate egg; yes, it is just as I expected: it is a Turkey's egg. Take my advice, leave the nest, and go and exercise the other little ones in swimming; for you are not bound by any duties towards tins cheat." "I would rather sit a little longer on it," the other said, shaking her head. " I have already had so much trouble that it does not matter whether I am kept to it a day or two longer or not." "Oh, if you like it, I have no objection," the old one answered, and with a stiff courtesy took her leave, philosophizing on her way, "She'll have trouble enough with it!" At length t lie large egg burst. " Piep, piep!" HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 299 cried the tardy comer, and fell head-foremost out of the shell. He was so big and ugly that his mother scarcely dared look at him, and the more she did so, the less she knew what to say. At last she exclaimed involuntarily — " That is certainly the most frightfully curious young Drake! Can it possibly be a Turkey? But wait, we will soon see, for into the water he shall go. I will push him in myself, without further to-do; and then, if he cannot dive and swim he may drown, and serve him right too." The following day it was splendid weather, the sun shining brightly upon the burdock-leaves, and the duck mamma with her whole family waddled down to the moat. "Splash!" and she was in the water. "Quick, quick!" she cried, and one duckling alter another followed her exam- ple; not one would remain behind. The water closed over their heads; but they immediately came to the top again, and swain most beautifully. Their legs moved of their own accord, and even the ugly gray late-comer swam merrily with them. "He is no Turkey," the old Duck said; "only see how quickly he moves his legs, and how straight he holds himself! Yes, he is my own flesh and blood, and, after all, on more careful examination, he is a good-looking fellow enough. Now T follow me quickly, and I will introduce you into the world, and present you in the poultry- yard. But mind you keep close to me, that no one may tread on you; and, of all things, take care of the Cat." They reached the yard, where there was a dreadfully noisy commotion, for two worthy fam- ilies were disputing about the head of an eel, vv Inch the Cat took from both of them. "So it is in the world," the Mother-duck said; and her mouth watered, as she too would gladly have had the eel's head, for which she had a par- ticular weakness. "Now move your legs," she said, "and how prettily, slightly bending your necks before the old Duck you see there, for she is considered the highest of all. She is of pure Spanish blood, and therefore she is so solemn and proud. Do you 300 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. see she has a piece of red cloth round her left leg, which is something extraordinarily splendid, and the greatest mark of distinction which can be conferred upon a Duck? It means that she shall be known to all beasts and men ; and that she is to enjoy the most unusual piece of good fortune — to end her days in peace. Make haste, my children; but, for goodness' sake, don't turn your legs in so; for a well-bred young Duck must keep its legs far apart, just like papa and mamma. Imitate me in all tilings, and pay attention to the word of command. When you bow, do not neglect to bend your necks gracefully, and then boldly say ' Quack, quack! ' — nothing more."' So they did, but the other Ducks round about looked upon them with contempt, and said out quite loud — " Well, well, now all this stupid pack is to be foisted upon us, as if we were not numerous enough without them. Indeed, we do not require any increase of that sort. And, oh dear! just look at that one big thing! Such a deformity, at least, we will not allow amongst us!" Thereupon an upstart Drake made a rush at the poor green-gray youngster, and bit him in the neck. " Leave him alone!"' cried the highly incensed mother; "for he is not doing anything to offend you; and I will not allow him to be ill-used." • That may be; but for his age he is much too big and peculiar," the snappish Drake answered; "and naturally, therefore, lie must be put down." ' They are very pretty children indeed, that mamma has there," the old Duck with the red cloth round her leg said; "all of them, with the exception of one only: and he has certainly not succeeded.'' "I am very sorry, gracious Madam!" the mother answered, with difficulty swallowing her mortification. "He is certainly not a pattern of beauty; but he has a charming disposition, and swims as well as any of them; indeed, I may say a little better; and I am of opinion that he will grow up handsome enough, when, instead of growing taller, he spreads out. and gains round- HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 301 ness of form. He lay too long in the e°-g, and therefore has not his proper shape." Whilst she spoke thus in the youngster's favor, she did her best to smooth down his gray-green uniform where it had been ruffled. " Besides" the good mother continued warmly, "the same fulness and elegance of form is not expected from a Drake as from a Duck. I have an idea that he will make his way.*' "The other little ones are charming," the old Spanish Duek repeated. " Now. make yourselves at home, and if you should happen to find an eel's head you may bring it to me without hesitation. You understand me!" And now they were at home. But the poor ugly green-gray youngster, who had come last out of the egg, was bitten, jostled, and made game of by the Ducks as well as the Chickens. " He is much too bio!" they all said, with one accord. And the stuck-up Turkey, be- cause he was born with spurs, fancied himself almost an emperor, gave himself airs, and strutted about like a ship in full sail, whilst his fiery head grew redder and redder. The poor persecuted young thing neither knew where to stand nor where to go to, and his heart was saddened by all that he had to suffer on account of his ugliness. Thus it was the first day; and day after day it only grew w-orse. The ugly green-gray youngster was worried and hunted by all: even his own brothers and sisters were against him, and were constantly saying, "If the Cat would but take you, you horror!" His mother, weighed down by sorrow, sighed, " Oh, I wish I had never borne you, or were you but far away from here!" The Ducks bit him, the Chickens pecked him, and the girl that brought them their food kicked him. Driven by fear and despair he now ran and flew as far as his tired legs and weak wings would carry him; till, with a great effort, he got over the hedge, which, no doubt, was not very low. The little singing-birds in the bushes flew up in a fright, and the young fugitive thought, " That is because I am so ugly." He, however, hurried forward, led by instinct, 21 302 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN". towards an unknown goal. Tins was a swamp, surrounded by wood, and was the dwelling-place of shoals of Wild Bucks. Sad and tired to death, smained here the whole night, almost in a state of unconsciousness, whilst the full moon above bore such a friendly countenance, as if Ian jhing at the foolish Frogs, which kept jumping from the water on to the grass, and back again to the water, as if imitating the dances of merry elves. Early the next morning, aroused by the first glimmer of the sun, the Wild Ducks rose from their watery beds to take a turn in the warm Summer air, when with surprise they saw the stranger. •• What a funny guy is this!" they exclaimed. •• Where can he have come from ? " they inquired of each other; whilst the stranger, with all possi- ble politeness, turned from side to side, first bow- ing to the right and then to the left, as no ballet- mistress, much less a ballet-master, could do. " You are right down ugly," the Wild Ducks said ; " but that does not make much difference to us, as long as you do not marry into our family."' The poor outcast thought of nothing less than marrying. All he wished for was to remain undis- turbed among the rushes, and drink a little of the water of the swamp. Here he lay two whole days, when two Wild Geese arrived — or rather Goslings — for they had not long come out of the egg, and therefore were they so merry. •' Well met, comrade!*' one of them said; " you are so ugly that I like you. Come with us, for close by is another swamp, where there are some wonderfully beautiful Geese, the sweetest of young damsels, who did not get married last au- tumn. You are just the fellow to make your fortune with them, you are so cxemplarily ugly.'' '• Bang, bang! '* it sounded at that very moment, and the two wild igs fell down dead, the water being discolored with their blood. " Bang, bang!" it went again; and a quantity of Geese flew up from the rushes. There was mine firing; for the sportsmen lay all around the marsh, some of them sitting even in the branches of the trees HANS CHKISTIAN ANDEESEN. 303 that overhung the mass of rushes. The blue smoke from the powder rose like clouds amongst the dark foliage, and "splash *' the dogs sprang into the water, little heeding the fresh breeze which whistled among the waving reeds, A nice fright the poor green-gray had, and he was about to hide his head under one of his wings, that, at least, he might see no more of the horrors, when, close by him appeared an enormous Dog, its tongue hanging far out of its throat, and blood- thirsty rage sparkling in its eyes. With wide open jaws, showing two formidable rows of murderous teeth, the water-spaniel advanced towards the poor bird, that now gave itself up as utterly lost; but, generously disdaining to seize upon its easy prey, the noble creature went on: — "Heaven be praised!" the poor outcast said. " I am so ugly that the Dog does not like to touch me; " and he lay perfectly quiet, whilst the shot whizzed over his head amongst the rushes. Not till late in the afternoon did the firing cease; but even then the poor youngster, whose, life had been saved as if by a miracle, did not venture to move. He waited several hours before he drew his head from under his wing, and cau- tiously looked about him; but then he hastened, with all possible speed to get away from the scene of horror. As before he had flown from the poultry-yard, so now, but with redoubled exer- tion, he fled, he knew not whither. A boisterous wind, which followed upon the setting of the sun, was ungracious enough to have no consideration for the scantily covered traveller, and considera- bly impeded his progress, exhausting his strength. Late in the evening our fugitive reached a mis- erable cottage, which was in such a wretched state that it did not know on which side to fall; and on that account it remained standing for the time being. The wind blew around him, and shook the poor bird so violently that he had to seat himself upon his tail to be able to offer the necessary resistance. He then, with no small delight discovered that the rickety door of the cottage, which, though it did not promise much comfort, yet offered a shelter against the now 304 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDEKSEN. doubly raging storm, had broken loose from the lower hinge, and that there was a slanting open- ing, through which he could slip into the room; and this he did without loss of time. Here lived an old Woman with her Tom-cat and her Hen. The Cat was a perfect master in purring and in washing; and he could so turn head-over-heels, that no one in the neighborhood could equal him ; and one only needed to rub his hair repeatedly the contrary way to bring bright sparks from his back. The old Woman called him her little son. The Hen for her part, had very thin, short legs, on which account she was called " Cluck-small- leg." She most industriously laid the very best eggs, and her mistress loved her as if she were her own child. Peace, concord, and happiness evidently reigned in this miserable hut, as they do in many others of a like sort. In the nn lining the strange unbidden guest was immediately discovered, when the Cat began to purr, and the Hen to cluck. •• What is this ?" the old Woman said, and be- gan a close examination; but, as she could not see well, she took the young meagre bird for a fat Duck, which had got into her room by mistake. " Here is an unusual piece of good fortune ! " she exclaimed in joyous surprise. " Now I shall have duck's eggs — that is, if the stupid thing should not at last prove to be a Drake," she added, thoughtfully. " We will give it a trial." So the green-gray youngster remained there three weeks on trial; but no egg made its appear- ance. Now the Cat was master in the house, and the Hen mistress, and they used to say " we and the world;" for they thought that they consti- tuted half, and by far the better half of the world. It appeared to the young stranger that others might have another opinion; which the Hen would by no means allow. " Can you lay eggs ? " she asked. " No." " Then please to hold your tongue." And the Cat asked, " Can you purr, or arch your back ? " HANS CHEISTIAN ANDEKSEN. 305 " No." " Then you have no right to offer an opinion when sensible people are talking." And the poor ugly outcast sat in the corner, quite melancholy, in vain fighting against the low spirits which his self-satisfied companions cer- tainly did not share. Involuntarily he thought of the fresh air and the bright sunshine out of doors, and felt himself agitated by so violent a desire once more to be swimming on the clear water, and to sport about in the liquid element, that he could not resist, one morning, after a sleepless night, opening his heart to the Hen. " What mad fancies are turning that poor shal- low brain of yours again?" the Hen cried, almost in a rage, in spite of her natural quiet indif- ference. " You have nothing to do ; and it is sheer idleness that torments you, and puts such foolish fancies into your head. Lay eggs, or purr, and you will be all right." " But it is so pleasant to swim," the poor child replied; u so delightful to dive to the bottom, and look up at the moon through the clear water." "Yes, that must be a great treat," the Hen said contemptuously. " You must have gone stark, staring mad. Ask the Cat — and I know no one more sensible — whether he likes swimming about in the water, and diving to the bottom. I will not speak of Myself but just ask our Mistress; and there is no one wiser than she in the whole world. Do you think she has a fancy for diving and swimming? " " You do not understand me," the poor Duck- ling sighed. " And if we do not understand you, pray, who can, you conceited impertinent creature?" the Hen replied warmly. " You will not, surely, set yourself up as cleverer than the Cat and our Mistress, not to mention Myself. Pray think a little less of yourself, and thank your stars for all the kindness that has been shown you. Have you not got into a warm room here, and amongst com- pany from whom you may learn some good? But you are a shallow prattler, and a long-necked dreamer, whose society is anything but amusing. 306 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. You may believe me, for I mean really well with you, and therefore lull you things you do not like to hear, which is a proof 1 am your true friend. No, of all things, mind that you lay eggs, and learn how to purr." • - I think I shall wander cut into the world.*' the young Duck said, mustering up couiv, "Do so, by all means," the Hen answered with contempt. "One comfort; we shall lose nothing by your absence." And now the green-gray youngster, without many parting civilities, began his wanderings again, leasing tiie inhospitable hut without re- gret: and he hurried towards the so much longed- for water. lie swam about joyously, and boldly dived down right to the bottom, from whence lie saw the pale moon like a rolling ball; but at length the loneliness and deathlike silence be- came oppressive, and when another creature did appear, it was sure to be with the same greeting as of old, namely, " Oh, how frightful you are' " It was now late in the autumn, with frequent storms of snow and hail, and the brown and yellow leaves of the forest danced about, whipped by the wind, whilst all above was a cold leaden color. The Crows sat in the hedge, and cried ,v! caw!" with sheer cold. It makes one shiver to think of it. The poor outcast was any- thing but happy. One frosty evening, when tire sun was setting like a fiery wheel in the gigantic triumphal car of the creation, a number of magnificent large birds swept past, and the ugly green-gray youngster thought he had never seen anything so beautiful, and at the same time imposing. Their spo plumage shone like driven snow, and they uttered a cry, half-singing, half-whistling, as they rose higher and higher in their flight towards more extensive lakes. A strange sensation came over the poor young Duck, and he turned round and round like a top, and stretching out his a after the departing birds, gave a cry, for the first time iir his life, so loud and shrill that he was frightened at it himself. When they quite disappeared from his sight, he HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. 307 suddenly dived down to the bottom of the water, and when he rose again, it was as if beside him- self. From that moment never could he forget those beautiful, happy birds. He did not know that they were called Swans, nor where they were flying to; but he loved them as he had never loved anything before. He did not envy them in the least; for how did it enter his head to wish him- self so splendid and beautiful? lie would have been contented to live among' the stupid Ducks, if they would but have left him in peace— a neglected ugly thing. The Winter grew so bitterly cold that the poor young creature had to swim about incessantly to prevent the water freezing quite over. Night after night the hole became less; till at last, exhausted by constant exertions, he got frozen tight into the ice. Early in the morning a peasant came that way; and seeing the poor bird in so wretched a plight, he had compassion upon it, and ventured boldly upon the ice; for he was a good Christian, and nut one of those who first see that no incon- venience will attend an act of kindness. Witl^his wooden shoes he broke the ice, extricated the to all appearance dead bird, and carried him home to his wife, where, in a warm room, the green- gray youngster soon recovered animation and strength. The children wished to play with him; but the young Drake thought they were bent on ill-using him; so in bis fright he dew into an earthenware milk-pan, which he turned over, and the milk ran about the floor. The woman uttered a loud cry. and raised her hands in consternation, which thoroughly bewildered the poor bird, and he flew into the freshly-made butter, and then into the Hour-tub, and out again. Oh, what a figure he was now! Bewailing her losses, the woman pur- sued him with the tongs, and the children, laugh- ing and shouting, rolled oyer each other, as they tried to catch him. Fortunately for our youngster, who was now no longer green-gray, but of a delicate paste-color, the door was open; and. taking advantage of the 303 HANS CHRISTIAN ANDEKSEN. general confusion, lie rushed out into the open air, and with difficulty fluttered into some bushes, not far off, where he sank down exhausted. But it would be too painful to follow the poor outcast through all his misfortunes, and to wit- ness the misery and privation he suffered during that severe Winter. We will therefore only say that he lay in a dreamy state amongst the rushes in the marsh, when the sun again began to shine warmly upon the earth, and the larks began to sing; for it was now early Spring. When the young Drake spread out his wings, which had grown much stronger, and with ease they carried him away, so that, almost before he knew it. he found himself in a large garden, where the fruit-trees were in blossom, and where the syringas sent forth their fragrance, and their Ion-' green branches hung down in the meandering rivulets. It was so beautiful: the freshness of Spring was there; and just then three beautiful \> liite Swans came out of the thicket. They rustled their feathers, and swam on the water so lightly; oh, so very lightly! The Duckling knew the su- perb creatures, and was seized with a strange feeling of sadness. '•To them will I fly," said he, "to the royal birds. They will kill me, because I, poor ugly creature, dare to approach them! But no matter; it is better to be killed by them than be bitten by the Ducks, peeked by the Hens, kicked by the girl that feeds the Chickens, and in Winter to suffer so much." And he flew into the water, and swam towards the magnificent birds. They looked at him, and. with rustling plume, sailed towards him. "Kill me," said the poor creature, and bowed down his load to the water, and awaited death. But what did he see in the water! It saw its own likeness; but no longer that of an awkward grayish bird, ugly and displeasing. It was the figure of a Swan! It is of no consequence the be- in- bom in a farm-yard, if it is only in a Swan's POM ' The good creature felt quite elevated by all the cares and disappointments he had endured. Now LANCELOT ANDREWS. 309 he knew how to prize the splendor which shone around him. And the large Swans swam beside him, and caressed him with their bills. There were some little children running about in the garden; they threw bread into the water, and the youngest cried out — " There is a new one!" and the other children shouted too, '"Yes, a new one has come! "--and they clapped their hands, and danced, and ran to tell their father and mother. And tiny threw bread and cake into the water; and every one said " The new one is the best! so young and so beau- tiful!" And the old Swans bowed their heads before him. Then the young Swan felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wing. He knew not what to do. He was too happy, but yet not proud; for a good heart is never proud. He remembered how he had been persecuted and derided; and now he heard all people say that lie was the most beauti- ful of all beautiful birds. And the syringas lent down their branches to him in the water; and the sun shone so lovely and so warm. Then he shook his plumes; the slender neck was lifted up; and from his very heart he cried, rejoicingly — " Never dreamed I of such happiness as this, in the days when I was the Little Ugly Duck!" — Transl. of Aylred Wehnakt. ANDEEWS, Lancelot, an English bishop, born in London, in 1555, died. March 27, 1625. He was educated at various schools, finally at Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, of which he was chosen a Fellow^ in 1576. He took orders, and soon attracted the notice of Sir Francis Walsingham, Queen Elizabeth's Secretary of State, from whom he received several prefer ments; and after the death of the Queen he came high into the favor of James I., her suc- cessor. He was one of the body of transla- tors of the Bible, the first twelve books of the Old Testament being under his special charge. In 1605 he was consecrated Bishop of Chi Chester, in 1600 was transferred to the see of 310 LANCELOT ANDKEWS. Ely, and in 1625 to that of Winchester. With perhaps the exception of Ussher, he Avas es- teemed the most learned English theologian of his time ; and he was in his day accounted the most eloquent of the Anglican preachers, being styled Stella Prc&dicantium, " The Star of Preachers." His works consist of tAvo treatises in reply to Cardinal Bellarmin, in which he advocates the right of princes over ecclesiastical councils; an esteemed Mm ma I of Devotion, and numerous Sermons and other Discourses. Six years after his death a collec- tion of ninety-six of his sermons was published "by His Majesty's special commandment.'' Bishop Hacket, in his Funeral Discourse, thus eulogizes Bishop Andrews: "'He was the most apostolical and primitive-like divine in my opinion, that ever wore a rochet in his age; of a most venerable gravity, and yet most sweet in all commerce: the most devout that ever I saw Avhen he a pp< sared b God ; of such a growth in all kinds of learning, that very able clerks were of low stature to him; in the pulpit a Homer among preach- ers." Doubtless his manner had much to do with his repute as a preacher. To men of after ages, who only read his sermons, his style appears affected, pedantic and strained. UPON AJTGBLS .VXD MEN". 1. What are angels ? surely they arc spirits — immortal spirits. For their nature or substance, spirits; for their quality or property, glorious; for their place or abode, heavenly; for their dur- ance or continuance, immortal. — And what is the seed of Abraham, but as Abraham himself ? And what is Abraham? Let him answer himself: I am but dust and ashes. What is the seed of Abraham ? Let one answer in the persons of all the rest; Dicens puti etc.: — Saying to rotten- ness, thou art my mother, and to the worms, ye are my brethren. They are spirits; now what are REINIEK ANSLO. 311 we, what is the seed of Abraham ? Flesh, And what is the very harvest of the seed of fl< what but corruption, and rottenness, and worms? There is the substance of our bodies. — 2. They are glorious spirits; we vile bodies (bear with it, it is the Holy Ghost's own term: Who shall change our vile bodies). And not only base and vile, but filthy and unclean : ex immundo conceptum mundi, conceived of unclean seed, there is the metal. And the mould is no better, the womb wherein we were conceiyed, vile, base, filthy, unclean. There is our quality.— They are heavenly spirits, angels of heaven: that is, their place of abode is in heaven, ours i below in the dust; inter pulice, et culices, lint us, arances, et vermes; our place is here among fleas and flies, moths, and spiders, and crawling worms. There is our place of dwelling. — 1. They are immortal spirits, that is their durance. Our time is proclaimed in the pi-ophet. Flesh, ail flesh is grass, and the glory of it as the flowers of the field (from April to June). The scythe cometh, nay the wind but bloweth, and we are gone, withering sooner than the grass, which is short; nay, fading sooner than the flower of the grass, which is much shorter; nay, saith Job, rubbed in pieces more easily than any moth. Thus we are to them if you lay us together; and if you lay us upon the balance, we are alto- gether lighter than vanity itself; there is our weight. And if you would value us, man is but a thing of naught: there is our worth. Hoc is omnis homo ; this is Abraham, and this is Abraham's seed: and who would stand to compare these with angels ? Verily, there is no comparison ; they are incomparably far better than the best of us. — Sermons. ANSLO, Eeinier, a Dutch poet, born in Amsterdam in 1622, died at Perugia, Italy, in 1699. He travelled much, especially in Italy, where he was converted to the Catholic faith. His principal works are The Eve of St. Bartholomew, and The Plague of Naples. 312 CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY. TOE PLAGUE OF NAPLES. Where shall we hide us — he pursuing ? What darksome cave, what gloomy ruin ? It matters not: distress and fear Are everywhere. Who now can shield us from the fury That seems upon our steps to hurry ? Our brow exudes a frozen sweat On hearing it. List to that scream! that broken crying: Could not the death-gasp husn that sighing ? Are these the fruits of promised peace ? Oh, wretchedness ! E'en as a careless shepherd sleeping, Forgetful of the flocks he's keeping, Is smitten by the lightning's breath: The bolt of death : E'en as the growing mountain-current Pours down the vale its giant torrent, And sweeps the thoughtless flocks away That slumbering lay : So were we roused; so woe descended Before the bridal feast was ended, And Sleep fell heavy: followed there By blank despair. — Transl. o/Bowpixg. ANSTEY, Christopher, an English versi- fier, born in 1724. died in 1805. His father was rector of Brinkeley, in Cambridgeshire, and had also a considerable landed property, which was in time inherited by the son. He was educated at Eton, from which school he was elected to King's College, Cambridge ; but in consequence of some quarrel with the au- thorities he did not take his degree, although he stood high as a classical scholar. He sub- sequently entered the army ; then married an heiress, through the influence of whose family he was returned to Parliament. His wealth and personal qualities gained him a place in the best fashionable and literary CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY. 313 society of his day. He was a frequent vis- itor at Bath — then the favorite watering- place. He wrote, during his long and pros- perous life, many " Society Poems;" of which The Neiv Bath Guide, and The Election Ball are now worth remembering. The New Bath Guide, published in 1766, was among the most successful poems of that age. Anstey received £200 for the copyright, and he gave the money to the hospital at Bath. Dodsley, the publisher, declared that the profits on the sale were greater than he had ever gained"in the same period by any other book. Anstey 's New Bath Guide furnished the thought, and indeed not a little of the actual material, which Smollett, five years later, wrought up in his clever story of Humphrey Clinker. Anstey 's Election Ball has quite a number of clever hits which may be appreciated now — a century or more after they were written : THE PUBLIC BKEAKFAST. Now my lord had the honor of coming down post, To pay his respects to so famous a toast; In hopes he her Ladyship's favor might win, By playing the part of a host at an inn. I'm sure that he's a person of great resolution, Though delicate nerves, and a weak constitution, For he carried us to a place 'cross the river, And vowed that the rooms were too hot for his liver. He said it would greatly our pleasure promote, If we all for Spring Gardens set out in a boat: I never as yet could his reason explain, Why we all sallied forth in the wind and the rain ; For sure such confusion was never yet known ; Here a cap and a hat, there a cardinal blown; While his Lordship, embroidered and powdered all o'er, Was bowing, and handing the ladies ashore. . . . You've read all their names in the news I sup- pose: But for fear you have not, take the list as it goes. 314 CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY. There was Lady Greasewrister, And Madame Van-Twister, Her Ladyship's sister; Lord Cram, and Lord Vulture, Sir Brandish O'Cultur, With Marshal Carouzer, And old Lady Touzer; And the great Hanoverian Baron Panzmowzer; Besides many others who all in the rain went, On purpose t > honor this great entertainment. The company made a most brilliant appearance And ate bread-and-biuter with great persever- ance; ['em, And the chocolate, too, that my Lord set before The ladies despatched with the utmost decorum. Soft musical numbers were heard all around The horns' and the clarions' echoing sound. . . . Oh, had i a voice that was stronger than steel, With twice fifty tongues to express what I feel, And as many good mouths, yet i never could utter All the speeches my Lord made to Lady Bunbut- ter! So polite all the time that he ne'er touched a bit, While she ate up his nils and applauded his wit; For they tell me that men of true taste, when they treat, Should talk a great deal, but they never should eat. . . . So when we had wasted move bread at a break- las; Than the poor of our parish have ate for this week past. i saw, all at once, a prodigious great throng ( cine bustling and rustling and jostling along: For his Lordship w T as pleased that the company now To my Lady Bunbutter should curtsey and bow: And my Lady was pleased too, and seemed vastly proud At once to receive all the thanks of a crowd. And when, like Chaldeans, we all had adored This beautiful image set up by my Lord, Some few insignificant folk went away, .Just to follow the employments and calls of the day. . . . ANTHOLOGY. 315 Now why should the Muse— my dear mother^— re- late The misfortunes that fall to the lot of the Greal ? As homeward we came— 'tis with sorrow you'll hear What a dreadful disaster attended the Peer: For whether some envious god had decreed That a Naiad should long to ennoble her breed; Or whether his Lordship was charmed to behold His fare in the stream, like Narcissus of old; In handing old Lady Comefidget and daughter, Tins obsequious Lord tumbled into the water; But a Nymph of the Flood brought him safe to the boat; And I left all the Ladies a-cleaning his coat. ANTHOLOGY (Gr. literally " Flower-Gath- erings " ). A collection of small poems, form- ing, as it were, a kind of bouquet or garland. Such collections exist in many languages; but the term is more specifically used to de- note the famous collection of the minor Greek poets of most of whom only a few fragments are extant. Not a few of these consist of a single couplet, often originally an inscription upon some monument ; as that composed by Simonides and placed by Miltiades upon a statue of Pan erected on the battle-field of Marathon : Me, goat-foot Pan of Arcady— the Median's fear— The Athenians' friend, Miltiades, placed here. Still more famous is the inscription, also by Simonides, upon a monument erected over the remains of those Spartans who fell at Thermopylae: Go, stranger, and to Lacedsemon tell That here, obedient to her laws, we fell. Another, also attributed to Simonides, com- memorates the Corinthians who fell at the naval battle of Salamis: 316 ANTHOLOGY. Well-watered Corinth was our home before; We lie on Salamis's Aiantian shore. — The ships of Tyre, the Persian, and the Mede We routed; and thus sacred Greece was freed. Not a few of the poems in the Greek An- thology are votive inscriptions hung above some offering to the gods in gratitude for some great deliverance, or to propitiate their favor in the future. Thus an epigram, by Lucian. records a humble thank-offering from one who had been saved from shipwreck ; To Glaucus, Nereus, Ino, and to Melicerte, as well To Neptune, and the mystic powers in Samothrace that d well- Grateful that, from the sea preserved, he now on shore can live, Lucillus cuts and gives these hairs: — 'tis all he has to give. Three brothers — hunters and fishers— dedi- cate the implements of their craft to the sil- van deity Pan. The inscription on the votive tablet is by Leonidas, though the general idea is expressed by other poets, with more or less of variation : Three brothers dedicate, O Pan, to thee Their nets — the various emblems of their toil: — Pigres, who brings from realms of air his spoil; Dames from woods, and Clitor from the sea. So may the treasures of the deep be given To this; to those the spoils of earth and heaven. An epigram, ascribed to no less an author than Plato, has been often imitated. It pur- ports to be by Lais the famous courtesan, at a time when her charms had begun to wane : I, Lai's, who smiled at Greece with scornful pride, I, at whose doors a swarm of lovers sighed. This glass to Venus give: — That which I shall be I would not — what I was I cannot — see. ANTHOLOGY. 317 Lais has been commemorated in a stinging epitaph by Antipater of Sidon : Lais, who walked in gold and purple dyes, Here on her sea-girt Corinth lowly lies; The pampered friend of Eros, whom that elf Nurtured more daintily than Venus's self. Blighter this human goddess than the stream, Which in Pirene sheds its fulgent gleam; And wooers more she had who sought her arms, Than ever sighed for brilliant Helen's charms; And many revelled in those graces— sold For the false glare of all-subduing gold. Even in her ashes live the rich perfume Of odors ever floating round her tomb: Steeped are her lurks in myrrh; the buxom air Inhales the fragrance of her essenced hair; And when she died, Cythera near her stood With grief-soiled cheeks, and Eros sobbed aloud. — Oh! if those charms so many had not bought, Greece had for Lais as for Helen fought. Votive offerings were frequent upon occa- sions of approaching nuptials ; and they called forth not a few of the prettiest effusions of the Greek versifiers. Here is one by an anonymous poet : Timarete" — her wedding-day now near — To Artemis has laid these offerings here: Her tambourine, her pleasant ball ; the net As a safe guardian o'er her tresses set; Her girlish dolls, in mimic robes arrayed: Gifts fitting for a maid to give a maid.— Goddess, thy hands upon her kindly lay, And keep her holy in thy holy way. Leonidas of Tarentum has left numerous graceful inscriptions of this class. As this, which tells its own story, and is addressed to Rhea, the Mother of the Gods : O holy Mother! on the peak Of Dindyma, and on those summits bleak That frown on Phrygia's scorched plain, Holding thy throne: with favoring aspect deign 31S ANTHOLOGY. T;> smile on Aristodice, Silene's virgin child, that she May -row in beauty, and her charms improve To fulness, and invite connubial love. For this she seeks thy porch, with tributes rare, And o'er thine altars strews her votive hair. And this, addressed to the goddess who -ides over child-birth, by a matron who had safely given birth to twins : Here, Ilethyia! at thy noble feet Ambrosia lavs a grateful offering meet — A robe and head-dress, favored by thy power In the sore travail of her perilous hour; And in duo season strengthened to bring forth A double offspring at a happy birth. Agathias commemorates a triple offering devol d by a happy wife and mother to the three goddesses who had crowned her life with gladness. It should not be forgotten that the original Greek idea of Aphrodite was wholly devoid of that grossness which came in time to be the prevailing characteristic of the conception of the Goddess of Love. To Aphrodite garlands, braids of clustering hair To Pallas, and her zone to Artemis, Callirhoe gave: Fit tributes offered there, Whence to her lot had fallen a triple bliss. — A loved and loving suitor she had wed, In modest purity her life was led And a male race of children blessed her bed. The shorn-off hair was a frequent and nat- ural offering. Youths also offered the first clippings of their beards— the first-fruits, so to speak, and tokens of adolescence. Thus an anonymous epigram says, with a fine moral added: Lycon, the rising down that first appeared To Phoobus gave — the presage of a beard; And prayed that so he might in after years On liis ■iav locks— as now — employ the shears. ANTHOLOGY. 81» Grant this request, and on his age bestow The honor that should crown a head of snow. When the youth laid away childish thing he was wont to make an offering of his toys to Hermes, as the maiden did of hers to Arte- mis. Leonidas of Tarentum makes mention of this custom : To Hermes, this fair hall of pleasant sound, This box-wood rattle, fraught with lively noise, These maddening dice, this top, well-whirling round, Philocles here hangs up his boyhood s toyc. As the youth dedicated his toys, so the worn-out old man dedicated the implements of his craft which he could no longer use. Thus: Old Cyniras to the Nymphs this net. No more His strength can stand the toils that once it bore. — Rejoice, ye fishes, sporting in the sea! From danger at his lumds you now are free. An epigram by Maceclonius describes the offering to Poseidon, by an old sailor of the ship in which he had long voyaged from land to land : King of the sea, and Ruler of the shore, This ship, ordained to touch the waves no more, I, Crantas, give to thee:— a ship long driven In sport before the wandering winds of heaven; In which, oft sailing, I have thought, with dread, I soon might reach the regions <>f the dead. Renouncing winds and waves, and hope and fear, Now on dry land I fix my footsteps here. A votive inscription by Gsetulicue, tells its own story : Alcon beheld his boy, while laid at rest. Close in a deadly serpent's folds comprest; He bent his bow with hand that thrilled with dread. But did not miss his mark; the arrow sped 320 ANTHOLOGY. Right through the monster's jaws with prosper- ous aim — Near, but not touching the dear infant's frame. His quiver, fraught with shafts devised to kill, Hangs on this oak, released from working ill— A record of good fortune and good skill. A traveller, almost perishing with thirst, was guided by the croaking of a frog to a spring of water. In gratitude for this relief he dedicated a bronze image of a frog to the Nymphs of the spring, with this inscription by Plato— not the philosopher— but another poet of the same name : The servant of the Nymphs, who loves the show- ers, The minstrel moist, who lurks in watery bowers— A Frog in bronze, a wayfarer here laid, Whose burning thirst was quenched by welcome aid. By the hoarse monitor's amphibious tone A hidden spring was to the wanderer shown; He followed, nor forsook the guiding sound Till the much wished-for draught he grateful found. Leonidas of Tarentum gracefully commem- orates an offering made to the river-nymphs by a traveller who had quenched his thirst at their waters : Cool stream, where waters from the cleft rock start — Forms, too, of Naiads, carved by rustic art — Ye fountain-heads, and countless spots around, Made lovely by your rills that here abound — Farewell! and from a wayfarer receive The horn which here he dipped, his hot thirst to relieve. Inscriptions for fountains and shady re- treats were favorite subjects with the Anthol- ogists. Here are two by Anyte of Tegea, a Poetess, who lived about 700 B.C. : ANTHOLOGY. 