-. 
 
 I 
 
 I
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 SANTA BARBARA 
 
 Douv/e Stuurman
 
 ^^^:^^3JL^v5^VO^ 
 
 cx^^a:>a \v^' 
 
 ^^\Aa>^

 
 CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER. 
 Photogravure — From Life.
 
 
 ANCIENT AND MODERN 
 
 Charles Dudley Warner 
 
 EDITOR 
 
 HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE 
 LUCIA GILBERT RUNKLE 
 GEORGE HENRY WARNER 
 ASSOCIATE EDITORS 
 
 X 
 
 fH^monal Shttton Bf iUuxf 
 
 FORTY-SIX VOLUMES 
 
 Vol. I. 
 
 "W 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 J. A. HILL & COMPANY
 
 Copyright 1896 
 By R. S. Peale and J. A. Hill 
 
 Copyright 1902 
 By J. A. Hill 
 
 All Rights Reserved
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 IHE plan of this Work is simple, and yet it is novel. In its dis- 
 tinctive features it differs from any compilation that has yet 
 been made. Its main purpose is to present to American 
 households a mass of good reading. But it goes much beyond this. 
 For in selecting this reading it draws upon all literatures of all time 
 and of every race, and thus becomes a conspectus of the thought 
 and intellectual evolution of man from the beginning. Another and 
 scarcely less important purpose is the interpretation of this literature 
 in essays by scholars and authors competent to speak with authority. 
 
 The title, <<A Library of the World's Best Literature,** is strictly 
 descriptive. It means that what is offered to the reader is taken from 
 the best authors, and is fairly representative of the best literature 
 and of all literatures. It may be important historically, or because 
 at one time it expressed the thought and feeling of a nation, or 
 because it has the character of universality, or because the readers 
 of to-day will find it instructive, entertaining, or amusing. The 
 Work aims to suit a great variety of tastes, and thus to commend 
 itself as a household companion for any mood and any hour. There 
 is no intention of presenting merely a mass of historical material, 
 however important it is in its place, which is commonly of the sort 
 that people recommend others to read and do not read themselves. 
 It is not a library of reference only, but a library to be read. The 
 selections do not represent the partialities and prejudices and culti- 
 vation of any one person, or of a group of editors even; but, under 
 the necessary editorial supervision, the sober judgment of almost as 
 many minds as have assisted in the preparation of these volumes. 
 By this method, breadth of appreciation has been sought. 
 
 The arrangement is not chronological, but alphabetical, under the 
 names of the authors, and, in some cases, of literatures and special
 
 IV 
 
 subjects. Thus, in each volume a certain variety is secured, the 
 heaviness or sameness of a mass of antique, classical, or mediaeval 
 material is avoided, and the reader obtains a sense of the varieties 
 and contrasts of different periods. But the work is not an encyclo- 
 paedia, or merely a dictionary of authors. Comprehensive information 
 as to all writers of importance may be included in a supplementary 
 reference volume ; but the attempt to quote from all would destroy 
 the Work for reading purposes, and reduce it to a herbarium of 
 specimens. 
 
 In order to present a view of the entire literary field, and to make 
 these volumes especially useful to persons who have not access to 
 large libraries, as well as to treat certain literatures or subjects when 
 the names of writers are unknown or would have no significance to 
 the reader, it has been found necessary to make groups of certain 
 nationalities, periods, and special topics. For instance, if the reader 
 would like to know something of ancient and remote literatures 
 which cannot well be treated under the alphabetical list of authors, 
 he will find special essays by competent scholars on the Accadian- 
 Babylonian literature, on the Egyptian, the Hindu, the Chinese, the 
 Japanese, the Icelandic, the Celtic, and others, followed by selections 
 many of which have been specially translated for this Work. In 
 these literatures names of ascertained authors are given in the Index. 
 The intention of the essays is to acquaint the reader with the spirit, 
 purpose, and tendency of these writings, in order that he may have 
 a comparative view of the continuity of thought and the value of 
 tradition in the world. Some subjects, like the Arthurian Legends, 
 the Nibelungen Lied, the Holy Grail, Provencal Poetry, the Chansons 
 and Romances, and the Gesta Romanorum, receive a similar treat- 
 ment. Single poems upon which the authors' title to fame mainly 
 rests, familiar and dear hymns, and occasional and modern verse of 
 value, are also grouped together under an appropriate heading, with 
 reference in the Index whenever the poet is known. 
 
 It will thus be evident to the reader that the Library is fairly 
 comprehensive and representative, and that it has an educational 
 value, while offering constant and varied entertainment. This com- 
 prehensive feature, which gives the Work distinction, is, however.
 
 supplemented by another of scarcely less importance; namely, the 
 critical interpretive and biographical comments upon the authors and 
 their writings and their place in literature, not by one mind, or by a 
 small editorial staif, but by a great number of writers and scholars, 
 specialists and literary critics, who are able to speak from knowledge 
 and with authority. Thus the Library becomes in a way representa- 
 tive of the scholarship and wide judgment of our own time. But the 
 essays have another value. They give information for the guidance 
 of the reader. If he becomes interested in any selections here g^iven, 
 and would like a fuller knowledge of the author's works, he can turn 
 to the essay and find brief observations and characterizations which 
 will assist him in making his choice of books from a library. 
 
 The selections are made for household and general reading; in the 
 belief that the best literature contains enough that is pure and ele- 
 vating and at the same time readable, to satisfy any taste that should 
 be encouraged. Of course selection implies choice and exclusion. 
 It is hoped that what is given will be generally approved; yet it 
 inay well happen that some readers will miss the names of authors 
 whom they desire to read. But this Work, like every other, has its 
 necessary limits; and in a general compilation the classic writings, 
 and those productions that the world has set its seal on as among 
 the best, must predominate over contemporary literature that is still 
 on its trial. It should be said, however, that many writers of pres- 
 ent note and popularity are omitted simply for lack of space. The 
 editors are compelled to keep constantly in view the wider field. 
 The general purpose is to give only literature ; and where authors 
 are cited who are generally known as philosophers, theologians, pub- 
 licists, or scientists, it is because they have distinct literary quality, 
 or because their influence upon literature itself has been so profound 
 that the progress of the race could not be accounted for without 
 them. 
 
 These volumes contain not only or mainly the literature of the 
 past, but they aim to give, within the limits imposed by such a 
 view, an idea of contemporary achievement and tendencies in all 
 civilized countries. In this view of the modern world the literary 
 product of America and Great Britain occupies the largest space.
 
 VI 
 
 It should be said that the plan of this Work could not have been 
 carried out without the assistance of specialists in many departments 
 of learning, and of writers of skill and insight, both in this country 
 and in Europe. This assistance has been most cordially given, with 
 a full recognition of the value of the enterprise and of the aid that 
 the Library may give in encouraging and broadening literary tastes. 
 Perhaps no better service could be rendered the American public at 
 this period than the offer of an opportunity for a comprehensive 
 study of the older and the greater literatures of other nations. By 
 this comparison it can gain a just view of its own literature, and of 
 its possible mission in the world of letters. 
 
 CJyuUi.
 
 THE ADVISORY COUNCIL 
 
 CRAWFORD H. TOY, A. M., LL. D., 
 
 Professor of Hebrew, Harvard University, Cambridge, Mass. 
 
 THOMAS R. LOUNSBURY, LL. D., L. H. D., 
 
 Professor of English in the Sheffield Scientific School of 
 
 Yale University, New Haven, Conn. 
 
 WILLIAM M. SLOANE, Ph. D., L. H. D., 
 
 Professor of History and Political Science, 
 
 Princeton University, Princeton, N. J. 
 
 BRANDER MATTHEWS, A. M., LL. B., 
 
 Professor of Literature, Columbia University, New York City. 
 
 JAMES B. ANGELL. LL. D., 
 
 President of the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, Mich. 
 
 WILLARD FISKE, A. M., Ph. D., 
 
 Late Professor of the Germanic and Scandinavian Languages 
 and Literatures, Cornell University, Ithaca, N. Y. 
 
 EDWARD S. HOLDEN, A. M., LL. D., 
 
 Director of the Lick Observatory, and Astronomer, 
 
 University of California, Berkeley, Cal. 
 
 ALCEE FORTIER, Lit. D., 
 
 Professor of the Romance Languages, 
 
 TuLANE University, New Orleans, La. 
 
 WILLIAM P. TRENT, M. A., 
 
 Dean of the Department of Arts and Sciences, and Professor of 
 English and History, 
 
 University of the South, Sewanee, Tenn. 
 
 PAUL SHORE Y, Ph. D., 
 
 Professor of Greek and Latin Literature, 
 
 University of Chicago, Chicago, IlL 
 
 WILLIAM T. HARRIS, LL. D., 
 
 United States Commissioner of Education, 
 
 Bureau of Education, Washington, D. C. 
 
 MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN, A. M., LL. D., 
 Professor of Literature in the 
 
 Catholic University of America, Washington, D. C.
 