321 To shaggy Tan, and to the Fold-Nymphs fair, Fast by this rock a shepherd's offering stands; Theudotus's gift to those who gave him there Host, when he fainted in the sultry air, [hands. And reached him sweetest water with their Epitaphs, or sepulchral inscriptions, are nu- merous in the Greek Anthology. Among the most noted is that upon Prote, whose name signifies "the first," and who was probably a first-born daughter : Prote, thou art not dead; but thou hast passed To better lands, where pleasures ever last; To bound in joy amidst the fairest ilowers Of the Blest Isles— Elysium's blooming bowers. Thee nor the Summer's heat nor Winter's chill Shall e'er annoy, exempt from every ill. Nor sickness, hunger, thirst again distress; Nor dost thou long for earthly happiness. Contented thou, remote from human woes, In the pure light which from Olympus flows. The departure of those who die young fur- nishes the theme of numerous epitaphs in the Anthology. In the following, by Lucian, the dead child is represented as speaking words of consolation, presumably to his parents : A boy of five years old, serene and gay, Unpitying Hades hurried me away. Yet weep not for Callimachus: if few The days I lived, few were my sorrows too. A touching threnody by Anyte of Tegea commemorates a friend, who died in her maiden bloom : The maid Antibia I lament; for whom Full many a suitor sought her father's hall. For beauty, prudence, famed was she, but doom Destructive overwhelmed the hopes of all. The following, by Paul the Silentiary, though of comparatively modern date, is con- ceived in the purest antique spirit : 21 322 ANTHOLOGY. Thy bier, and not thy bridal bed, sweet maid. With grieving- hands thy parents have arrayed. Thou from life's troubles and from childbirth's pains Escapest: for them a cloud of woes remains. Fate, at thy twelfth year, wrapped thee in mould; In beauty young; in mitral merits old. We find in the Anthology elegiacs upon brides who are called away close upon their nuptials. This is by Errinna, a bosom friend of the dead girl : The virgin Baucis's sepulchre am I: Creep softly to the pillared mount of woe, And whisper to the grave, in earth below: " Grave! thou art envious in thy cruelty!" To thee now gazing lure, her barbarous fate These brides' adornments tell : That with the fire Of Hymen's torch, which led her to the gate, Her husband burned the maid upon hei \< : Yes, Hymen! thou didst change the marriage- song To the shrill wailings of the mourner's song. The same thought is even better expressed in a threnody by Meleager : Her virgin zone unloosed, Clesera's charms Death clasps— stern bridegroom— in his iron arms. Hymns at the bridal doors last night were sung; Last night the bridal roof with revels rung: This morn the wail was raised; and, hushed and low, The strains of joy were changed to moans of woe; And the bright torch to Hymen's hall which led, With mournful glare now lighted to the dead. The following is ascribed to Sappho : Deep in the dreary chambers of the dead Asteria's ghost has made her bridal bed: ill to this stone her fond compeers may turn, And shed their cherished tresses on her urn. The following, by an unknown author, is among the most exquisite of the Greek sepul- chral inscriptions : ANTHOLOGY. 323 This is Popillia's tomb. My husband's care i -Oceanus, of wisdom rare. Ht the Shades below, ing my hymns, thy goodness, friend, shall know. Think of me, husband; and while here, Drop, on the tomb I fill, the frequent tear; And say " Popillia slumbers." Never think That the good die: to happy sleep they sink. Callimachus was a famous scholar of his day. being in the prime of life about 250 B.C., and. so coming after the golden age of Greek literature. He taught philosophy and belles- lettres at Alexandria, in Egypt; was a favor- ite and friend of the two Ptolemies (surnamed " Philadelphus " and " Euergetes") who may be regarded as joint founders of the magnifi- Alexandrian Library, at the head of which Callimachus was placed. He wrote, it is said, more than 800 works upon vari- ous subjects. Of these only fragments are now extant. Among these were many ''oc- casional poems. 1 ' One of these is an elegy upon his literary friend Heraclitus of Halicar- nassus, written upon receiving tidings of his death, soon after his return to his native land, calling to remembrance the pleasant hours they had spent together when Heraclitus was the guest of Callimachus at Alexandria : One told me, Heraclitus, of thy fate, Which brought the tear into my eye to think How oft we two— conversing long and late — Have seen the sun into his chamber sink. But that is past and gone, and somewhere thou, Halicamassian g\iest! art ashes now. Yet live these nightingales of thine: on these The all-grasping hand of i lades will not seize. The Greeks -were notably a maritime peo- ple, and epitaphs upon fishermen and sailors fill no little space in the Anthology. Allu- sion is often made to the wearisome lives of 324 ANTHOLOGY. these toilers of the sea. The following is by P( >seidippus : Oh, why, my brother mariners, so near the bois- terous wave Of ocean have ye hollowed out my solitary grave? 'Twere better much that farther off a sailor's tomb should be; For I dread my rude destroyer; I dread the roar- in"' sea. But may the smiles of fortune, and may love and peace await All you who shed a pitying tear for poor ISTicetas's fate. The two following are ascribed to Plato; but it is by no means certain whether we are to understand the philosopher of that name. The first is certainly not unworthy of him : I am a shipwrecked sailor's tomb: a peasant's there doth stand : Thus the same world of Hades lies beneath sea and land. Ye mariners! by sea and lands, be yours a happy doom : But know you now are sailing past a shipwrecked seaman's tomb. This is by Callimachus : Would that swift shins had never been; for so We ne'er had wept for Sopolis. But he Dead on the waves now drifts; while we must go Past a void tomb — a mere name's mockery. In this, by Sappho, the thought is brought to the extremest point of condensation : Here, to the fisher Pelagon, her sire — Meniscos — laid A wicker-net and oar, to show his weary trade. Slavery was a predominant feature of Greek social life. The inscriptions upon the tombs ANTHOLOGY. 328 of slaves are not, however, numerous; but some of them are characteristic. This is by Damask i os: Zosima when living was only in body chained: Now in body also, her freedom hath she gained. This, by Any te, is upon some Persian slave : Manes, when living was a slave : dead now, Great King Darius! he's as great as thou. This, which is anonymous, is put into the mouth of another Persian slave, a fire-wor- shipper, apparently of noble lineage, who bore the name of the great river upon whose banks he had dwelt : Burn not Euphrates, master: let not Fire Be here polluted for my funeral pyre. — A Persian born, of Persia's genuine race, Fire to profane, to me were dire disgrace. Lay me in earth; nor e'er bring water here To wash me : Rivers also I revere. Yet ancient slavery was not— any more than modern— without its genial side. This is set forth in the two following epitaphs, by Dios- corides. A slave — a Lydian— yet my master gave To me, who fostered him, a freeman's grave. Master! live long; and when on life's decline You come to Hades, there I'll still be thine. The same general thought is touchingly ex- pressed in an epitaph by an unknown writer: Master! to thee still faithful I remain In death; and still my grateful thoughts retain How, rescued thrice from fell disease by thee, I fill this cell, where passers-by may see Manes, the Persian's tomb: for such good deed Service more true from all will be thy meed. 326 ANTHOLOGY. The amatory poems in the Greek An- thology arc very numerous. Probably the best arc by Anacreon, and have been touched q under his name. The passion of love is usually personified as Eros, or Cupid.' Some of the best of these poems are by Mel- eager, who lived in the first century B.C. We quote a few of these : Dreadful is Eros! dreadful! but where's the good That oft this cry of " dreadful!" is renewed ? The urchin laughs at us. Though o'er and o'er Reproached, he's pleased; reviled, he thrives the more. A gain : No wonder Cupid is a murderous boy; A fiery archer, making pain his joy. His dam, while fund of .Mars, is Vulcan's wife; And 11ms 'twixt fire and sword, divides her life. His mother's mother too: Why. that's the Sea! When lashed with winds, a roaring fury she. No father has lie. and no father's kin: 'Tis through his mother all his faults flow in. Thus has he Vulcan's flames; the wild Sea's rage; And Mars' s blood-stained darts his wars on us to w; In a quite different strain is the following addressed to Heliodora, Avhose death he laments in another poem : I'll frame, my Heliodora! a garland for thy hair Which thou, in all thy beauty's pride, mayst not disdain to wear: For I, with tender myrtles, white violets will twine — White violets, but not so pure as that pure breast of thine: With laughing lilies I will twine narcissus; and the sweet Crocus shall in its hue with purple hyacinth meet: And I will twine with all the rest — and all the rest above — Queen of them all. the red, red rose — the flower which lovers love. ANTHOLOGY. 327 The following, by Callistratus, has often been imitated and expanded by later poets in all languages : I wish I were an ivory lyre, A lyre of burnished ivory, That to the Dionysian choir Blooming boys might carry mc. — O would I were a chalice bright Of virgin gold by fire untried, For virgin chaste as morning light To bear me to the altar side. Laudations of the great names in Greek poetry abound in the Anthology. Only a few of the briefest of these have a quaint turn. Thus, of Homer : I, Phoebus, sang those songs that gained so much renown ; I, Phoebus, sang them: Homer only wrote them down. Homer so sang of Troy destroyed by lire, That envy seized the towns that stood entire. Seven cities vied for Homer's birth, with emula- tion pious : Salamis, Samos, Colophon, Rhodes, Argos, Athens, Chios. Upon iEschylus ; both by Dioscorides : Thespis's invention, and the sylvan plays, And Bacchic games that gained the rustic's praise, iEschylus raised aloft, and nobler made; Not bringing carved and curious words to aid. But like a torrent rushing down with force, And stirring all things m its mighty con: He changed the stage forms. O voice sublime, Fit for a demigod of ancient time. This tombstone tells, "Here zEschylus is laid," By Gela's streams, from his own land afar: Illustrious bard! what envious fate has made Athenians ever with good men at war? 328 ANTHOLOGY. Inscription for the Cenotaph of Eurixjides : This tombstone is no monument of thee; But thou of it, Euripides, shalt be; Thy glory clothes it, and men come to see. This, upon Aristophanes, is ascribed to Plato: The Graces sought some holy ground, Whose site should ever please; And in their search the soul they found Of Aristophanes. Upon Sappho ; by various authors : Sappho my name, in song o'er women held As far supreme as Homer men excelled. This tomb reveals where Sappho's ashes lie, But her sweet words of wisdom ne'er will die. Some thoughtlessly proclaim the Muses nine; A tenth is Sappho, maid divine. Upon Herodotus, whose History is in nine books, each bearing the name of one of the Muses : The Muses to Herodotus one day Came — Xine of them — and dined; And in return, their host to pay, Left each a Book behind. Upon Plato, who, according to legend, was the son not of a mortal father; but, like iEsculapius, of Apollo : ^Esculapius and Plato too, Phoebus to mortals gave, That one the body, one the soul, from maladies might save. Epigrams upon works of art are not nu- merous. Among them is one by an unknown writer, upon two statues— one of Bacchus, the other of Pallas—which stood near each other in some public place. The epigramma- ANTHOLOGY. 320 tist asks of the former what reason there could have been for this juxtaposition ; and gives the explanation made by the God of Wine: "Say Bacchus, why so placed? What can there be In common held by Pallas and by thee? Her pleasure is in darts and battles; thine In joyous feasts and draughts of rosy wine." " Stranger, not rashly of the gods thus speak; Our mutual likeness is not far to seek: I too in battle glory; Indians know In me, to ocean's edge, a conquering foe. Mankind we both have blessed: The olive she Has given; the vine's sweet clusters come from me. Nor she nor I e'er caused a mother's pains: I from Jove's thigh produced, she from his brains." The sculptor, Praxiteles, executed several statues of Venus; one of these, which was entirely nude, was set up at Cnidos. The ( loddess of Love is said to have gone to view tli is nude figure of herself. Upon this there are several epigrams. The best of them is ascribed to Plato: The Paphian Queen to Cnidos made repair, Across the tide to sec her image there: Then looking up and round the prospect wide, " Where did Praxiteles see me thus? " she cried. The following, on the same subject, is briefer and more pointed : Said Venus, when Venus in Cnidos she viewed: "Fie! where did Praxiteles see me thus nude? " The statue of the Olympian Jove, by Phidias, was the most famous one of all antiquity. Upon this there is this epigram: Either Zeus came to earth to show his form to thee. Phidias, or thou to heaven hast gone the god to see. 330 ANTHOLOGY. The following epigram, by Archelaus, is upon a bronze statue of Alexander the Great : Lysippus formed in bronze the courage high Of Alexander, and his aspect bold: The bronze looks up to heaven, and seems to cry: •■ The Earth is mine; thou, Zeus, Olympus hold!" The witty and satirical epigrams in the Anthology are numerous; but they relate mainly to mere local subjects, so that the point of them is to a great extent lost to us. There are several, however, which reappear, as original, among English satirists. As these : Damon, who plied the Undertaker's trade, With Doctor Crateas an agreement made: What linens Damon from the dead could seize, He to the Doctor sent for bandages; \\ hile the good 1 >octor — here no promise-breaker — Sent all his patients to the Undertaker. Dick cannpt blow his nose whene'er he pleases — His nose so long is, and his arm so short; Nor ever cries, "God bless us!" when he sneezes — lie cannot hear so distant a report. Gellia, your mirror's false; you could not bear, If it were true, to see your image there. A blockhead, bit by fleas, put out the light, And chuckling cried, "Now you can't see to bite!" A viper bit a Cappadocian's hide; But 'twas the viper, not the man, that died. Lerians are bad: not some bad, and some not, But all. There's not a Lerian in the lot, Save Procles, that you could a good man call : — And Procles is — a Lerian, after all. Men die when the night-raven sings or cries; But when Dick sings, e'en the night-raven dies. CHARLES ANTHON. 331 Nicias, a Doctor and Musician, Lies under very foul suspicion: He sings, and without any shame He murders all the finest music; Does he prescribe, our fate's the same, H he shall e'er find me or you sick. All wives are plagues; yet two blest times have they: Their bridal first, and then their burial day. ANTHON, Charles, LL.D., an American scholar, born in New York in 1797, died July 29, 18G7. He entered Columbia College at the age of fourteen ; studied law and was ad- mitted to the bar of the Supreme Court of the State of New York in 1819. His attention was hoAvever given mainly to classical stud- ies, and in 1820, when only twenty-three years of age, he was appointed Adjunct-Pro- fessor of Languages in Columbia College; and in 1835, upon the resignation of Prof. Moore, he became Professor, having in fact exercised the functions of that position for several years. About 1830 he commenced the preparation of that series of text-books in classical literature which in time came to in- clude nearly all of the Latin authors usually read in our colleges, besides several of the leading Greek authors. The texts of these works was accompanied with very full notes and prolegomena. Of this series a competent English critic said: "Dr. Anthon has done more for sound classical school literature than any half-dozen Englishmen." Besides these annotated classical texts Prof. Anthon wrote or edited Greek and Latin Grammars; works upon Greek and Latin Prosody, Versifi- cation, and Composition; Dictionaries upon Classical Biography, and Antiquities; Larger and Smaller Lexicons of both languages; and a System of Ancient andMediceval Geography. 332 THOMAS AQUINAS. The entire number of his works in these vari- ous departments is not less than 50; of which nearly half are annotated editions of Latin and Greek authors. AQUINAS, Thomas (or Thomas of Aquino), Saint, an Italian theologian, born at the Castle of Eocca Secca, in the Kingdom of Naples, about 1224; died in 1274. He w T as a younger son of the Count of Aquino; was trained in the Benedictine monastery at Monte Casino, to the abbacy of which it was expected that he would succeed, and subse- quently studied at the University of Naples. At the age of nineteen, in opposition to the wishes of his family, he determined to enter the Order of the Dominicans. His brothers had him brought to the ancestral castle, where he was kept under close guard fur two years, when he made his escape, and went to the Dominican convent at Cologne, in Ger- many. He here became a pupil of the famous Albert of Bollstadt, usually denominated ' ' Albertus Magnus." He pursued his scholas- tic studies with great diligence, but with such persistent silence that his fellow students nicknamed him "the Dumb Ox; 1 ' Albertus, however, is said to have predicted that " this dumb ox will some day fill the world with his bellowings." After studying at Cologne for some years, he went to Paris, where he established himself as a teacher of the Aris- totelian philosophy, with which he had be- come thoroughly imbued. He there acquired a high reputation ; but the Sorbonne was in- imical to the " mendicant monks," and it was not until 1257, when he was about thirty- three years old, that Aquinas received the formal degi'ee of ''Doctor." He became in- volved in a furious dispute with his oppo- nents, who impugned not only his Order but his teachings. A public disputation was THOMAS AQUINAS. 333 held in the presence of Pope Alexander IV., in which Aquinas completely worsted his op- ponents, whose works were formally con- demned. He continued to lecture with great applause at Paris until 1261, when the new Pope, Urban IV., summoned him to Italy to h philosophy in the schools of Rome, Bologna, and Pisa. He took up his abode in the Convent at Naples, having declined to ac- cept the proffered dignity of Archbishop, preferring to devote himself to study, lectur- ing, and writing. In 1274 he was summoned by Pope Gregory X. to attend a General Council to be held at Lyon, in France, which is known in ecclesiastical history as ''The Second Oecumenical Synod of Lyon." But he had hardly set out upon his journey when be was seized by a fatal illness at Forcanuova, in the Kingdom of Naples, where ha died. It was alleged that he had been poisoned at the instigation of King Charles I. of Sicily. who dreaded the representations which Aqui- nas would make at the Council of his miscon- duct as a sovereign. Numerous legends have come down to us of miraculous incidents in the life of St. Thomas Aquinas. These are collected in the recent voluminous work by the Very Rev. Roger BedeVaughan, O.S.B. The account of these miracles was received with such credence that Pope John XXII. , in 1323, ordered his canonization, and he is known in ecclesiasti- cal history as "St. Thomas Aquinas." No theologian of his day exercised so wide an influence upon religious thought as did Thomas Aquinas. He was then, and long- after, designated as the "Universal Doctor-," the "Angelic Doctor," and the "Second Au- gustine." His published Works are very nu- merous. The complete edition of them put forth at Rome, in 1570, under the direction of 334 THOMAS AQUINAS. Pope Pius V., fills eighteen large volumes. The principal of these works are the Commen- taries on the Four Books of Sentences of Peter Lombard ; the Sum/ma Fidei Catholica contra Gentiles; and the Summa Theologica. This last is his greatest work. In the Paris edition of 1532, it forms a folio volume of something like 1500 pages, each page contain- ing matter equivalent to eight or ten pages of this Cyclopedia. The indexes alone would make a goodly volume. There is an English translation of this stupendous work, which occupies eight large octavo volumes. And yet the work is unfinished. Had Thomas Aquinas lived to threescore and ten, instead of m the authority of Sacred Script- ure; for Christ committed his sheep to Peter, saying, without distinction, "Feed my sheep:" and " that there be one fold and one shepherd." It follows from the authority of the said Doctors that the Roman Pontiff possesses the plenitude of power in the Church. — Transl. of Vawjlian. 830 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. ARABIAN NIGHTS' ENTERTAINMENTS, The. Early in the last century (1704-1717) Antoine Galland, a French orientalist, put forth twelve small volumes, which he en- titled Mille et Uns Nuits — Contes Arabes, which he professed to have translated from an unknown Arabian author. It was at first assumed by critics that Galland Mas himself the author of these tales : but before long it became evident that so far from being the author of these Contes, Galland had greatly abridged them in his French transla- tion. The Thousand and One Nights, as translated into French, became a very popu- lar book, and was re-translated into many European languages, and gave rise to nu- merous imitations. In 1811 Mr. Edward William Lane, who had long resided at Cairo in an official capacity, put forth a new trans- l.i i .ion in three large volumes, of which sev' oral editions * have been subsequently pub- lished. This version is acknowledged to be by far the best which has been made into English; and our extracts will be from it. Of the author, or more probably compiler of these tales, nothing is known. Baron de Sacy says : " It appears to me that it was originally written in Syria, and in the vulgar dialect; that it was never completed by its author; that subsequently imitators endeav- ored to perfect the work either by the in- sertion of novels already known, but which formed no part of the original collection, or by composing some themselves, with more ( »r less talent, whence arise the great varia- tions observable among the different MSS. of the collection; that the inserted tales were added at different periods, and perhaps in different countries, but chiefly in Egypt." — We can, however, form an approximate judgment as to the period when the original THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 337 collection was made. A large number of the tales are based upon the supposed adventures of Haroun-al-Raschid, caliph of Bagdad, who flourished about 800 a.d. But Haroun had already assumed a legendary character when these adventures were invented. We cannot therefore date them earlier than the year 900, three generations after his death. Again there is no mention of the use of coffee or the pipe, which play so important a part in pictures of modern Oriental life. Coffee appears to have come into use in Arabia and Egypt somewhere about 1450; and the date of the collection can hardly have been later than this ; though there are reasons for plac- ing it considerably earlier, even before the time of the Crusades ; for we find no allusion to the bitter hostility between Mohamme- dans and Christians which was so charac- teristic of the period subsequent to the year 1100. From all these indicia we may assign the probable date of this compilation to the century between a.d. 950 and 1050. The scene of many of the tales is laid in the remote ages — as dateless as eternity — the mythical times of magicians and enchanters. The compiler has connected the separate tales, which he found or made, by a slight thread of narrative. The work is prefaced with this pious exordium: THE EXORUIUM TO THE AliABIAN NIC.nTS. Iii the name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful: Praise he to God the Beneficent King, the Creator of the Universe, who hath raised the Heavens without pillars, and spread out the Earth as a bed; and blessing and peace be on the Lord of Apostles, our Lord and our Master Mohammed, and his Family, blessing and peace, unending and constant, unto the Day of Judg- ment: — To proeeed: The lives of former genera- fcions arc a lesson to posterity, that a man may 22 338 THE ARABIAN NIOHTS. review the remarkable events which have hap- pened to others, and be admonished; and may- consider the history of people of preceding ages, and of all tbat hath befallen them and be re- strained. Extolled be the perfection of Him who hath thus ordained the history of former genera- tions to be a lesson to those which follow. Such are the Tales of the Thousand and One Nights, with their romantic stories and fables. Then conies the legendary fable which binds together all the multifarious tales. SHAHKIAR, SHAHZEMAN AND SCHEHERAZADE. It is related — (but God alone is all-knowing and all-wise)— that there was in ancient times a King of the countries of India and China, possessing numerous troops and guards and servants and domestic dependents. And he had two sons, one of whom was a man of mature age, and the other a youth. Both of these princes were brave horse- men, but especially the elder, who inherited the kingdom of his father, and governed his subjects with such justice that the inhabitants of his country loved him; he was called King Shahriar. His brother was named Shahzeman, and was King of Samarcand. After the lapse of twenty years passed in their separate kingdoms, Shahriar desired to see his younger brother, and sent his Vizier to Samarcand to fetch him. Shahze- man had not proceeded far when he remem- bered that he had left behind something which he wished to take with him. He returned to his palace at midnight, and found his Queen sleeping in the arms of one of her slaves. He slew them both, and then re- sumed his journey to greet his brother. It was not long before he discovered that Shah- riar had in like manner been dishonored by his Queen, who was caught in flagrante delictu with one of her slaves. Shahriar had her put to death, with her paramour, and all THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 339 who might have been their accomplices. King Shahriar then devised a scheme by which he should never again be liable to such ignominy. Every night he would take to his bed a noble young virgin, who on leaving the chamber in the morning should be met at the door by the Vizier, and be at once put to death. This went on for three years, at the end of which there was left in the capital scarcely a noble virgin fit to be the one- night's consort of the King. It so happened that the Vizier had two young daughters — Scheherazade famed as a story-teller, and Dinarzade. The elder sister announced to her father that she would run all risks and become the spouse of the King. "Either," she said, "I shall die, and be a ransom of one of the daughters of the Mo- hammedans, or I shall live, and be the cause of their deliverance from him."' In vain did the Vizier endeavor to dissuade her from her purpose, enforcing his arguments by several stories, which are duly narrated. At last he gave in, and Scheherazade, who had already instructed her sister what to do, was brought into the chamber of the King, who was charmed with her appearance and demeanor, and even tried to dissuade her from her pur- pose, setting quite candidly before her what would be the inevitable result upon the next morning. As the evening wore away Scheherazade fell into a violent fit of weep- ing. Whereupon asked the King, "What aileth thee?" She answered, " Q King, I have a young sister, and I wish to take leave of her." So the King sent for Dinarzade, and she came to her sis- ter, and embraced her, and sat near the foot of the bed; and after she had waited for a proper oppor- tunity, she said, "By Allah, O my sister, relate to ns a story to beguile the waking hour of night." 340 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. — "Most willingly," answered Scheherazade, "if this virtuous King permit us." — The King, hear- ing these words, and being restless, gave consent. And thus on the first night of the Thousand and One, Scheherazade commenced her recitations: The narrative now goes on naturally enough. The King was so charmed with the first story — which was hroken off just when it began to grow most exciting — that he forbore to give the customary order for the execution on the following morning; and so on from day to day, week to week, month to month, and year to year, until a thousand and one nights had passed. Some of Scheherazade's stories were quite long, occupying many successive nights in their recital. But the King always wanted to listen to more. In fact, as nearly as we can keep up the chronology, hardly half of the stories of these thousand and one nights are embodied in the manuscript from which Mr. Lane has translated. The denoue- ment of the whole narrative is thus given : END OF THE THOUSAND AND ONE NIGHTS. Scheherazade, during this period, had borne the King three male children; and when she had ended these tales she rose upon her feet and kissed the ground before the King, and said to him, " O King of the time, and incomparable one of the age and period! verily I am thy slave, and during a thousand and one nights I have related to thee the history of the preceding generations and the admonitions of former times. Then have 1 any claim upon thy Majesty, so that 1 may request of thee to grant me a wish? " And the Kin- an- swered her, " Request: thou shalt receive, O Sche- herazade!" So thereupon she called out to the nnrses and the eunuchs, and said to them, " Bring ye my children." Accordingly they brought them to her quickly. And they were three male chil- dren: one of them walked, and (me crawled, and one was at the breast. And when they brought THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 343 them, she took them and placed them before the King; and having kissed the ground, she said. " Kiny- of the age, these are thy children, and I re- questof thee that thou exempt me from slaughter, as a favor to these infants; for if thou slay me, these infants will become without a mother, and will not find among women one who will rear them well. " And thereupon the King wept, and pressed his children to his bosom, and said, " O Scheherazade, by Allah, I pardoned thee before the coming of these children, because I saw thee to be chaste, pure, ingenuous, pious. May God bless thee, and thy father and thy mother, and thy root and thy branch! I call God to witness against me that 1 have exempted thee from everything that might injure thee." So she kissed his hands and his feet, and re- joiced with exceeding joy. And she said unto him, " May God prolong thy life, and increase thy dignity and majesty." — Joy spread throughout the palace of the King, until it became diffused throughout the city; and it was a night not to be reckoned among lives; its color was whiter than the face of day. The King arose in the morning happy, and with prosperity inundated. . . . And he and the people of his empire continued in pros- perity and joy, and delight and happiness, until they were visited by the terminator of delights and the separator of companions. As the Arabian Nights opened with a de- vout exordium, so the work closes with a no less devout ascription. THE ASCKIPTION. Extolled be the perfection of Him whom the vicissitudes of times do not destroy, and to whom no change happeneth; whom no circumstance di- verteth from another circumstance, and who is alone distinguished by the attributes of perfection! And blessing and peace lie on the Imam of his Majesty, and the elect from anion- his creatures, our Lord Mohammed, the Lord of mankind, through whom we supplicate God for a happy end. 342 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. Among the shortest of these tales, and one of the best of all, is the story of the Fisherman, the telling of which occupied about six of these thousand and one nights. THE FISHERMAN AND THE AFEITE. There was a certain fisherman, advanced in age, who had a wife and three children; and, though he was in indigent circumstances, it was his cus- tom to cast his net every day no more than four times. One day he went forth at the hour of noon to the shore of the sea, and put down his basket, and cast his net, and waited until it was motion- less in the water, when he drew together its strings and found it to be heavy. He pulled, and could not draw it up; so he took the end of the cord, and knocked a stake into the shore, and tied the cord to it. He then stripped himself, and dived round the net, and continued to pull until lie drew it out; whereupon he rejoiced, and put on his clothes. But when he came to examine the net, he found in it the carcass of an ass. At the sight of this he mourned, and exclaimed, '• There is no strength nor power but in God, the High, the Great! This is a strange piece of for- tuue!" And he repeated the following verse: " O thou who occupiest thyself in the darkness of night and in peril, Spare thy trouble, for the support of Providence is not ob- tained by toil." He then disencumbered his net of the dead ass, and wrung it out; after which he spread it and descended to the sea, and, exclainiiiu;-, " In the name of God !" cast it again, and waited until it had sunk and was still, when he pulled it, and found it more heavy and more difficult to raise than on the former occasion. He therefore con- cluded that it was full of fish. So he tied it, and stripped, and plunged and dived, and pulled, un- til he raised it, and drew it upon the shore; when he found in it only a large jar, full of sand and mud; on seeing which, he was troubled in Jiis heart, and repeated the following words of the poet: THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 343 " O angry fale, forbear! or, if thou wilt not forbear, relent! Neither favor nor fortune do I gain, nor profit from the work of my hands. I came to seek my sustenance, but have found it to be ex- hausted. How many of the ignorant are in splendor; and how many of the wise in obscurity! " So saying, he threw aside the jar, and wrung out and cleansed his net; and, begging the for- giveness of God for his impatience, returned to the sea for the third time, and threw the net, and waited till it had sunk and was motionless. He then drew it out, and found in it a quantity of broken jars and pots. Upon this, he raised his hand toward heaven, and said, "O God, thou knowest that I cast not my net more than four times." Then exclaiming, "In the name of God !" he cast the net into the sea, and waited till it was still; when he attempted to draw it up, but could not, for it clung to the bottom. And he exclaimed again, " There is no power or strength but in God!" and stripped again, and dived round the net, and pulled it until he raised it upon the shore; when he opened it, and found in it a bottle of brass, filled with something, and having its mouth closed with a stopper of lead bearing the impression of the seal of King Solomon. At the sight of this the fisherman was rejoiced, and said, " This will I sell in the copper-market; for it is worth ten pieces of gold." He then shook it, and found it to be heavy, and said, " I must open it, and see what is in it, and store it in my bag; and then I will sell the bottle in the copper-market." So he took out a knife, and picked at the lead until he extracted it from the bottle. He then laid the bottle on the ground, and shook it that the contents might pour out. But there came forth from it nothing but smoke, which ascended towards the sky and spread over the face of the earth; at which he wondered excessively. And after a little while the smoke collected together, and was condensed, and then became agitated, and was converted into an Afrite, whose head was in the clouds, while his feet rested upon the ground. His head 344 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. was like a dome; Irs hands were like winnowing- forks, and his legs like masts; his mouth re- sembled a cavern; ids teeth were like stones; his nostrils like trumpets; his eyes like lamps; and he had dishevelled arid dust-colored hair. When the fisherman beheld this Afrite, the muscles of Lis sides quivered, his teeth were locked together, his spittle dried up, and he saw not his way. The Afrite, as soon as he per- ceived him, exclaimed, "There is no Deity but God ! Solomon is the Prophet of God ! Slay me not, for I will never again oppose thee in word, or rehel against thee in deed! " " O Afrite," said the fisherman, " dost thou say Solomon is the Prophet of God? Solomon has been dead a thousand and eight hundred years; and we are now in the end of time. What is thy history, and what is thy tale, and what was the cause of thy entering this bottle ? " When the Afrite heard the words of the fisher- man, he said, " There is no deity but God! Re- ceive news, O fisherman." " Of what," said the fisherman, " dost thou give me news?" He answered, " Of thy being instantly put to a most cruel death." The fisherman exclaimed, "Thou deservest for this news, O master of the Afrites, the withdrawal of protection from thee, O thou far off from all goodness! Wherefore wouldst thou kill me ? and what requires thy killing me, when 1 have liber- ated thee from this bottle, and rescued thee from the bottom of the sea, and brought thee upon the dryland?" The Afrite answered: "Choose what kind of death thou wilt die, and in what manner thou shalt be killed." " What is my offence," said the fisherman, " that this should be my recompense from thee? " The Afrite replied; " Hear my story, O fisher- man." "Tell it, then," said the fisherman, "and Le short in thy words' for my soul hath sunk down to my feet."' " Know then," said he. " that 1 am one of the THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 345 heretical Genii; I rebelled against Solomon the son of David— I and Sacar the Genii; and he sent me his Vizier Asaph, the son of Barakhia, who came upon me forcibly, and took me to him in bonds, and placed me before him. And when Solomon saw me, he offered up a prayer for pro- tection against me, and exhorted me to embrace the faith, and submit to his authority; but I re- fused. Upon which he called for this bottle, and confined me in it, and closed it upon me with the leaden stopper, which he stamped with the Most Great Name. He then gave orders to the Genii, who carried me away, and threw me into the midst of the sea. There I remained a hun- dred years; and I said in my heart, ' Whosoever shall liberate me, I will enrich him forever.' But the hundred years passed over me, and no one lib- erated me. And I entered upon another hundred years; and I said, 'Whosoever shall liberate me, I will open to him the treasures of the -larth ; 5 but no one did so. And four hundred more years passed over me; and I said, 'Whosoever shall liberate me, I will perform for him three wants; ' but still no one liberated me. I then fell into a violent rage, and said within myself, ' Whosoever shall liberate me now, I will kill him, and only suffer him to choose in what manner he shall die.' And lo! now thou hast liberated me, and I have given thee the choice of the manner in which thou wilt die." When the fisherman had heard the story of the Afrite, he exclaimed, "O Allah! that I should not have liberated him but in such a time as this! " Then said he to the Afrite, " Pardon me, and kill me not ; and so may God pardon thee, and destroy thee not; lest God give power over thee to one who will destroy thee." The Afrite answered, "I must surely kill thee; therefore choose by what manner of death thou wilt die." The fisherman felt assured of his death; but he implored the Afrite, saying " Pardon me by way of gratitude for my liberating thee! " " Wiry," answered the Afrite, " I am not going 346 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. to kill thee but for that very reason, because thou hast liberated me." •• O Sheikh of the Afrites," said the fisherman, "do I act kindly towards thee, and dost thou rec- ompense me with baseness? But the proverb lieth not which saith : '■'We did good to them, and they returned to us the re- verse ; and such, by my life, is the conduct of the wicked. Thus he who acteth nobly to the undeserving is recom- pensed in the same manner as the aider of the hyena.' " The Afrite when he heard the words, answered by saying, "Covet not life, for thy death is una- voidable." Then said the fisherman within himself, " This is a Genii, and I am a man; and God hath given me sound reason. Therefore will I now plot his destruction with my heart and reason, like as he has plotted with his cunning and perfidy." So he said to the Afrite, "Hast thou determined to kill me?" — He answered, '"Yes."' — Then said he, " By the Mos* Great Name engraved upon the seal of Solomon, I will ask thee one question; and wilt thou answer it truly?" On hearing the mention of the Most Great Name, the Afrite was agitated, and trembled, and replied, " Yes, ask, and be brief."