 NOTE OF ACKNOWLEDGMENT 
 
 ^wiNG to the many changes in the assignment of topics and 
 engaging of writers incident to so extended a publication 
 as the Library of the World's Best Literature, the Editor 
 finds it impossible, before the completion of the work, adequately 
 to recognize the very great aid which he has received from a large 
 number of persons. A full list of contributors will be given in one 
 of the concluding volumes. He will expressly acknowledge also his 
 debt to those who have assisted him editorially, or in other special 
 ■ways, in the preparation of these volumes. 
 
 Both Editor and Publishers have endeavored to give full credit to 
 •every author quoted, and to accompany every citation with ample 
 notice of copyright ownership. At the close of the work it is their 
 purpose to express in a more formal way their sense of obligation to 
 the many publishers who have so courteously given permission for 
 this use of their property, and whose rights of ownership it is intended 
 thoroughly to protect.
 
 IX 
 
 TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 VOL. I 
 
 LIVED PAGE 
 
 Ab^iard and Heloise 1 079-1 142 ly 
 
 BY THOMAS DAVIDSON 
 
 Letters of Heloise to Abelard 
 Abelard's Answer to Heloise 
 Vesper Hymn of Abelard 
 
 Edmond About 1828-1885 34 
 
 The Capture (< The King of the Mountains ^) 
 
 Hadgi-Stavros (same) 
 
 The Victim (< The Man with the Broken Ear>) 
 
 The Man Without a Country (same) ' 
 
 Accadian-Babylonian and Assyrian Literature 51 
 
 BY CftAWFORD H. TOY 
 
 Theogony Adapa and the Southwind 
 
 Revolt of Tiamat Penitential Psalms 
 
 Descent to the Underworld Inscription of Sennacherib 
 
 The Flood Invocation to the Goddess 
 The Eagle and the Snake Beltis 
 
 The Flight of Etana Oracles of Ishtar of Arbela 
 
 The God Zu An Erechite's Lament 
 
 Abigail Adams i 744-1818 84 
 
 BY LUCIA GILBERT RUNKLE 
 
 Letters — To her Husband: May 24, 1775; June 15, 1775; 
 
 June 18, 1775; Nov. 27, 1775; April 20, 1777; 
 
 June 8, 1779 
 To her Sister: Sept. 5, 1784; May 10, 1785; 
 
 July 24, 1784; June 24, 1785 
 To her Niece
 
 LIVED PAGK 
 
 Henry Adams 1838- no 
 
 Auspices of the War of 181 2 (< History of the United 
 
 States >) 
 What the War of 18 12 Demonstrated (same) 
 Battle between the Constitution and the Guerriere (same) 
 
 John Adams 1735-1826 127 
 
 At the French Court (< Diary >) 
 
 Character of Franklin (Letter to the Boston Patriot) 
 
 John Quincy Adams 1767-1848 135 
 
 Letter to his Father, at the Age of Ten 
 
 From the Memoirs, at the Age of Eighteen 
 
 From the Memoirs, Jan. 14, 1831; June 7, 1833; Sept. 9, 
 
 1833 
 The Mission of America (Fourth of July Oration, 1821) 
 
 The Right of Petition (Speech in Congress) 
 
 Nullification (Fourth of July Oration, 1831) 
 
 Sarah Flower Adams 1805-1848 146 
 
 He Sendeth Sun, He Sendeth Shower 
 Nearer, My God, to Thee 
 
 Joseph Addison 1672-1719 149 
 
 BY HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE 
 
 » 
 
 Sir Roger de Coverley at the Play (The Spectator) 
 
 Visit to Sir Roger de Coverley (same) 
 
 Vanity of Human Life (same) 
 
 Essay on Fans (same) 
 
 Hymn, < The Spacious Firmament ^ (same) 
 
 .^lianus Claudius Second Century 173 
 
 Of Certain Notable Men that made themselves Playfel- 
 lows with Children 
 Of a Certaine Sicilian whose Eysight was Woonderfull 
 
 Sharpe and Quick 
 The Lawe of the Lacedaemonians against Covetousness 
 That Sleep is the Brother of Death, and of Gorgias draw- 
 ing to his End 
 Of the Voluntary and Willing Death of Calanus 
 Of Delicate Dinners, Sumptuous Suppers, and Prodigall 
 Banqueting
 
 XI 
 
 LIVED PAGE 
 
 ^LiANUs Claudius — Continued: 
 
 Of Bestowing Time, and how Walking Up and Downe 
 
 was not Allowable among the Lacedaemonians 
 How Socrates Suppressed the Pryde and Hautinesse of 
 
 Alcibiades 
 Of Certaine Wastegoodes and Spendthriftes 
 
 ^SCHINES B.C. 389-314 179 
 
 A Defense and an Attack (< Oration against Ctesiphon>) 
 
 ^SCHYLUS B.C. 525-456 184 
 
 BY JOHN WILLIAMS WHITE 
 
 Complaint of Prometheus (^ Prometheus *) 
 
 Prayer to Artemis (< The Suppliants *) 
 
 Defiance of Eteocles (<The Seven against Thebes') 
 
 Vision of Cassandra (< Agamemnon >) 
 
 Lament of the Old Nurse (<The Libation-Pourers >) 
 
 Decree of Athena (^ The Eumenides >) 
 
 ^sop Seventh Century B. C. 201 
 
 BY HARRY THURSTON PECK 
 
 The Fox and the Lion The Belly and the Members 
 
 The Ass in the Lion's Skin The Satyr and the Traveler 
 
 The Ass Eating Thistles The Lion and the Other Beasts 
 
 The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing The Ass and the Little Dog 
 
 The Countryman and the The Country Mouse and the 
 Snake City Mouse 
 
 The Dog and the Wolf 
 
 Jean Louis Rodolphe Agassiz 1807-1873 211 
 
 The Silurian Beach (< Geological Sketches >) 
 Voices (< Methods of Study in Natural History >) 
 Formation of Coral Reefs (same) 
 
 Agathias a. D. 536-581 224 
 
 Apostrophe to Plutarch 
 
 Grace Aguilar 1816-1847 225 
 
 Greatness of Friendship (< Woman's Friendship ') 
 Order of Knighthood (< The Days of Bruce >) 
 Culprit and Judge (^ Home Influence ')
 
 Xll 
 
 LIVED PAGE 
 
 William Harrison Ainsworth 1805-1882 237 
 
 Students of Paris (* Crichton >) 
 
 Mark Akenside 1721-1770 253 
 
 From the Epistle to Curio 
 
 Aspirations after the Infinite (< Pleasures of the Imagina- 
 tion >) 
 On a Sermon against Glory 
 
 Pedro Antonio de Alarcon 1833-1891 263 
 
 A Woman Viewed from Without (< The Three-Cornered 
 
 Hat >) 
 How the Orphan Manuel gained his Sobriquet (^ The Child 
 
 of the Ball >) 
 
 Alc^us Sixth Century B. C. 269 
 
 The Palace " The Storm 
 
 A Banquet Song The Poor Fisherman 
 
 An Invitation The State 
 
 Poverty 
 
 Baltazar de Alcazar i53o?-i6o6 273 
 
 Sleep 
 
 The Jovial Supper 
 
 Alciphron Second Century 276 
 
 BY HARRY THURSTON PECK 
 
 From a Mercenary Girl — Petala to Simalion 
 Pleasures of Athens — Euthydicus to Epiphanio 
 From an Anxious Mother — Phyllis to Thrasonides 
 From a Curious Youth — Philocomus to Thestylus 
 From a Professional Diner-out — Capnosphrantes to Aris 
 
 tomachus 
 Unlucky Luck — Chytrolictes to Patellocharon 
 
 Alcman Seventh Century B. C. 282 
 
 Poem on Night 
 
 Louisa May Alcott 1832-1888 283 
 
 The Night Ward (< Hospital Sketches >) 
 Amy's Valley of Humiliation (< Little Women*) 
 Thoreau's Flute (Atlantic Monthly) 
 Song from the Suds (* Little Women ')
 
 Xlll 
 
 
 LIVED 
 
 PAGE 
 
 
 735?-8o4 
 
 296 
 
 BY WILLIAM H. CARPENTER 
 
 
 
 Alcuin 
 
 On the Saints of the Church at York (^Alcuin and the 
 
 Rise of the Christian Schools^) 
 Disputation between Pepin, the Most Noble and Royal 
 
 Youth, and Albinus the Scholastic 
 A Letter from Alcuin to Charlemagne 
 
 Henry M. Alden 1836- 304 
 
 A Dedication — To My Beloved Wife ^A Study of Death >) 
 
 The Dove and the Serpent (same) 
 
 Death and Sleep (same) 
 
 The Parable of the Prodigal (same) 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich 1836- 313 
 
 Destiny Broken Music 
 
 Identity Elmwood 
 
 Prescience Sea Longings 
 
 Alec Yeaton's Son A Shadow of the Night 
 
 Memory Outward Bound 
 
 Tennyson (1890) Reminiscence 
 
 Sweetheart, Sigh No More Pere Antoine's Date-Palm 
 
 Miss Mehetabel's Son 
 
 Aleardo Aleardi 181 2-1878 350 
 
 Cowards (* The Primal Histories *) 
 
 The Harvesters (^ Monte Circello >) 
 
 The Death of the Year (<An Hour of My Youth') 
 
 Jean Le Rond d'Alembert 17 17-1783 355 
 
 Montesquieu (Eulogy in the * Encyclopedic *' 
 
 VlTTORIO AlfIERI 1749-1803 371 
 
 BY L. OSCAR KUHN5 
 
 Scenes from 'Agamemnon * 
 
 Alfonso the Wise i 226-1 284 383 
 
 What Meaneth a Tyrant, and How he Useth his Power 
 
 C Las Siete Partidas *) 
 On the Turks, and Why they are So Called (< La Gran 
 
 Conquista de Ultramar') 
 To the Month of Mary (< Cantigas ')
 
 XIV 
 
 LIVED 
 
 Alfred the Great 849-901 
 
 King Alfred on King-Craft (< Boethius >) 
 Alfred's Preface to the Version of Pope Gregory's * Pas- 
 toral Care* 
 Blossom Gatherings from St. Augustine 
 Where to Find True Joy (< Boethius *) 
 A Sorrowful Fytte (same) 
 
 Charles Grant Allen i 848-1899 
 
 The Coloration of Flowers (< The Colors of Flowers ') 
 Among the Heather (^ The Evolutionist at Large *) 
 The Heron's Haunt (< Vignettes from Nature ') 
 
 James Lane Allen 1850- 
 
 A Courtship CA Summer in Arcady ') 
 
 Old King Solomon's Coronation (^ Flute and Violin*) 
 
 PAGE 
 
 389 
 
 William Allingham 
 
 The Ruined Chapel 
 
 The Winter Pear 
 
 O Spirit of the Summer-time 
 
 The Bubble 
 
 St. Margaret's Eve 
 
 1828-1889 
 
 The Fairies 
 
 Robin Redbreast 
 
 An Evening 
 
 Daffodil 
 
 Lovely Mary Donnelly 
 
 1793-1866 
 
 Karl Jonas Ludvig Almquist 
 
 Characteristics of Cattle 
 
 A New Undine (from < The Book of the Rose *) 
 
 God's War 
 
 399 
 
 409 
 
 428 
 
 439 
 
 Johanna Ambrosius 
 
 A Peasant's Thoughts 
 Struggle and Peace 
 
 1854- 
 Do Thou Love, Too! 
 Invitation 
 
 1846- 
 
 Edmondo de Amicis 
 
 The Light ('Constantinople') 
 
 Resemblances (same] 
 
 Birds (same) 
 
 Cordova (* Spain*) 
 
 The Land of Pluck (< Holland and Its People*) 
 
 The Dutch Masters (same) 
 
 446 
 
 453
 
 T^OOKS are not absolutely dead things, but do contah. 
 "^^^ a ^potency of life in them to be as active as that 
 soul was whose progeny they are ; nay, they do preserve 
 \as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction of that 
 living intellect that bred them. I kno7v they are as 
 lively, and as vigorously productive, as those fabulous 
 dragon's teeth ; and being soiun iip and down, may chance 
 \ to spring up armed men. And yet on the other hand, 
 \ unless wariness be used, as good almost kill a man as kill 
 a good book : who kills a man kills a reasonable creature, 
 God's image ; but he who destroys a good book, kills rea- 
 son itself, kills the image of God, as it were in the eye. 
 Many a man lives a burden to the earth; but a good 
 book is the precious life-blood of a tnaster-spit'it, embalmed 
 and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life. 
 
 John Milton.
 
 CAXTON. 
 
 Reduced facsimile of the first page of the only copy extant of 
 
 GODEFREY OF BOLOYNE, 
 
 or 
 
 Last Siege and Conqueste of Jherusalem. 
 
 The Prologue, at top of page begins : 
 
 Here begynneth the boke Intituled Eracles, and also Godefrey of Boloyne, the 
 whiche speketh of the Conquest of the holy lande of Jherusalem. 
 
 Printed by Caxton, London, 1481. In the British Museum. 
 
 A good specimen page of the earliest English printing. Caxton's first printed 
 
 book, and the first book printed in English, was " The Game and 
 
 Play of the Chess," which was printed in 1474. The blank 
 
 space on this page was for the insertion by 
 
 band of an illuminated initial T.
 
 C)nt 6c5^metO tO« ft?6« 3rtti6iC?&? <BtacCco,(xnb aGfo of <Bo^ 
 ftcf) of GpoEj^ne / tQc ^0»cf)e (pQ^^i of tQc Conqiwft of t^c (^oDj^ 
 ^noc of jijcvuiaOm/ODnapn^ng Oiucrfc ^atcce an$ noC& fa^o?!- 
 of 2lcmGe maoe n) t^c fame (Ko^dniC/anO ni tQc contuzee uOiaoj/it 
 jirio oCfo manj> mcmaglVoiie ^crS^o fxi>pc&; anisQ fa&oij ae ^qf 
 «r)C^i6f^U:/aen3 tOo^xirtpeet^io t^mc Oiirpng? , 2inC)? ^iSi^e 
 ^Cpani ouc (Boocfcc^ of Qi^olbgnc conqucto^ ^itO t^c (tfcctOt^c 
 Jo^D fT?opammc/^nO ^no fi^ngc t^ixx/ 
 
 5:^c ff itr< cC«api<TX (tcafttO ^® ^tucCce conqucifO qt)er(f oti^? 
 ffe^e C^of^oc/anO ^zoxig^t tt) to iO«vufaCcni t^c ^rp c<(iye.m'/ 
 pitM0) p4mo/ 
 
 ^06 Q gooC>? a^rtci) mat) ano? gouctnouic of 
 t^cmpprc of (Komc/Qput ni Q10 t^nie Wac^'/ 
 
 !me< OaO ecij'GoOicOctt^aG mcffa^ct of tOc Ccui9 
 2lnj)? mavx t^c p?pC? to tjnocrftono? , tffdt Ofc 
 ( ®ao a p:opOeo? fence from ouv G):cc / Qn tOc 
 
 tgmc of <tKicC!?© ^ae t^c fnPo Ca^c of ma; 
 <^mc< fo^ctj and fpiao aSzooe nj man^ partgce of t^oxgcnt /anO 
 namcCg nj 7tca6pc / n) fo moc^c t()at t^a pt^nao of t^c foncco pet 
 ^oC?> not gguc fa^t^ to ^i© fertc t?)at fe picc^iO anO toii^Ot ^^ic6c 
 te curfc?) anO cugP/6ut Of conftcapnco t^9m 6p fozcc c\ni> 6^ ffticvd 
 to (I attc tOcir fufi^cte to o&^c to t)i6 commanocmeno/an?) to 6^G?^ 
 MC in Oio Ca^C/'toOttJ) <BmcU?e OaO conquctO cpctfc and fCa^j) cof'/ 
 ^oc ^^ic6? "vSae a pwffaimt ^ptigc 0? 6:oug^t aga^j) to ^^im ; 
 faC(?m t^e ^»? CcoffC/tdOic^ t^cp 0aO GaOcc til to jxi:rc,7tn0 a&)Cc 
 ond OScff^jti t^c G)nDe of ^ucrpC/Tl no CiDc Co o:ccpnc nnO c()ofe 
 o pataaicftc a moc6? ^ifc mat) named WoDeftc /Ql5f) ^fjoo coimfGiB 
 fy Opde Co maftc aga^t) t^c cOucO^O/and OaBgUcd tQc ^Cji p9aoee / 
 on&? cGrnfcd? t^zm t^at tOc tpcaiint Cofozoe of cpcrfc Oad? fmctoi) 
 dout) and Ocftcojxd? <8cacCte fcttt gccto cnCctito g maoc gtcde ooftce 
 fo^ to tcpcv|)te t^em,7lnd S^i^© ^ cntended tl)?C afouct/fiomar (fe 
 fonc of raptop ^^K^e ^ao a p:gnce of 2lca6? COc c^ikcc affer ma^ 
 ^met /Cnm »t] to t^ie conttcc named paGpftj)nc ^iti) fo grptc nom '/ 
 6ie of pcpPc t^ai allc t^c fonde ^aeoouctd? ®i^ t^cm , and? CttC)? 
 t^ennc taBcij 6p fo:ce a mocr^e ficongc C^ccof t^at Cbnde named? 
 DadtB/ff com t^cn© Oe dJc^c ^gm totoai^ damaf^c / and? affiegcd? 
 
 ti
 
 ir 
 
 ABELARD 
 
 (1079— 1 142) 
 
 BY THOMAS DAVIDSON 
 
 fiERRE, the eldest son of Berenger and Lucie (Abelard?) was 
 bom at Palais, near Nantes and the frontier of Brittany, 
 in 1079. His knightly father, having in his youth been a 
 student, was anxious to give his family, and especially his favorite 
 Pierre, a liberal education. The boy was accordingly sent to school, 
 under a teacher who at that time was making his mark in the 
 world, — Roscellin, the reputed father of Nominalism. As the whole 
 import and tragedy of his life may be traced back to this man's teach- 
 ing, and the relation which it bore to the 
 thought of the time, we must pause to con- 
 sider these. 
 