— The fisherman then said, " How wast thou in this bot- tle? It will not contain thy hand or thy foot ; how then can it contain thy whole body? "—" Dost thou not then believe that I was in it?" said the Afrite. The fisherman answered, " I will never believe thee until I see thee in it." Upon this, the Afrite shook, and became con- verted again into smoke, which rose to the sky; and then became condensed, and entered the bot- tle, little by little, until it was all inclosed, when the fisherman hastily snatched the sealed leaden stopper, and, having replaced it in the mouth of the bottle, called out to the Afrite, and said, " Choose in what manner of death thou wilt die. I will assuredly throw thee into the sea, and will build me a house on this spot; and whosoever shall come here, I will say to him, 'Here is an THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 347 Afrite, who to any person that liberates him will propose various kinds of death, and then give him the choice of one of them.' " On hearing these words of the fisherman, the Afrite endeavored to escape; but could not, find- ing himself restrained by the impression of the seal of Solomon, and thus imprisoned by the fisherman as the vilest and least of the A f rites. Tbe fisherman then took the bottle to the brink of the sea. The Afrite exclaimed, " Nay! nay!" to which the fisherman answered, " Yea, without fail ! Yea, without fail ! " The Afrite then, addressing him with a soft voice and humble manner, said, " What dost thou intend to do with me, O fisherman? "—He an- swered, "I will throw thee into the sea. and if thou hast been there a thousand and eight hun' dred years, I will make thee to remain there until the Hour of Judgment. Did I not say to thee, 'Spare me, and so may God spare thee; and destroy me not lest God destroy thee ? ' But thou didst reject my petition, and wouldst nothing but treachery; therefore God hath caused thee to fall into my hand, and I have betrayed thee."— " Open to me," said the Afrite, " that I may con- fer benefits upon thee."— The fisherman replied, " Thou liest, thou accursed! I and thou art like the Grecian King and the sage Douban."— "What," said the Afrite, "was the case of the Grecian King and the sage Douban, and what is their story? " The fisherman then relates the story in question. It is long, and embodies several minor ones. The general purport of the whole being that the King, who had been cured of leprosy by Douban, raises him to high honor. The Vizier, inflamed by envy, excites the King to put the Sage to death, since the same power which had enabled the sage to heal the King would also enable him to take his life. Said the King to the Sage, "1 shall not be secure unless I kill thee; for thou curedst me by a thing that I hold in my 348 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. hand, and I have no security against thy killing me by a thing that I may smell or by some other means." Douban remonstrated in vain ; but finding that his death was fully resolved upon, he prevailed upon the King to grant him a brief respite, promising to give him a certain magical book, among the least of whose virtues was that — "When thou hast cut off my head, if thou open this book, and count three leaves, and then read three lines to the left, the head will speak to thee, and answer whatever thou shaft ask.'' The sequel of this story is thus related : — On the appointed day the Sage went up to the court; and the Emirs and the Viziers, and Cham- berlains, and Deputies, and all the great officers of the state, went thither also: and the court resem- bled a flower-garden. And when the Sage had entered, he presented himself before the King, bearing an old book and a small pot containing a powder. And he sat down and said, " Bring me a tray.'' So they brought him one; and he poured out the powder into it, and spread it. He then said, "O King, take this book, and do nothing with it until thou hast cut off my head; and when thou hast done so, place it upon this tray, and order some one to press it down upon the powder; and when this is done, the blood will be stanched: then open the book." As soon as the Sage had said this, the King gave orders to strike off his head; and it was done. The King then opened the book, and found that its leaves stuck together; so he put his finger to his mouth, and moistened it with his spittle, and opened the first leaf, and the second, and the third; but the leaves were not opened without difficulty. He opened six leaves, and looked at them; but found upon them no writing. So he said, "O Sage, there is nothing written in it." — The head of the Sage answered, " Turn over more leaves." The King did so: and in a little while the poison penetrated his system: for the look was poisoned; and the Kins fell hack, and cried THE AHA WAN NIGHTS. 349 out, " The poison hath penetrated into me!" And upon this 'the head of the sage Doub an re- peated these verses : — " They made use of their power and used it tyrannically, and soon it became as though it never had existed. Had they acted equitably, they had experienced equity; but they oppressed; wherefore fortune oppressed them with calamities and trials. Then did the case announce itself to them:— 'This is the reward of your conduct, and fortune is blameless.' ' And when the head of the sage Douban had uttered these words, the King immediately fell down dead. "Now, O Afrite," continued the fisherman. " know that if the Grecian King had spared the sage Douban, God had spared him. But he re- fused, ind desired his destruction; therefore God destroyed him. And thou, O Afrite, if thou hadst spared me, God had spared thee, and I had spared thee. But thou desiredst my death; there- fore will I put thee to death imprisoned in this bottle; and will throw thee here into the sea." The Afrite upon this cried out and said, "I conjure thee by Allah, O fisherman, that thou do it not. Spare me in generosity, and le not angry with me for what I did; but if I have done evil, do thou good, according to the proverb—' O thou benefactor of him who hath done evil, the action that he hath clone is sufficient for him.'— Do not therefore as Imana did to Ateca."— " And what," said the fisherman, " was their case ?"— The Afrite answered, " This is not a time for telling stories, when I am in this prison ; but when thou liberat- est me, I will relate to thee their case." The fisherman said, "Thou must be thrown into the sea, and there shall be no way of escape for thee from it; for I endeavored to propitiate thee, and humbled myself before thee, yet thou wouldst nothing but my destruction, though I had committed no offence to deserve it, and had done ik) evil to thee whatever, but only good, delivering thee from thy confinement. And when thou didst thus unto me, I perceived that thou wast radically corrupt: and I would have thee to know that my motive for throwing thee into 350 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. the sea is that I may acquaint with thy story every one that shall take thee out, and caution him against thee, that he may cast thee in again. Thus shalt thou remain in this sea to the end of time, and experience varieties of torment." The Afrite then said, " Liberate me, for this is an opportunity for thee to display humanity. And I vow to thee that I will never do thee harm ; but on the contrary, will do thee a service which shall enrich thee forever." Upon this the fisherman accepted the covenant that he would not hurt him, but that he would do him good; and when he had bound him by oaths and vows, and made him swear by the Most Great Name of God, he opened to him; and the smoke ascended until it had all come forth, and then collected together, and became, as before, an Afrite of hideous form. The Afrite then kicked the bottle into the sea. When the fisherman saw him do this he made sure of destruction, and said, " This is no sign of -nod;" but afterwards he fortified his heart, and said, "O Afrite! God, whose name be exalted, hath said, 'Perform the covenant; for the cove- nant shall be inquired into : ' and thou hast cove- nanted with me, and sworn that thou wilt not act treacherously towards me. Therefore, if thou so act, God will recompense thee: for He is jealous; He respiteth, but suffereth not to escape. And remember that I said to thee, as said the sage Douban to the Grecian King, ' Spare me, and so may God spare thee.' " The Afrite laughed, and, walking on before him said, " O fisherman, follow me." The fisherman did so. not believing in his escape, until they had quitted the neighborhood of the city, and as- cended a mountain, and descended into a wide desert tract, in the midst of which was a lake of water. Here the Afrite stopped, and ordered the fisherman to cast his net, and take some iish. And the fisherman, looking into the lake, saw in it fish of different colors — white and red, and blue, and yellow; at which he was astonished. And lie cast his net, and drew it in, and found in THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. 351 it four fish, each fish of a different color from the others; at the sight of which he rejoiced. The Afrite then said to him, " Take them to the Sultan, and present them to him, and he will give thee what will enrich thee. And, for the sake of God, accept my excuse, for at present I know no other way of rewarding thee, having been in the sea a thousand and eight hundred years, and not having seen the surface of the earth until now; hut take not fish from the lake more than once each day. And now I commend thee to the care .of God." — Having thus said, he struck the earth with his foot and it clove asunder, and swallowed him. The fisherman carried the four fish to the Sultan ; but it was found impossible to cook them; no sooner were they placed in the frying-pan than a spirit appeared and over- turned the. pan. This was repeated several times; and at length the Sultan resolved to fathom the mystery. As it appears in the sequel, this lake was in the centre of an enchanted region, the inhabitants of which had been transformed — the Mohammedans into white, the Magians into red, the Chris- tians into blue, and the Jews into yellow fishes. The Sultan advanced a couple of days' journey, and came upon a seemingly deserted palace, from which a low voice of lamentation was heard. He entered, and found lying upon a couch a young man, all of whose body from the waist down, had been turned to stone. He told the story of his misfortune. He was the Prince of the Black Islands and the Four Mountains. His wife, who was a potent enchantress, had become enraged with him, because he had detected her infidelities, and had not only thus afflicted him, but had transformed his kingdom into a lake, and all his subjects into fishes. The Saltan contrived to induce the 352 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS. enchantress to dissolve all her spells ; so that the Prince was restored to his natural form, the lake became a city again, and the fishes men, as they had been. He then killed the enchantress with his own hand. After which lie asked of the restored Prince, whether he would go with him to his capital, or remain there in his own city. "OKing of the age," said the Prince, "dost thou know the distance that is between thee and thy city?" — "Two days and a half," answered the Sultan. — " O King," replied the young man, "if thou hast been asleep, awake: between thee and thy city is a distance of a year's journey to him who travelleth with diligence; and thou earnest in two days and a half only because the city was enchanted. But, O King, I will never leave thee for the twinkling of an eye." The King rejoiced at his words, and said, "Praise be to God, who hath in his beneficence given thee to me: thou art my son; lov during my whole life I have never been blessed with a son:" and they embraced each other and rejoiced exceedingly. They then went together into the palace, where the Prime who had been enchanted informed the officers of his court that he was about to perform the holy pilgrimage. So they prepared for him everything that he required; and he departed with the Sultan, accompanied by fifty mem- looks. They continued their journey night and day for a whole year: alter which they drew near to the city of the Sultan. And the Vizier and the troops, who had lost all hope of his return, came forth to meet him. The troops approaching him kissed the ground before him and congratulated him on his safe return; and he entered the city, and sat upon the throne. He then acquainted the Vizier with all that had happened to the young Prince; on hearing which the Vizier congratulated the latter, also, on his safety. And when all things were restored to order, the Sultan bestowed pres- ents upon a number of his subjects, and said to FRANCES D'ARBLAY. 353 the Vizier, " Bring to me the fisherman who pre- sented to me the fish."' So he sent to this fisherman, who had been the cause of the restoration of the inhabitants of the enchanted city, and brought him. And the King invested him with a rube of honor, and inquired of him respecting his circumstances, and whether he had any children. The fisherman informed him that he had a son and two daughters. And the King, on hearing this, took as his wife one of the .laughters; and the young Prince married the other. The King also conferred upon the son the office of treasurer. He then sent the Vizier to the city of the young Prince, the capital of the Black Islands, and invested him with its sover- eignty; despatching with him the fifty memlooks who had accompanied him thence, with numerous robes of honor to all the Emirs. And the Vizier kissed his hands, and set forth on his journey; while the Sultan and the young Prince remained. And as to the fisherman, he became the wealth- iest of the people of his age; and his daughters continued to be the wives of the Kings until they died. Scheherazade had begun this story in the middle of the third night. She concluded it at the middle of the ninth night; adding, "But this is not more wonderful than what happened to the porter." At Shahriar's re- quest, she then launched out into this neAv story, which was kept up until the middle of the eighteenth night, and so on, for a Thou- sand Nights and One. ARBLAY, Frances d 1 (Burney), an English novelist, born at Lynn Regis, Norfolkshire, June 13, 1752, died at Bath, in Jan., 1840. Her father, Charles Burney, was a dis- tinguished musician and author of an es- teemed History of Music. In 1760 he took up his residence in London, where he was intro- duced into the best literary and artistic soci- ety of the day. Among those who were inti- 354 FRANCES D'AllBLAY. mate with the Burney family were Sam. Johnson, David Garrick, and Edmimd Burke. James Burney, the eldest son, entered the British navy; accompanied Cook on two of his long voyages, of which he wrote narra- tives, one of them extending to five quarto volumes. He died in 1820, having attained the rank of Rear Admiral. The second son, named Charles, after his father, entered the Church, became one of the King's Chap- lains, and Prebendary of Lincoln. He was an eminent Greek scholar, and wrote several essays upon the Greek classics. He died in 1817, and his valuable library was purchased by Government for the British Museum. Two of the daughters of the elder Charles Burney are known in literature. Sarah Har- riet Burney, the younger of the sisters, wrote the novels, Geraldine Faucoriberg ; Tlte Wanderer; The Shipwreck; Tales of the Fancy; and Traits of Nature, all of which had some reputation in their day, though now as good as forgotten. Frances (commonly known as Fanny) Bur- ney was left to grow up much in her own way. It is said that at the age of eight she did not even know the letters of the alphabet, but at fifteen she had written several tales, without the knowledge of any one except one of her sisters. Her first novel, Evelina, is said to have been written while she was in her teens ; but was not published until 1778, when she had entered her twenty-sixth year. It was put forth anonymously, but at once attracted public attention. This was fol- lowed, in 1782, by Cecilia, which fully sus- tained her reputation. It was ' ' more finished than Evelina, but less rich in comic charac- ters and dialogue." Soon after this she be- came acquainted with Mrs. Delany, a vener- able lady of high culture who had formerly FRANCES D'ARBLAY. 355 belonged to the Court, and was now on inti- mate terms with King George III. and the pompous but well-meaning Queen Charlotte, upon whom Frances made so favorable an impression that she was offered the position of Second Keeper of the Eobes to the Queen, with a salary of £200 a year; and some per- quisites. This position at Court, apparently so desirable, was nothing more than a splen- did slavery. Macaulay, in one of his latest Essays, thus depicts it : FKANCES BTJRNEY AT COUKT. A German lady of the name of Hagerdom, one of the keepers of the Queen's Robes, retired about this time, and her Majesty offered the vacant post to Miss Barney. When we consider that Frances Barney was decidedly the most popular writer of fictitious narrative then living, that competence if not opulence was within her reach, and that she was more than usually happy in her domestic cir- cle, and when we compare the sacrifice which she was invited to make with the compensation which was held out to her, we are divided between laugh- ter and indignation What was demanded of her was that she should consent to be almost as completely separated from her family and friends as if she had gone to Cal- cutta, and almost as close a prisoner as if she had been sent to jail for a libel; that with talents which had instructed and delighted the highest living minds, she should be summoned by a wait- ing-woman's bell to a waiting-woman's duties; that she should pass her whole life under the re- straints of a paltry etiquette, should sometimes fast till she was ready to swoon with hunger, should sometimes stand still till her knees gave way with fatigue; that she should not dare to speak or move without considering how her mis- tress might like her words and gestures. Instead of those distinguished men and women, the flower of all political parties, with whom she had been in the habit of mixing on terms of equal friendship, she was to have for her perpetual companion the 356 FRANCES D'ARBLAY. Chief Keeper of the Robes, an old hag from Cer many, of mean understanding, of insolent man ners, and of temper which, naturally savage, had now been exasperated by disease. Now and then, indeed, poor Fiances might console herself for the loss of Burke paid Windham's society, by joining in the " celestial colloquy sublime "' of His Majes- ty's Equerries. And what was the consideration for which she was to sell herself to this slavery ? A peerage in her own right? A pension of £2000 a year for life ? A seventy-four for her brother in the Navy? A deanery for her brother in the church ? Not so. The price at which she was valued was her board, her lodging, the attendance of a man-servant, and £200 a year. It was evidently understood as one of the terms of her engagement, that, while she was a member of the Royal Household, she was not to appear before the public as an author; and even had there been no such understanding, her avocations were such as left her no leisure for any considerable intellectual effort. That her place- was incompatible with her literary pursuits was indeed frankly acknowledged by the King when she resigned. "She has given up," he said, '"five years of her pen." That during those five years she might, without painful exertions — without any exertion that would not have been a pleasure — have earned enough to buy an annuity for life much larger than the precarious salary which she received at Court, is quite certain. We can- not venture to speak confidently of the price of millinery and jewellery; but we are greatly de- ceived if a lady who had to attend Queen Charlotte on many public occasions, could possibly save a farthing out of £200 a year. The principle of the arrangement was, in short, simply this: That Frances Burney should become a slave, and should be rewarded by being made a beggar. With what object their Majesties brought her to their palace, we must own ourselves unable to conceive. Their object could not be to encour- age her literary exertions; for they took her from a situation in which it was almost certain that she would write, and put her into a situation in FRANCES D'ARBLAY. 357 which it was almost impossible for her to write. Their object could not be to promote her pecu- niary interest; for they took her from a situation where she was likely to become rich, and put her into a situation in which she could not but con- tinue poor. Their object could not be to obtain an eminently useful waiting-maid; for although Frances Burney was the only woman of her time who could have described the death of Barrel, thousands might have been found more expert in tying ribbons and in filling snuff-boxes. To grant her a pension on the Civil Inst would have been an act of judicious liberality honorable to the Court. If this was impracticable, the best thing was to let her alone. That the King and the Queen meant her nothing but kindness, we do not in the least doubt. But their kindness was the kindness of persons raised high above the mass of mankind; accustomed to be" addressed with profound deference, accus- tomed to see all who approached them mortified by their coldness, and elated by their smiles. They fancied that to lie noticed by them, to be near them, to serve them, was in itself a kind of happiness; and that Fiances Burney ought to be full of gratitude for being permitted to purchase, by the sacrifice of health, wealth, freedom, domes- tic affection, and literary fame, the privilege of standing behind a Royal chair, and holding a pair of Royal gloves. And who can blame them '? What wonder that Princes should be under such a delusion, when they are encouraged in it by the vevy persons who suffer from it most cruelly ? Was it to be expected that George III. and Queen Charlotte should understand the interest of Frances Burney better, or promote it with more zeal than herself and her father ? No deception was practised. The conditions of the House of Bondage were set forth with all simplicity. The hook was presented without a bait; the net was spread in sight of the bird ; and the naked hook was greedily swallowed, and the silly bird made haste to entangle herself in the net.— Macaulay, upon Madame Tf Arbla y . 358 FRANCES D'ARBLAY. Frances Burney endured this miserable life of splendid slavery for five years. All her friends saw that it was killing her; had, in- deed, well-nigh killed her. It was at length resolved upon that she should resign her situation at Court. She could hardly, al- though her life was at stake, muster courage enough for the terrible task. "I could not," she wrote in her Diary, ' ' summon courage to present my memorial ; my heart always failed me from seeing the Queen's entire freedom from such an expectation. For though I was frequently so ill in her presence that I could hardly stand, I saw she concluded me— while life remained — inevitably hers." But the let- ter of resignation was at length presented; and then there was an uproar in the Royal circle which Frances Burney has well de- scribed: "Madame Schwellenberg, the First Keeper of the Robes," she writes, "was too much enraged for disguise, and uttered the most furious expressions of indignant con- ten ipt at the proceedings of my father and my- self. I am sure she would gladly have con- fin. -d us both in the Bastile, had England such a misery, as a fit place to bring us to ourselves, from a daring so outrageous against Imperial wishes." — It was finally promised that, after the next birthday — a fortnight hence — poor Frances should be released from her attend- ance upon the Royal person. RESIGNING FROM COURT. '■ I heart! this with a fearful presentiment that I should surely never go through another fort- night, iu so weak and languishing and painful a st ite of health. ... As the time of separation approached, the Queen's cordiality rather dimin- ished, and traces of internal displeasure appeared sometimes, arising from an opinion I ought rather to have struggled on, live or die, than to quit her. Yet I am sure she saw how poor was my own FRANCES D'ARBLAY. :J50 chance, except by a change in the mode of life, and at least ceased to wonder though she could not approve." — Diary of Madame WArblay. "Sweet Queen," exclaims Macaulay, iron- ically, "what noble candor to admit that the u iid liti fulness of people, who did not think the honor of adjusting her tuckers worth the Bacrifice of their own lives, was, though criminal, not altogether unnatural ! " — King George III. , with all his pig-headedness, was, after his fashion, a rather decent sort of man ; and he declared that poor Frances Burney ought to have some provision made for her, and so a pension of £100 a year was granted to her, dependent, however, upon the good pleasure of the somewhat irate Queen Char- lotte. So Frances Burney, at the age of nearly forty, went In >mc again. England was at this time (1791) swarming with French refugees, driven away by the Great Revolution. Among these was a certain Count D'Arblay, to whom Frances Burney was married in 1793. She soon resumed the use of her pen, and in 1795 produced a tragedy, Edwin and Elgitha, which seems to have excited more laughter than tears, although the part of the heroine was played by Mrs. Siddons. Her next literary venture, the novel Camilla, was a successful one, in so far that, being pub- lished by subscription, it brought her 3000 guineas — a greater sum, it is said, than had ever before been realized by the author of a novel. Upon the accession of Napoleon to the rule of France, Madame D'Arblay, as she must now be named, accompanied her hus- band to France, where they resided for about ten years. She then returned to England, and with the proceeds of. her last novel, bought a pleasant little villa, which she named "Ca- milla Lodge." She again tried her hand at 360 FRANCES D'AKBLAY. authorship, and in 1814 produced The Wan- derer, a long novel which brought her £1500. Her husband died not long after, and subse- quently her only son, who seems to have been a young man of decided promise. In 1S32 she wrote a Memoir of her father, which was her last work, for her Diary and Letters which were issued in 1842, were written long before, and come down only to about the time of her marriage in 1703. The fame of Frances Burney rests wholly upon her two comparatively early novels, Evelina and ('('cilia, and that fame has hardly outlived her generation. "In them,"' says one critic. " wo see her quick in discernment, lively in invention, and inimitable in her own way in portraying the humors and oddities of English Society. She deals with the pal- pable and familiar; and there is enough of real life in her personages to interest, amuse, and instruct. Her sarcasm, drollery, and broad humor must always be relished/' Ma- caulay, on the other hand, treats her rather slightingly: "Her reputation," lie says. " rests on Avliat she did during the earlier half of her life, and every- thing which she published during the forty-three years which preceded her death, lowered her repu- tation. Yet we have no reason to think that at the time when her faculties ought to have heen in their maturity, they were smitten by any sudden blight. In The Wanderer we catch now and then a gleam of genins. Even in the Memoirs of her father there is no trace of dotage. They are very had; but they are so. as it seems to us, not from a decay of power, but from a total perversion of power. The truth is, that Madame D'Arblay's style underwent a most pernicious change. When she wrote her first novel, her style was not indeed brilliant or energetic; hut it was easy, clear, and fie.' from all offensive faults. When she wrote f ecilia, she aimed higher. She had then lived FRANCES U'ARBLAY. 3G1 much in a circle of which Johnson was the centre; and she was one of his most submissive worship- pers. It seems never to have crossed her mind that the style even of his best writings was by no means faultless; and that even if it had been faultless, it might not be wise in her to imitate it. In an evil hour the author of Evelina took the Rambler for her model. This would not have been wise even if she could have imitated her pattern as well as Hawkcsworth did. But such imitation was beyond her power. She had her own style. It was a comparatively good one, and might, without any violent change, have been improved into a very good one. She determined to throw it away, and to adopt a style in which she could attain excellence only by achieving an almost miraculous victory over nature and over habit. She could cease to be Fanny Burney; it was not so easy to become Samuel Johnson." Macaulay goes on to quote several passages which he presents as examples of Madame D'Arblay's style at three pei-iods of her life. "She had carried," he says, "a bad style to France. She brought back a style which we are really at a loss to describe. It is a sort of broken Johnsonese, a barbarous patois, bearing the same relation to the language of Rasselas, which the gibberish of the Negroes of Jamaica bears to the English of the House of Lords. It matters not what ideas are clothed in such a style. The genius of Shakespeare and Bacon united would not save a work so written from general de- rision." In her Diary Frances Burney tells George III. the circumstances attending the compo- sition of Evelina. The conversation took place just before she entered the Royal household, as Second Keeper of Her Maj- esty's Robes: 362 FRANCES D'ABBLAY. GEOKGE III. AND FBANCES BUBNEY. The King went up to the table, and looked at a hook of prints which had been brought down for Miss Dewes; but Mrs. Delany, by mistake, told him they were for me. He turned over a leaf or two. and then said — " Pray, does Miss Burney draw too?" The too was pronounced very civilly. "I believe not, Sir," answered Mrs. Delany; " at least she does not tell." "Oh," cried he, laughing; "that's nothing, she never does tell, you know. Iler father told me that himself. He told me the whole histoiy of her Evelina; and I shall never forget his face when he spoke of his feelings at first taking up the book. He looked quite frightened, just as if he was doing it that moment. I never can forget that face while I live." Then coming up close to me, he said: "But what! what! how was it?" " Sir? " cried I, not well understanding him. " How came you — how happened it — what — what! how was it ? " " I — I only wrote, Sir, for my amusement — only in some odd idle hours." " But your publishing — your printing — how was that?" " That was only, Sir — only because " I hesitated most abominably, not knowing how to tell him a long story, and growing terribly confused at these questions; besides, to say the truth, his own " What! what!" so reminded me of those vile Probationary Odes [by "Peter Pin- dar"] that in the midst of all my flutter I was hardly able to keep my countenance. The " what! *' was then repeated, with so earn- est a look, that, forced to say something, I stam- meringly answered: "I thought, Sir, it would look very well in print." I do really flatter myself that this is the silliest speech I ever made. I am quite provoked with myself for it. But a fear of laughing made me eager to utter anything, and by no means con- scious, till I had spoken, of what I was saying. He laughed very heartily — well he might — and FRANCES D'ARBLAY. 363 walked away to enjoy it, crying out: "Very fair indeed; that's being very fair and honest;" Then returning to me again, he said: "But your father — how came you not to show him what you had written? " " I was too much ashamed of it, Sir, seri- ously." — Literal truth that, I am sure. " And how did he find it out? " " I don't know myself, Sir; he would never tell me. " — Literal truth again, my dear father, as you can testify. " But how did you get it printed? " "I sent it to a bookseller my father never em- ployed, and that I have never seen myself — Mr. Lowndes — in full hope that by that means he never would hear of it." " But how could you manage that?" " By means of a brother, Sir." "Oh, you confided in a brother then?" "Yes, Sir— that is, for the publication." " What entertainment you must have had from hearing people's conjectures before you were known. Do you remember any of them? " " Yes, Sir, many." "And what?" " I heard that Mr. Barretti had laid a wager it was written by a man; for no woman, he said, could have kept her own counsel." This diverted him extremely. "But how was it," he continued, "you thought it most likely for your father to discover you? " "Sometimes, Sir, I supposed I must have dropt some of the manuscripts; sometimes that one of my sisters betrayed me." "Oh! your sister? What! not your brother? " " No, Sir; he could not, for - " I was going on. but he laughed so much I could not be heard, exclaiming: "Vastly well! I see you are of Mr. Barretti's mind, and think your brother could keep your secret, and not your sister. Well, but," cried he presently, "how was it first known to you that you were betrayed? " "By a letter, Sir, from another sister. I was very ill, and in the country; and she wrote me word that my father had taken up a Review, 364 FRANCES D'ARBLAY. in which the hook was mentioned, and had put his finger upon the name, and said, ' (Outlive to get that hook for me.' " "And when he got it," cried the King, "he told me he was afraid of looking at it; and never can I forget his face when he mentioned his first opening it. But you have not kept your pen un- employed all this time? " "Indeed I have, Sir." "But why?" " I — I helieve I have exhausted myself, Sir." He laughed aloud at this, and went and told it to Mrs. Delany, civilly treating a plain fact, as a mere bon mot. Then turning to me again, he said, more seriously: "But you have not determined against writing any more? " "N— o, Sir." "You have made no vow — no real resolution of that sort?" "No, Sir." " You only wait for inclination? " "No, Sir." A very civil little how spoke him pleased with this answer, and he went again to the middle of the room, where he chiefly stood, and addressed us in general, talked upon the different motives in writing, concluding with, " I helieve there is no constraint to be put on real genius; nothing hut inclination can set it to work. Miss Burney, how- ever, knows best." And then hastily returning to me, he cried, " What! what!" "No, Sir, I— I — helieve not," quoth I very awkwardly ; for I seemed taking a violent compli- ment only as my due ; but I knew not how to put him off as I would another persou. — Diary. This scene took place before Frances Bur- ney was installed as a quasi member of the Royal household. Not very long after this event — that is early in August, 1786 — an in- sane woman, named Margaret Nicholson, attempted to kill King George III. Miss Burney, in a letter, gives an account of how FRANCES D'ARBLAY. 365 the affair looked when viewed from the Court circle : ATTEMPT TTPON THE KIXo's LIFE. An attempt has been made upon the life of the Kin,"': I was almost petrified with horror at this intelligence. If the King is not safe — good, pious, beneficent as he is; if his life is in danger from his own subjects, what is to guard the throne? and which way is a monarch to be secure '? .... Madame LaFite had heard of the attempt only, not the particulars; but I was afterwards informed of them in the most interesting manner; namely, how they were reported to the Queen. And as the newspapers will have told you all else, I shall only and briefly tell that: No information arrived here of the matter before His Majesty's return, at the usual hour in the after- noon, from the levee. The Spanish Minister had hurried off instantly to Windsor, and was in wait- ing at Lady Charlotte Finch's, to be ready to as- sure Her Majesty of the King's safety, in case any report anticipated his return. The Queen had the two eldest Princesses, the Duchess of Ancas- ter, and Lady Charlotte Bertie, with her when the King came in. He hastened up to her, with a countenance of striking vivacity, and said — "Here I am! — safe and well, as you see; but I have very narrowly escaped being stabbed." His own conscious safety, and the pleasure he felt in thus personally showing it to the Queen, made him not awai-e of the effect of so abrupt a communication. The Queen was seized with a consternation that at first almost stupefied her, and after a most painful silence, the first words she could articulate were, in looking round at the Duchess and Lady Charlotte, who had both burst into tears, " I envy you — I can't cry!" The two Princesses were for a little while in the same state; but the tears of the Duchess proved infec- tious, and they then wept even with violence. The King, with the gayest good-humor, did his utmost to comfort them; and then gave a relation of the affair, with a calmness and unconcern that 366 FRANCES D'ARBLAY. had any one hut himself been his hero, would have been regarded as totally unfeeling. You may have heard it all wrong; but I will concisely tell it right. His carriage had just stopped at the garden door of St. James's, and he had just alighted from it when a decently dressed woman, who had been waiting for him some time, approached him with a petition. It was rolled up, and had the usual superscription — " For the King's Most Excellent Majesty." She presented it with her right hand; and at the same moment that the King bent forward to take it, she drew from it, with her left hand, a knife, with which she aimed straight at his heart. The fortunate awkwardness of taking the instrument with the left hand, made her design perceived hefore it could be executed. The King started back, scarce believing the testimony of his own eyes; and the woman made a second thrust which just touched his waistcoat, hefore he had time to prevent her; and at that moment one of the attendants, seeing her horrible intent, wrenched the knife from her hand. '• Has she cut my waistcoat ?" cried he, in tell- ing it. " Look, for I have had no time to ex- amine." Thank Heaven, however, the poor wretch had not gone quite so far. '" Though nothing," added the King, in giving the relation, " could have been sooner done, for there was nothing for her to go through but a thin linen and fat." While the guards and his own people now sur- rounded the King, the assassin was seized by the populace, who were tearing her away, no doubt to fall the instant victim of her murtherous purpose, when the King — the only calm and moderate per- son then present — called aloud to the mob : " The poor ci"eature is mad ! Do not hurt her! She has not hurt me!" He then came forward, and showed himself to all the people, declaring he was perfectly safe and unhurt; and then gave positive orders that the woman should be taken care of; and went into the palace, and held his levee. There is something in the whole of this behavior upon this occasion that strikes me as a proof of a FRANCES D'ARBLAY. 3G7 true and noble courage: for in a moment so ex- traordinary — an attack in this country unheard of before — to settle so instantly that it was the effect of insanity, to feel no apprehension of private plot or latent conspiracy — to stay out, fearlessly, among his people, and so benevolently to see him- self to the safety of one who had raised her hand against his life — these little traits, impulsive, and therefore to be trusted, have given me an impres- sion of respect and reverence that I can never for- get, and never think of but with fresh admiration. — Letters. When, at the age of twenty or thereabouts, Frances Burney wrote Evelina, her style was simple, unaffected, and perspicuous. She had a quick perception of character, and told just what she had to tell, speaking in the per- son of her heroine, who is the main narrator. Thus: THE BRAUGHTON FAMILY. The son seems weaker in his understanding, and more gay in his temper; but his gayety is that of an overgrown schoolboy, whose mirth consists in noise and disturbance. He disdains his father for his close attention to business and love of money, though he seems himself to have no tal- ents, spirits, or generosity to make him superior to either. His chief delight appears to be in tor- menting and ridiculing his sisters, who in return most cordially despise him. Miss Braughton, the eldest daughter, is by no means ugly.; but looks proud, ill-tempered, and conceited. She hates the city, though without knowing why; for it is easy to discover she has lived nowhere else. Miss Polly Braughton is rather pretty, very foolish, very ignorant, very giddy — and I believe very good- natured. . . . Mrs. Selwyn is very kind and atten- tive to me. She is extremely clever. Her under- standing, indeed, may be called masculine; but unfortunately her manners deserve the same epi- thet; for in studying to acquire the knowledge of the other sex, she lost all the softness of her own. In regard to myself, however, as I have neither 368 FRANCES D'AKBLAY. the courage nor inclination to argue with her, I have never heen personally hurt at her want of gentleness — a virtue which nevertheless seems so essential a part of female character, that I find myself more awkward and less at ease with a woman who wants it than I do with a man. — Eve- lina. When Frances Burney wrote her second novel, Cecilia, she had come to be intimate with Dr. Johnson. She certainly tried to imi- tate him ; so much so that it has been plausi- bly conjectured that the ponderous Doctor wrote, now and then, a paragraph for her. Thus of the following, Macaulay says: " We say with confidence, either Sam Johnson or the Devil:" CHABACTEB OF MR. DELVILLE. Even the imperious Mr. Delville was more sup- portable here than in London. Secure in his own castle, he looked round him with a pride of power and possession which softened while it swelled him. His superiority was undisputed; his will was without control. He was not, as in the great capital of the kingdom, surrounded by competitors. N"o rivalry disturbed his peace; no equality mortified his greatness. All he saw were either vassals of his power, or guests bending to his pleasure. He abated, therefore, considerably the stern gloom of his haughtiness, and soothed his proud mind by the courtesy of condescension. — Cecilia. But during the latter half of her long life Madame D'Arblay could never content her- self with saying the simplest thing in any other than a stilted manner. To be starved to death is to " sink from inanition into non- entity." A crime which subjects one .to im- prisonment is one ' ' which produces incarcer- ation." Chimney-sweepers are "those hap- less artificers who perform the most abject offices of any authorized calling, in being the JOHN ARBUTHNOT. active guardians of our blazing hearths." Her father, returning from a tour on the Con- tinent, suffered a rheumatic attack, which is thus grandiloquently commemorated : A FIT OF RHEUMATISM. He was assaulted, during his precipitated re- turn, by the rudest fierceness of wintry elemental strife, through which, with bad accommodations and innumerable accidents, lie became a prey to the merciless pangs of the acutest spasmodic rheu- matism, which barely suffered him to reach his home, ere long and piteously, it confined him, a tortured prisoner to his bed. Such was the check that almost instantly curbed, though it could not subdue the rising pleasure of his hopes of enter- ing upon a new species of existence — that of an approved man of letters; for it was on the bed of sickness, exchanging the light wines of France, Italy, and Germany for the black and loathsome potions of the Apothecaries' Hall, writhed by darting stitches, and burning with fiery fever, that he felt the full force of that sublunary equi- poise that seemed evermore to hang suspended over the attainment of long-sought and uncom- mon felicity, just as it is lipening to burst forth with enjoyment! — Memoir of Iter Father. AKBUTHNOT, John, a British physician and author, born in Kincardineshire, Scot- land, in 1667; died near London in 1735. He studied medicine at the university of Aber- deen, and soon after taking his degree went to London, where he for a time supported himself by giving lessons in mathematics. He wrote an Examination of Dr. Woodward's Account of the Deluge, and several scientific essays and satires which brought him into notice as a man of learning and wit. He became a member of that literary circle of which Pope, Swift, Gay, and Prior werejnem- bers. Swift said of him, "He has more wit than we all have, and more humanity than 24 370 JOHN ARBUTHNOT. wit ; " and Pope declared that he was fitter to live and to die than any man he knew. Hap- pening to be at Epsom when Prince George of Denmark, the husband of Queen Anne, was taken with a sudden fit of gout, Arbuthnot treated him so successfully that he was made the regular physician to the Prince, and after- ward physician in ordinary to the Queen. He was the author of several professional and scientific works, among which was a learned treatise upon Ancient Coins, Weights, and Measures. The satirical Memoirs of Martin us Scriblerius, published among the Works of Pope, was written mainly, if not wholly, by Arbuthnot. Other satirical essays by Arbuth- not are the Altercation or Scolding of the Ancients, and the Art of Political Lying. His most notable Avork, however, is The His- tory of John Bull, published in 1712. This was primarily designed to ridicule the Duke of Marlborough, and to render unpopular the war then raging with France. There have been numerous imitations of this History, in which the politics of later times have been similarly satirized. joiix bum* {the English), NIC frog (the Dutch), and hocus {the Duke of Marlborough), Bull, in the main, was an honest plain-dealing fellow, choleric, bold, and of a very un constant temper, he dreaded not old Lewis [the king of Prance] either at backsword, single falchion, or ciulgebplay; but then he was very apt to quarrel with his best friends, especially if they pretended to govern him; if you flattered him. yon might lead him like a child. John's temper depended very mnch upon the air; his spirits rose and fell with the weather-glass. John was quick, and understood his business very well; hut no man alive was more careless in looking into his accompts, or more cheated by partners, appren- tices, and servants. This was occasioned by his JOHN AKBUTHNOT. 371 being a boon-companion, loving bis bottle and bis diversion; for, to say truth, no man kept a better bouse than John, nor spent his money more gen- erously. By plain and fair dealing, John had ac- quired some plums, and might have kept them, had it not been for his unhappy lawsuit [the war with France] . Nic. Frog was a cunning sly rogue, quite the re- verse of John in many particulars; covetous, fru- gal; minded domestic affairs; would pinch his belly to save his pocket; never lost a farthing by careless servants or bad debtors. lie did not care much for any sort of diversions, except tricks of High German artists and legerdemain; no man exceeded Nic. in these; yet it must be owned that Mc. was a fair dealer, and in that way ac- quired immense riches. Hocus was an old cunning attorney; and though this was the first considerable suit he was en- gaged in, he showed himself superior in address to most of his profession^ he always kept good clerks, he loved money, was smooth-tongued, gave good words, and seldom lost bis temper; but he loved himself better than all. The neighbors re- ported that he was henpecked; which was impossi- ble by such a mild-spirited woman as his wife was. — The History of John Bull. john bull's mother (the Anglican Church). John had a mother whom he loved and honored extremely; a discreet, grave, sober, good-condi- tioned, cleanly old gentlewoman as ever lived. She was none of your cross-grained, termagant, scolding jades, that one had as good be hanged as live in the bouse with; such as are always cen- suring the conduct, and telling scandalous stories of their neighbors, extolling their own good quali- ties, and undervaluing those of others. On the contrary, she was of a meek spirit; and as she was strictly virtuous herself, so she always put the best construction upon the words and actions of her neighbors, except where they were irrecon- cilable to the rules of honesty and decency. She was neither one of your precise prudes, nor one of your fantastical old belles that dress themselves 372 JOHN ARBUTHNOT. like girls of lif teen. As she neither wore a ruff, forehead-cloth, nor high-crowned hat, so she had laid aside feathers, flowers, and crimpt ribbons in her head-dress, furbelow scarfs, and hooped petti- coats. She scorned to patch and paint, yet she loved to keep her hands and her face clean. Though she wore no flaunting laced ruffles, she would not keep herself in a constant sweat with greasy flannel; though her hair was not stuck with jewels, she was not ashamed of a diamond cross. She was not like some ladies, hung about with toys and trinkets, tweezer-cases, pocket-glasses, and essence-bottles; she used only a gold watch and an almanac, to mark the hours and the holidays. Her furniture was neat and genteel, well-fan- cied, with a bon gout. As she affected not the grandeur of a state with a canopy, she thought there was no offence in an elbow-chair. She had laid aside your carving, gilding, and japan-work, as being too apt to gather dirt; but she never could be prevailed upon to part with plain wain- scot and clean hangings. There are some ladies that affect to smell a stink in everything; they are always highly perfumed, and continually burning frankincense in their rooms. She was above such affectation, yet she never would lay aside the use of brooms and scrubbing-brushes, and scrupled not to lay her linen in fresh lavender. . . . There are some ladies that affect a mighty re- gard for their relations: "We must not eat to- day, for my uncle Tom, or my cousin Betty, died this time ten years;" or '"Let's have a ball to- night, it is my neighbor siuh-an-one's birthday." She looked upon all this as grimace; yet she con- stantly observed her husband's birthday, her wed- ding-day, and some few more Though she was a truly good woman, and had a sincere motherly love for her son John, yet there wanted not those who endeavored to create a mis- understanding between them; and they had so far prevailed with him once that he turned her out of doors — to his great sorrow, as he found afterwards: for his affairs went on at sixes and sevens Though she had a thousand good qualities, she was not without her faults; amongst JOHN AIL13UTIINOT. 373 which one might perhaps reckon too great lenity to her servants, to whom she always gave good counsel, but often too gentle correction. — The His- tory of John Bull. John bull's sister peg [the Scottish Nation). John had a sister, a poor girl that had been starved at nurse. Anybody would have guessed Miss to have been bred up under the influence of a cruel stepdame, and John to be the fondling of a tender mother. John looked ruddy and plump, with a pair of cheeks like a trumpeter; Miss looked pale and wan, as if she had the green-sick- ness. And no wonder, for John was the darling; he had all the good bits, was crammed with good pullet, chicken, pig, goose, and capon; while Miss had only a little oatmeal and water, or a dry crust, without butter. John had his golden pip- pins, peaches, and nectarines; poor Miss a crab- apple, sloe, or blackberry Master lay in the best apartment, with his bed-chamber towards the south sun; Miss lodged in a garret, exposed to the north wind, which shrivelled her countenance. However, this usage, though it stunted the girl in her growth, gave her a hardy constitution. She had life and spirit in abundance, and knew when she was ill-used. Now and then she would seize upon John's commons, snatch a leg of a pul- let, or a bit of good beef, for which they were sure to go to fisticuffs. Master was indeed too strong for her ; but Miss would not yield in the least point; but even when Master had got her down, she would scratch and bite like a tiger; when he gave her a cuff on the ear, she would prick him with her knitting-needle. In short, these quarrels grew up into rooted aversions. They gave each other nicknames: she called him "Gundy-guts," and he called her " Lousy Peg," though the girl was a tight clever wench as any was; and through her pale looks you might dis- cern spirit and vivacity, which made her. not indeed a perfect beauty, but something that was agreeable. It was barbarous in the parents not to take notice of these early quarrels, and make them live better together; such domestic feuds 374 BARTOLOMEO ARGENSOLA. proving afterwards the occasion of misfortunes to them both. Peg had indeed some odd humors and comical antipathies, for which John would jeer her. "What think you of my sister Peg," says he, " that faints at the sound of an organ, and yet will frisk and dance at the noise of a bagpipe ? " — "What's that to you, Gundy-guts?" quoth Peg; " everybody's to choose their own music." — Then Peg had taken a fancy not to say her pater-noster, which made people imagine strange things of her. Of the three brothers that have made such a clatter in tiie world — Lord Peter [the Pope], Martin [Luther], and Jack [Calvin], Jack had of late been her inclination. Lord Peter she detested; nor did Martin stand much better in her good graces; but Jack had found the way to her heart.— The History of John Bull. ARGENSOLA, Bartolomeo Leonardo, a Spanish poet, born in 1566, died in 1633. He was made almoner to the Empress Maria, wid- ow of Maximilian II., and after the death of his brother Lnpercio, in 1613, succeeded him as Historiographer of Aragon. He was ap- pointed canon of the cathedral in Saragossa by Pope Paul II. He wrote a continuation of Zurita's Anales de Aragon, the Conquista de las Malucas, and several minor poems, which were not published until after his death. sonnet: on providence. " Parent of good ! Since all thy laws are just, Nay, why permits thy judging Providence Oppression's hand to bow ek Innocence, And gives prevailing strength to Fraud and Lust; Who steels with stubborn force the arm unjust, That proudly wars against Omnipotence? Who bids thy faithful sons, that reverence Thine holy will, be humbled in the dust?" — Amid the din of Joy fair Virtue sighs, While the fierce conqueror binds his impious head With laurel, and the car of triumph rolls. — LUPEKCIO AKGENSOLA. 375 Thus I, when radiant 'fore my wondering eyes A heavenly spirit stood, and smiling said: •• Blind Moralist! is Earth the sphere of souls?" — Transl. o/Hekuekt. ARGENSOLA, Lupercio Leonardo, a Spanish dramatist and poet, brother of the preceding, born in 15(55, died in 1613. He be- came chamberlain to the Archbishop of To- ledo, Secretary" to the widowed Empress Ma- ria of Austria ; was made Historiographer of Aragon, and subsequently went to Naples as Secretary of War and of State to the Viceroy, the Count de Lemos, where he founded the famous Accidentia degli Oziosi. He wrote three tragedies which were highly praised by Cervantes, but which w T ere lost for a century and a half after the death of Argensola, when the manuscript of two of them was accident- ally discovered, and first appeared in print in 1772. He also wrote satires, sonnets and can- ciones, which were published in connection with the poems of his brother. " Both broth- ers," says Mr. Ticknor, "are to be placed high in the list of Spanish lyric poets; next, per- haps, after the great masters. The elder shows, on the whole, more of original power ; but he left only half as many poems as his brother did." Lope de Vega, speaking of the purity of their style, says: "It seemed as though they had come from Aragon to reform Castilian verse." MARY MAGDALEN. Blessed, yet sinful one, and broken-hearted ! The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn. In wonder and in scorn Thou weepest days of innocence departed, Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to move The Lord to pity and to love. 376 THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, Even for the least of all the tears that shine On that pale cheek of thine. Thou didst kneel down to him who came from heaven, Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise Holy, and pure, and wise. It is not much that to the fragrant blossom The ragged brier should change; the bitter fir Distil Arabia's myrrh; Nor that, upon the wintry desert's bosom, The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain Bear home abundant grain. But come and see the bleak and barren mountains Thick to their top with roses; come and see Leaves on the dry, dead tree: The perished plant, set out by living fountains, Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise Forever towards the skies. — Transl. of Bkyant. AKGYLL, (George Douglas Campbell), eighth Duke of, in Scotland, was born in 1823, and succeeded to the Dukedom upon the death of his father in 1847 ; previous to which he had borne the courtesy title of Marquis of Lome, which has since been borne by his son, who in 1871 was married to the Princess Louise, daughter of Queen Victoria. Before his accession to the Dukedom he had become known as an author, public speaker, and poli- tician. He wrote several pamphlets bearing upon the "Free Church " controversy in Scot- land which was vehemently agitated about 1842, and was a warm advocate of the princi- ples maintained by Dr. Thomas Chalmers. After his accession to the peerage the Duke was an earnest supporter of " Liberal " meas- ures in the House of Lords. In 1852 he en- tered the Cabinet of the Earl of Aberdeen, as THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. 377 Lord Privy Seal; and held office under sev- eral successive administrations, with brief in- tervals, when his party was out of power. In 1881 he resigned the office of Lord Privy Seal in Mr. Gladstone's Cabinet, on account of a disagreement with his colleagues concern- ing some provisions of the Irish Land Bill. In 1851 the Duke was elected Chancellor of the University of St. Andrew's and in 1854 Rec- tor of the University of Glasgow. In 1855 he presided over the annual meeting of the Brit- ish Association for the Advancement of Sci- ence, and in 1861 was elected President of the Royal Society of Edinburgh. His writings, mainly upon current topics of the day, are numerous ; but some of his works of a more permanent character have passed through several editions, and have been republished in the United States. Among these are The Reign of Law (1866) ; Primeval Man (1869) ; and The Unity of Nature (1883). THE SUPERNATURAL AND THE NATURAL. Theological and philosophical writers frequently use the " supernatural " as synonymous with the "Superhuman." But this is not the sense in which any one can have any difficulty in believing in it. The powers and works of Nature are all superhuman; more than man can account for in their origin, more than he can resist in their en- ergy, more than he can understand and in their ef- fects. This, then, cannot be the sense in winch so many minds find it hard to accept the Supernat- ural, nor can it be the sense in which others cling to it as of the very essence of their religious faith. What, then, is that other sense in which the difficulty arises?— Perhaps we shall best furl it by seeking the idea which is competing with it, and by which it has been displaced. It is the Natural winch has been casting out the Supernat- ural: the idea of Natural Law— the universal reign of a fixed Order of Things. Tins idea is the product of that immense development of the 378 THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. physical sciences which is characteristic of our time. Sometimes, but rarely, it is stated with ac- curacy, and with due recognition of the lim- its within which Law can be said to comprehend the phenomena of the world. But generally it is expressed in language vague and hollow, covering inaccurate conceptions, and confound- ing under common forms of expression ideas which are essentially distinct. The mere ticket- ing and orderly assortment of external facts is constantly spoken of as if it were in the nature of explanation, and as if no higher truth in respect to natural phenomena were to be attained or de- sired. And herein we see both the result for which Bacon labored, and the result against which Bacon prayed. But every now and then, for a time at least, from " the unlocking of the gates of sense, and the kindling of a greater natural light, incredulity and intellectual night have arisen in our minds." But let us observe exactly where and how the difficulty arises: — The Reign of Law in Nature is indeed, so far as we can obseiwe it, universal. But the common idea of the Supernatural is that which is at variance with Natural Law — above it. or in violation of it. Nothing, however wonder- ful, winch happens according to Natural Law would lie considered by any one as Supernatural. The Law in obedience to which a wonderful thing happens may not be known: but this would not give it a supernatural character, so long as we as- suredly believe that it did happen according to some Law. Hence, it would appear to follow that a man thoroughly possessed of the idea of Natu- ral Law as universal, never could admit anything to be Supernatural; because seeing any fact, bow- ever new, marvellous, or incomprehensible, he would escape into the conclusion that it was the result of some Natural Law of which he had be- fore been ignorant. Seeing the boundless extent of our ignorance of the Natural Laws which regu- late the phenomena around us, nothing can be more reasonable than to conclude, when we see something which is to us a wonder, that some- how — if we only knew how — it is "all right," all THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. 379 according to the Constitution and the Course of Nature. But then, to justify this 'conclusion, we must understand "Nature" in the largest sense, as including all that is ."In the round ocean, and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man." We must understand it as including every agency which we see entering — or can conceive from anal- ogy as capahle of entering — into the causation of the world. First and foremost among these is the agency of our own Mind and Will. Yet, strange to say, all reference to this agency is often tacitly excluded when we speak of the "Laws of Nature." — The Reign of Law, Chap. I. VITAL FORCES AND MATTER. What is a Vital Force? It is something which we cannot see, but of whose existence we are as certain as we are of its visible effects; nay, which our reason tells us precedes and is superior to these. We often speak of Material Forces as if we could identify any kind of Force with Matter. But this is only one of the many ambiguities of language. All that we mean by a Material Force is a Force which acts upon Matter, and produces in Matter its own appropriate effects. We must go a step further, therefore, and ask ourselves, " What is Force? What is our conception of it? " What idea can we form, for example, of the real nature of that Force the measure of whose opera- tions has been so exactly ascertained — the Force of Gravitation? — It is invisible, imponderable; all our words for it arc but circumlocutions to ex- press its phenomena or effects. There are many kinds of Force in Nature which we distinguish after the same fashion, accord- ing to their effects, or according to the forms of Matter in which they become cognizable to us. But if we trace all our conceptions on the nature of Force to their fountain-head we shall find that they are formed on our own consciousness of Liv- ing Effort — of the force which has its seat in our own vitality; and especially on that kind of it which can be called forth at the bidding of the 3S0 THE DUKE OF AHGYLL. Will. In connecting, however, our conceptions of Force with the consciousness of Living Effort in ourselves, we must guard against mistaking anal- ogy for identity, and against confounding to- gether two items of knowledge which are .quite distinct. Correlative with the consciousness of Living Effort in ourselves, and inseparable from it, there is the consciousness of Force acting on us, as well as acting in us. Thus the knowledge of an external world — that is to say, the knowl- edge of external Force — stands side by side with the knowledge of Self. But if we come to ask ourselves farther questions as to the nature and seat of Material Force, we can only think of it in the terms of the Vital Force exerted by ourselves. If we can ever know anything of the nature of any Force it ought to be of this one ; and yet the fact is that we know nothing. If, then, we know nothing of that kind of Force which is so near us, and with which our own In- telligence is in such close alliance, much less can we know the ultimate nature of Force in its other forms. We know nothing of the ultimate nature or of the ultimate seat of Force. Science — in the modern doctrine of the Conservation of Energy, and the Convertibility of Forces — is already get- ting something like a firm hold of the idea that all kinds of Force are but forms or manifestations of some one Central Force issuing from some one Fountain-head of Power. Sir John Herschel has not hesitated to say that "it is but reasonable to regard the Force of Gravitation as the direct or indirect result of a Consciousness or Will existing somewhere." And even if we cannot certainly identify Force in all its forms with the direct en- ergies of One omnipresent and all-pervading Will, it is at least in the highest degree unphilosophical to assume the contrary; to speak or think as if the Forces of Nature were either independent of, or even separate from, the Creator's Power. — The Beign of Law, Chap. II. THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. SSI ANALOGY BETWEEN MAN'S WORKS AND THOSE OF THE CKEATOK. Whatever difficulty there may be in conceiving of a Will not exercised by a visible Person, it is a difficulty which cannot be evaded by arresting our conceptions at the point at which they have ar- rived in forming the idea of the Laws or Forces. That idea is itself made up out of elements de- rived from our own consciousness of Personality. It is perfectly true that the Mind does recognize in Nature a reflection of itself. But if this be a deception, it is a deception which is not avoided by transferring the idea of Personality to tlie ab- stract idea of Force, or by investing combinations of Force with the attributes of Mind. We need not be jealous then, when new do- mains are claimed as under the Reign of Law — au agency through which we see working everywhere some Purpose of the Everlasting Will. The mech- anisms devised by Man are in this respect only an image of the more perfect mechanism of Nature, in which the same principle of Adjustment is al- ways the highest result which Science can ascer- tain or recognize. There is this difference, in- deed — that in regard to our works our knowledge of Natural Laws is very imperfect, and our con- trol over them is very feeble; whereas, in the ma- chinery of Nature there is evidence of complete knowledge and of absolute control. The univer- sal rule is that everything is brought about by way of Natural Consequence. But another rule is that all Consequences meet and fit into each other in endless circles of Harmony and Purpose; and this can only be explained by the fact that what we call Natural Consequence is always the conjoint effect of an infinite number of Element- ary Forces, whose action and reaction are under the direction of the Will which we see obeyed, and of the Purposes which we see actually at- tained. It is, indeed, the completeness of the analogy between our own works on a small scale, and the works of the Creator on an iniinitely large scale, which is the greatest mystery of all. Man is con- strained to adopt the principle of Adjustment, be- 382 THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. cause, the Forces of Nature are external to and in- dependent of his Will. They may be managed, hut they cannot he disobeyed. It is impossible to suppose that they stand in the same relation to the Will of the Supreme; yet it seems as if He took the same method of dealing with them — never violating them, never breaking them, but always ruling them by that which we call Adjust- ment, or Contrivance. Nothing gives us such an idea of the Immutability of Laws as this; nor does anything give us such an idea of their plia- bility to use. IIow imperious they are, yet how submissive! How they reign, yet how they serve! — The Reign of, Lays, Chap. II. THE THEORY OF DEVELOPMENT. There is one idea which has been common to all theories of Development; and that is the idea that ordinary Generation has somehow been producing, from time to time, extraordinary effects; and that a Species is, in fact, simply an unusual Birth. The earlier forms in which the theory of Develop- ment appeared did suggest something more nearly approaching to a Law of Creation than is con- tained in the later form which that theory has as- sumed in the hands of Mr. Darwin. The essential idea of the theory of Development, in its earlier forms, was that modifications of structure arose, somehow, by way of Natural Consequence, from the outward circumstances or physical conditions which required them, and from the living effort of the Organism sensible in some degree of that requirement. Now, inadequate, and even gro- tesque as this idea may be as explaining the origin of new Species, it cannot be denied that it makes its appeal to a process which — at hast to a limited extent — does operate in producing modifications of organic structure. For exam- ple, the same species of mollusc has often a shell comparatively weak and thin, or a shell comparatively thick and strong, according as it lies in tranquil or in stormy water; trees which are most exposed to the blast are most strongly anchored in the soil; limbs which are the most used are the most developed; organs which are THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. $3 in constant use are strengthened, whilst organs in habitual disuse have a tendency to become weaker. All these results arise by way of Natural Conse- quence. How shall we describe them? Shall we say that they are the result of Law? We may safely do so, remembering only that by Law, in this sense, we mean nothing but the co-operation of different Natural Forces which, under certain conditions, work together for the fulfilment of an obvious intention. Of the nature of these Forces we know nothing; nor is it easy to conceive how they have been so co-ordinated as to produce ef- fects fitting with such exactness into the condi- tions requisite for the preservation of Organic Life. If there w r ere any evidence that by the same means new Forms of Life could be developed from the old, I cannot see why there should be any reluctance to admit the fact. It would be different from anything that we see, but I do not know that it would be at all less wonderful, or that it would bring us much nearer than we now stand to the great mystery of Creation. The adaptation and arrangement of Natural Forces, which can compass these modifications of animal structure, in exact proportion to the need of them, is an adaptation and arrangement which is in the nature of Creation. It can only be due to ths working of a power which is in the nature of Creative Power. — The Reign of Law, Chap. V. THE ORIGIN OF MAX. The Human Race has no more knowledge or recollection of its own origin than a child has of its own birth. But a child drinks in with its mother's milk some knowledge of the relation in which it stands to its own parents, and as it grows up it knows of other children being born around it. It sees one generation goino- and an- other generation coming; so that long before the years of childhood close, the ideas of Birth and Death are alike familiar. Whatever sense of mystery may, in the first dawnings of re- flection, have attached to either of these ideas is soon lost in the familiar experience of the world. 384 TIIE DUKE OF AEGYLL. The same experience extends to the lower ani- mals: they too are born and die. But no such ex- perience ever comes to us, casting any light on the Origin of our Race, or of any other. Some varieties of form are effected, in the case of a few animals, by domestication, and by con- stant care in the selection of peculiarities trans- missible to the young. But these variations are all within certain limits; and wherever human care relaxes or is abandoned, the old forms return, and the selected characters disappear. The founding of new forms by the union of different species, even when standing in close natural rela- tion to each other, is absolutely forbidden by the sentence of sterility which Nature pronounces and enforces upon all hybrid offspring. And so it results that Man has never seen the origin of any species. Creation by birth is the only kind of creation he has ever seen; and from this kind of creation he has never seen a new species come. And yet he does know (for this the science of Pala3ontology has most certainly revealed) that the introduction of new species has been a work carried on constantly and continuously during vast but unknown periods of time. The whole face of animated nature has been changed — not once, but frequently, not suddenly for the most part — perhaps not suddenly in any case — but slowly and gradually, and yet completely. When once this fact is clearly apprehended — whenever we become familiar with the idea that Creation had a History — we are inevitably led to the conclusion that Creation has also had a Method. And then the further question arises, " What has this Method been?" — It is perfectly natural that men who have any hopes of solving this question should take that supposition which seems the readiest; and the readiest supposition is, that the agency by which new species are cre- ated is the same agency by which new individuals are born. The difficulty of conceiving any other compels men, if they are to guess at all, to guess upon this foundation.— Primeval Man, Part II. THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. 385 PERPETUITY OF MAN. Such as Man now is, Man, so far as we yet know, has always been. Two skeletons at least have been found respecting which there is strong ground for believing that they belong to the very earliest race which lived in Northern Europe. One of these skeletons indicates a coarse, perhaps even what we should call — as we might fairly some living specimens of our race — a Brutal Man; yet even this skeleton is, in all its proportions, strictly Human; its cranial capacity indicates a volume of brain, and some peculiarities of shape, not materially different from many skulls of sav- age races, now living. The other skeleton — re- specting which the evidence of extreme antiquity is the strongest — is not only perfectly Human in all its proportions, but its skull has a cranial capacity not inferior to that of many modern Europeans. This most ancient of all known human skulls is so ample in its dimensions that it might have contained the brains of a Philosopher. So conclusive is this evidence against any change whatever in the specific characters of Man since the oldest Human Being yet known was born, that Prof. Huxley pronounces it to be clearly in- dicated that "the first traces of the primordial stock whence Man has proceeded need no longer be sought, by those who entertain any form of the doctrine of Progressive Development, in the new- est tertiaries [that is in the oldest deposits yet known to contain human remains at all] ; but they may be looked for in an epoch more distant from the age of those tertiaries than that is from us." So far, therefore, the evidence is on the side of the originality of Man as a Species — nay, even, as a Class, by himself — separated by a gulf practi- cally immeasurable from all the creatures that are, or that are known ever to have been, his con- temporaries in the world. In the possession of this ground, we can wait for such further evi- dence in favor of transmutation as may be brought to light. Meanwhile, at least, we are entitled to remain incredulous, remembering — as Prof. Phil- lips has said — that "everywhere we are required by the hypothesis to look somewhere else; which 25 3S6 THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. may fairly he interpreted to signify that the hy- pothesis everywhere fails in the first and most important step. How is it conceivable that the second stage should be everywhere preserved, but the first nowhere? "-r-Primeval Man, Part II. THE ANTIQUITY OF MAN. In passing from the subject of Man's Origin to the subject of his Antiquity, we pass from almost total darkness to a question, which is comparatively accessible to reason and open to re- search. Evidence bearing upon this question may be gathered along several walks of science; and these are all found tending in one direction, and pointing to one general result. First conies the evidence of History — embracing under that name all Literature, whether it pro- fesses to record events, or does no more than allude to them in poetry and song. Then comes Archaeology — the evidence of Human Monuments, belonging to times or races whose voice, though not silenced, has become inarticulate to us. Piecing on to tins evidence, (nines that which Geology has recently afforded from human re- mains associated with the latest physical changes on the surface and in the climates of the globe. Then comes the evidence of Language, founded on the facts of Human Speech, and the laws which regulate its development and growth. And lastly, there is the evidence afforded by the exist- ing Physical Structure and the existing Geograph- ical Distribution of the various Races of Man- kind. One distinction, however, it is important to bear in mind ; Chronology is of two kinds : First , Time measurable by Years; and secondly, Time measurable only by an ascertained Order or Suc- cession of Events. The one may be called Time- absolute, the other Time-relative. Now, among all the sciences which afford us any evidence on the Antiquity of Man, one — and one only — gives us any knowledge of Time-abso- lute; and that is History. From all the others we can gather only the less definite information of Time-relative. They can tell us nothing more THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. 