 In the early centuries of our era, the two 
 fundamental articles of the Gentile-Christ- 
 ian creed, the Trinity and the Incarnation, 
 neither of them Jewish, were formulated 
 in terms of Platonic philosophy, of which 
 the distinctive tenet is, that the real and 
 eternal is the universal, not the individ- 
 ual. On this assumption it was possible 
 to say that the same real substance could 
 exist in three, or indeed in any number of 
 persons. In the case of God, the dogma- 
 builders were careful to say, essence is one with existence, and there- 
 fore in Him the individuals are as real as the universal. Platonism, 
 having lent the formula for the Trinity, became the favorite philoso- 
 phy of many of the Church fathers, and so introduced into Christian 
 thought and life the Platonic dualism, that sharp distinction between 
 the temporal and the eternal which belittles the practical life and 
 glorifies the contemplative. 
 
 This distinction, as aggravated by Neo-Platonism, further affected 
 Eastern Christianity in the sixth century, and Western Christianity 
 in the ninth, chiefly through the writings of (the pseudo-) Dionysius 
 Areopagita, and gave rise to Christian mysticism. It was then erected 
 into a rule of conduct through the efforts of Pope Gregory VII., who 
 strove to subject practical and civil life entirely to the control of 
 1—2 
 
 Abelard
 
 i8 
 
 ABfiLARD 
 
 ecclesiastics and monks, standing for contemplative, supernatural life. 
 The latter included all purely mental work, which more and more 
 tended to concentrate itself upon religion and confine itself to the 
 clergy. In this way it came to be considered an utter disgrace for 
 any man engaged in mental work to take any part in the institutions 
 of civil life, and particularly to marry. He might indeed enter into 
 illicit relations, and rear a family of << nephews*^ and ^^ nieces, ^^ with- 
 out losing prestige; but to marry was to commit suicide. Such was 
 the condition of things in the days of Abelard. 
 
 But while Platonism, with its real universals, was celebrating its 
 ascetic, unearthly triumphs in the West, Aristotelianism, which main- 
 tains that the individual is the real, was making its way in the East. 
 Banished as heresy beyond the limits of the Catholic Church, in the 
 fifth and sixth centuries, in the persons of Nestorius and others, it 
 took refuge in Syria, where it flourished for many years in the schools 
 of Edessa and Nisibis, the foremost of the time. From these it found 
 its way among the Arabs, and even to the illiterate Muhammad, who 
 gave it (i) theoretic theological expression in the cxii. surah of the 
 Koran: «He is One God, God the Eternal; He neither begets nor is 
 begotten; and to Him there is no peer,'^ in which both the funda- 
 mental dogmas of Christianity are denied, and that too on the ground 
 of revelation; (2) practical expression, by forbidding asceticism and 
 monasticism, and encouraging a robust, though somewhat coarse, 
 natural life. Islam, indeed, was an attempt to rehabilitate the human. 
 
 In Abelard's time Arab Aristotelianism, with its consequences for 
 thought and life, was filtering into Europe and forcing Christian 
 thinkers to defend the bases of their faith. Since these, so far as 
 defensible at all, depended upon the Platonic doctrine of univer- 
 sals, and this could be maintained only by dialectic, this science be- 
 came extremely popular, — indeed, almost the rage. Little of the real 
 Aristotle was at that time known in the West; but in Porphyry's 
 Introduction to Aristotle's Logic was a famous passage, in which all 
 the difficulties with regard to universals were stated without being 
 solved. Over this the intellectual battles of the first age of Scholasti- 
 cism were fought. The more clerical and mystic thinkers, like 
 Anselm and Bernard, of course sided with Plato; but the more 
 worldly, robust thinkers inclined to accept Aristotle, not seeing that 
 his doctrine is fatal to the Trinity. 
 
 Prominent among these was a Breton, Roscellin, the early in- 
 structor of Abelard. From him the brilliant, fearless boy learnt two 
 terrible lessons: (i) that universals, instead of being real substances, 
 external and superior to individual things, are mere names (hence 
 Nominalism) for common qualitipir o. things as recognized by the 
 human mind; (2) that since universals are the tools and criteria of
 
 ABfiLARD ig 
 
 thought, the human mind, in which alone these exist, is the judge 
 of all truth, — a lesson which leads directly to pure rationalism, and 
 indeed to the rehabilitation of the human as against the superhuman. 
 No wonder that Roscellin came into conflict with the church author- 
 ities, and had to flee to England. Abelard afterwards modified his 
 nominalism and behaved somewhat unhandsomely to him, but never 
 escaped from the influence of his teaching. Abelard was a rationalist 
 and an asserter of the human. Accordingly, when, definitely adopting 
 the vocation of the scholar, he went to Paris to study dialectic under 
 the then famous William of Champeaux, a declared Platonist, or real- 
 ist as the designation then was, he gave his teacher infinite trouble 
 by his subtle objections, and not seldom got the better of him. 
 
 These victories, which made him disliked both by his teacher and 
 his fellow-pupils, went to increase his natural self-appreciation, and 
 induced him, though a mere youth, to leave William and set up a 
 rival school at Melun. Here his splendid personality, his confidence, 
 and his brilliant powers of reasoning and statement, drew to him a 
 large number of admiring pupils, so that he was soon induced to move 
 his school to Corbeil, near Paris, where his impetuous dialectic found 
 a wider field. Here he worked so hard that he fell ill, and was 
 compelled to return home to his family. With them he remained for 
 several years, devoting himself to study, — not only of dialectic, but 
 plainly also of theology. Returning to Paris, he went to study rhet- 
 oric under his old enemy, William of Champeaux, who had mean- 
 while, to increase his prestige, taken holy orders, and had been made 
 bishop of Chalons. The old feud was renewed, and Abelard, being 
 now better armed than before, compelled his master openly to with- 
 draw from his extreme realistic position with regard to universals, 
 and assume one more nearly approaching that of Aristotle. 
 
 This victory greatly diminished the fame of William, and in- 
 creased that of Abelard; so that when the former left his chair and 
 appointed a successor, the latter gave way to Abelard and became 
 his pupil (II 13). This was too much for William, who removed his 
 successor, and so forced Abelard to retire again to Meltm. Here he 
 remained but a short time; for, William having on account of unpop- 
 ularity removed his school from Paris Abelard returned thither and 
 opened a school outside the city, on Mont Ste. Genevieve. William, 
 hearing this, returned to Paris and tried to put him down, but in 
 vain. Abelard was completely victorious. 
 
 After a time he returned once more to Palais, to see his mother, 
 who was about to enter the cloister, as his father had done some 
 time before. When this visit was over, instead of returning to Paris, 
 to lecture on dialectic, he went to Laon to study theology under the 
 then famous Anselm. Here, convinced of the showy superficiality of
 
 20 ABfiLARD 
 
 Anselm, he once more got into difficulty, by undertaking to expouno 
 a chapter of Ezekiel without having studied it under any teacher. 
 Though at first derided by his fellow-students, he succeeded so well 
 as to draw a crowd of them to hear him, and so excited the envy 
 of Anselm that the latter forbade him to teach in Laon. Abelard 
 accordingly returned once more to Paris, convinced that he was 
 fit to shine as a lecturer, not only on dialectic, but also on theology. 
 And his audiences thought so also; for his lectures on Ezekiel were 
 very popular and drew crowds. He was now at the height of his 
 fame (1118). 
 
 The result of all these triumphs over dialecticians and theo- 
 logians was unfortunate. He not only felt himself the intellectual 
 superior of any living man, which he probably was, but he also 
 began to look down upon the current thought of his time as obsolete 
 and unworthy, and to set at naught even current opinion. He was 
 now on the verge of forty, and his life had so far been one of spot- 
 less purity; but now, under the influence of vanity, this too gave 
 way. Having no further conquests to make in the intellectual world, 
 he began to consider whether, with his great personal beauty, manly 
 bearing, and confident address, he might not make conquests in the 
 social world, and arrived at the conclusion that no woman could reject 
 him or refuse him her favor. 
 
 It was just at this unfortunate juncture that he went to live 
 in the house of a certain Canon Fulbert, of the cathedral, whose 
 brilliant niece, Heloise, had at the age of seventeen just returned 
 from a convent at Argenteuil, where she had been at school. Ful- 
 bert, who was proud of her talents, and glad to get the price of 
 Abelard's board, took the latter into his house and intrusted him 
 with the full care of Heloise's further education, telling him even 
 to chastise her if necessary. So complete was Fulbert's confidence 
 in Abelard, that no restriction was put upon the companionship of 
 teacher and pupil. The result was that Abelard and Heloise, both 
 equally inexperienced in matters of the heart, soon conceived for each 
 other an overwhelming passion, comparable only to that of Faust and 
 Gretchen. And the result in both cases was the same. Abelard, as a 
 great scholar, could not think of marriage; and if he had, Heloise 
 would have refused to ruin his career by marrying him. So it came 
 to pass that when their secret, never very carefully guarded, became 
 no longer a secret, and threatened the safety of Heloise, the only 
 thing that her lover could do for her was to carry her off secretly to 
 his home in Palais, and place her in charge of his sister. Here she 
 remained until the birth of her child, which received the name of 
 Astralabius, Abelard meanwhile continuing his work in Paris. And 
 here all the nobility of his character comes out. Though Fulbert and
 
 ABELARD 21 
 
 his friends were, naturally enough, furious at what they regarded as 
 his utter treachery, and though they tried to murder him, he pro- 
 tected himself, and as soon as Heloise was fit to travel, hastened to 
 Palais, and insisted upon removing her to Paris and making her his 
 lawful wife. Heloise used every argument which her fertile mind 
 could suggest to dissuade him from a step which she felt must be his 
 ruin, at the same time expressing her entire willingness to stand in 
 a less honored relation to him. But Abelard was inexorable. Taking 
 her to Paris, he procured the consent of her relatives to the marriage 
 (which they agreed to keep secret), and even their presence at the 
 ceremony, which was performed one morning before daybreak, after 
 the two had spent a night of vigils in the church. 
 