387 than the order in which certain events took place. But of the length of interval between those events, neither Archaeology, nor Geology, nor Ethnology can tell us anything. Even History, that is, the records of Written Documents, carries us back to times of which no contemporary account remains, and the distance of which from any known epoch is, and must be, a matter of conjecture. — Pri- meval Man, Part III. THE HEBREW CHRONOLOGY. No other history than the Hebrew History even professes to go back to the Creation of Man, or to give any account of the events which connect the existing generations with the first progenitor of their race. And of that History the sole object ap- pears to be to give the outline of such transactions as had a special bearing on Religious Truth, and on the course of Spiritual Belief. The intimations given in the earlier chapters of the Book of Genesis on all matters of purely secular interest are inci- dental only, and exceedingly obscure. And yet it is not a total silence. Enough is said to indi- cate how much there lay beyond and outside of the narrative which is given. The dividing of the tribes of the Gentiles among the descendants of Japheth conveys the idea of movements and oper- ations which probably occupied long intervals of time, and many generations of men. The same im- pression must arise from the condensed abstract given of the origin and growth of communities capable of building such cities as Resen and Caleb and Nineveh are described to be. In the gene- alogy of the family of Shem we have a list of names, which are names, and nothing more to us. It is a genealogy which neither does, nor pro- fesses to do, more than to trace the order of suc- cession among a few families only out of the mill- ions then already existing in the world. Nothing but this order of succession is given; nor is it at all certain that this order is consecutive or com- plete. Nothing is told us of all that lay behind that curtain of thick darkness in front of which these names are made to pass. And yet there are, as it were, momentary liftings, through which 388 THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. we have glimpses of great movements which were going on— and had long been going on — beyond. ]So shapes are distinctly seen. Even the direction of those movements can be only guessed. But voices are heard, which are as the voices of many nations. The very first among the descendants of Noah whose individuality and personality is clear to us, is introduced in a manner which reveals the fact that different races of the human family had then been long established and widely spread. The memorable and mysterious journey which brought Terah into Haran on his way to Canaan was a journey beginning in that ancient home, Ur al- ready known as "of the Chaldees." And when the great figure of his son Abraham appears upon the scene, we find ourselves already in the presence of the Monarchy of Egypt, and of the advanced civilization of the Pharaohs. In the same narrative, on another side, we come into the presence of one of those great Military King- doms of the East; which in succession occupy so large a space in the history of the ancient world. Chedorlaomer, with his tributary Princes, was then the ruler of nations capable of waging wars of conquest at great distances from the seat of their government, and the centre of their power. We see in him, therefore, the Sovereign of along- established and powerful race. And yet these migrations and wars of Abraham stand, if not at the very beginning of History, at least at the very beginning of Historical Chronology. They mark the very earliest date in the History of Man on which, "within moderate limits of divergence, all chronologists are agreed. That date may be fixed at 2000 B.C. This is the boundary, in looking Lack wards, of Time-absolute: all beyond, is Time-relative. We have indeed other evidence of an histori- cal character to show that the Monarchy of Egypt had been founded long before the time of Abra- ham; but how long, is a question on which there is the widest discrepancy of opinion. The most moderate computation, however, carries the foun- dation of that Monarchy as far back as 700 years THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. 3S9 before the visit of the Hebrew Patriarch; and some of the best German scholars hold that there is evidence of a muck longer chronology. But seven centuries before Abraham is the estimate of Mr. R. Stuart Poole, of the British Museum, who is one of the highest authorities upon ques- tions of Egyptian Chronology. This places the beginning of the Pharaohs in the twenty-eighth century B.C. But according to Ussher's inter- pretation of the Hebrew Pentateuch the twenty- eighth century B.C. would be some 400 years be- fore the Flood. On the other hand, a difference of 800 years is allowed by the chronology which is founded on the Septuagint Version of the Script- ures. But the fact of this difference cuts in two ways: A margin of variation amounting to eight cen- turies between two versions of the same docu- ment, is a variation so enormous that it seems to cast complete doubt on the whole system of inter- pretation on which it is based. And yet it is more than questionable whether it is possible to reconcile the known order of events with even this larger number of years. It is true that, ac- cording to this larger estimate, the Flood would be carried back about four and a-half centuries beyond the foundation of the Pharaohs. But is this enough? The foundation of a Monarchy is not the beginning of a Race. The people among which Monarchies arose must have grown and gathered during many generations. Nor is it in regard to the peopling of Egypt alone that this difficulty meets us in the face. The existence in the days of Abraham of such an organized government as that of Chedorlaomer, shows that 2000 years B.C. there flourished in Elam, beyond Mesopotamia, a nation which even now would be ranked among "the Great Powers." And if nations so great had thus arisen, altogether unnoticed in the Hebrew narrative — if we are left to gather as best we may from other sources all our knowledge of their origin and growth — how much more is this true of far distant lands over which the advancing tide of human population had rolled, or was then rolling its mysterious wave! 390 THE DITKE OF ARGYLL. If the most ancient and sacred literature of the world tells us so little of the early history of the men who lived and flourished on the banks of the Euphrates, the Tigris, or the Nile, what informa- tion can we expect to find in it respecting those who were probably already settled on the Indus and the Ganges, or were spreading along the banks of the Brahmaputra and of the Yellow River? What of those tribes who were following the Volga and the Oxus, or the Danube and the Rhine? What of that vast continent whose se- crets are being revealed at last only in our day — the Continent of Africa? When and how did that Negro Race begin, which is both one of the most ancient and one of the most strongly-marked among the varieties of Man? And what again, can we learn from Genesis of the peopling of the New World? When did Man first com 3 upon the inland seas of America, and follow the great rivers which fall into the Gulf of Mexico? — Pri- meval Man, Part III. THE DELUGE. There is another civilization which appears to have been almost as ancient as that of Egypt, and which has been far more enduring. The authentic records of the Chinese Empire are said to begin in the twenty-fourth century B.C. — that is, more than 300 years before the time of Abraham. They begin, too, apparently with a Kingdom al- ready established, with a capital city, and a set- tled government. Yet this civilization first ap- pears at the farthest extremity of Asia, separated by many thousands of miles, and by some of the most impassable regions of the globe, from the cradle of the Human Race, and from the country where Noah and his family were saved. Such facts seem to point to one or other of two conclusions: Either that the Flood must have happened at a period in the history of Man vastly earlier than any that has been usually supposed; or else, that the Flood destroyed only a small por- tion of the Human Family. That the Deluge af- fected only a small portion of the globe which is now habitable, is almost certain. But this is quite THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. 391 a different thing from supposing that the Flood affected only a small portion of the world which was then inhabited. The wide, if not the univer- sal prevalence among heathen nations, of a tra- dition preserving the memory of some such great catastrophe, has always heen considered to indi- cate recollection carried by descent from the sur- viving few. And this tradition seems to be curiously strong and definite among tribes which are now separated by half the circumference of the globe from the regions affected by the Flood. — Primeval Man, Part III. MAN AS THE REPRESENTATIVE OF THE SUPER- NATURAL. The denial and exclusion of what is called "The Supernatural" in our explanations of Ma- ture is the same doctrine, in another form, as the denial and exclusion of Anthropopsychism. The connection may not be evident at first sight, but it arises from the fact that the human Mind is really the type, and the only type, of what men call the Supernatural. It would be well if this word were altogether banished from our vocal Hi- lary. It is in the highest degree ambiguous and deceptive. It assumes that the "System of Na- ture " in which we live, and of which we form a part, is limited to purely physical agencies linked together by nothing but Mechanical Necessity. There might indeed be no harm in this limitation of the word Nature if it could possibly be adhered to. But it is not possible to adhere to it; and that for the best of all reasons; because even in- animate Nature, as we habitually see it, and are obliged to speak of it, is not a system which gives us the idea of being governed by Mechani- cal Necessity. No wonder men find it difficult to believe in the Supernatural, if by the Supernatural they mean any Agency which is nowhere present in the visi- ble and intelligible Universe, or is not implicitly represented and continually reproduced there. For indeed in this sense no Christian can believe in the Supernatural — in a Creation from which the Creator has been banished, or has withdrawn 392 THE DUKE OF ARGYLL. Himself. On the other hand, if hy the Supernat- ural we mean an Agency which, while ever pres- ent in the material and intelligible Universe, is not confined to it, but transcends it, tben indeed the difficidty is not in the believing of it, but in the disbelieving of it. !STo man can really hold that the Material System which is visible or intel- ligible to us is anything more than a fragment or a part. No man can believe that its existing arrangements of Matter and of Force are self- caused, self-originated, and self-sustained. It is not possible, therefore, so to "crib, cabin, and confine" our conceptions of Nature as to exclude elements which essentially belong to what is called the Supernatural. And there is another reason why it is impossi- ble to adhere to such conceptions of the Natural; and that is. that it would compel us to exclude the Mind of Man — and indeed the lesser minds of all living tilings — from our scientific definition of Nature, and to establish an absolute and rigid separation between all these and the world in which they move and act. AVe have seen not only how impracticable such a separation is, but how false it is to the facts of Science. The same con- demnation must fall on every conception of the Universe which assumes this separation as not only important but fundamental. Yet this is the very separation on which those philosophers absolutely depend who condemn what they call the Supernatural in our concep- tions and explanations of the world. And in the interest of their own argument they are quite right in keeping to this separation as indispens- able to their purpose. In order to exclude from Nature what they call the Supernatural, it is absolutely necessary that they should in the first place exclude Man. If Nature be nothing but Matter, Force, and Mechanical Necessity, then Man belongs to the Supernatural, and is indeed the very embodiment and representation of it. Accordingly this identification of Man with the Supernatural is necessarily and almost uncon- sciously involved in the language which is in- tenCrtd to be strictly philosophical, and in the LUDOVICO ARIOSTO. 393 most careful utterances of our most distinguished scientific men. — The Unity of Nature, Chap. VIII. AKIOSTO, Ludovico, an Italian poet, born at Reggio, Sept. 8, 1474, died at Ferrara, June 6, 1533. He was of a noble family, and early displayed a high poetic capacity. He entered the service of the Cardinal Ippolito d'Este, brother of Alfonso, Duke of Ferrara, by whom he was sent on important embassies to the court of the warlike Pope Julius II. When the papal forces, in conjunction with those of Venice, were sent against Ferrara, Ariosto bore a prominent part in the defence of his adopted city. Cardinal Ippolito took offence at Ariosto, in 1518, because he declined to go with him to Hungary, and dismissed him from his service. He soon afterward entered the service of Duke Alfonso, in whose favor and confidence he rose high, and showed marked capacity when made Governor of the province of Graffagnana, which was in a disturbed condition. Returning to Ferrara, Ariosto was employed by the Duke to direct the dramatic representations there, and a magnificent theatre was constructed after de- signs suggested by the poet. This theatre was burned in 1532. The works of Ariosto include comedies, satires, sonnets, and other writings. But his principal work is the romantic epic Orlando Furioso, a sort of continuation of Bojardo's Orlando Inamorato. This poem was origi- nally published in 1516, but was consider;! bly enlarged in later editions, the last of which appeared in 1632, a year before the death of the author, and has been many times re- printed. The poem became very popular in Italy, and is recognized as the greatest work of the kind in any language. Bernardo Tasso, in 1559, wrote of it: "There is neither ZOi LUDOVICO ARIOSTO. scholar nor artisan, boy nor girl, nor old man, who is contented with reading it only once. Do you not hear people every day singing these stanzas in the streets and in the fields ? I do not believe that in the same length of time as has passed since this poem was given to the world, there have been printed or published or seen so many Homers or Virgils as Furio- sos. " The poem consists of forty -six cantos, containing in all about 5000 eight-line stan- zas. Its subject is the numerous adventures of Orlando, who had become insane through love for Angelica. ORLAXDO'S BATTLE WITH THE TREES. All night about the forest roved the Count, And, at the break of daily light, was brought By his unhappy fortune to the fount, Where his inscription young Aledoro wrought. To see his wrongs inscribed upon that mount Inflamed his fury so, in him was naught But turned to hatred, frenzy, rage, and spite; Nor paused he more, but bared his falchion bright; Cleft through the writing, and the solid block Into the sky in tiny fragments sped. Woe worth eacli sapling, and that caverned rock, Where Medoro and Angelica were read ! So scathed that they to shepherd and to flock Thenceforth shall never furnish shade or bed, And that sweet fountain, late so clean and pure From such tempestuous wrath was ill secure. For he turf, stone, and trunk, and shoot and lop, Cast without cease into the beauteous source; Till turbid from the bottom to the top, Never again was clear the troubled course. At length, for lack of breath, compelled to stop — When he is bathed in sweat, and wasted force Serves not bis fury more — he falls, and lies Upon the mead, and gazing upward sighs. Wearied and woe-begone, he fell to ground. And tinned his eyes to heaven, nor spake he aught, LUDOVICO AETOSTO. 395 Nor ate, nor slept, till in his daily round The golden sun had broken thrice, and sought His rest anew ; nor ever ceased his wound To rankle, till it marred his sober thought. At length, impelled by frenzy, the fourth day, He from his limbs tore plate and mail away. Here was his helmet, there his shield bestowed, His arms far off; and farther than the rest, His cuirass; through the green wood wide was sti-owed, All his good gear, in fine; and next his vest He rent; and, in his fury naked showed His shaggy paunch, and all his back and breast, And 'gan that frenzy act so passing dread: Of stranger folly never shall be said. Si> fierce his rage, so fierce his fury grew, That all obscured remained the warrior's sprite ; Nor, for forgetf ulness, his sword he drew, Or wondrous deeds, I trow, had wrought the Knight. But neither this, nor bill, nor axe to hew, Was needed by Orlando's peerless might. He of high prowess gave high proofs and full. Who a tall pine uprooted at a pull. He many others, with as little let. As fennel, wallwort-stem, or dill, uptore; And ilex, knotted oak, and fir upset, And beech, and mountain-ash and elm-tree hoar. He did what fowler, eve he spreads his net. Does, to prepare the champaigne for his lore, By stubble, rush, and nettle stalk; and broke, Like these, old sturdy trees and stems of oak. The shepherd swains, who hear the tumult nigh, Leaving their flocks beneath the greenwood tree, Some here, some there, across the forest hie, And hurry thither, all, the cause to see. — But I have reached such point, my history, If I o'erpass this bound, may irksome be; 390 LUDOVICO ARIOSTO. And T my story will delay to end, Rather than by my tediousness offend. — Canto XXIII., Transl. o/Rosk. OKLAJSJDO KESTOKED TO HIS SENSES. Dudon, Orlando from behind embraced, And with his foot the furious peer would throw; Astolpho and the others seize his arms ; but waste Their strength in all attempts to hold the foe. He who has seen a bull, by mastiffs chased, That gore his bleeding ears, in fury lowe, Dragging the dogs that bait him there and here, Yet from their tusks unable to get clear; Let him imagine, so Orlando drew Astolpho and those banded knights along. Meanwhile, up started Oliviero, who By that fell fisticuff on earth was flung; And, seeing they could ill by Roland do That sought by good Astolpho and his throng, He meditates and compasses a way The frantic Paladin on earth to lay. He many a hawser made them thither bring, And running knots in them he quickly tied, Which on the Count's waist, arms, and legs, they fling; And then, among themselves, the ends divide, Conveyed to this or that amid the ring, Compassing Roland upon every side. The warriors thus Orlando flung par force, As farrier throws the struggling ox or horse. As soon as down, they all upon him are, And hands and feet more tightly they constrain. He shakes himself, and plunges here and there; Rut all his efforts for relief are vain. Astolpho bade them thence the prisoner bear: For he would heal, he said, the warrior's brain. Shouldered by sturdy Dudon is the load, And on the beach's furthest brink bestowed. Seven times Astolpho makes them wash the Knight; And seven times plunged beneath the brine he £oes. LUDOVICO AKIOSTO. 397 So that tlicy cleanse away the scurf and blight Which to li is stupid limits and visage grows. This done, with herbs, for that occasion dight, They stop his mouth, wherewith he puffs and blows. For, save his nostrils, would Astolpho leave No passage whence the Count might air receive. Valiant Astolpho had prepared the vase Wherein Orlando's senses were retained, And to his nostrils in such mode conveys, That, drawing in his breath, the County drained The mystic cup withal. — Oh, wondrous case! The unsettled mind its ancient seat regained; And in its glorious reasonings, yet more clear And lucid waxed his reason than whilere. As one that seems in troubled sleep to see Abominable shapes, a horrid crew; Monsters which are not, and which cannot be; Or seems some strange unlawful thing to do; Yet marvels at himself, from slumber free, When his recovered senses play him true; So good Orlando, when he is made sound, Remains yet full of wonder and astound. Then said — as erst Silenus said, when seen, And taken sleeping in the cave of yore — Solvite me! with visage so serene, With look so much less wayward than before, That him they from his bonds delivered clean, And raiment to the naked warrior bore; All comforting their friend with grief opprest, For that delusion which had him possest. When to his former self he was restored, Of wiser and of manlier mind than e'er, From love as well was freed the enamored lord; And she, so gentle deemed, so fair whilere, And by renowned Orlando so adored, Did but to him a worthless thing appear. What he through love had lost, to re-acquire Was his whole study, was his whole desire. —Canto XXXIX., Transl. of Rose. 398 ARISTOPHANES. ARISTOPHANES, the most famous of the Greek comic dramatists — the only one, indeed, of whose works more than fragments are ex- tant — was born, probably at Athens, about 440 B.C., and died there about 380 b. c. Of his early life little has been recorded except that he seems to have inherited a competent estate, and that he began writing for the stage while quite young. His earliest work, The Revellers, not now extant, is said to have been produced when the author was about seventeen, and received the second prize. His career as a dramatist lasted some forty years, during which he produced between 40 and 50 come- dies, of which 11 still exist in a condition tolerably perfect. All of these have been translated into English, by different hands, and with varying degrees of success. The Comic Dramatists of Athens exercised a function in some manner equivalent to that of the popular Journalists of our day. Their purpose at its best, as in Aristophanes, was to hit at the scholastic, social, and political foi- bles of their time. Any head that offered it- self was thought a fair mark. The comic dramatist of Athens, had he lived in our day, would have girded with equal readiness at Gladstone or Disraeli, at Lincoln or Davis, at Tennyson or Poe, at Tupper or Milton. Aris- tophanes gibed alike at Cleon and Alcibi- ades, at Socrates or Euripides. The philoso- phy, theology, and politics of the time af- forded ready marks for the humor and satire of Aristophanes. His satire sometimes de- generates to buffoonery, and not unfrequently there is a vein of coarseness running through it. Yet when we compare him with the Eng- lish Comic Dramatists — not to say of the pe- riod of the Restoration, but with those of our own day — we can hardly characterize his comedies as grossly indecent. Scattered ARISTOPHANES. 399 through them— and put mainly into the mouths of the Chorus— are bits of lyrics which remind us, and at no very wide interval, of the best things of the kind to be found in Shakespeare. Four of the Comedies of Aris- tophanes may be selected as affording the fair- est idea of their varied character. These are The Birds, The Clouds, The Frogs, and The Knights. The Birds is one of the longest of the Com- edies of Aristophanes, and the one which he is said to have considered the best of them all. At first view it reads to us like an "extrava- ganza," or burlesque upon the popular my- thology. But there are not wanting critics who find an esoteric meaning couched beneath the surface. Thus the Rev. W. Lucas Col- lins says: "There is also a deeper political meaning under what appears otherwise a mere fantastic trifling. It may be that the great Sicilian expedition, and the ambitious project of Alcibiades for extending the Athenian em- pire, form the real point of the play; easily enough comprehended by contemporaries, but become obscure to us." So critics have treated of Gullivers Travels ; but it is safe enough for us to read The Birds, as most of us read The Voyage to Liliput, to which it bears a sort of likeness, without trying to dive below the surface. The plot of the comedy of The Birds is briefly this: Peistheta?rus ("Plausible") and Euelpides ("Hopeful") are two citizens of Athens, who have become disgusted with the way things are going on at home, and resolve to find a new abode where there are no law- suits and no informers. They have learned that there is somewhere a Bird -Kingdom, ruled over by King Epops ("Hoopoe "), who had formerly been no other than Tereus, King of Thrace, but had been transformed into that 400 ARISTOPHANES. magnificently crested feathered biped, which he now was. Guided by a raven and a jack- daw the Athenians reach the royal abode of King Epops, with which they are well-pleased, and where they are themselves transformed into birds. With the assent of the King they resolve to build a new bird-city, to which they give the name of Nephelococcygia (" Cloud - cuckooville "), where they expect to hold the balance of power in the universe. If Zeus and the other gods of Olympus venture to of- fend the Birds, they will "blockade them, cut off their supplies, and starve them into submission." Here comes in a long choral song by the Birds : THE BIRD CHORUS. Ye children of Man, whose life is a span, Protracted with sorrow from day to day, Naked and featherless, feeble and querulous, Sickly calamitous creatures of clay! Attend to the words of the sovereign Birds, Immortal, illustrious Lords of the Air; Who survey from on high, with a merciful eye, Your struggles of misery, labor, and care. Whence you may learn, and clearly discern, Such truths as attract your inquisitive turn; Which is busied of late, with a mighty debate, A profound speculation about the creation, And organical life, and chaotical strife, With various notions of heavenly motions And rivers and oceans, and valleys and mountains, And stars in the sky. . . . We propose by and by (If you'll listen and hear) to make it all clear. The Birds go on, at some length, to set forth their predominance in the general scheme of the universe ; and then pass on to show how they have been the instructors of Man in al- most all that he knows which is worth the knowing. ARISTOPHANES. 401 All lessons of primary daily concern You have learned from the Birds, and continue to learn ; Tour best benefactors and early instructors, We give you the warning of seasons returning: When the Cranes are arranged, and muster afloat, In the middle air, with a creaking note, Steering away to the Libyan sands, Then careful farmers sow their lands; The crazy vessel is hauled ashore, The sails, the ropes, the rudder, and oar Are all unshipped, and housed in store. The shepherd is warned, by the Kite reappearing, To muster his flock, and be ready for shearing. You quit your old cloak at the Swallow's behest, In assurance of Summer : and purchase a vest. The list is carried out to a long extent, wind- ing up with the affirmation : Unlucky or lucky, whatever has struck ye — An ox or an ass that may happen to pass, A voice in the street, or a slave that you meei;, A name or a word by chance overheard — If you deem it an omen, you call it a Bird; And if Birds are your omens, it clearly will follow That Birds are a proper prophetic Apollo. —Transl. of J. Hookham Fhere. Under the direction of Peisthetserus, the Birds went on rapidly in the building of Cloudcuckooville. They flocked together from all regions of the earth ; and a messenger thus reports the progress which they made : There came a body of thirty thousand Cranes (I won't be positive, there might be more) With stones from Africa in their claws and giz- zards, Which the Stone-curlews and Stone-chatterers Worked into shape and finished. The Sand-mar- tens And Mudlarks too were busy in their depart- ments, Mixing the mortar; while the Water-birds, 2G 402 AEISTOPHANES. As fast as it was wanted, brought the water, To temper and work it. Then ensue a dozen scenes full of what was doubtless uproarious fun in Athens two-and- twenty centuries ago ; but which sound rather heavily in our ears ; the satire being aimed at things which have slept dead for many an age. The upshot, as w T e get at it near the close of the Comedy, being about this : There has been great trouble upon Olympus ever since the building of the aerial city of Cloud- cuckooville. Some of the Thracian gods are notably wrathful, and threaten mutiny against Jove himself unless he will come to terms with this new Bird-Kingdom. Tidings of what is going on are brought to Cloudcuckoo- ville by a personage who labors under no lit- tle embarrassment in making himself and his mission known. He keeps an umbrella over his head, so that Jove may not by any chance get sight of him ; but at last reveals himself as no other than Prometheus, the friend of man and the foe of Jove. The Prometheus of Aristophanes bears little resemblance to the Prometheus depicted by JEschylus. Per- haps the spirit of the scene which follows is fairly enough presented in the prose transla- tion of Richard Cumberland. The interlocu- tors are Prometheus, Peisthetserus, now ruler in Cloudcuckooville, and the inevitable cho- rus of Birds : PROMETHEUS AND PEISTHET^RTTS. Prom.— Ah me! I tremble every inch of me, for fear Jove should clap eyes upon me. Where can Peisthetaerus be? Pei.sM.— Holla! What can this be? What's the meaning of this fellow's face being so disguised? Prom.— Do you see any of the gods in the rear of me? Peisth.— No, by Jove, not I. But who are you? Prom.— Pray, how goes the time? akistophanes. m I'i isth, — The time? The afternoon is just com- mencing. But who are you? Prom. — Is it sunset or later than that? Peisth. — I don't like you; we admit no dominos here. Prom. — What is Jove doing? Is he busy collect- ing or dispersing his clouds? Peisth. — I don't like to talk to people whom I don't know. Prom. — If so, I'll disclose myself. Here I am — Prometheus, at your service. Peisth. — Heaven bless you — Prometheus? Prom. — Hush, hush! Not so loud! Peisth.— Why so? Prom. — Silence! Don't utter my name again. I'm dished if Jove finds out 1 am here. lint hold; I have a good deal to tell you about what has been going on in the upper stories of the sky. In the mean time take this umbrella and hold it over me, to screen me from the vengeance of the gods. Peisth.— Good ! Excellent! You have contrived this archly enough, and in true character. Haste, hie thee up under cover, so that thou may'st speak without fear. Prom. — Attend then. Peisth.— Proceed; I'm all attention. Prom.— It's all up with that old fellow, the Thunderer. Peisth. — From what time is his ruin to be dated? p rom . — From the time you walled the air in. Since then the devil of a bit of flesh-meat has been offered to the gods by way of sacrifice. Since that day they have not so much as come within the smell of roast-beef. They are obliged to fast, as at the Thesmophoria. And as for the barbarian gods, they are reduced to such a state of starvation that— in a twangling Hlyrian sort of style— they gabble vengeance against Jove himself; and swear that unless he will instantly throw the flesh-market open, and se- cure them access to the tag-rag and bobtail there, which they have always been accustomed to, they will immediately proceed to the recovery of their rights by force of arms. 404 ARISTOPHANES. There is some more talk, addressed to the galleries, or what represented them in the Athenian theatre ; and then Prometheus comes to what was the essential thing which he had crept off to communicate to the King of the Birds, which Peisthetserus has come to he: Prom. — I've got another thing to tell yon he- sides. Jove and these fellows are going to de- spatch to yon two ambassadors to sue for a treaty. But do you take my advice, and enter upon ho treaty on any other terms than these: That .love do resign his sceptre to the Birds, whose due it is; and, moreover, give to you Queeny in mar- riage, and all the appurtenances to so great a name. Peisth. — And who is this Queeny? Prom. — A damsel of exquisite beauty; the very same who forges Jove's thunderbolts, and, in fact, everything else: such as good counsel, im- partial law, prudent management, docks, liberty to abuse superiors, the exchequer, fees for hang- ing, and so forth. Peisth. — If so, she does him all his little odds and ends. Prom. — No doubt of it. Get her then, and you've got everything. Tins is what I was so anxious to tell you; and you know 1 am partial to mortals; that is my character. Peisth. — Aye, I know that well enough. 'Tis you that gave us fire to cook our victuals with. Prom. — 1 hate the gods, as you well know. Peisth. — By my faith, I don't think you ever liked them. Prom. — Aye, aye, I'm Timon the No-godder, to the back-bone. But come, I must be going. Hold up this umbrella so that if Jove should chance to see me, he may think I am one of Athena's basket-bearers at her great feast. Peisth. — And take you this camp-chair, and go ahead. The embassy from Jove soon arrives. There are three members of it: Neptune, ARISTOPHANES. 405 Hercules, and a Thracian deity, who talks very bad Greek, and of whom Neptune is rather ashamed. We give the metrical ver- sion of Frere. NEPTUNE, HERCULES, AND THE THEACIAN GOD. Nep. — There's Cuckoocloudville ! That's the town, The point we're hound to with our embassy. — But you ! what a figure have ye made of yourself i What a way to wear your mantle! slouching off From the left shoulder! Hitch it round, I tell ye, On the left side. For shame — come — so; that's better; These folds, too, bundled up; there, throw them round Even and easy — so. Why, you're a savage — A natural-born savage! Oh, Democracy! What will it bring us to, when such a ruffian Is voted into an embassy! Thracian. — Come, hands off! Hands off! Nep. — Keep quiet, I tell ye, and hold your tongue, For a very beast. In all my life in heaven, I never saw such another. Hercules, I say, what shall we do? What should you think? Here. What would I do? what do I thiuk? I've told you Already— I think to throttle him — the fellow Whoever he is, that's keeping us blockaded. JVep.^Yes, my good friend ; but we were sent, you know, To treat for peace. Our embassy is for peace. Here. — That makes no difference; or if it does, It makes me long to throttle him all the more. But Peisthetaerus, King of the Birds, in the new Cuckoo State, serves up a capital dinner for the well-nigh starved envoys. Whereupon Hercules resolves upon peace on any terms. Neptune is otherwise minded; and the Thracian god will have the casting vote. Hercules takes him to one side, and promises him a sound thrashing in case he 406 ARISTOPHANES. does not vote on his side. The Thracian god is open to argument of this convincing sort ; and votes with Hercules. A formal treaty is thereupon made, in virtue of which Jove agrees to resign his sceptre to the King of the Birds, upon condition that there shall be no more embargo upon the sacrificial meats sent to Olympus; and Peisthetserus shall have for wife the lovely Queeny. There is a closing scene in which Queeny appears riding in procession by the side of her spouse, while the full Chorus of Birds shout a wild epitha- lamium, evidently full of local hits, the points of which are hardly appreciable in our day. though commentators have exhausted their learning in the effort to elucidate them. We now come to The Clouds, perhaps the best-known of all the Comedies of Aris- tophanes. The satire is aimed at the science and the philosophy of the day. Socrates is presented in anything but a flattering light. He had, indeed, certain unsavory personal peculiarities, which rendered him a notable mark for satire. There is a story— quite as likely to be true as false— that upon the pre- sentation of this satire he showed himself in "the boxes," as we should now say, so that the audience might see how cleverly he had been hit off. Another story, that the con- demnation of Socrates to death grew out of this satire by Aristophanes, is quite easily disposed of by the bare fact that the condem- nation of Socrates did not occur until twenty yeai-s after the production of The Clouds, a drama which, in fact, was very far from being successful at its production on the stage, and did not gain either the first or the second prize. The Clouds is in fact a burlesque, although there are interspersed through it some of the finest bits of lyric poetry. Strepsiades, a ARISTOPHANES. 407 stupid citizen, has fallen into pecuniary straits, and resolves to study eloquence in order to be able to get the better of his cred- itors. He accordingly betakes himself to the "Thinking School " of Socrates. The great philosopher is discovered suspended in a basket. He comes down, and proceeds to give some elementary instruction, while the Clouds, apparently behind the scenes, occa- sionally sing in Chorus. There is certainly no little of coarseness in this scene ; but it is necessary to present portions of it, in order to give a fair idea of the characteristics of Aristophanes. We take the translation of Mitchell : IN THE SCHOOL OF SOCRATES. Chorus of Clouds. Hail, ancient old man, who hast ventured to hunt For learning to visit thy rife ills! And do You too inform us of all that you want, Great priest of ingenious trifles. There's not a philosopher living now To whose prayers we would vouchsafe attention Save Prodicus only, because we know His learning and wit and invention, And You, on account of your making a fuss In the streets, and peeping and prying, And travelling barefoot, and trusting to Us, Mankind suspiciously eyeing. Strepsiades. Good Earth, what melodious music they brew — How decorous and wondrous and holy. Soerates. It is they who alone are divinities true And the rest are but nonsense and folly. Strepsiades. Come, is not Olympian Jove a god? Socrates. Jove! — Twaddle! — Have done with your playing The fool! — There's no such person — as odd As you think it. Strepsiades. What's this you are saying? 408 ARISTOPHANES. Then who is it rains? First answer me that, Before von go on with your treasons. Socrates. Why the Clouds, to he sure; and I'll prove it, that's flat, By the most convincing of reasons: — When there is not a Cloud to be seen upon high, Did you ever see Jupiter raining? — Yet he ought to rain in the open sky When there is not a cloud remaining. Strepsiades. That explains your assertion right well, as I live-, You have glued most skilfully to it. I used to imagine that Jove had a sieve, And emptied his bladder-bag through it. — But who is it thunders, and makes such a rout? For that's what compels me to tremble. Socrates. 'Tis the Clouds who thunder, when rolling about. Strepsiades. IIow comes that? You shall not dissemble. Socrates. When choakful of water and hung in the air, They are forced into motion, they tumble With fury, perforce, on each other, and there They burst with a terrible rumble. Strepsiades. But is it not Jove, by whose arm from afar They are forced, my good Mend, into motion? Socrates. No, certainly not. 'Tis ethereal Jar. Strepsiades. Jar! — Well now, I had not a notion, That Jove was deceased, and Jar was now king In his place! — What an ignorant blunder! But you have pot taught me a single thing Concerning the rumbling of thunder. Socrates. Now did you not hear me declare that the Clouds Come tumbling with furious intenseness On each other when filled with their watery loads, And rumble because of their denseness? Strepsiades. What proof is there of it? ARISTOPHANES. 400 Socrates. I'll prove it with case, From your own body, I tell ye : Did you ever swill soup till it kicked up a breeze And a vehement stir in your belly? Strepsiades. To be sure ; and my belly is instantly roused And lost in indignant wonder; And the rascally jorum of soup I have boused Groans, rumbles, and bellows like thunder; First quietly — pdpax, pdpax, and then Pupdpax, till at last the chap packs, When be meets with a vent, from bis flatulent den, With a thundering loud papapdppax. . Socrates. If a poor little Belly can utter such groans, When it lets out a trumper from under, How much more must tbe infinite Air? And the nouns Are alike too — Trumper and Thunder. Strepsiades. But from whence are the fiery thunderbolts whirled, That reduce us to ashes, and merely Singe otbei-s alive?