 After the marriage, they parted and for some time saw little of 
 each other. When HeloTse's relatives divulged the secret, and she 
 was taxed with being Abelard's lawful wife, she "anathematized and 
 swore that it was absolutely false. >> As the facts were too patent, 
 however, Abelard removed her from Paris, and placed her in the 
 convent at Argenteuil, where she had been educated. Here she 
 assumed the garb of a novice. Her relatives, thinking that he must 
 have done this- in order to rid himself of her, furiously vowed ven- 
 geance, which they took in the meanest and most brutal form of 
 personal violence. It was not a time of fine sensibilities, justice, or 
 mercy ; but even the public of those days was horrified, and gave 
 expression to its horror. Abelard, overwhelmed with shame, despair, 
 and remorse, could now think of nothing better than to abandon the 
 world. Without any vocation, as he well knew, he assumed the 
 monkish habit and retired to the monastery of St. Denis, while 
 Heloise, by his order, took the veil at Argenteuil. Her devotion and 
 heroism on this occasion Abelard has described in touching terms. 
 Thus supernaturalism had done its worst for these two strong, 
 impetuous human souls. 
 
 If Abelard had entered the cloister in the hope of finding peace, 
 he soon discovered his mistake. The dissolute life of the monks 
 utterly disgusted him, while the clergy stormed him with petitions to 
 continue his lectures. Yielding to these, he was soon again sur- 
 rounded by crowds of students — so great that the monks at St. Denis 
 were glad to get rid of him. He accordingly retired to a lonely cell, 
 to which he was followed by more admirers than could find shelter 
 or food. As the schools of Paris were thereby emptied, his rivals did 
 everything in their power to put a stop to his teaching, declaring 
 that as a monk he ought not to teach profane science, nor as a lay- 
 man in theology sacred science. In order to legitimatize his claim to 
 teach the latter, he now wrote a theological treatise, regarding which 
 he says: — .^
 
 22 ABfiLARD 
 
 «It SO happened that I first endeavored to illuminate the basis of our 
 faith by similitudes drawn from human reason, and to compose for our stu- 
 dents a treatise on <The Divine Unity and Trinity,^ because they kept asking 
 for human and philosophic reasons, and demanding rather what could be 
 understood than what could be said, declaring that the mere utterance of 
 words was useless unless followed by understanding; that nothing could be 
 believed that was not first understood, and that it was ridiculous for any one 
 to preach what neither he nor those he taught could comprehend, God him- 
 self calling such people blind leaders of the blind. » 
 
 Here we have Abelard's central position, exactly the opposite to 
 that of his realist contemporary, Anseltn of Canterbury, whose prin- 
 ciple was ^^ Credo ut intelligam >> (I believe, that I may understand). 
 We must not suppose, however, that Abelard, with his rationalism, 
 dreamed of undermining Christian dogma. Very far from it! He 
 believed it to be rational, and thought he could prove it so. No won- 
 der that the book gave offense, in an age when faith and ecstasy 
 were placed above reason. Indeed, his rivals could have wished for 
 nothing better than this book, which gave them a weapon to use 
 against him. Led on by two old enemies, Alberich and Lotulf, they 
 caused an ecclesiastical council to be called at Soissons, to pass judg- 
 ment upon the book (1121). This judgment was a foregone conclusion, 
 the trial being the merest farce, in which the pursuers were the judges, 
 the Papal legate allowing his better reason to be overruled by their 
 passion. Abelard was condemned to burn his book in public, and to 
 read the Athanasian Creed as his confession of faith (which he did 
 in tears), and then to be confined permanently in the monastery of 
 St. Medard as a dangerous heretic. 
 
 His enemies seemed to have triumphed and to have silenced him 
 forever. Soon after, however, the Papal legate, ashamed of the part 
 he had taken in the transaction, restored him to liberty and allowed 
 him to return to his own monastery at St. Denis. Here once more 
 his rationalistic, critical spirit brought him into trouble with the big- 
 oted, licentious monks. Having maintained, on the authority of Beda, 
 that Dionysius, the patron saint of the monastery, was bishop of Cor- 
 inth and not of Athens, he raised such a storm that he was forced 
 to flee, and took refuge on a neighboring estate, whose proprietor, 
 Count Thibauld, was friendly to him. Here he was cordially received 
 by the monks of Troyes, and allowed to occupy a retreat belonging 
 to them. 
 
 After some time, and with great difficulty, he obtained leave from 
 the abbot of St. Denis to live where he chose, on condition of not 
 joining any other order. Being now practically a free man, he 
 retired to a lonely spot near Nogent-sur-Seine, on the banks of the 
 Ardusson. There, having received a gift of a piece of land, he estab-
 
 ABfiLARD 23 
 
 lished himself along with a friendly cleric, building a small oratory 
 of clay and reeds to the Holy Trinity. No sooner, however, was 
 his place of retreat known than he was followed into the wilderness 
 by hosts of students of all ranks, who lived in tents, slept on the 
 ground, and underwent every kind of hardship, in order to listen to 
 him (1123). These supplied his wants, and built a chapel, which he 
 dedicated to the " Paraclete, ^^ — a name at which his enemies, furious 
 over his success, were greatly scandalized, but which ever after 
 designated the whole establishment. 
 
 So incessant and unrelenting were the persecutions he suffered 
 from those enemies, and so deep his indignation at their baseness, 
 that for some time he seriously thought of escaping beyond the 
 bounds of Christendom, and seeking refuge among the Muslim. But 
 just then (1125) he was offered an important position, the abbotship 
 of the monastery of St. Gildas-de-Rhuys, in Lower Brittany, on the 
 lonely, inhospitable shore of the Atlantic. Eager for rest and a posi- 
 tion promising influence, Abelard accepted the offer and left the Par- 
 aclete, not knowing what he was doing. 
 
 His position at St. Gildas was little less than slow martyrdom. 
 The country was wild, the inhabitants were half barbarous, speaking 
 a language unintelligible to him; the monks were violent, unruly, and 
 dissolute, openly living with concubines; the lands of the monastery 
 were subjected to intolerable burdens by the neighboring lord, leav- 
 ing the monks in poverty and discontent. Instead of finding a home 
 of God-fearing men, eager for enlightenment, he found a nest of greed 
 and corruption. His attempts to introduce discipline, or even decency, 
 among his ^^sons,'^ only stirred up rebellion and placed his life in dan- 
 ger. Many times he was menaced with the sword, many times with 
 poison. In spite of all that, he clung to his office, and labored to do 
 his duty. Meanwhile the jealous abbot of St. Denis succeeded in 
 establishing a claim to the lands of the convent at Argenteuil, — of 
 which Heloise, long since famous not only for learning but also for 
 saintliness, was now the head, — and she and her nuns were violently 
 evicted and cast on the world. Hearing of this with indignation, 
 Abelard at once offered the homeless sisters the deserted Paraclete 
 and all its belongings. The offer was thankfully accepted, and Helo- 
 ise with her family removed there to spend the remainder of her life. 
 It does not appear that Abelard and Heloise ever saw each other at 
 this time, although he used every means in his power to provide for 
 her safety and comfort. This was in 11 29. Two years later the Para- 
 clete was confirmed to Heloise by a Papal bull. It remained a con- 
 vent, and a famous one, for over six hundred years. 
 
 After this Abelard paid several visits to the convent, which he 
 justly regarded as his foundation, in order to arrange a rule of life
 
 gj ABfiLARD 
 
 for its inmates, and to encourage them in their vocation. Although 
 on these occasions he saw nothing of Heloise, he did not escape the 
 malignant suspicions of the world, nor of his own flock, which now 
 became more unruly than ever, — so much so that he was compelled 
 to live outside the monastery. Excommunication was tried in vain, 
 and even the efforts of a Papal legate failed to restore order. For 
 Abelard there was nothing but <* fear within and conflict without.^* 
 It was at this time, about 1132, that he wrote his famous <Historia 
 Calamitatum, ^ from which most of the above account of his life has 
 been taken. In 1134, after nine years of painful struggle, he defi- 
 nitely left St. Gildas, without, however, resigning the abbotship. For 
 the next two years he seems to have led a retired life, revising his 
 old works and composing new ones. 
 
 Meanwhile, by some chance, his * History of Calamities* fell into 
 the hands of Heloise at the Paraclete, was devoured with breathless 
 interest, and rekindled the flame that seemed to have smoldered in 
 her bosom for thirteen long years. Overcome with compassion for 
 her husband, for such he really was, she at once wrote to him a let- 
 ter which reveals the first healthy human heart-beat that had found 
 expression in Christendom for a thousand years. Thus began a cor- 
 respondence which, for genuine tragic pathos and human interest, 
 has no equal in the world's literature. In Abelard, the scholarly 
 monk has completely replaced the man; in Heloise, the saintly nun 
 is but a veil assumed in loving obedience to him, to conceal the 
 deep-hearted, faithful, devoted flesh-and-blood woman. And such a 
 woman! It may well be doubted if, for all that constitutes genuine 
 womanhood, she ever had an equal. If there is salvation in love, 
 Heloise is in the heaven of heavens. She does not try to express her 
 love in poems, as Mrs. Browning did; but her simple, straightforward 
 expression of a love that would share Francesca's fate with her lover, 
 rather than go to heaven without him, yields, and has yielded, 
 matter for a hundred poems. She looks forward to no salvation; for 
 her chief love is for him. Dotnino specialiter, sua singulariter: "As a 
 member of the species woman I am the Lord's, as Heloise I am 
 yours ^' — nominalism with a vengeance! 
 
 But to return to Abelard. Permanent quiet in obscurity was 
 plainly impossible for him; and so in 11 36 we find him back at Ste. 
 Genevieve, lecturing to crowds of enthusiastic students. He probably 
 thought that during the long years of his exile, the envy and hatred 
 of his enemies had died out; but he soon discovered that he was 
 greatly mistaken. He was too marked a character, and the tendency 
 of his thought too dangerous, for that. Besides, he emptied the 
 schools of his rivals, and adopted no conciliatory tone toward them. 
 The natural result followed. In the year 1 140, his enemies, headed
 
 ABELARD'S VISIT TO HELOISE
 
 ABfiLARD 25 
 
 by St. Bernard, who had long regarded him with suspicion, raised a 
 cry of heresy against him, as subjecting everything to reason. Ber- 
 nard, who was nothing if not a fanatic, and who managed to give 
 vent to all his passions by placing them in the service of his God, at 
 once denounced him to the Pope, to cardinals, and to bishops, m 
 passionate letters, full of rhetoric, demanding his condemnation as a 
 perverter of the bases of the faith. 
 
 At that time a great ecclesiastical council was about to assem- 
 ble at Sens; and Abelard, feeling certain that his writings contained 
 nothing which he could not show to be strictly orthodox, demanded 
 that he should be allowed to explain and dialectically defend his 
 position, in open dispute, before it. But this was above all things 
 what his enemies dreaded. They felt that nothing was safe before 
 his brilliant dialectic. Bernard even refused to enter the lists with 
 him; and preferred to draw up a list of his heresies, in the form of 
 sentences sundered from their context in his works, — some of them, 
 indeed, from works which he never wrote, — and to call upon the coun- 
 cil to condemn them. (These theses may be found in Denzinger's 
 < Enchiridion Symbolorum et Definitionum,* pp. 109 scq.) Abelard, 
 clearly understanding the scheme, feeling its unfairness, and knowing 
 the effect of Bernard's lachrymose pulpit rhetoric upon sympathetic 
 ecclesiastics who believed in his power to work miracles, appeared 
 before the council, only to appeal from its authority to Rome. The 
 council, though somewhat disconcerted by this, proceeded to con- 
 demn the disputed theses, and sent a notice of its action to the Pope. 
 Fearing that Abelard, who had friends in Rome, might proceed 
 thither and obtain a reversal of the verdict, Bernard set every agency 
 at work to obtain a confirmation of it before his victim could reach 
 the Eternal City. And he succeeded. 
 
 The result was for a time kept secret from Abelard, who, now 
 over sixty years old, set out on his painful journey. Stopping on his 
 way at the famous, hospitable Abbey of Cluny, he was most kindly 
 entertained by its noble abbot, who well deserved the name of Peter 
 the Venerable. Here, apparently, he learned that he had been con- 
 demned and excommunicated; for he went no further. Peter offered 
 the weary man an asylum in his house, which was gladly accepted; 
 and Abelard, at last convinced of the vanity of all worldly ambition, 
 settled down to a life of humiliation, meditation, study, and prayer. 
 Soon afterward Bernard made advances toward reconciliation, which 
 Abelard accepted ; whereupon his excommunication was removed. 
 Then the once proud Abelard, shattered in body and broken in spirit, 
 had nothing more to do but to prepare for another life. And the end 
 was not far off. He died at St. Marcel, on the 21st of April, 1142, 
 at the age of sixty-three. His generous host, in a letter to HeloTse,
 
 2 6 abElard . 
 
 gives a touching account of his closing days, which were mostly- 
 spent in a retreat provided for him on the banks of the Saone. 
 There he read, wrote, dictated, and prayed, in the only quiet days 
 which his life ever knew. 
 
 The body of Abelard was placed in a monolith coffin and buried 
 in the chapel of the monastery of St. Marcel; but Peter the Vener- 
 able twenty-two years afterward allowed it to be secretly removed, 
 and carried to the Paraclete, where Abelard had wished to lie. "When 
 Heloise, world-famous for learning, virtue, and saintliness, passed 
 away, and her body was laid beside his, he opened his arms and 
 clasped her in close embrace. So says the legend, and who would 
 not believe it ? The united remains of the immortal lovers, after 
 many vicissitudes, found at last (let us hope), in 1817, a permanent 
 resting place, in the Parisian cemetery of Pere Lachaise, having been 
 placed together in Abelard's monolith coffin. " In death they were 
 riot divided. ^^ 
 
 Abelard's character may be summed up in a few words. He was 
 one of the most brilliant and variously gifted men that ever lived, a 
 sincere lover of truth and champion of freedom. But unfortunately, 
 his extraordinary personal beauty and charm of manner made him 
 the object of so much attention and adulation that he soon became 
 unable to live without seeing himself mirrored in the admiration 
 and love of others. Hence his restlessness, irritability, craving for 
 publicity, fondness for dialectic triumph, and inability to live in 
 fruitful obscurity; hence, too, his intrigue with Heloise, his continual 
 struggles and disappointments, his final humiliation and tragic end. 
 Not having conquered the world, he cannot claim the crown of the 
 martyr. 
 
 Abelard's works were collected by Cousin, and published in three 
 4to volumes (Paris, 1836, 1849, 1859). They include, besides the cor- 
 respondence with Heloise, and a number of sermons, hymns, answers 
 to questions, etc., written for her, the following: — (i) < Sic et Non,* 
 a collection of (often contradictory) statements of the Fathers con- 
 cerning the chief dogmas of religion, (2) < Dialectic,* (3) ^ On Genera 
 and Species,* (4) Glosses to Porphyry's < Introduction,* Aristotle's 
 < Categories and Interpretation,* and Boethius's < Topics,* (5) < Intro- 
 duction to Theology,* (6) < Christian Theology,' (7) * Commentary on 
 the Epistle to the Romans,* (9) ^Abstract of Christian Theology,* (10) 
 * Ethics, or Know Thyself,* (11) < Dialogue between a Philosopher, a 
 Jew, and a Christian,* (12) <0n the Intellects,* (12) <0n the Hex- 
 ameron,* with a few short and unimportant fragments and tracts. 
 None of Abelard's numerous poems in the vernacular, in which he 
 celebrated his love for Heloise, which he sang ravishingly (for he was 
 a famous singer), and which at once became widely popular, seem
 
 ABfiLARD 27 
 
 to have come down to us; but we have a somewhat lengthy poem, 
 of considerable merit (though of doubtful authenticity), addressed to 
 his son Astralabius, who grew to manhood, became a cleric, and died, 
 it seems, as abbot of Hauterive in Switzerland, in 1162. 
 
 Of Abelard's philosophy, little need be added to what has been 
 already said. It is, on the whole, the philosophy of the Middle Age, 
 with this difference : that he insists upon making theology rational, 
 and thus may truly be called the founder of modern rationalism, and 
 the initiator of the struggle against the tyrannic authority of blind 
 faith. To have been so is his crowning merit, and is one that can 
 hardly be overestimated. At the same time it must be borne in mind 
 that he was a loyal son of the Church, and never dreamed of oppos- 
 ing or undermining her. His greatest originality is in < Ethics,^ in 
 which, by placing the essence of morality in the intent and not in 
 the action, he anticipated Kant and much modern speculation. 
 Here he did admirable work. Abelard founded no school, strictly 
 speaking; nevertheless, he determined the method and aim of Scho- 
 lasticism, and exercised a boundless influence, which is not dead. 
 Descartes and Kant are his children. Among his immediate disciples 
 were a pope, twenty-nine cardinals, and more than fifty bishops. His 
 two greatest pupils were Peter the Lombard, bishop of Paris, and 
 author of the < Sentences,* the theological text-book of the schools for 
 hundreds of years; and Arnold of Brescia, one of the noblest cham- 
 pions of human liberty, though condemned and banished by the second 
 Council of the Lateran. 
 