— They are hurled By Jove at the perjurers, clearly. Socrates. You old-fashioned bekke-diluvian dolt! If Jupiter hurls them to floor ns For forswearing, why does he not launch a bolt At Cleonymus, Simon, Tbeoris? They are terrible perjurers, every one knows; Yet they never have met with their death hence, But be blasts his own fane, in the place of his foes, And "Sunium, headland of Athens," And the crests of the innocent oaks of the wood : — And for what reason? — An oak can't be perjured. Strepsiades. I am sure I don't know; but your argument's good. — In what way is the thunderbolt nurtured? Socrates. When an arid wind is upraised from below, 410 ARISTOPHANES. And enclosed in the Clouds, its capacity To inflate them like bladders is called in, and so It bursts them in two, of necessity; And rushes outside with a vehement force, From its density when it has rent 'em; Consuming and burning' itself on its course By its friction and noise and momentum. sin psiades. I've been treated myself in the very same way, By Apollo, on many occasions! I neglected to nick a haggis one day I was roasting to dine my relations; When it puffed up, and suddenly to my surprise Burst open in tatters, and nearly Deprived me of sight by a spurt in my eyes, And scalded my face most severely. Chorus of Clouds. O mortal, who longest for wisdom and wit, I foresee by my powers of prescience That you'll rise to be wealthy and fortunate yet, Amongst the Athenians and Grecians; If your memory's good, and you wish and desire To be constantly thinking and talking; And are furnished with patience, and never tire Of standing, or running, or walking; And are neither tormented by cold, nor pine, lake poor silly wretches, for breakfast; And abstain from the public walks and from wine, And the follies that make one a rake fast; And long for that most which is longed for among The talented men of all nations: — To conquer in fights that are fought with the tongue, And intrigues and debates and orations. Strepsiades. As regards the reposing in comfortless huts, And a spirit too sturdy to clamor, And hard-living, thrifty, and mint-dining guts, I can stand, like an anvil the hammer. Socrates. Of course then you'll only believe in the gods That are owned by your newly-found brothers — The Chaos you see, and the Tongue, and the Clouds ; These three we allow and no others. ABLSTOlTIANEfc. 411 Strepsiades. I would not, Sir, even converse with the rest; No, not if we met them in the city; Or bestow on the rogues, at their earnest request, Wines, victims, or incense, in pity. Chorus of Clouds. Now tell us what 'tis that you want us to do, And don't be afraid; for we never Will refuse to comply with your wishes, if you Kespect us, and try to be clever. Strepsiades. My adorable mistresses, grant to me, then, This smallest of all requisitions: — I wish to become the most eloquent man, By a hundred miles, of all the Grecians. Chorus of Clouds. We will grant it you ; so from the present day Not a soul of the demagogue crew shall Carry so many motions, by means of his sway In the Public Assembly, as you shall. StrepsiadeSi No carrying motions for me, I entreat, But there's nothing I long for so much as To be able to wriggle through actions and cheat, And slip through my creditors' clutches. Chorus of Clouds. You shall have what you wish, for your prayer and request Is such as becomes our dependants. So boldly deliver yourself to the best Of instructors — our faithful attendants. Strepsiades. I will, in reliance on you: for I needs Must act in the way that you bid me, On account of those rascally I-braiidcd steeds, And the jade of a wife who undid me. Strepsiades however proves a very dull pu- pil, and Socrates turns him out of the school as an incorrigible dunce, who cannot master the science of Roguery. His son Pheidippi- des, who has an unmistakable turn for ras- cality, is admitted to the school, and becomes an adept in all the tricks of the Courts. He 412 ARISTOPHANES. is never at a loss for legal means to fob off his own creditors and those of his father. Finally, however, he falls into a quarrel with the old gentleman, gives him a sound drub- bing, and undertakes to justify his unfilial conduct on the plea that his father had often drubbed him when he was a child. Strep- siades responds as best he can ; but gets bet- ter than he gave : Strep. — Ay, but I did it for your good. Pheid. — No doubt: Ami pray, am I uot also right to show Good will to you — if beating means good will ? Why should your back escape the rod, I ask you, Any more than mine did ? Was not I, forsooth, Born like yourself a free Athenian ? — Perhaps you'll say, beating's the rule for children. I answer, that an old man's twice a child; And it is fair the old should have to howl More than poor children, when they get into mis- chief, Because there's ten times less excuse for the old ones. strep.— There never was a law to beat o*ie's lather. Pheid. — Law ? Pray who made the law ? a man I suppose, Like you or me and so persuaded others. Why have not I as good a right as he had To start a law for future generations That sons should beat their fathers in return ? We shall be liberal too, if all the stripes You laid upon us before the law was made We make you a present of, and don't repay them.— Look at the young cocks, and all other creatures: They fight their fathers; and what difference is there 'Twixt them and us, save that they don't make laws ? Strepsiades has no argument in reply to this specious one of his hopeful son. He hies to the thinking school, imprecates curses AlUSTOPIIANES. 413 upon Socrates, and appeals to the Clouds, who, he says, have terribly misled him. The Clouds reply, in a mocking chorus, that he had got no more than he deserved ; he had sought to be instructed in the arts of trickery ; and the teachings had come back to roost at his own door. Strepsiades, however, gets the best of it in the end. He summons his slaves who set fire to the school-building ; and the comedy closes with a grand scenic tableau, of the burning edifice, with Socrates and his half- smothered pupils shrieking from the windows. In the comedy of The Frogs there is plenty of broad farce ; but the satire is a serious one, the point of it being dii'ected mainly against Euripides, though there are hits at Sophocles and ./Eschylus. Bacchus, the patron divinity of the drama, is dissatisfied with the condition of the stage since the death of Euripides, and resolves to set out for Hades and bring back a trage- dian. After an infinity of farcical advent- ures, especially at the passage of the Styx, Bacchus reaches the Court of Pluto, where he finds Euripides and ^schylus disputing as to which is the greater poet and shall have the chief seat at table. Pluto has made up his mind that there shall be a public disputation between the rivals; and now that Bacchus has opportunely turned up in the Lower Re- gions, he is the very one to settle the matter. Pluto, moreover, promises that the poet to whom Bacchus shall award the palm, shall be permitted to return Avith him to the Upper World. The contest takes place in full divan. Bacchus presiding, and the Chorus of Frogs cheering on the competitors alternately. The contest is too long to be given in full. We present some of its main features, as trans- lated by Frere. At the very outset Bacchus has to check the disputants : 411 ARISTOPHANES. BACCHUS, EUBIPIDES, AND .ESOIIYLl'S. Buc. — Come, have a care, my friend. — You'll say too much. Eur. — I know the man of old, I've scrutinized And shown him long ago for what he is: A rude unbridled tongue, a haughty spirit; Proud, arrogant, and insolently pompous; Rough, clownish, boisterous, and overbearing. ^Es. — Say'st thou me so ? Thou bastard of the earth, With thy patched robes and rags of sentiment, Raked from the streets, and stitched and tacked together! Thou mumping, whining, beggarly hypocrite! But you shall pay for it. Bar. — There now, iEschylus, You grow too warm. Restrain your ireful mood. JEs. — Yes; but I'll seize that sturdy beggar first, And search and strip him bare of his pretensions. Bur. — Quick! Quick! A sacrifice to the winds — make ready ; The storm of rage is gathering. Bring a victim. JEs. — A wretch that has corrupted everything: Our music with his melodies from Crete; Our morals, with incestuous tragedies. Bac. — Dear, worthy iEschylus, contain yourself ; And as for you, Euripides, move off This instant, if you're wise; I give you warning, Or else with one of his big thumping phrases, You'll get your brains dashed out, and all your notions. — And thee, most noble /Eschylus, I beseech With mild demeanor, calm and affable, To hear and answer. For it ill beseems Illustrious bards to scold like market-women; But you roar out, and bellow like a furnace. Eur. — I'm up to it — I am resolved, and here I stand Ready and steady — take what course you will. Let him be first to speak, or else let me. — I'll match my plots and characters against him; My sentiments and language, and whatnot; Aye, and my music too — my Meleager, My iEolus, aiid my Telephus, and all. ARISTOPHANES. 415 Bac. — Well, xEschylus, determine. What say you ? yEs. — I wish the place of trial had been else- where : I stand at disadvantage here. Bac. — As how ? ^Es. — Because my poems live on earth above, And his died with him, and descended here, And are at hand as ready witnesses. — But you decide the matter: I submit. Bac. — Come, let them bring me fire and frank- incense, That I may offer vows and make oblations For an ingenious critical conclusion To this same elegant and clever trial. Incense is now offered by the two irate com- petitors ; and there is a good deal of by-play by the Chorus of Frogs, who seem to be look- ing out for fun. Bacchus gravely directs the rival tragedians to proceed, avoiding all offensive expressions. Eur. — At the first outset, I forbear to state my own pretensions — Hereafter I shall mention them when his have been refuted. After I shall have fairly shown how he befooled and cheated The rustic audience which he found. . . . He planted first upon the stage a figure veiled and muffled — An Achilles or a Xiobe, that never showed their faces, And kept a tragic attitude, without a word to utter. Bac. — No more they did: 'tis very true Eur. — In the mean while the Chorus Strung on ten strophes right-on-end : but they re- mained in silence. Bac. — I liked that silence well enough; as well perhaps or better Than these new talking characters. Eur. — That's from your want of judgment; Believe me. 41<; ARISTOPHANES. liar. — Why, perhaps it is. But what was his in- tent ion ? Eur. — Why, mere conceit and insolence to keep the people waiting Till Niobe should deign to speak, to drive his drama forward. . Es. — Well then, thou paltry wretch, explain what were your own devices. Eur. — When 1 received the Muse from you, I found her puffed and pampered With pompons sentences and terms — a cumbrous huge virago. My first attention was applied to make her look genteelly; And bring her to a better shape by dint of lighter diet. I fed her with plain household phrases, and cool familiar salad. With water-gruel episode, and sentimental jelly. With moral mincemeat, till at length I brought her into compass. 1 kept my plots distinct and clear, and to prevent confusion. My leading characters rehearsed their pedigrees for prologues. . /\.— "I'was well at least that you forbore to quote your ov n e\t taction. Eur. — From the firsl opening of the scene all persons were in action. The master spoke, the slave replied; the women, young and old ones. All had their equal share of talk. . l\s. — Come then, stand forth and tell us What forfeit less than death is due for such an innovation? Eur. — 1 did it upon principle, from democratic motives. />'(((•. — Take care, my friend, upon that ground your footing is but ticklish. Fur. — I taught these youths to speechify, ./•.v. — l say so too. — Moreover 1 say that — for the public good — you ought to have been hanged first. Eur. — The rules and forms of rhetoric, the laws of composition: ARISTOPUANES. 417 To prate, to state, and in debate to meet a ques- tion fairly; At a dead-lilt to turn and shift; to make a nice distinction. Ms. — I grant it all. I make it all my ground of accusation. The dispute goes on long and furiously. ^Eschylus avers that when the citizens passed from his tutelage to that of Euripides, they were brave and manly; ready to do all service to the State, ' ' with arms and equip- ments, bucklers, shields, and so forth." Bac. — There he goes, hammering on; with his helmets, He'll be the death of me some day. Ear. — But how did you manage to make 'em so manly? What was the method, the means that you took? Bac — Speak, iEschylus, speak, and behave yourself better, And don't in your rage stand so silent and stern. Ms. — A drama, brimful with heroical spirit. Ear.— What did you call it? Ms.— The Chiefs against Thebes, That inspired each spectator with martial ambi* tion, Courage and ardor, and prowess and pride. Bac. — But you did very wrong to encourage the Tbebans; Indeed, you deserve to be punished — you do; For the Thebans are grown to be capital soldiers. You've done us a mischief by that very thing. Ms. — The fault was your own if you took other courses, The lesson I taught was directed to you. . . . iEschylus goes on to speak of others of his dramas, and to set forth the lofty lessons which they inculcated; contrasting them with those of Euripides, the tendency of which was very hurtful : — that of the Phoc- dra, for example. 27 418 ARISTOPHANES. Eur. — But at least you'll allow that I never in- vented it. Phaedra's affair was a matter of fact. yEs. — A fact, with a vengeance! But horrible facts Should be buried in silence, not bruited abroad, Nor brought forth on the stage, nor emblazoned in poetry. Children and boys have a teacher assigned them: The bard is a master for manhood and youth, Bound to instruct them in virtue and truth. Poor Bacchus is greatly puzzled to arrive at a wise decision. He thinks that quantity, as well as quality, should be taken into con- sideration. He calls for a pair of scales, and in them weighs the manuscripts of the rival poets. Those of the one are just about as heavy as those of the other. At length he propounds a political question to each com- petitor. Both answer ambiguously ; but the reply of iEschylus seems to be the wisest, and so the pre-eminence is awarded to him. Pluto permits iEschylus to return to the Upper World; and gives him some good advice : Pluto. — Go forth with good wishes and hearty good-will, And salute the good people on Pallas' s Hill. Let them hear and admire Father yEschylus still, In his office of old which he again must fill : — Y"ou must guide and direct them With a lesson in verse ; For you'll find them much worse; Greater fools than before, and their folly much more, And more numerous far than the blockheads of yore JEs. — I shall do as you say; but while I'm away, Let the seat that I held, by Sophocles be filled. As deservedly reckoned my pupil, and second In learning and merit, and tragical spirit. — And take special care; — ARISTOPHANES. 410 Keep that reprobate there Far aloof from the chair. Let him never sit in it an hour or a minute, By chance or design to profane what was mine. Pluto, who, as conceived by Aristophanes, was a very good sort of a fellow, gives Bac- chus and ./Eschylus a jolly send-off as they set out for the regions of Upper Air : Plut. — Bring forward the torches ! The Chorus shall wait, And attend on the Poet in triumphant state, With a thundering chant of majestical tone, To wish him farewell with a tune of his own. Perhaps, after all, the first place among the comedies of Aristophanes should be ac- corded to The Knights; or, as we would designate it, "The Cavaliers." If not, as a whole, the best of the dramas, it contains beyond question the keenest of his political satire, and some of his noblest lyrics, which are sung by the Knights, who constitute the Chorus. We take the translation of Frere. THE CHORUS PRAISE THEIR FOREFATHERS. Let us praise our famous fathers: let their glory be recorded, On Minerva's mighty mantle consecrated and embroidered; That with many a naval action, and with infantry by land, Still contending, never ending, strove for empire and command. When they met the foe, disdaining to compute a poor account Of the number of their armies, of their muster and amount: But whene'er at wrestling-matches they were worsted in the fray, Wiped their shoulders from the dust, denied the fall, and fought away; 420 ARISTOPHANES. Then the generals never claimed precedence, or a separate seat, Like the present mighty captains, or the public wine or meat. — As for us, the sole pretension suited to our birth and years, Is with resolute intention, as determined volun- teers, To defend our fields and altars, as our fathers did before, Claiming, as a recompense, this easy boon and nothing more : When our trials with peace are ended, not to view us with malignity, "When we're curried, sleek and pampered, pranc- ing in our pride and dignity. THE CHOEUS PKAISE TIIEIK STEEPS. Let us sing the mighty deeds of our illustrious noble steeds, They deserve a celebration for their service here- tofore : Charges and attacks — exploits enacted in the days of yore, (These however, strike me less, as having been performed ashore); But the wonder was to see them when they fairly went abroad, With canteens, and bread, and onions, victualled and completely stored ; Then they fixed and dipped their oars, begin- ning all to shout and neigh, Just the same as human creatures — "Pull away, boys ! pull away ! Bear a hand there, Roan and Sorrel ! Have a care there, Black and Bay!" — Then they leapt ashore at Corinth; and the lustier younger sort Strolled about to pick up litter for their solace and disport; And devoured the crabs of Corinth, as a substi- tute for clover; So that a poet, named Crabb, exclaimed in an- guish — All's over! ATiTSTOriTAXES. 421 What avails us, mighty Neptune, if we cannot hope to ]<("■;> From pursuit and persecution <>n the land <>r in the deep'.''' From the comedies of Aristophanes Ave can really learn more of the real life of the Athe- nians of his day than from what is recorded by the gravest historians ; just as the dramas of Shakespeare and the novels of Scott are act- ually truer history than are the chronicles of Holinshed and the tomes of Hume. " If , " says the Rev. Mr. Collins, "one great object of the study of the classics is to gain an accu- rate acquaintance with one of the most brill- iant and interesting epochs in the history of the world, no pages will supply a more im- portant contribution to this knowledge than those of the great Athenian humorist. He lays the flesh and blood, the features and the coloring, upon the skeleton which the histo- rian gives us. His portraits of political and historical celebrities must of course be ac- cepted with caution, as the works of a profes- sional caricaturist ; but, like all good caricat- ures, they preserve some striking character- istics of the men, which find no place in their historical portraits; and they let us know what was said of them by their irreverent contemporaries. It is in these comedies that we have the Athenians at home; and al- though modern writers of Athenian history have laid them largely under contribution in the way of reference and illustration, nothing will fill in the outline of the Athens of Cleon and Alcibiades so vividly as the carefui study of one of these remarkable dramas. One is inclined to place more faith than is usually due to anecdotes of the kind in that which is told of Plato that when the elder Dionysius, tyrant of Syracuse, wrote to him to request information as to the state of things at Athens, 122 ARISTOPHAXES. the philosopher sent him a copy of Aris- tophanes's Ciottds as the best and most trust- worthy picture of that marvellous republic."' Two of the most pleasant of the comedies of Aristophanes are the Thesmoplwriazusce ("Women's Festival") and the Ecclesiazusce ( "Female Parliament ") in which the Wom- an's Right question is ventilated. In the for- mer of these is a lively chorus sung by wom- en, which is thus rather freely rendered by the Rev. Mr. Collins : CHORUS OF WOMEN. They're always abusing the Women as a terrible plague to men: They say we're the root of all evil, and repeat it again and again; Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed; all mischief, be it what it may: — And, pray then, why do you marry us, if we're all the plagues you say? And why do you take such care of us, and keep us so safe at home; And are never easy a moment, if ever we chance to roam ? When you ought to be thanking heaven that your Plague is out of the way. You all keep fussing and fretting — "Where is my Plague to-day?" — If a Plague peeps out of the window, up go the eyes of the men; If she hides, then they all keep staring until she looks out again. In the Ecclesiazusce one of the speakers thus demonstrates that women are the true conservative element in society, and should therefore be at the head of public affairs not only in peace but in war: women's capabilities. They roast and boil after the good old fashion; They keep the holidays that were kept of old; They make their cheese-cakes by the old receipts; ARISTOTLE. 428 They keep a private bottle like their mothers', They plague their husbands — as they always did. . . . Being mothers, they'll be chary of the blood Of their own sons, our soldiers. Being mothers, They'll take care their children do not starve When they're on service. And for ways and means, Trust us, there's nothing cleverer than a woman. — And as for diplomacy, they'll be hard indeed To cheat: — they know too many tricks themselves. ARISTOTLE, a Greek philosopher, the founder of the school of Peripatetics. He was born at Stagira, a Greek colony in Mace- donia (whence he is denominated ' ' the Stagi- rite''), in 384 B.C., and died at Chalcis, on the island of Eubcoa, in 322 B.C. At the age of seventeen he was sent to Athens to complete his education, and resided there during the ensuing twenty years. When he was about forty years old, Philip of Macedon invited Aristotle to become the tutor of his son. Alex- ander, afterwards known as "the Great," then a boy of thirteen. He acquired a com- manding influence over Philip and his son; and after the conquest of Persia, Alexander presented his former tutor with a sum of 800 talents in gold — equivalent to about $1,000,000 of our money, and also sent to him specimens of all curious animals and plants which were discovered in his numerous expeditions. When he was about fifty years old Aristotle took up his residence at Athens, bringing with him his vast scientific collections, and estab- lished his new School of Philosophy in the Lyceum, a gymnasium near the city sur- rounded by shady walks (jperipatoi), in which he was wont to discourse to his pupils, while walking about, whence his school of philoso- phy is styled the " Peripatetic School." His friendly relations with Alexander were at 421 ARISTOTLE. length broken off, on account, it is said, of the admonitions which he addressed to the great conqueror upon the dissolute way of life into which he had fallen. The Athenians, however, charged him with still being a par- tisan of the Macedonian dynasty, accused him of impiety, and forced him to flee to Chalcis, where he died. Aristotle was beyond question by far the best educated man of all antiquity. He seems to have grasped all the knowledge of his times, and to have made numerous important additions to almost every department of nat- ural science— to say nothing of his undoubted merits as a metaphysical thinker. He was the first careful dissector and describer of animals ; the first to divide the animal king- dom into classes. He described many spe- cies of animals hitherto wholly unknown to his countrymen ; and came near to discover- ing the fact of the circulation of the blood. His entire philosophical method seems to be almost identical with that long after enunci- ated by Bacon. It rests upon the principle that all our thinking must be founded on the observation of facts. Many of the writings of Aristotle are un- doubtedly lost; but Avhat remains of them exceed in bulk those of any other classic Greek Author. Bekkers complete edition, in the original, contains eight large octavo volumes, nearly all of which is text. Taylor's quite inadequate English translation fills eleven folios. They cover an almost infinite range of topics in the domains of physics, metaphysics, ethics, and speculation. Per- haps the most striking of his works is the Met- aphysics, which has been admirably trans- lated by Rev. John H.M'Mahon, of the Univer- sity of Dublin, who has greatly added to its use- fulness by prefixing a copious analysis of the ARISTOTLE. 425 whole work. " The Metaphysics,'''' ho says, "open with a short preface, in which Aris- totle seeks to introduce his readers to the phi- losophy that he is now about to develop for them, and which he implies is quite distinct in its aim from that found in the other por- tions of his works ; though at the same time inseparably connected with them, as pieces of that vast edifice of knowledge, practical as well as speculative, which it was his am- bition to build up and leave behind him for the service of mankind." — Our citations from this work will be in the translation of M'Ma- hon : SENSE, MEMORY, AND FORESIGHT. All men by nature are actuated with the desire of knowledge, and an indication of this is the love of the senses; for even, irrespective of their util- ity, are they loved for their own sakes; and pre- eminently above the rest, the sense of Sight. For not only for practical purposes, but also when not intent on doing anything, we choose the power of vision in preference, so to say, to all the rest of the senses. And a cause of this is the fol- lowing: That this one of the senses particularly enables us to apprehend whatever knowledge it is the inlet of, and that it makes many distinctive qualities manifest. By nature, then, indeed, are animals formed, en- dowed with sense; but in some of them Memory is not innate with sense, and in others it is. And for this reason are those possessed of more foresight, as well as a greater aptitude for discipline, than those which are wanting in this faculty of mem- ory. Those furnished with foresight, indeed, are yet without the capability of receiving instruction, whatever amongst them are unable to understand the sounds they hear, as, for instance, bees, and other similar tribes of animals. 'But those are capable of receiving instruction as many as, in addition to memory, are provided with this sense also. The rest, indeed, subsist, then, through im- 426 ARISTOTLE. pressions and the operations of memory, but share Experience in a slight degree ; whereas the human race exists by means of Art also and the power of Reasoning. — Preface to Metaphysics. EXPERIENCE, ART, AND WISDOM. Now Experience accrues to men from memory; for repeated acts of memory about the same thing done, constitute the force of a single experience: and experience seems to be a thing almost similar to Science and Art. Rut Science and Art result unto men by means of Experience; for Experience, indeed, as Polus saith, and correctly so, has produced Art, but In- experience, Chance. Rut an art comes into be- ing when, out of many conceptions of experience, one universal opinion is evolved with respect to similar cases. For, indeed, to entertain the opin- ion that this particular remedy has been of service to Callias, while laboring under this particular disease, as well as to Socrates, and so individually to many — this is an inference of Experience; but that it has been conducive to the health of all — such as have been defined according to one spe- cies — while laboring under this disease, as for instance, to the phlegmatic or the choleric, or those sick of a burning fever — this belongs to the province of Art. As regards* indeed, practical purposes, there- fore. Experience seems in nowise to differ from Art: nay, even we see the experienced compassing their object more effectually than those who pos- sess a theory without the experience. Rut a cause of this is the following: That Experience, indeed, is a knowledge of singulars, whereas Art. of uiiiveisals. Rut all things in the doing, and all generations, are concerned about the singular: for he whose profession it is to practice medicine, does not restore Man to health save by accident; but Callias, or Socrates, or any of the rest so des- ignated, to whom it happens to be a man. If therefore, any one without the Experience is furnished with the Principle, and is acquainted with the Universal, but is ignorant of the Singular that is involved therein, he will frequently fall ARISTOTLE. 1-7 into error in the case of his medical treatment, for that which is capable of cure is rather the Singular. But nevertheless, we are of opinion that, at least, knowledge and understanding appertain to Art rather than to Experience; and we reckon artists more wise than the experienced, inasmuch as Wisdom is the concomitant of all philosophers rather in proportion to their knowledge. But this is so because some, indeed, are aware of the cause, and some are not. For the experi- enced, indeed, know that a thing is so, but they do not know wherefore it is so; but others— I mean the scientific— are acquainted with the wherefore and the cause. Therefore, also, we reckon the chief artificers in each case to be en- titled to more dignity, and to the reputation of superior knowledge, and to be more wise than the handicraftsman, because the former are ac- quainted with the causes of the things that are being constructed; whereas the latter produce things, as certain inanimate things do, indeed ; yet these perform their functions unconsciously — as the fire when it burns. Things indeed, there- fore, that are inanimate, by a certain constitution of nature, perform each of these their functions; but the handicraftsman through habit, inasmuch as it is not according as men are practical that they are more wise, but according as they pos- sess the reason of a thing, and understand rouses. And upon the whole, the proof of a person's having knowledge is even the ability to teach; and for this reason we consider Art rather than Experience, to be a science, for artists can, where- as handicraftsmen cannot, convey instruction. And further, we regard none of the senses to be Wisdom, although, at least these are the most de- cisive sources of knowledge about singulars, but they make no affirmation of the wherefore in regard of anything: as, for example, why fire is hot, but only the fact that it is hot. Therefore, indeed, it is natural for the person who first discovers any art whatsoever, beyond the ordinary power of the senses, to be the object of human admiration, not only on account of 428 ARISTOTLE. something of the things that have been discovered being useful, but as one that is wise and superior to the rest of men. But when more arts are being discovered — both some, indeed, in relation to things that are necessary, and others for pastime ■ — we invariably regard such more wise than those, on account of their sciences not being for bare utility. Whence all things of such a sort having been already procured, those sciences have been invented which were pursued neither for pur- poses of pleasure nor necessity, and first in those places where the inhabitants enjoyed leisure. Wherefore, in the neighborhood of Egypt the mathematical arts were first established, for there leisure was spared unto the sacerdotal caste. It has then, indeed been declared in the Ethics what is the difference between an Art and a Science, and the rest of the things of the same description. But, at present, the reason of our producing this treatise is the fact that all consider what is termed Wisdom to be conversant about First Causes and Principles; so that — as has been said on a former occasion — the experienced seem to be more wise than those possessing any sense whatsoever; and the artificer than the experienced; and tlie mas- ter-artist than the handicraftsman; and the spec- ulative rather than those that are productive. That, indeed, Wisdom, therefore, is a science con- versant about certain causes and First Principles, ig qbvious.^Pre/ace to Metaphysics. THE EXISTENCE AND ATTRIBUTES OF THE DEITY. The Final Cause of anything resides in those things of which the one is in existence and the other is not. So that which first imparts motion does so as a thing that is loved; and that which has motion impressed upon, it imparts motion to other things. If, indeed, therefore, anything is being moved, it is admissible also that it should subsist in a different manner. Wherefore, if the primary motion constitutes energy also, so far forth as the thing is moved, in this way it is like- wise possible that it should subsist after a differ- ent mode in place though not in substance. Since however, there is something that imparts motion. ARISTOTLE. 429 itself being immovable, and subsisting in energy, tins does not by any means admit of subsisting in a different manner ; for the primary motion be- longs to the changes, and of this that which is cir- cular; but this First Mover imparts motion to that. Of necessity, in this case, must this original First Mover constitute an entity; and so far forth as it subsists necessarily, so far forth does it subsist after an excellent manner; and in this way constitutes a First Principle. For what is neces- sary subsists in thus many ways: In the first, by what is accomplished by violence, because it is contrary to free-will; and, secondly, as that with- out which a thing does not subsist in an excellent manner; and, thirdly, as that which could not be otherwise from what it is, but involves an abso- lute subsistence. From a First Principle, then, of this kind — I mean one that is involved in the as- sumption of a First Mover — hath depended the Heaven and Nature. Now, the course of life of this First Mover — in like manner with our own for a limited period of time — is such, also, as is the most excellent; for, in the present instance, doth that First Mover con- tinue in the enjoyment of the Principles of Life forever; for with us, certainly, such a thing as this would be impossible; but not so with the First Mover, since even doth the energy or activ- ity of this First Mover give rise unto pleasure or satisfaction on the part of such ; and on this ac- count vigilance, exercise of the senses, and per- ception in general, are what is most productive of pleasure or satisfaction; and with hopes and rec- ollections is the case the same for these reasons. Now, essential perception is the perception of that which is essentially the most excellent, and that which is most essential perception is the per- ception of that which is most essential. The mind, however, is cognizant of itself by participa- tion in that which falls within the province of the mind as its object; for it becomes an object of perception by contrast and by an act of intellect- ual apprehension. Ho that the mind, and that which is an object of perception for the mind, are the same; for that which is receptive of inipres- 4:30 ARISTOTLE. sions from what is an object of perception, and is substance, constitutes Mind; and when in pos- session of these impressions it energizes, or sub- sists in a condition of activity. Wherefore, that seems to belong to the First Mover rather than to the mind of man ; and it is a Divine prerogative which the mind appears to possess : and contem- plation contemplates what is most agreeable and excellent. If, therefore, God in this way pos- sesses such an excellent mode of subsistence for- ever — as we do for a limited period of duration — the Divine Nature is admirable; and if he pos- sesses it in a more eminent degree, still more ad- mirable will be the Divine Nature. In tli is way, however, is the Deity disposed as to existence; and the Principle of Life is, at any rate, inherent in the Deity; for the energy or active exercise of Mind constitutes life; and God — as above delineated — constitutes this Energy; and essential Energy belongs to God as his best and everlasting Life. Now, our statement is this: That the Deity is a Being that is everlasting and most excellent in nature; so that with Deity Life and Duration are uninterrupted and eternal: for this constitutes the very essence of God. — Meta- physics, Book XL Chap. VII. But the writings of Aristotle do not deal wholly, or even, mainly with these high-trans- cendental themes. He treats in many of his works of things which relate to private, so- cial, and political ethics. In the citations which follow, which are here grouped to- gether from various works, the translations are mainly adopted as given by Crawford Tait Ramage, LL.D. THE IDEAL, STATE. It is evident that it is not a mere community of place; nor is it established that men may be safe from injury and maintain an interchange of good offices. All these tilings, indeed, must take place where there is a state, and yet they may all exist and there be no state. A state, then, may be de- ARISTOTLE. 431 fined to be a society of people joining together by their families and children to live happily, enjoy- ing a life of thorough independence. When a democracy is controlled by fixed laws, a demagogue has no power, but the best citizens fill the offices of state. When the laws are not supreme, there demagogues are found; for the people act like a king, being one body, for the many are supreme, not as individuals but as a whole. The supreme power must necessarily be in the hand of one person, or of a few, or of the many. When one, the few, or the many direct their whole efforts for the common good, such states must be well governed ; but when the ad- vantage of the one, the few, or the many is alone regarded, a change for the worse must be ex pected. A pretension to offices of state ought to be founded on those qualifications that are a part of itself. And for this reason, men of birth, inde- pendence and fortune are right in contending with each other for office; for those who hold offices of state ought to be persons of indepen- dence and property. The multitude, when they are collected together, have sufficient understand- ing for the purpose of electing magistrates; and, mingling with those of higher rank are serviceable to the state, though separately each individual is unfit to form a judgment for himself; as some kinds of food, which would be poisonous by it- self, by being mixed with the wholesome, makes the whole good. The free-born and men of high birth will dispute the point with each other, as being nearly on an equality, for citizens that are well-born have a right to more respect than the ignoble. Honorable descent is in all nations greatly esteemed; besides, it is to be expected that the children of men of worth will be like their fathers; for nobility is the virtue of a fam iiy. Education and good morals will be found to be almost the whole that goes to make a good man: and the same things will make a good statesman and good king. The truest definition of a com- plete citizen that can be given is probably this: 432 AKISTOTLE. th.at he shares in the judicial and executive part of the government. But it is a matter of high com- mendation to know how to command as well as to obey; to do both these things well is the peculiar quality of a good citizen. A state, consisting of a multitude of human beings, as we have before said, ought to be brought to unity and commu- nity by education ; and he who is about to intro- duce education, and expects thereby to make the state excellent, will act absurdly if he thinks to fashion it by any other means than by manners, philosophy, and laws. The corruption of the best and most divine form of government must be the worst. There is no free state where the laws do not rule supreme; for the law ought to be above all. A government in a constant state of turmoil is weak. The only stable state is that where every one possesses an equality in the eye of the law. according to his merit, and enjoys his own unmolested. CLASSES IN THE STATE. In every state the people are divided into tbree kinds. The very rich, the very poor; and those who arc between them. Since then, it is univers- ally acknowledged that the mean is the best, it is evident that even in respect to fortune a middle state is to be preferred; for that state is most likely to submit to reason. For those who arc very handsome, or very strong, or very noble; or, on the other hand, those who are very poor, or very weak, or very mean, are with difficulty in- duced to obey reason; and this because the one class is supercilious, and the other rascally and mean: and the crimes of each arise respectively from insolence and servility. THE MIDDLE CLASS SHOULD BE THE KULLNG ONE. It is evident, then, that the most perfect polit- ical community is that which is administered by the Middle Classes, and those states are best carried on in which these are the majority, and outweigh the other classes; and if that cannot be, at least where they overbalance each separately; for being thrown into the balance, it will prevent ARISTOTLE. 433 either extreme from predominating. Wherefore it is the greatest happiness to possess a moderate and competent fortune; since where some possess too much, and others nothing at all, the govern- ment must he either an extreme Democracy or else a pure Oligarchy; or. from the excess of both, a Tyranny; for this springs from a headstrong Democracy or an Oligarchy ; but far more seldom when the members of the community are nearly on an equality with each other. It is clear that the state where the Middle Class predominate is the best; for it alone is free from seditious movements. Where such a state is large, there are fewer seditions and insurrections to disturb the peace, and for this reason: exten- sive states arc more peaceful internally, as the middle ranks are numerous. In small states it is easy to pass to the two extremes, so as to have scarcely any middle ranks remaining; but all are either very poor or very rich. Should the num- ber of husbandmen he predominant, it will be of the very best kind ; if of mechanics, and those who work for pay, of the worst. Scattered through the writings of Aristotle are brief and pregnant hints upon homely matters, than which it will not be easy to find anything wiser or more apposite from any social philosopher of later days. Thus, in regard to Education by the State he says : It would bo best that the state should pay at- tention to education, and on right principles, and that it should have power to enforce it; but if it be neglected as a public measure, then it would seem to be the duty of every individual to con- tribute to the virtue of his children and friends; or to make this his deliberate purpose. And this upon the strict maintenance of Law : Particular care ought to be taken that nothing be done contrary to law; and this should be chiefly looked to in matters of small moment. For small 28 434 ARISTOTLE. violations of law advance by stealthy steps, in the same way as, in a domestic establishment, trifling expenses, if often repeated, consume a man's whole estate. And this upon the Qualifications of a Public Officer: There are three qualifications which ought to be possessed by a man who aspires to fill the high offices of state: Firstly, he must be well disposed, and prepared to support the established Constitu- tion of his country; secondly, he ought to have a special aptitude for the office which he fills; and, thirdly, he should have the kind of virtue and love of justice which suits the particular state in which he lives. And this comprehensive definition of Hap- piness : Let happiness be defined to be good fortune in union with virtue — or independency of life — or the life that is most agreeable, attended with se- curity, or plenty of property and slaves; with the power to preserve and ornament it; for all men agree that one or more of these things amount nearly to happiness. And this upon a topic of every clay concern- ment in which the ancients were far in ad- vance of later times : THE NECESSITY OF GOOD WATER. Since every attention should be given to the health of the inhabitants, it is of great importance that the city should have a good situation; and next, that the inhabitants should have good water to drink: and this must not be regarded as a mat- ter of secondary moment. For what is used chiefly in great quantities for the support of the body must, above all, contribute to its health. And this is the influence which the air and the water exercise over the body. Wherefore, in all wise governments the water ought to be appor- tioned to different purposes; if all is not equally JOHN ARMSTRONG. 435 good, and if there is not abundance of both kinds, that for drinking should be separated from that which is used for other purposes. ARMSTRONG, John, a British author, born in Roxburghshire, Scotland, in 1709 ; died in London in 1779. He studied medicine at Edin- burgh; and subsequently went to London, where he became intimate with the literary celebrities of the time. Thomson, in The Castle of Indolence, describes him as one who — Quite detested talk ; Oft, stung by spleen, at once away he broke To groves of pine and broad o'ershadowing oak; There, inly thrilled, he" wandered all alone, And on himself his pensive fury woke; Nor ever uttered word, save when first shone The glittering star of eve—" Thank Heaven, the day is done!" He wrote several works in prose and verse, which had considerable repute in their day. But the only one by which he is remembered, the poem The Art of Preserving Health, was praised for "its classical correctness and closeness of style." One of the best passages in this poem is the following : OVEB-INDITLGENCE IN WINE. But most, too passive when the blood runs low, Too weakly indolent to strive with pain, And bravely, by resisting, conquer fate, Try Circe's arts; and in the tempting bowl Of poisoned nectar sweet oblivion swill. Struck by the powerful charm the gloom dissolves In empty air; Elysium opens round, A pleasing frenzy buoys the lightened soul, And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting care; And what was difficult, and what was dire, Yields to your prowess and superior stars. The happiest you of all that e'er were mad, Or are, or shall be, could this folly last. 436 JOHN ARMSTRONG. But soon your heaven is gone; a heavier gloom Shuts o'er your head; and as the thundering stream, Swollen o'er its banks with sudden mountain rain, Sinks from its tumult to a silent brook, So when the frantic raptures in your breast Subside, you languish into mortal man. You sleep, and waking find yourself undone. For, prodigal of life, in one rash night You lavished more than might support three days. A heavy morning comes; your cares return With tenfold rage.— An anxious stomach well May be endured; so may the throbbing head; But such a dim delirium, such a dream, Involves you; such a dastardly despair Unmans your soul, as maddening Penthcus felt, When, baited round Cithseran's cruel sides, He saw two suns and double Thebes ascend. The poem contains a really magnificent de- scription of the famous " Sweating Sickness " which raged in England in the Summer of 1485. An accurate medical diagnosis was never before so poetically phrased. The subjoined extract, however, perhaps exhibits Armstrong at his best : TJ1E MUTATIONS OF TIME. What does not fade? The tower that long had stood The crash of thunder and the warring winds, Shook by the slow but sure destroyer Time, Now hangs in doubtful ruins o'er its base, And flinty pyramids and walls of brass Descend. The Babylonian spires are sunk; Achaia, Rome, and Egypt moulder down. Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones, And tottering empires rush by their own weight. This huge rotundity we tread grows old, And all those worlds that roll around the sun; The Sun himself shall die, and ancient Night Again involve the desolate abyss, Till the great Father, through the lifeless gloom, Extend his arm to light another world, And bid new planets roll by other laws. ERNST MORITZ ARNDT. 431 ARNDT, Ernst Moritz, a German poet, born on the island of Riigen, Dec. 2(5, 1709, died at Bonn, Jan. 29, 1860. He studied at Grief swald and Jena, travelled in Europe, and was appointed Professor at Grief swald, where he wrote a History of Serfdom in Pomerania and Riigen. In 1807 appeared the first volume of his Spirit of the Time, in which he made a severe attack upon Napoleon, which occa- sioned his expulsion from the country. He afterwards, under an assumed name, taught languages in Sweden and Russia, and pub- lished numerous pamphlets arousing the pub- lic mind against Napoleon, and a book in which he claimed the Rhine as a German river. He also wrote many patriotic songs, one of which is Was ist des Deutschen Voter- land ? In 1818 he became Professor of Modern Languages in the University of Bonn; but his liberal ideas gave offence to the Prussian Gov- ernment and he was tried upon charge of trea- son; and although he could not be convicted, he was forbidden to continue to teach history in the Kingdom. He was restored to his chair in the University in 1810. He subse- quently took an active part in the political movements of 1848-49 and even then advo- cated a hereditary German Empire. A monu- ment in his honor was erected at Bonn in 1865, and the house in which he had lived was purchased and presented to the city. THE GERMAN FATHERLAND. Which is the German's Fatherland? Is't Prussia's or Swabia's land? Is't where the Rhine's rich vintage streams? Or where the Northern sea-gull screams? — Ah, no, no, no! His Fatherland's not hounded so! Which is the German's Fatherland? Bavaria's or Styria's land? 438 ERNST M01UTZ AKNDT. Is' t where the Marcian ox unbends? Or where the Marksman iron rends? — Ah, no, no, no! His Fatherland's not bounded so! Which is the German's Fatherland? Pomerania's or Westphalia's land? Is it where sweep the Dunian waves? — Or where the thundering Danube raves?— Ah, no, no, no! His Fatherland's not bounded so! Which is the German's Fatherland? O, tell me now the famous land ! Is't Tyrol, or the land of Tell? Such land and people please me well:— Ah, no, no, no! His Fatherland's not bounded so! Which is the German's Fatherland? Come, tell me now the famous land. Doubtless it is the Austrian State, In honors and in triumphs great.— Ah, no, no, no! His Fatherland's not bounded so! Which is the German's Fatherland? So tell me now the famous land! Is't what the Princes won by sleight From the Emperor and the Empire's right?— Ah, no, no, no! His Fatherland's not bounded so! Which is the German's Fatherland? So tell me now at last the land !— As far's the German accent rings, And hymns to God in Heaven sings,— That is the Land! There, brother, is thy Fatherland. There is the German's Fatherland, Where oaths attest the grasped hand; Where truth beams from the sparkling eyes, And in the heart love warmly lies; — That is the land! There, brother, is thy Fatherland! EDWIN ARNOLD. 439 That is the German's Fatherland, Where wrath pursues the foreign band ; Where every Frank is held a foe. And Germans all as brothers glow ; — That is the land ! All Germany's thy Fatherland! — Transl. of Macray. ARNOLD, Edwin, an English journalist and poet, born June 10, 1831. He studied at King's School, Rochester, and at King's Col- lege, London, whence he was elected to a schol- arship at University College, Oxford, where in 1852 he gained the Newdigate prize for English poetry for his poem on Belshazzafs Feast, and in the following year was chosen to deliver the address to the Earl of Derby on his instal- lation as Chancellor of the University. Hav- ing graduated with high honor in 1851, he was for a short time Second Master in King Edward the Sixth's School at Birmingham, and was then appointed Principal of the Gov- ernment Sanskrit College at Poonah in West- ern India. He held this position until 18G0, when the death of his child and the sickness of his wife induced him to return to England, where he became one of the Editors of the London Dally Telegraph, the most widely- circulated newspaper in England. Besides contributing largely, in prose and verse to literary periodicals, he has written a treatise on Education in India; The History of Lord Dalhousie's Administration in India; Gri- selda, a Drama; a volume of Poems Narra- tive and Lyrical. He has translated The En- terpe of Herodotus, from the Greek; and from the Sanskrit: the Hitopodesh, or "Book of Good Counsels," and two Books of the Mahd- bhdrata, which has been styled ' ' The Iliad of India. " The works by which he is best known are the poems, Indian Song of Songs and The Light of Asia, of which he says: " The time 440 EDWIN AKNOLD. may come, I hope, when these books will pre- serve the memory of one who loved India and the Indian peoples." The "Light of Asia" is not Gautama, or Buddha himself, but that doctrine of which he was the founder and promulgator, to the exposition of which the poem is devoted, and of the general character of which Mr. Arnold thus speaks in the Pre- face of his work : BUDDHA AND BUDDHISM. The Buddha of this poem — if, as need not be doubted, he really existed — was born on the bor- ders of Nepaul, about G20 B.C. , and died about 54:5 n.c. at Kusinagara in Oudh. In point of age, therefore, most other creeds are youthful when compared with this venerable religion, which has in it the eternity of a universal hope, the immor- tality of a boundless love, an indestructible ele- ment of faith in final good, and the proudest as- sertion ever made of human freedom. The ex- travagances which disfigure the record and prac- tice of Buddhism are to be referred to that inevita- ble degradation which priesthoods always inflict upon the great ideas committed to their charge. The power and sublimity of Gautama's original doctrines should be estimated by their influence, not by their interpreters: nor by that innocent but lazy and ceremonious Church which has arisen on the foundations of the Buddhistic Brotherhood or Sanf/ha. More than a third of mankind owe their moral and religious ideas to this illustrious Prince, whose personality though imperfectly revealed in the existing sources of information, cannot but appear the highest, gentlest, holiest, and most beneficent — with one exception — in the history of Thought. Discordant in frequent particulars, and sorely overlaid by corruptions, inventions, and misconceptions, the Buddhistical books yet agree in the one point of recording nothing — no single act or word — which mars the perfect purity and tenderness of this Indian Teacher, who united the truest princely qualities with the intellect of EDWIN ARNOLD. 141 the sage and the passionate devotion of the martyr. Though Gautama discountenanced rit- ual, and declared himself, even when on the thresh- old of Nirvana, to be only what all other men might become, yet the love and gratitude of Asia, disobeying his mandate, have given him fervent worship. Forests of flowers are daily laid upon his stainless shrines, and countless millions of lips daily repeat the formula, "I take refuge in Buddha." A generation ago little or nothing was known in Europe of this great faith of Asia, which had nevertheless existed during twenty-four centuries, and at this day surpasses, in the number of its fol- lowers and the area of its prevalence, any other form of creed. Four hundred and seventy mill- ions of our race live and die in the tenets of Gau- tama; and the spiritual dominions of this ancient teacher extend, at the present time, from Nepaul and Ceylon over the whole Eastern Peninsula, to China, Japan, Thibet, Central Asia, Siberia, and even Swedish Lapland. India itself might fairly be included in this magnificent empire of belief; for though the profession of Buddhism has for the most part passed away from the land of its birth, the mark of Gautama's sublime teaching is stamped ineffaceably upon modern Brahmanism, and the most characteristic habits and convictions of the Hindus are clearly due to the benign influ- ence of Buddha's precepts. I have, put my poem into a Buddhist's mouth, because to appreciate the spirit of Asiatic thoughts, they should be regarded from the Ori- ental point of view; and neither the miracles which consecrate this record, nor the philosophy which it embodies, could have been otherwise so naturally reproduced. The doctrine of Transmi- gration, for instance — startling to modern minds — was established and thoroughly accepted by the Hindus of Buddha's time; that period when Jerusalem was being taken by Nebuchadnezzar, when Nineveh was falling to the Medes, and Mar- seilles was founded by the Phocseans. The exposition here offered of so antique a system is of necessity incomplete, and passes rapidly by 412 EDWIN ARNOLD. many matters philosophically most important, as well as over the long ministry of Gautama. But my purpose has been obtained if any just concep- tion be here conveyed of the lofty character of this noble Prince, and of the general purport of his doctrines. As to these there has arisen pro- digious controversy among the erudite, who will be aware that I have taken the imperfect Bud- dhistic citations much as they stand in Spence Har- dy's work, and have also modified more than one passage in the received narratives. The views, however, here indicated of Nirvana, Dharma, and the other chief features of Buddhism, are at least the fruits of considerable study, and also of a firm conviction that a third of mankind would never have been brought to believe in blank abstrac- tions, or in Nothingness, as the issue and crown of Being. Buddha, "He by whom the truth is known," and Siddartha, "The Establisher," should be regarded rather as titles of Gau- tama, the founder of Buddhism, though they are used indiscriminately as his proper name. The poem The Light of Asia is com- prised in eight Books, containing in all some- thing like 4500 lines. It opens thus : The Scripture of the Saviour of the World, Lord Buddha — Prince Siddartha styled on earth, In earth and heavens and hells incomparable, All-honored, wisest, best, most pitiful; The teacher of Nirvana and the Law; Thus came he to be born again for men. The poem then goes on to narrate the mi- raculous circumstances attending this re-birth of Buddha into the world. His father was Suddhodana, " He whose food is pure," a just king, who ruled over the Sakyas, a pious peo- ple who lived "under the southward snows of Himalay." His mother, Maya, bore him without the usual pains of childbirth, and he was marked by the thirty-two greater and EDWIN ARNOLD. 443 the eighty lesser tokens which denote the in- fant who is in time to become a Buddh. As the boy grew up he excelled all his mates in wisdom and in every manly exercise and ac- complishment. When he was eighteen his father built for him three magnificent pala- ces, and began to cast about for a wife for the Prince. He appointed a festival where all the fairest maidens should present them- selves, and at which the Prince should ad- judge and bestow the prizes for beauty, hoping that some one of them would attract the love of his son. When all the prizes had been awarded, came the young Yasodhara, fairer than any who had before presented them- selves. Siddartha started as she approached ; and she upon him — Gazed full — holding her palms across her breasts — On the boy's gaze, her stately neck unbent. " Is there a gift for me ?" she asked and smiled. "The gifts are gone," the Prince replied; "yet take This for amends, dear Sister, of whose grace Our happy city boasts." Therewith he loosed The emerald necklace from his throat, and clasped Its green beads round her dark and silk-soft waist; And their eyes mixed, and from the look sprang love. This, however, was not the first time that these two had met. They had been united in a previous state of existence. Of this the Prince had a dim consciousness ; and long aft- er, when he had received his full enlighten- ment, and could clearly recall all his innu- merable existences, he told how it was that his heart took fire at the sight of this Sakya girl: " We were not strangers, as to us And all it seemed. In ages long gone by A hunter's son, playing with forest girls, 441 EDWIN ARNOLD. By Yamun's springs, where Nandadevi stands Sat umpire while they raced beneath the iirs. . . . But one who ran the last Came first for him; and unto her the boy Gave a tame fawn, and his heart's love besides. And in the wood they lived many glad years, And in the wood they undivided died — Lo! as the hid seed shoots after rainless years, So good and evil, pains and pleasure, hates And loves, and all dead deeds, come forth again, Bearing bright leaves or dark, sweet fruit or sour. Thus I was he, and she Yasodhara; And while the wheel of Birth and Death turns round, That which hath been must be between us two." Nor was even that their first union. At their formal betrothal Yasodhara wore upon her forehead a veil of Dlack and gold, which she coyly withdrew for a moment, then drew it close again. After his enlight- enment Siddartha explained why it was that Yasodhara wore this black and gold adorn- ment : " Unto me This was unknown, albeit it seemed half-known : For while the wheel of Birth and Death turns round, Past things and thoughts, and buried lives come back. — I now remember, myriad rains ago, What time I roamed Himala's hanging woods, A tiger, with my striped and hungry kind; I who am Buddh, couched in the kusa-grass, Gazing with green blinked eyes upon the herds Which pastured near and nearer to their death Round my day-lair. . . . Amid the beasts that were my fellows then, Met in deep jungle or by ready jheel A tigress, comeliest of the forest, set The males at war. Her hide was lit with gold, Black-bordered like the veil Yasodhara Wore for me. Hot the strife waxed in that wood With toe th and claw: while underneath a neem EDWIN ARNOLD. 445 The fair beast watched ns bleed, thus fiercely wooed. And 1 remember, at the end she came, Snarling past this and that torn forest lord Which I had conquered ; and with fawning jaws, Licked my quick-heaving flank, and with me went Into the wild, with proud steps amorously. — The wheel of Birth and Death turns low and high." This doctrine of ceaseless Transmigration underlies the Buddhist philosophy ; and it will go on until, through perfect conformity to Dharma or the Universal Law, the Karma or sum and total of Being through all its trans- migrations, is absorbed in Nirvana, that state of existence which may perhaps be best ex- pressed by the word " Beatitude." The at- tainment of Nirvana is the aim of the Bud- dhistic System, which relates only to human beings ; looking upon all the so-called g< >ds as mere Mayas or " Illusions." If we rightly ap- prehend the teachings of this philosophy, all human Beings will sooner or later reach Nirvana, though it may be after a lapse of aeons in comparison with which the ages of which our cosmogonies speak are but mo- ments. Two Books of Tlie Light of Asia are devoted to this introductory portion of the life of Lord Buddha, who passes some time in his stately palace, ' ' knowing not of w r oe, nor want, nor pain, nor plague, nor age, nor death." But he has ever and anon dim mo- nitions of the high mission to which he is called. He starts oftentimes from slumber by the side of YasSdhara, exclaiming, "My world ! Oh ! world ! I hear ! I know ! I come ! " One day they placed a wind-harp on the sill, and as the breezes sweep over its strings, he hears in the weird music the chanted words of the Devas : 440 EDWIN ARNOLD. " We are the voices of the wandering Wind, Which moan for rest, and rest can never find; Lo ! as the Wind is, so is mortal Life, A moan, a sigh, a sob, a storm, a strife. "Wherefore and whence we are, ye cannot know r Nor where Life springs, nor whither Life doth go; We are as ye are, ghosts from the Inane, What pleasure have we of our changeful pain ? " What pleasure hast thou of thy changeless bliss ? Nay, if Love lasted, there were joy in this : But Life's way is the Wind's way ; all these things Are but brief voices breathed on shifting strings. "O Maya's Son! because we roam the earth Moan we upon these strings. We make no mirth, So many woes we see in many lands; So many streaming eyes and wringing hands. "But thou that art to save, thine hour is nigh! The sad world waiteth in its misery; The blind world stumbleth on its round of pain: — Rise, Maya's child! wake! slumber not again! " We are the voices of the wandering Wind; Wander thou too, O Prince, thy rest to find; Leave Love for love of lovers; for Woe's sake Quit state for sorrow, and Deliverance make." Siddartha asks and obtains permission of his father to ride through the city, and see the people and how they live. The King is- sues a proclamation that nothing unpleasant shall meet the eyes of the Prince ; that no one blind or maimed, sick or infirm, shall appear in the streets ; that no funeral procession shall pass during that day. The city holds high festival, and the Prince is glad at the glad- ness which meets him everywhere. But he bids Channa, his charioteer, to drive outside the gates, that he may "see more of the gra- cious world he had not known." It is not long before he sees tottering out from a hovel an old man in the last stage of decrepitude, who EDWIN ARNOLD. 447 faintly begs for alms. They would drive him away, but Siddartha cries : "Lot be! let be! Channai what thing is this who seems a man, Yet surely only seems, being - so bowed, So miserable, so horrible, so sad ? Are men born sometimes thus ? What meaneth he Moaning ' To-morrow or next day I die ? ' Finds he no food so that his bones jut forth ? What woe hath happened to this piteous one ? " — Then answer made the charioteer: "Sweet Prince, This is no other than an aged man. Sdine fourscore years ago his back was straight, His eye bright, and his body goodly. . Now m The thievish years have sucked his sap away, Pillaged his strength and filched his will and wit. What life he keeps is one poor lingering spark Which flickers for the finish. Such is Age ; Why should your Highness heed ?" — Then spake the Prince: " But shall this come to others, or to all ? Or is it rare that one should be as he ? " — " Most Noble," answered Channa, "even as he Will all these grow, if they shall live so long." — "But," quoth the Prince, "if I shall live as long Shall I be thus ? and if YasOdhara Live fourscore years, is this old age for her, Jalini, little Hasta, Gautami, And Gun ga, and the others ? " — " Yea, great Sir,'* The charioteer replied. Then spake the prince: " Turn back, and drive me to my house again ; I have seen that I did not think to see.' ' As yet Siddartha had seen nothing of death and had no conception of what the word meant. But the next day he craves permis- sion to see the city and its people in their every-day aspects. Their course takes them at last to the river-bank outside the walls. They come upon a wretch stricken with a sudden plague, who implores the by-standers to lift him up, and aid him to reach his homo. The Prince leaps from his chariot, and in 448 EDWIN ARNOLD. spite of the remonstrances of Channa, takes the head of the plague-stricken man upon his knee, and tries to comfort him. Siddartha asks of the charioteer : " And are there others, are there many thus ? Or might it be to me as now with him ? " "Great Lord," answered the charioteer, " This comes In many forms to all men. Grief and wounds, Sickness and tetters, palsies and leprosies, Hot fevers, watery wastings, issues, Mains Befall all flesh and enter everywhere." — "Come such things unobserved ?" the Prince in- quired; And Channa said: "Like the sly snake they come That stings unseen; like the striped murderer Who waits to spring from the karunda-bush, Hiding beside the jungle-path; or like The lightning, striking these and sparing those, As chance may send." — "Then all men live in fear?" [sleep "So live they, Prince!" — "And none can say, ' I Happy and whole to-night, and so shall wake ? ' " — " None say it." — " And the end of many aches, Which come unseen, and will come when they come, Is this; a broken body and sad mind, And so Old Age ?" — " Yea, if men last as long."— " But if they cannot bear their agonies, Or if they will not bear, and seek a term; Or if they bear and be as this man is, Too weak except for groans, and so still live, And growing old, grow older, then what end?"— " They die, Prince."—" Die ? "— " Yea, at the last comes Death, In whatsoever way, whatever hour. Some few grow old, most suffer and fall sick; But all must die. Behold, where comes the dead ! " A funeral procession comes in sight, wail- ing and lamenting. The corpse is placed up- on the pile, which is lighted, and soon noth- ing is left of the dead man except a heap of ashes, with here and there a fragment of •white hone. EDWIN ARNOLD. 449 Then spake the Prince: "Is this the end which comes To all who live? " — " This is the end that comes To all," quoth Channa; " he upon the pyre, Ate, drank, laughed, loved, and lived, and liked life well. Then came — who knows? And life was over, and the man is dead: No appetites, no pleasures, and no pains Hath such. The kiss upon his lips is naught. The fire-scorch naught; he smelleth not his flesh A-roast, nor yet the sandal and the spice They burn Here is the common destiny of flesh; The high and low, the good and bad, must die; And then, 'tis taught, begin anew, and live Somewhere, somehow — who knows? — and so again The pangs, the parting, and the lighted pile: — Such is man's round." This revelation of Death throws some light upon the soul of Siddartha. He has at least "some far-off vision, linking this and that: lost, past, but searchable," and exclaims: "Oh! suffering world! Oh! known and unknown of my common flesh, Caught in this common net of Death and Woe, And Life which binds to both! I see, I feel The vastness of the agony of earth, The vainness of its joys, the mockery Of all its best, the anguish of its worst; Since Pleasures end in Pain, and Youth in Age, And Love in Loss, and Life in hateful Death; And Death in unknown Lives, which will but yoke Men to their wheel again, to whirl the round Of false delights and woes that are not false. . . . The veil is rent Which blinded me! I am as all these men Who cry upon their gods and are not heard Or are not heeded. Yet there must be help! Perchance the gods have need of help themselves, Being so feeble that when sad lips cry They cannot save ! I would not let one cry 29 450 EDWIN ARNOLD. Whom I could save! How can it be that Brahm Would make a world and keep it miserable? Since, if all-powerful, he leaves it so, He is not Good; and if not powerful, He is not God! — Channa, lead home again! It is enough! mine eyes have seen enough! " The fourth Book now commences. The King has had a vision portending some mighty events involving the destiny of his son, and gives strict orders that for a certain number of days no one shall enter or leave the palace of the Prince: — But when the days were numbered, then befell The parting of our Lord — wkieh was to he — Whereby came wailing in the Golden Home, Woe to the King and sorrow o'er the Land: But for all flesh Deliverance, and that Law Which, whoso hears — the same shall make him free. Siddartha kisses a tender farewell to his w T ife and their babe, and summons Channa to accompany him. The massive gates of the palace fly open of their own accord, and the two ride forth into the star-lit night. When morning begins to dawn, the Prince dis- mounts; bids Channa to cut off his long bright curls, and carry them with his sword and princely robes back to the King his father : — "Give the King all and say, Siddartha prays forget him till he come Ten times a Prince, with royal Wisdom won From lonely search ings and the strife for Light: Where, if I conquer, lo! all earth is mine: Mine by chief Service— tell him— mine by Love! Since there is hope for Man only in Man; And none hath sought for this as I will seek, Who cast away my world to save my World." The fifth Book narrates Siddartha's long wanderings in quest of Truth. He at length EDWIN ARNOLD. 451 takes up his abode in a cave not far from the capital of King Bimbasara, once a great city, but which has been in ruins for unknown centuries: — Lo! thou who comest thither, bare thy feet And bow thy head ! for all the spacious earth Hath not a spot more dear and hallowed. Here Lord Buddha sate the scorching summers through, The driving rains, the chilly dawns and eves: Wearing for all men's sakes the yellow robe; Eating in beggar's guise the scanty meal Chance-gathered from the charitable. At night Couched on the grass, homeless, alone; while yelped The sleepless jackals round his cave, or cough Of famished tiger from the thicket broke. By day and night here dwelt the World-Honored, Subduing that fair body born for bliss With fast and frequent watch and search intense Of silent meditation, .... Our Lord, After the manner of a Rishi, hailed The rising sun, and went — ablutions made — Down by the winding path unto the town, And in the fashion of a Rishi passed From street to street, with begging-bowl in hand, Gathering the little pittance of his need. Soon was it filled. . . . Then he Passed onward with the bowl, and yellow robed, By mild speech paying all those gifts of hearts, Wending his way back to the solitudes To sit upon his hill with holy men, And hear and ask of Wisdom and its roads. Not far from the cave dwelt a company of devotees who inflicted upon themselves the utmost torments of which imagination can conceive in the hope that their sufferings would win or extort a blessing from the re- luctant gods: — Whom sadly eyeing, "pake our Lord to one Chief of the woe-bega*ies: "Much-suffering Sir, These many moons 1 dwell upon the hill — 452 EDWIN ARNOLD. Who am a seeker of the Truth — and see My brothers here, and thee, so piteously Self-anguished. Wherefore add ye ills to life Which is so evil ? " Answer made the sage: " 'Tis written, if a man shall mortify His flesh till Pain be grown the life he lives, And Death voluptuous rest, such woes shall purge Sin's dross away, and the Soul, purified, Soar from the fmrnace of its sorrow, winged For glorious spheres and splendor past all thought." Siddartha replied that the bright cloud rose up from the sea; and that it must in time flow back to the sea through manifold muddy ways ; and asked— "Knowest thou, my brother, if it be not thus After their many pains, with saints in bliss ? Since that which rises falls, and that which buys Is spent; and if ye buy Heaven witli your blood In Hell's hard market, when the bargain's through The toil begins again." "It may begin." The hermit moaned; "alas, we know not this, Nor surely anything. Yet after night Day comes, and after turmoil Peace; and we Hate the accursed Flesh which clogs the Soul That fain would rise. So, for the sake of Soul, We stake brief agonies, in game with gods, To gain the larger joys." " Yet if they last A myriad years," he said, " they fade at length, Those joys. Or, if not, is there then some Life Below, above, beyond, so unlike life It will not change? Speak ! do your gods endure Forever, brothers?" •• Nay," the Yogis said, "Only great Brahm endures: the gods but live." Then spake Lord Buddha: "Will ye, being wise, As ye seem holy and strong-hearted ones, EDWIN ARNOLD. 453 Throw these sore dice, which are your groans and moans, [end ? For gains which may be dreams and must, have Will ye, for love of Soul, so loathe your Flesh So scourge and maim it that it shall not serve To bear the Spirit on. searching for Home '? Dismantle and dismember this fair house. Where we have come to dwell by painful pasts; Whose windows give us light — the little light — Whereby we gaze abroad to know if dawn Will break, and whither winds the better road ? " Then cried they, " We have chosen this for road, And tread it, Kajaputra, till the close — Though all its stones were fire — in trust of Death. Speak, if thou knowest a way more excellent; If not, peace go with thee!" Onward he passed, Exceeding sorrowful, seeing how men Fear so to die they are afraid to fear; Lust so to live they dare not love their life, But plague it with fierce penances, belike To please the gods, who grudge pleasure to man; Belike to balk Hell by self-kindled hells; Belike in holy madness, hoping Soul May break the better through their wasted flesh. Siddartha thenceforth passed on through many lands, in quest of Enlightenment. King Bimbasara urges him to abide with him and become his heir and successor upon the throne ; but he declares that he is going onward " to build the Kingdom of the Law," and will not be stayed until the Light comes — which he hopes will come to him amidst the "forest shades of Gaya," whither his steps are now bound. At length — six years after he had left his palace home — he comes to a grove close by the peaceful village of which Senani was lord. There in the sylvan solitudes once more Lord Buddha lived, musing the woes of men, The ways of Fate, the doctrines of the Books, The secrets of the Silence whence all come, 454 ED WIN ARNOLD. The secrets of the Gloom whereto all go; The life which lies between, like that arch flung From cloud to cloud across the sky, which hath Mists for its masonry, and vapory piers Melting to void again, which was so fair With sapphire hues, garnet, and ohysoprase. Moon after moon our Lord sate in the wood, So meditating these that he forgot Of ttimes the hour of food ; rising from thoughts Prolonged beyond the sunrise and the noon To see his bowl unfilled, and eat perforce Of wild fruit fallen from the boughs o'erhead, Shaken to earth by chattering ape, or plucked By purple parokeet. Therefore his grace Faded; his body, worn by stress of Soul, Lost day by day the marks, thirty-and-two, Which testify the Buddha. One day when Buddha was almost ex- hausted, and longed for food to give him si length — "For," said he, "without it, I shall die, whose life was all men's hope " — a woman came bearing her babe of three months, and carrying upon her head a bowl. It was Sujata, the wife of the lord of the vil- lage. In spite of his wasted form there was something so benign in the aspect of Buddha, that Sujata thought he must be the divinity of the grove, visible in human form. She begged him to accept her dish of snowy curds. He ate; his strength was renewed, and he asked her what was the food which she had brought him : — "Holy one," Answered Sujata, " from our droves I took Milk of a hundred mothers, newly calved, And with that milk I fed fifty white cows, And with their milk twenty-and-five, and then With theirs twelve more; and yet again with theirs The six noblest and best of all our herds. That yield I boiled with sandal and fine spice In silver lotas, adding rice well-grown EDWIN ARNOLD. 1 55 From chosen seed, set in new broken ground, So picked that every grain was like a pearl. This did I of true heart, because I vowed Under thy tree, if 1 should bear a boy I would make offering for my joy; and now I have my son, and all my life is bliss." Buddha laid his hand in blessing upon the head of the babe, and said to the mother : — " Long be thy bliss! And lightly fall on him the load of life! For thou hast holpen me who am no god, But one, thy brother; heretofore a Prince, And now a wanderer, seeking, night and day, These six hard years, that Light which some- where shines To lighten all men's darkness, if they knew! And I shall find the Light; yea now it dawned Glorious and helpful, when my weak flesh failed, Which this pure food, fair sister, bath restored, Drawn manifold through lives to quicken Life, As Life itself passes by many births To happier heights and purging off of sins. Yet dost thou truly find it sweet enough Only to live ? Can Life and Love suffice ? " Answered Sujata: " Worshipful! my heart Is little, and a little rain will fill The lily's cup which hardly moists the field. It is enough for me to feel life's sun Shine in my lord's grace and my baby's smile, Making the loving summer of our home. Pleasant my days pass, filled with household cares And what the Books say, that I humbly take, Being not wiser than those great of old Who spake with gods, and knew the hymns and charms, And all the ways of virtue and of peace. Also 1 think that good must come of good, And ill of evil — surely unto all, In every time and place Therefore fear I not. And therefore, Holy Sir, my life is glad, Nowise forgetting yet those other lives 456 EDWIN ARNOLD. Painful and poor, wicked and miserable, Whereon the gods grant pity ! But for me, What good I see humbly I seek to do, And live obedient to the Law in trust That what will come, and must come, shall come well." Then spake our Lord: "Thou teachest them who teach; Wiser than wisdom is thy simple lore. Be thou content to know not, knowing thus Thy way of Right and Duty. Grow, thou flower ! With thy sweet kind in shade; the light Of Truth's high noon is not for tender leaves Which must spread broad in other suns, and lift In later lives a crowned head to the sky. As the dove is, which flyeth home by Love, In thee is seen why there is hope for Man, And where Ave hold the wheel of life at will. Peace go with thee, and comfort all thy days! As thou accompli sliest, may I achieve! He whom thou thoughtest (Jod bids thee wish this." But that full Enlightenment, through the attainment of which Buddha was to become the great Teacher, was not to be attained without an inward struggle with the Powers of Darkness, who were bent on preventing him from accomplishing his mission. He felt that the supreme hour was at hand ; and so— He bent his footsteps where a great tree grew, The Bodhi-tree — thenceforth in all years Never to fade, and ever to be kept In homage of the world — beneath whose leaves It was ordained that Truth should come to Buddh; Which now the Master knew. Wherefore he went With measured pace, steadfast, majestical, Unto the Tree of Wisdom. Oh, ye worlds, Rejoice! our Lord wended unto the tree! The narrative of the trial and temptation of Buddha forms the conclusion of the Sixth EDWIN ARNOLD. 