 The best biography of Abelard is that by Charles de Remusat (2 
 vols., 8vo, Paris, 1845). See also, in English, Wight's < Abelard and 
 Eloise' (New York, 1853). 
 
 HELOISE TO ABELARD 
 
 A LETTER of yours sent to a friend, best beloved, to console him 
 in affliction, was lately, almost by a chance, put into my 
 hands. Seeing the superscription, guess how eagerly I 
 seized it ! I had lost the reality ; I hoped to draw some comfort 
 from this faint image of you. But alas! — for I well remember — 
 every line was written with gall and wormwood. 
 
 How you retold our sorrowful history, and dwelt on your inces- 
 sant afflictions! Well did you fulfill that promise to your friend,
 
 28 
 
 ABfiLARD 
 
 that, in comparison with your own, his misfortunes should seem 
 but as trifles. You recalled the persecutions of your masters, the 
 cruelty of my uncle, and the fierce hostility of your fellow-pupils, 
 Albericus of Rheims, and Lotulphus of Lombardy — how through 
 their plottings that glorious book your Theology was burned, and 
 you confined and disgraced — you went on to the machinations of 
 the Abbot of St. Denys and of your false brethren of the con- 
 vent, and the calumnies of those wretches, Norbert and Bernard, 
 who envy and hate you. It was even, you say, imputed to you 
 as an offense to have given the name of Paraclete, contrary to 
 the common practice, to the Oratory you had founded. 
 
 The persecutions of that cruel tyrant of St. Gildas, and of 
 those execrable monks, — monks out of greed only, whom notwith- 
 standing you call your children, — which still harass you, close the 
 miserable history. Nobody could read or hear these things and 
 not be moved to tears. What then must they mean to me ? 
 
 We all despair of your life, and our trembling hearts dread to 
 hear the tidings of your murder. For Christ's sake, who has 
 thus far protected you, — write to us, as to His handmaids and 
 yours, every circumstance of your present dangers. I and my 
 sisters alone remain of all who were your friends. Let us be 
 sharers of your joys and sorrows. Sympathy brings some relief, 
 and a load laid on many shoulders is lighter. And write the more 
 surely, if your letters may be messengers of joy. Whatever mes- 
 sage they bring, at least they will show that you remember us. 
 You can write to comfort your friend: while you soothe his 
 wounds, you inflame mine. Heal, I pray you, those you yourself 
 have made, you who bustle about to cure those for which you are 
 not responsible. You cultivate a vineyard you did not plant, 
 which grows nothing. Give heed to what you owe your own. 
 You who spend so much on the obstinate, consider what you owe 
 the obedient. You who lavish pains on your enemies, reflect on 
 what you owe your daughters. And, counting nothing else, think 
 how you are bound to me! What you owe to all devoted women, 
 pay to her who is most devoted. 
 
 You know better than I how many treatises the holy fathers 
 of the Church have written for our instruction; how they have 
 labored to inform, to advise, and to console us. Is my ignorance 
 to suggest knowledge to the learned Abelard ? Long ago, indeed, 
 your neglect astonished me. Neither religion, nor love of me, nor 
 the example of the holy fathers, moved you to try to fix my
 
 ABfiLARD 
 
 29 
 
 struggling soul. Never, even when long grief had worn me down, 
 did you come to see me, or send me one line of comfort, — me, to 
 whom you were bound by marriage, and who clasp you about with 
 a measureless love! And for the sake of this love have I no 
 right to even a thought of yours ? 
 
 You well know, dearest, how much I lost in losing you, and 
 that the manner of it put me to double torture. You only can 
 comfort me. By you I was wounded, and by you I must be 
 healed. And it is only you on whom the debt rests. I have 
 obeyed the last tittle of your commands; and if you bade me, I 
 would sacrifice my soul. 
 
 To please you my love gave up the only thing in the universe 
 it valued — the hope of your presence — and that forever. The 
 instant I received your commands I quitted the habit of the 
 world, and denied all the wishes of my nature. I meant to give 
 up, for your sake, whatever I had once a right to call my own. 
 
 God knows it was always you, and you only that I thought of. 
 I looked for no dowry, no alliance of marriage. And if the name 
 of wife is holier and more exalted, the name of friend always 
 remained sweeter to me, or if you would not be angry, a meaner 
 title; since the more I gave up, the less should I injure your 
 present renown, and the more deserve your love. 
 
 Nor had you yourself forgotten this in that letter which I 
 recall. You are ready enough to set forth some of the reasons 
 which I used to you, to persuade you not to fetter your freedom, 
 but you pass over most of the pleas I made to withhold you from 
 our ill-fated wedlock. I call God to witness that if Augustus, 
 ruler of the world, should think me worthy the honor of marriage, 
 and settle the whole globe on me to rule forever, it would seem 
 dearer and prouder to me to be called your mistress than his 
 empress. 
 
 Not because a man is rich or powerful is he better : riches 
 and power may come from luck, constancy is from virtue. / 
 hold that woman base who weds a rich man rather than a poor 
 one, and takes a husband for her own gain. Whoever marries 
 with such a motive — why, she will follow his prosperity rather 
 than the man, and be willing to sell herself to a richer suitor. 
 
 That happiness which others imagine, best beloved, I experi- 
 enced. Other women might think their husbands perfect, and be 
 happy in the idea, but I knew that you were so and the universe 
 knew the same. What philosopher, what king, could rival your
 
 20 abElard 
 
 fame ? What village, city, kingdom, was not on fire to see you ? 
 When you appeared in public, who did not run to behold you ? 
 Wives and maidens alike recognized your beauty and grace. 
 Queens envied Heloi'se her Abelard. 
 
 Two gifts you had to lead captive the proudest soul, your voice 
 that made all your teaching a delight, and your singing, which 
 was like no other. Do you forget those tender songs you wrote 
 for me, which all the world caught up and sang, — but not like 
 you, — those songs that kept your name ever floating in the air, 
 and made me known through many lands, the envy and the scorn 
 of women ? 
 
 What gifts of mind, what gifts of person glorified you ! Oh, 
 my loss ! Who would change places with me now ! 
 
 And you know, Abelard, that though I am the great cause 
 of your misfortunes, I am most innocent. For a consequence is 
 no part of a crime. Justice weighs not the thing done, but the 
 intention. And how pure was my intention toward you, you alone 
 can judge. Judge me ! I will submit. 
 
 But how happens it, tell me, that since my profession of the 
 life which you alone determined, I have been so neglected and so 
 forgotten that you will neither see me nor write to me ? Make 
 me understand it, if you can, or I must tell you what everybody 
 says : that it was not a pure love like mine that held your heart, 
 and that your coarser feeling vanished with absence and ill-report. 
 Would that to me alone this seemed so, best beloved, and not to 
 all the world ! Would that I could hear others excuse you, or 
 devise excuses myself ! 
 
 The things I ask ought to seem very small and easy to you. 
 While I starve for you, do, now and then, by words, bring back 
 your presence to me ! How can you be generous in deeds if you 
 are so avaricious in words ? I have done everything for your 
 sake. It was not religion that dragged me, a young girl, so fond 
 of life, so ardent, to the harshness of the convent, but only your 
 command. If I deserve nothing from you, how vain is my labor ! 
 God will not recompense me, for whose love I have done nothing. 
 
 When you resolved to take the vows, I followed, — rather, I 
 ran before. You had the image of Lot's wife before your eyes \ 
 you feared I might look back, and therefore you deeded me to 
 God by the sacred vestments and irrevocable vows before you 
 took them yourself. For this, I own, I grieved, bitterly ashamed 
 that I could depend on you so little, when I would lead or follow
 
 ABfiLARD 31 
 
 you straight to perdition. For my soul is always with you and 
 no longer mine own. And if it is not with you in these last 
 wretched years, it is nowhere. Do receive it kindly. Oh, if only 
 you had returned favor for favor, even a little for the much, 
 words for things ! Would, beloved, that your affection would not 
 take my tenderness and obedience always for granted ; that it 
 might be more anxious ! But just because I have poured out all 
 I have and am, you give me nothing. Remember, oh, remember 
 how much you owe ! 
 
 There was a time when people doubted whether I had given 
 you all my heart, asking nothing. But the end shows . how I 
 began. I have denied myself a life which promised at least peace 
 and work in the world, only to obey your hard exactions. I have 
 kept back nothing for myself, except the comfort of pleasing you. 
 How hard and cruel are you then, when I ask so little and that 
 little is so easy for you to give ! 
 
 In the name of God, to whom you are dedicate, send me some 
 lines of consolation. Help me to learn obedience ! When you 
 wooed me because earthly love was beautiful, you sent me letter 
 after letter. With your divine singing every street and house 
 echoed my name ! How much more ought you now to persuade 
 to God her whom then you turned from Him ! Heed what I ask ; 
 think what you owe. I have written a long letter, but the ending 
 shall be short. Farewell, darling ! 
 