457 Book of the poem. It lasted but a single night, as measured by the stars ; but in those few hours were concentrated ages of endur- ance and experience; while the earth and all living things looked on awaiting the momen- tous issue. As tempters came the " ten chief sins: " the demons of Self, of Doubt, of Super- stition, of Pleasure, of Hate, of Lust of Life, of Lust of Fame, of Pride, of Self -Righteous- ness, of Ignorance. All these presented their allurements or their threatenings ; but Buddha put them aside with words which re- mind us not a little of the temptations put aside by a greater One than Siddartha. All these demons fled discomfited, and at the third watch of the night Buddha attained " Perception," so that he could survey all his five hundred and fifty previous lives. At the middle watch he gained " Intuition," of the Universe and all the mysteries of all worlds and seons. At the fourth watch he gained "Knowledge," of all the Illusions of Time and Sense. When dawn came all the earth broke out in exultation at the perfect victory which Buddha had won, and he chanted his Song of Triumph: "Mciny a house of life Hath held me— seeking Him who wrought These prisons of the senses, sorrow-fraught; Sore was my ceaseless strife! But now, Thou Builder of this Tabernacle— Thou ! I know Thee ! Never shalt thou build again These walls of pain, Nor raise the roof-tree of Deceits, nor lay Fresh rafters on the clay; Broken thy House is. and the ridge-pole split! Delusion fashioned it! Safe pass I thence. That is, he has outpassed all further trans- migration, and in due time will be 458 EDWIN ARNOLD. Aroused and sane As is a man wakened from hateful dreams : Until — greater than Kings, than Gods more glad — The aching craze to live ends, and Life glides, Lifeless, to nameless Quiet, nameless Joy, Blessed Nievana — sinless, stirless Rest- That change which never changes. The seventh Book touches briefly upon the first few weeks or months of the mission of Buddha; tells how the seven years since he had set out on his journey ings had passed at his old home ; until at last tidings reach the royal Court that the wanderer has become a Buddh. The King sends messengers to him urging him to return. He accedes to this ur- gency, and comes back, still wearing the yellow robe of a mendicant, and carrying the beggar's bowl for offerings of food. — The eighth and last Book gives the sublime dis- course of Buddha in which he speaks first of the mysteries of Amitaya, the "Immeasur- ble:" THE IMMEASURABLE. Oh Amitaya! Measure not with words, the Im- measurable : nor sink the string of Thought Into the Fathomless. Who asks doth err; who answers errs. Say naught. The Books teach Darkness was, at first of all, and Brahm, sole meditating in that night: Look not for Brahm and the Beginning there! Nor him, nor any light. Shall any gazer see with mortal eyes, or any searcher know by mortal mind ; Veil after veil will lift; but there must be veil upon veil behind. . . . This is enough to know— the Phantasms are; the Heavens, Earths, Worlds, Changes changing them — A mighty whirling wheel of Strife and Stress, which none can stay or stem. EDWIN ARNOLD. 430 Pray not! the Darkness will not brighten! Ask naught from the Silence, for it cannot speak! Vex not your mournful minds with pious pains! Ah, Brothers, Sisters, seek Naught from the helpless gods by gift or hymn; nor bribe with blood, nor feed with fruit and cakes: Within yourselves Deliverance must be sought; each man his prison makes. Each hath such lordship as the loftiest ones; nay, for with Powers above, around, below, As with all flesh and whatsoever lives, Act mak- eth Joy and Woe. . . . Higher than Indra's ye may lift your lot; and sink it lower than the worm or gnat: The end of many myriad lives is this; the end of myriads that. Only, while turns this wheel invisible, no pause, no peace, no staying-place can be: Who mounts will fall, who falls may mount; the spokes go round unceasingly! If ye lay bound upon the wheel of Change, and no way were of breaking from the chain, The heart of boundless Being is a curse ; the Soul of Things fell Pain. Ye are not bound! The Soul of Things is sweet; the Heart of Being is celestial Rest; Stronger than Woe is Will: that which was Good doth pass to Better — Best. The idea of Dharma, or Universal Law, is perhaps, the fundamental feature of the Buddhist philosophy, corresponding in a measure with, but going beyond, the Greek idea of Moira or Fate, to which the gods themselves were subject. To express the thought in modern phrase Dharma is not a Being so much as a Principle, a Force, a Power, and so is altogether different from our conception of God. Yet, as we under- 460 EDWIN ARNOLD. stand it, Buddhism recognizes no other God than this Dharma. DHAKMA. Before Beginning, and without an End, as Space eternal* and as .Surety sure, Is fixed a Power divine, which moves to good : only its Laws endure. This is its touch upon the blossomed rose; the fashion of its hand-shaped lotus-leaves, In dark soil and the silence of the seeds, the robe of Spring it weaves. . . . Out of the dark it wrought the heart of man; out of dull shells the pheasant's pencilled neck. Ever at toil, it brings to loveliness, all ancient wrath and wreck. . . . The ordered music of the marching orbs it makes in viewless canopy of sky; In deep abyss of earth it hides up gold, sards, sapphires, lazuli. . . . It slayeth and it saveth, nowise moved except unto the working out of doom. Its threads are Love and Life, and Death and Pain the shuttles in its loom. . . . Unseen, it helpeth ye with faithful hands; un- heard, it spcaketh stronger than the storm. Pity and Love are man's, because long stress moulded blind mass to form. . . . It seeth everywhere, and marketh all. Do right, it recompenseth; do one wrong, The equal retribution must be made, though Dharma tarry long. It knows not Wrath nor Pardon: utter-true its measures mete, its faultless balance weighs. Times are as naught; to-morrow it will judge, or after many days. . . . Such is the Law which moves to righteousness, which none at last can turn aside or stay : The heart of it is Love, the end of it is Peace and Consummation sweet. — Obey ! EDWIN ARNOLD. 461 The doctrine of the Karma is essentially that the life of each man is the outcome of all his former lives throughout all his transmi- grations. ' ' Bygone wrongs bring forth sor- rows and woes; bygone right breeds bliss. Mans reaps what he has sown. " KARMA. This is the doctrine of the Karma : Learn! only when all the dross of sin is quit, Only when Life dies like a white flame spent, Death dies along with it. Say not " I am," " I was," or " I shall he; " think not ye pass from house to house of flesh, Like travellers who rememher and forget, ill- lodged or well-lodged. Fresh Issues upon the Universe that sum which is the lattermost of lives. It makes Its hahitation as the worm spins silk, and dwells therein. It takes Function and suhstance, as the snake's egg hatched, takes scale and fang; as feathered reed-seeds fly O'er rock and loam and sand, until they find their marsh, and multiply. Also it issues forth to help or hurt. When Death the hitter murderer doth smite, Red roams the unpurged fragment of him, driven on wings of plague and blight. But when the mild and just die, sweet airs breathe ; the world grows richex*, as if desert stream Should sink away to sparkle up again, purer with broader gleam. So Merit won winneth the happier age, which by Demerit halteth short of end. Yet must this Law of Love reign King of all, be- fore the K alp as end. Nirvana— which, whatever it may be or not be, is the very antithesis of Annihilation —is the ultimate goal and end of all human 462 EDWIN AKNOLD. being. It is to be attained by mastering the "Four Noble Truths, " treading the successive stages of progress, and slaying the "Ten Chief Sins," by which Buddha was tempted under ' ' the Tree of Life. " This state of being is described negatively, not positively. We are not told Avhat it is, but merely what it is not: NIRVANA. As one who stands on yonder snowy horn, haviag naught o'er him but the boundless blue, So, these sins being slain, the man is come Nir- vana's verge unto. Him the Gods envy from their lower seats; him the Three Worlds in ruin should not shake : All Life is lived for him, all Deaths are dead. Karma no more will make New houses. Seeking nothing, he gains all; fore- going Self, the Universe grows " I." If any teach Nirvana is To Cease, say unto such, they lie. If any teach Nirvana is To Live, they err; not knowing this, Nor what Light shines beyond their broken lamps, nor lifeless, timeless Bliss. Enter the Path ! There is no grief like Hate; no pains like Passions; no deceits like Sense! Enter the Path ! far hath he gone whose foot treads down one fond offence. Enter the Path ! There spring the healing streams quenching all thirst! There bloom the im- mortal flowers Carpeting all the way with joy! There throng swiftest and sweetest hours! The Poem tells briefly of the more special teachings of Buddha during the remaining forty-five years of his human life; how in many lands and many tongues he gave Light to Asia, and how in the fulness of time he died, EDWIN ARNOLD. 463 Even as a man 'raongst men, fulfilling all; And how a thousand-thousand Crors since then Have trod the path which leads whither he went Unto Nirvana where the Silence lives. The following poem needs a word of expla- nation: " Azan " is a Mohammedan festival, corresponding somewhat to our Easter. AFTER DEATH IN ARABIA. lie who died at Azan sends This to comfort all his friends: Faithful friends! It lies, I know, Pale and white and eold as snow; And ye say, " Abdallah's dead! " Weeping at the feet and head. I can see your falling tears, I can hear your sighs and prayers; Yet I smile, and whisper this: I am not the thing you kiss ; Cease your tears, and let it lie; It was mine, it is not I. Sweet friends ! What the women lave For its last bed of the grave, Is but a hut which I am quitting; Is a garment no more fitting; Is a cage from which, at last, Like a hawk, my Soul hath past. Love the inmate, not the room — The wearer, not the garb — the plume Of the falcon, not the bars Which kept him from those splendid stars. Loving friends! Be wise, and dry Straightway every weeping eye : What ye lift upon the bier Is not worth a wistful tear. 'Tis an empty sea-sbell — one Out of which the pearl is gone; The Shell is broken, it lies there ; The Pearl, the All, the Soul, is here. 'Tis an earthen jar, whose lid Allah sealed, the while it hid That treasure of his treasury, A mind that loved Him: let it lie! 4(34 MATTHEW ARNOLD. Let the shard be earth's once more, Since the gold shines in His store! Allah glorious ! Allah good ! Now thy world is understood; Now the long, long wonder ends. Yet ye weep, my erring friends, While the man whom ye call dead, In unspoken bliss instead, Lives and loves you; lost, 'tis true, By such light as shines for you; But in the light ye cannot see Of unfulfilled felicity, In enlarging Paradise, Lives a life that never dies. Farewell, friends ! Yet not farewell ; Where I am, ye too shall dwell. I am gone before your face, A moment's time, a little space. When ye come where I have stepped Ye will wonder why ye wept; Ye will know, by wise love taught, That here is all, and there is naught. Weep awhile, if ye are fain — Sunshine still must follow rain: Only not at death; for death, Now I know, is that first breath Which our souls draw when we enter Life, which is of all life centre. Be ye certain all seems love, Viewed from Allah's throne above; Be ye stout of heart, and come Bravely onward to your home! La Allah ilia Allah! yea! Thou Love divine! thou Love alway! He that died at Azan gave This to those who made his grave. ARNOLD, Matthew, an English poet and essayist, the son of Dr. Thomas Arnold of Rugby, born Dec. 24, 1822. He studied in several schools, lastly at Balliol College, Ox- ford, of which he was elected scholar in 1840; and gained the Newdigate prize for English verse in 1843, his subject being Cromwell. MATTHEW ARNOLD. (05 He graduated with honors ; and from 1847 to 1851 acted as private secretary to Lord Lans- downe. After about 1848, Matthew Arnold became a frequent contributor to current lit- erature, at first mainly inverse; afterwards more usually in prose. In 1857 he was elected Professor of Poetry at Oxford, a position which he held for the ensuing ten years, dur- ing which he wrote and published no little prose and verse. A favorable specimen of his verse is the following, from Tristram and Yseult : CHILDREN ASLEEP. They sleep in sheltered rest Like helpless birds in the warm nest, On the castle's southern side, Where feebly comes the mourn fid roar Of buffeting wind and surging tide Through many a room and corridor. Full on their window the moon's ray Makes their chamber bright as day; It shines upon the blank white walls, And on the snowy pillow falls, And on two angel heads doth play; — Turned to each other — the eyes closed, The lashes on the cheeks reposed Round each brow the cap close-set, Hardly lets peep the golden hair; Through the soft-opened lips the air Scarcely moves the coverlet. One little wandering arm is thrown At random on the counterpane, And often the fingers close in haste As if their baby owners chased The butterflies again. Some of the poems touch pleasantly upon themes common to all versifiers. As this, of which only a part of the stanzas are quoted : LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDEN. In this lone open glade 1 lie, .Screened by deep boughs on either hand. 30 466 MATTHEW ARNOLD. And at its head to stay the eye, Those dark-crowned, red-baled pine-trees stand. Here at my feet what wonders pass ! What endless active life is here ! What blowing daisies, fragrant grass ! An air-stirred forest, fresh and clear. In the huge world which roars hard by Be others happy if they can; But in my helpless cradle, I Was breathed on by the rural Pan. I, on men's impious uproar hurled, Think often, as I hear them rave, That Peace has left the upper world, And now keeps only in the grave. Yet here is Peace forever new! When I, who watch them, am away, Still all tilings in this glade go through The changes of their quiet day. Calm Soul of all things! make it mine To feel, amid the city's jar, That there abides a peace of thine, Man did not make, and cannot mar. The will to neither strive nor cry, The power to feel with others, give ! Calm, calm me more; nor let me die Before I have begun to live. Matthew Arnold's prose writings cover a wide field in manifold departments, the theo- logical element being rather predominant. Thus we have St. Paul and Protestantism (1870); Literature and Dogma (1873); Last Essays on Church and Religion (1877); Irish Essays, and others (1882). — In 1884 he made a tour in America, delivering several discourses, some of which embody his best and most ma- tured thought. One of these discourses bears the title, Numbers; or. the Majority and the Remnant. He takes partially as a text the saying of Isaiah, "Though thy people Israel be as the sand of the sea, only a remnant of MATTHEW ARNOLD. 467 them shall return." After speaking of this " remnant " as existing in various ancient and modern peoples, he thus applies the teaching to the United States of America : THE REMNANT IN THE UNITED STATES. Iii these United States you are fifty millions and more. I suppose that, as in England, as in Fiance, as everywhere else, so likewise here, the majority of the people doubt very much whether the major- ity is unsound; or, rather, they have no doubt at all about the matter — they are sure that it is not unsound. But let us consent to-night to remain to the end in the ideas of the sages and prophets whom we have been following all along, and let us suppose that in the present actual stage of the world, as in all the stages through which the world has past hitherto, the majority be in general unsound everywhere. Where is the failure? I sup- pose that in a democratic community like this — with its newness, its magnitude, its strength, its life of business, its sheer freedom and equality — the danger is in the absence of the discipline of respect; in hardness and materialism, exaggera- tion and boastf ulness; in a false smartness, a false audacity, a want of soul and delicacy. "Whatsoever things are elevated " — Whatsoever things are noble, serious, have true elevation — that, perhaps, in our mind is the maxim which points to where the failure of the unsound major- ity, in a great democracy like yours, will probably lie. At any rate, let us for the moment agree to suppose so. And the philosophers and the proph- ets — whom I at any rate am disposed to believe — and who say that moral causes govern the stand- ing and the falling of states, will tell us that the failure to mind whatsoever things are elevated must impair with an inexorable fatality the life of a nation, just as the failure to mind whatsoever things are just, or whatsoever things are pure, will impair it; and that if the failure to mind whatsoever things are elevated should be real in your American democracy, and should grow into a disease, and take firm hold on you, then the life 468 MATTHEW ARNOLD. of even these great United States must inevitably be impaired more and more until it perish. Then from this hard doctrine we will betake ourselves to the more comfortable doctrine of the remnant. "The remnant shall return;" shall convert and be healed itself first, and shall then recover the unsound majority. And you are fifty millions, and growing apace. What a remnant yours may be surely ! A remnant of how great numbers, how mighty strength, how irresistible efficacy! Yet we must not go too fast, either, nor make too sure of our efficacious remnant. Mere multitudes will not give us a saving remnant with certainty. The Assyrian empire had multitude, the Roman empire had multitude! yet neither the one nor the other could produce a sufficing rem- nant, any more than Athens or Judah could pro- duce it; and both Assyria and Home perished like Athens and Judah. But you are .something more than a people of fifty millions. You are fifty millions mainly sprung — as we in England are mainly sprung — from that German stock, which has faults indeed — faults which have diminished the extent of its inlluence, diminished its power of attraction, and the interest of its history. Yet of that German stock it is, I think true — as my father said more than fifty years ago — that it has been a stock " of the most moral races of men that the world has yet seen, with the soundest laws, the least violent passions, the fairest domestic and civil virtues." You come, therefore, of about the best parentage which a modern nation can have. Then you have had, as we in England have alsa had — but more entirely than we and more exclu- sively — the Puritan discipline. Certainly I am not blind to the faults of that discipline. Cer- tainly I do not wish it to remain in possession o ( the field forever, or too long. But as a stage and a discipline, and as means for enabling that poor, inattentive and immoral creature, man, to love and appropriate, and make part of his being, di- vine ideas, on which he could not otherwise have laid or kept hold, the discipline of Puritanism has been invaluable; and the more I read history, the MATTIIEW ARNOLD. 460 move I see of mankind, the more I recognize its value. Well, then, you are not merely a multitude of fifty millions; you are fifty millions sprung from this excellent Germanic stock, having passed through this excellent Puritan discipline, and set in this enviable and unbounded country. Even supposing, therefore, that by the necessity of things your majority must in the present stage of the world probably be unsound, what a remnant, I say — what an incomparable, all-transforming remnant — you may fairly hope, with your number — if things go happily — to have. Matthew Arnold visited America not very- long after the death of Ralph Waldo Emer- son ; and he delivered a discourse, afterwards printed, upon the philosopher and poet of Concord. The two men had certainly very much in common in the fibre of their minds. Perhaps for that very reason Arnold w r ns not the man best fitted to take the measure of Emerson ; but he has certainly done his best in this regard. We quote certain character- istic passages. MATTHEW ARNOLD UPON EMERSON. And, in truth, one of the legitimate poets, Em- erson, in my opinion, is not. His poetry is inter- esting, it makes one think; but it is not the poetry of one of the born poets. I say it of him with re- luctance, although I am sure that he would have said it of himself; but I say it with reluctance, because I dislike giving pain to his admirers, and because all my own wish, too, is to say of him what is favorable. But I regard myself not as speaking to please Emerson's admirers, not as speaking to please myself; but rather, as commun- ing with Time and Nature concerning the pro- ductions of this beautiful and rare spirit. . . . Milton says that poetry ought to be simple, sen- suous, impassioned. Well, Emerson's poetry is seldom either simple, or sensuous, or impas- sioned. In general it lacks directness; it lacks 470 MATTHEW ARNOLD. correctness; it lacks energy. His grammar is often embarrassed; in particular, the want of clearly marked distinction between the subject and the object of his sentence is a frequent cause of obscurity in him. A poem which shall be a plain, forcible, inevitable whole he hardly ever produces. Such good work as the noble lines graven on the Concord Monument is the excep- tion with him; such ineffective work as the Fourth of July Ode or the Boston Hymn is the rule. Even passages and single lines of thorough plainness and commanding force are rare in his poetry. They exist, of course; but when we meet with them they give us a sense of surprise, so little has Emerson accustomed us to them. . . . I do not, then, place Emerson among the great poets. But I go further, and say that I do not place him among the great writers, the great men of letters. Who are the great men of letters ? They are men like Cicero, Plato, Bacon, Pascal, Swift, Voltaire — writers with, in the first place, a genius and instinct for style; writers whose prose is by a kind of native necessity true and sound. Now the style of Emerson, like the style of his transcendentalist friends, and of The Dial, so continually — the style of Emerson is ca- pable of falling into a strain like this, which I take from the beginning of his essay on Love : " Every soul is a celestial being to every other soul. The heart has its sabbaths and jubilees, in which the world appears as a hymeneal feast, and all the natural sounds and the circle of the seasons are erotic odes and dances." Emerson altered this sentence in the later editions. Like Wordsworth, he was in later life fond of altering; and in general his later alterations, like those of Words- worth, are not improvements. He softened the passage in question, however, though without really mending it. I quote it in its original and strongly marked form. . . . Not with the Miltons and Grays, not with the Platos and Spinozas, not with the Swifts and Voltaires, not with the Montaignes and Addisons, can we rank Emerson. His work of different kinds — when one compares it with tin- work done MATTHEW ARNOLD. 471 in a corresponding kind by these masters, fails feo stand the comparison. No man could see this clearer than himself. It is hard not to feel de- spondency when we contemplate our failures and shortcomings; and Emerson, the least self-flatte:- ing and the most modest of men, saw so plainly what was lacking to him, that he had his moments of despondency. " Alas, my friend," he writes in reply to Carlyle, who had exhorted him to creative work — "Alas, my friend, 1 can do no such gay thing as you say. I do not belong to the poets, but only to a low department of literature — ■ the reporters. . . . When 1 see how much work is to be done, what room for a poet, for any spirit- ualist, in this great, intelligent, sensual, and ava- ricious America, I lament my fumbling lingers and stammering tongue But 'the strong hours conquer us; ' and I am the victim of miscel- lany — misce.llany of designs, vast debility, and procrastination." .... And now I think I have cleared up the ground. I have given to envious Time as much of Emerson as Time can fairly expect ever to obtain. AVe have not in Emerson a great poet, a great writer, a great philosophy-maker. His relation to us is not that of one of those personages; yet it is a re- lation of, I think, even superior importance. His relation to us is more like that of the Roman em- peror, Marcus Aurelius. Marcus Aurelius is not a great writer, a great philosophy-maker; he is the friend and the aider of those who would live in the spirit. Emerson is the same. He is the friend and aider of those who would live in the spirit. All the points in thinking which are nec- essary for this purpose he takes; but he does not combine them into a system, or present them by a regular philosophy. Combined in a sys- tem by a man with the requisite talent for this kind of thing, they would be less useful than as Emerson gives them to us; and the man with the talent so to systematize them would be less im- pressive than Emerson. They do very well as they now stand — like "boulders" — as he says — "in paragraphs incompressible, each sentence an infinitely repellent particle." In such sentences 472 THOMAS AENOLD. his main points recur again and again, and be- come fixed in the memory. . . . Happiness in labor, righteousness and veracity ; in all the life of the spirit; happiness and eternal hope: that was Emerson's gospel. I hear it said that Emerson was too sanguine ; that the actual generation in America is not turning out so well as he expected. Very likely he was too sanguine as to the near future. Very possibly the present generation may prove unworthy of his high hopes ; even several generations succeeding this may prove unworthy of them. But by his conviction that in the life of the spirit is happiness, and by his hope that this life of the spirit will come more and more to be understood, and to prevail, and to work for happiness: — by this conviction and hope Emerson was great; and he will surely prove in the end to have been right in them. . . . Many of your writers are over-sanguine, and on the wrong grounds. But you have two men who in what they have written show their sanguine- ness in a line where courage and hope are just, where they are also infinitely important, but where they are not easy. These two men are Franklin and Emerson. These two are, I think, the most distinctively and honorably American of your writers; they are the most original and the most valuable. Wise men everywhere know that we must keep up our courage and our hope. Franklin and Emerson maintained theirs with a convincing ease, an inspiring joy. Franklin's confidence in the happiness with which industry, honesty, and economy will crown the life of this work-day world is such that he runs over with felicity. With alike felicity does Emerson run over when he contemplates the happiness eternally attached to the true life in the spirit. You cannot prize him too much, nor heed him too diligently. He lias lessons for both branches of our race. To us he shows for guidance his lucid freedom, his cheerfulness and hope, to you his dignity, deli' cacy, serenity, devotion. ARNOLD, Thomas, D.D., an English edu- cator and historian, horn at Cowes, Isle of THOMAS ARNOLD. IT: 1 . Wight, June 13, 1795; died at Rugby, June 12, 1843. He was educated at various schools, and in 1811 was elected a scholar of Corpus Christi College, Oxford ; and subsequently a fellow of Oriel College, where he gained, in 1815 and 1817, the Chancellor's prize for two University essays, the one in Latin, the other in English. He received deacon's orders in 1818; married soon after, and took up his resi- dence at Laleham, where he devoted himself for nine years to the preparation of students for the great Schools and the Universities. In 1828 he took priest's orders, and was chosen to the head-mastership of Rugby School, which, under his rule, rose to rank with the foremost of the great English Schools. Prob ably no English educator ever exercised so powerful a personal influence over his pupils as did Thomas Arnold. His cardinal princi- ple was that no "black sheep" should find place at Rugby. "It is not necessary," he said, " that this should be a school of three hundred, or one hundred, or of fifty boys: but it is necessary that it should be a sehoc >1 rd, and delivered an inaugural lecture, which awakened the highest anticipations of the fu- ture which lay before him in this department. He had hardly passed middle age, and his ap- parently robust frame gave every indication that he would attain the extremest limit of human life. But on the evening of June 11. 1842, he was seized with a sudden spasm of the heart, and died early the next morning. His Life and Correspondence, edited by Arthur Penrhyn Stanley, is justly esteemed as among the best of English biographies. From the vo- luminous Correspondence we select a sin- gle passage, written near the close of his life: 474 THOMAS ARNOLD. TAKING LIFE IN EARNEST. 1 meet with a great many persons in the course of a year, and with many whom I admire and like; hut what I feel daily more and more to need, as life every year rises more and more before me in its true reality, is to have intercourse with those who take life in earnest. It is very painful to me to be always on the surface of things ; and I feel that literature, science, politics, many topics of far greater interest than mere gossip or talking about the weather, are yet, as they are generally talked about, still upon the surface; they do not touch the real depths of life. It is not that I want much of what is called religious conversation; that, I believe is often. on the surface, like other conversation. But I want a sign, which one catches by a sort of masonry, that a man knows what he is about in life; whither tending, in what cause engaged ; and when I find this, it seems to open my heart as thoroughly, and with as fresh a sympathy, as when I was twenty years younger. Arnold published several volumes of Ser- mons, mainly preached at Rugby; wrote the History of the Later Roman Commonwealth: and prepared eight Introductory Lectures on Modern History, which, however, were not published until after bis death. We quote a single passage from these Lectures : THE SIEGE OF GENOA' IN 1800. In the Autumn of 1799 the Austrian s had driven the French out of Lombardy and Piedmont. Their last victory of Fossano.or Genola, had won the fortress of Coni or Cuneo, close under the Alps, and at the very extremity of the plain of the Po. The French clung to Italy only by their hold of the Rivieri of Genoa — the narrow. strip of coast, between the Apennines and the sea; which ex- tends from the frontiers, of France almost to the mouth of the Arno. Hither the remains of the French force were collected, commanded by Gen- eral Massena, and the point of chief importance to bis defence was the city of Genoa. Napoleon had just returned from Egypt, and THOMAS ARNOLD. 475 was become First Consul; but he could nut be ex- pected to take the field until the following Spring and till tben Massena was hopeless of relief from without: everything was to depend upon his own pertinacity. The strength of his army made it im- possible to force it in sucli a position as Genoa; but its very numbers, added to the population of a great city, held out to the enemy the hope of re- ducing it by famine ; and as Genoa derives most of its supplies by sea, Lord Keith, the British naval Commander-in-Chief, in the Mediterranean, lent the assistance of his naval force to the Austrians ; and by the vigilance of his cruisers the whole coasting trade right and left along the Riviera was effectually cut off. It was not at once that the in- habitants of a great city, accustomed to the sight of well-stored shops and an abundant market, be- gan to realize the idea of scarcity; or that the wealthy classes of society, who have never known any other state than one of abundance and luxury, began seriously to conceive of famine. But the shops were emptied, and the storehouses began to be drawn upon, and no fresh supply, or hope of supply, appeared. Winter passed away, and Spring returned, so early and so beautiful on that garden-like coast, sheltered as it is from the north winds by its belt of mountains, and opened to the full range of the southern sun. Spring returned, and clothed the hillsides with its fresh verdure. But that verdure was no longer the mere delight of the careless eye of luxury, refreshing the citizens with its liveli- ness and softness when they rode or walked up thither from the city, to enjoy the surpassing beauty of the prospect. The green hillsides were now visited for a very different object. Ladies of the highest rank might be seen cutting up every plant which it was possible to turn to food, and bearing home the common weeds of our roadsides as a most precious treasure. The French General pitied the distress of the people; but the lives and strength of his garri- son seemed to him more important than the lives of the Genoese; and such provisions as re- mained were reserved in the first place for the 170 THOMAS AKNOLD. French army. Scarcity became utter want, and want became famine. In the most gor- geous palaces of that gorgeous city, no less than in the humblest tenements of its humblest poor, death was busy. Not the momentary death of battle or massacre, nor the speedy death of pesti- lence, but the lingering death of famine. Infants died before their parents' eyes; husbands and wives lay down to expire together. A man whom I saw at Genoa in 1825, told me that his father and two of his brothers had been starved to death in this fatal siege. So it went on till, in the month of June — when Napoleon had already de- scended from the Alps into the plains of Lombard y — the misery became unendurable, and Massena surrendered. But before he did so, twenty thou- sand innocent persons, old and young, women and children, had died by the most horrible of deaths which humanity can endure. — Lectures on Modern History. The greatest work which Thomas Arnold ever lived to complete, even partially, was his History of Rome ; and that, though the work of the scanty leisure of several years, and extending to three large volumes, is but a torso. His design had been to write the His- tory of Rome from the foundation of the city until the fall of the Western Empire, about 400 a.d. ; but the work was brought down only to the close of the second Punic War, about 200 B.C. This History is throughout brilliant and picturesque. Its most striking passages are those in w r hich he portrays the characters of several men who played notable parts in the great events of the times. HANNIBAL THE CARTUAGENIAX. Hannibal's genius may be likened to the Hom- eric god, who, in his hatred of the Trojans, rises from the deep to rally the fainting Greeks, and to lead them against the enemy; so the calm courage with which Hector met his more than human ad- versary in his country's cause, is no unworthy THOMAS ARNOLD. 477 image of the unyielding magnanimity displayed by the aristocracy of Rome. As Hannibal utterly eclipses Carthage, so, on the contrary, Fabius, Marcellus, Claudius, Nero, and even Scipio him- self, are as nothing when compared to the spirit and wisdom and power of Koine. The .Senate, which voted its thanks to the political enemy, Varro, after his disastrous defeat, because he had not despaired of the Commonwealth, and which forbore either to solicit, or to reprove, or to threaten, or in any way to notice the twelve colo- nies which had refused their accustomed supplies of men for the army, is far more to be honored than the conqueror of Zama. This we should the more carefully bear in mind, because our tendency is to admire individual greatness far more than national ; and as no single Eoman will bear comparison with Hannibal, we are apt to murmur at the event of the contest, and to think that the victory was awarded to the least worthy of the combatants. On the contrary, never was the wisdom of God's providence more manifest than in the issue of the struggle between Koine and Carthage. It was clearly for the good of mankind that Hannibal should be conquered. His triumph would have stopped the progress of the world. For great men can only act perma- nently by forming great nations; and no one man — even though it were Hannibal himself — can in one generation effect such a work. But where a nation has been merely enkindled for awhile by a great man's spirit, the light passes away with him who communicated it; and the nation, when he is gone, is like a dead body, to which magic power had for a moment given an unnatural life; when the charm has ceased, the body is cold and stiff as before. He who grieves over the battle of Zama should carry on his thoughts to a period thirty years later, when Hannibal must, in the course of na- ture, have been dead, and consider how the iso- lated Phoenician city of Carthage was fitted to re- ceive and to consolidate the civilization of Greece, or by its laws and institutions to bind together barbarians of every race and language into an or- 478 THOMAS ARNOLD. ganized empire, and prepare them for becoming, when that empire was dissolved; the free mem- bers of the Commonwealth of Christian Europe. — History of Home. Thomas Arnold was beyond all doubt a man much greater than any or all of his pub- lished works. Indeed we imagine that he must have begun to feel that there w T as higher work for him to do than to write the history of those Romans who had lived and wrought, whether w r isely or uirvvisely, a score of cent- uries before his time. Nay, that there was something greater for him to do than to be— as he certainly was — the ' ' Great Schoolmas- ter" of England. In one of his letters he speaks of a work which he had in contempla- tion : CHRISTIAN POLITICS. I have long had in my mind a work on Christian Politics, or the application of the Gospel to the state of man as a citizen, in which the whole ques- tion of a Religious Establishment, and the educa- tion proper for Christian members of a Christian Common wealth would naturally find a place. It would embrace also an historical sketch of the pretended conversion of the Kingdoms of this World to the Kingdom of Christ, in the fourth and fifth centuries, which I look upon as one of the greatest tours d'adresse that Satan ever played. ... I mean that by inducing Kings and nations to get into their hands the direction of Christian Societies he has in a great measure suc- ceeded in keeping out the peculiar principles oi that society from any extended sphere of opera- tion, and insuring the ascendency of his own. — Life '(ud Correspondence. UC SOUTHERN REGION/ FACILITY AA 000 416 189 9 rfKi U (MS