 ABELARD'S ANSWER TO HELOISE 
 
 To He'loi'se, his best beloved Sister in Christ, 
 Abelard, her Brother in Him: 
 
 IF, SINCE we resigned the world I have not written to you, it was 
 because of the high opinion I have ever entertained of your 
 wisdom and prudence. How could I think that she stood in 
 need of help on whom Heaven had showered its best gifts ? You 
 were able, I knew, by example as by word, to instruct the igno- 
 rant, to comfort the timid, to kindle the lukewarm. 
 
 When prioress of Argenteuil, you practiced all these duties-, 
 and if you give the same attention to your daughters that you 
 then gave to your sisters, it is enough. All my exhortations would 
 be needless. But if, in your humility, you think otherwise, and if 
 my words can avail you anything, tell me on what subjects you 
 would have me write, and as God shall direct me I will instruct
 
 22 ABELARD 
 
 you. I thank God that the constant dangers to which I am 
 exposed rouse your sympathies. Thus I may hope, under the 
 divine protection of your prayers, to see Satan bruised under my 
 feet. 
 
 Therefore I hasten to send you the form of prayer you 
 beseech of me — you, my sister, once dear to me in the world, but 
 now far dearer in Christ. Offer to God a constant sacrifice of 
 prayer. Urge him to pardon our great and manifold sins, and to 
 avert the dangers which threaten me. We know how powerful 
 before God and his saints are the prayers of the faithful, but 
 chiefly of faithful women for their friends, and of wives for their 
 husbands. The Apostle admonishes us to pray without ceasing. 
 But I will not insist on the supplications of your sister- 
 hood, day and night devoted to the service of their Maker; to 
 you only do I turn. I well know how powerful your intercession 
 may be. I pray you, exert it in this my need. In your prayers, 
 then, ever remember him who, in a special sense, is yours. Urge 
 your entreaties, for it is just that you should be heard. An equi- 
 table judge cannot refuse it. 
 
 In former days, you remember, best beloved, how fervently 
 you recommended me to the care of Providence. Often in the 
 day you uttered a special petition. Removed now from the Para- 
 clete, and surrounded by perils, how much greater my need ! Con- 
 vince me of the sincerity of your regard, I entreat, I implore you. 
 
 [The Prayer:] ^^ O God, who by Thy servant didst here assem- 
 ble Thy handmaids in Thy Holy Name, grant, we beseech Thee, 
 that he be protected from all adversity, and be restored safe to 
 us. Thy handmaids.'* 
 
 If Heaven permit my enemies to destroy me, or if I perish by 
 accident, see that my body is conveyed to the Paraclete. There, 
 my daughters, or rather my sisters in Christ, seeing my tomb, will 
 not cease to implore Heaven for me. No resting-place is so safe 
 for the grieving soul, forsaken in the wilderness of its sins, none 
 so full of hope as that which is dedicated to the Paraclete — that 
 is, the Comforter. 
 
 Where could a Christian find a more peaceful grave than in 
 the society of holy women, consecrated by God ? They, as the 
 Gospel tells us, would not leave their divine Master; they em- 
 balmed His body with precious spices; they followed Him to the 
 tomb, and there they held their vigil. In return, it was to them 
 that the angel of the resurrection appeared for their consolation.
 
 ABELARD ^3 
 
 Finally, let me entreat yon that the solicitude you now too 
 strongly feel for my life you will extend to the repose of my soul. 
 Carry into my grave the love you showed me when alive; that is, 
 never forget to pray Heaven for me. 
 
 Long life, farewell! Long life, farewell, to your sisters also! 
 Remember me, but let it be in Christ! 
 
 Translated for the < World's Best Literature.* 
 
 THE VESPER HYMN OF ABELARD 
 
 OH, WHAT shall be, oh, when shall be that holy Sabbath day, 
 Which heavenly care shall ever keep and celebrate alway. 
 When rest is found for weary limbs, when labor hath 
 reward. 
 When everything forevermore is joyful in the Lord.? 
 
 The true Jerusalem above, the holy town, is there. 
 Whose duties are so full of joy, whose joy so free from care; 
 Where disappointment cometh not to check the longing heart, 
 And where the heart, in ecstasy, hath gained her better part. 
 
 O glorious King, O happy state, O palace of the blest ! 
 
 O sacred place and holy joy, and perfect, heavenly rest! 
 
 To thee aspire thy citizens in glory's bright array. 
 
 And what they feel and what they know they strive in vain to say. 
 
 For while we wait and long for home, it shall be ours to raise 
 Our songs and chants and vows and prayers in that dear coun- 
 try's praise; 
 And from these Babylonian streams to lift our weary eyes. 
 And view the city that we love descending from the skies. 
 
 There, there, secure from every ill, in freedom we shall sing 
 The songs of Zion, hindered here by days of suffering. 
 And unto Thee, our gracious Lord, our praises shall confess 
 That all our sorrow hath been good, and Thou by pain canst bless. 
 
 There Sabbath day to Sabbath day sheds on a ceaseless light, 
 Eternal pleasure of the saints who keep that Sabbath bright; 
 Nor shall the chant ineffable decline, nor ever cease, 
 Which we with all the angels sing in that sweet realm of peace. 
 
 Translation of Dr. Samuel W. Duffield. 
 1—3
 
 34 
 
 EDMOND ABOUT 
 
 (1828-1885) 
 
 ARLY in the reign of Louis Napoleon, a serial story called 
 ^Tolla,^ a vivid study of social life in Rome, delighted the 
 readers of the Revue des Deux Mondes. When published 
 In book form in 1855 it drew a storm of opprobrium upon its young 
 author, who was accused of offering as his own creation a translation 
 of the Italian work ^Vittoria Savorelli.* This charge, undoubtedly 
 unjust, he indignantly refuted. It served at least to make his name 
 well known. Another book, *La Question Romaine,* a brilliant if 
 somewhat superficial argument against the temporal power of pope 
 
 and priests, was a philosophic employment 
 of the same material. Appearing in i860, 
 about the epoch of the French invasion of 
 Austrian Italy, its tone agreed with popular 
 sentiment and it was favorably received. 
 
 Edmond Frangois Valentin About had a 
 freakish, evasive, many-sided personality, a 
 nature drawn in too many directions to 
 achieve in any one of these the success his 
 talents warranted. He was born in Dreuze, 
 and like most French boys of literary am- 
 bition, soon found his way to Paris, where 
 he studied at the Lycee Charlemagne. Here 
 he won the honor prize; and in 185 1 was sent to Athens to study 
 archaeology at the Ecole Frangaise. He loved change and out-of- 
 the-way experiences, and two studies resulted from this trip : < La 
 Grece Contemporaine,' a book of charming philosophic description; 
 and the delightful story *■ Le Roi des Montagnes' (The King of the 
 Mountains). This tale of the long-limbed German student, enveloped 
 in the smoke from his porcelain pipe as he recounts a series of 
 impossible adventures, — those of himself and two Englishwomen, 
 captured for ransom by Hadgi Stavros, brigand king in the Grecian 
 mountains, — is especially characteristic of About in the humorous 
 atmosphere of every situation. 
 
 About wrote stories so easily and well that his early desertion of 
 fiction is surprising. His mocking spirit has often suggested compar- 
 ison with Voltaire, whom he studied and admired. He too is a skep- 
 tic and an idol-breaker; but his is a kindlier irony, a less incisive 
 philosophy. Perhaps, however, this influence led to lack of faith in 
 his own work, to his loss of an ideal, which Zola thinks the real 
 
   ■■•■.-■- -fffcT^^^. 
 
 Edmond About
 
 EDMOND ABOUT ^e 
 
 secret of his sudden change from novelist to journalist. Voltaire 
 taught him to scoff and disbelieve, to demand " a quoi bon ? '^ and that 
 took the heart out of him. He was rather fond of exposing abuses, 
 a habit that appears in those witty letters to the Gaulois which in 
 1878 obliged him to suspend that journal. His was a positive mind, 
 interested in political affairs, and with something always ready to 
 say upon them. In 1872 he founded a radical newspaper, Le XlXme 
 Siecle (The Nineteenth Century), in association with another aggress- 
 ive spirit, that of Francisque Sarcey. For many years he proved his 
 ability as editor, business man, and keen polemist. 
 
 He tried drama, too, inevitable ambition of young French authors; 
 but after the failure of *■ Guillery * at the Theatre Frangaise and 
 *■ Gaetena * at the Odeon, renounced the theatre. Indeed, his power 
 is in odd conceptions, in the covert laugh and humorous suggestion 
 of the phrasing, rather than in plot or characterization. He will 
 always be best known for the tales and novels in that thoroughly 
 French style — clear, concise, and witty — which in 1878 elected him 
 president of the Societe des Gens de Lettres, and in 1884 won him a 
 seat in the Academy. 
 
 About wrote a number of novels, most of them as well known 
 in translation to English and American readers as to his French 
 audience. The bright stories originally published in the Moniteur, 
 afterward collected with the title ^ Les Manages de Paris, ' had a con- 
 spicuous success, and were followed by a companion volume, < Les 
 Mariages de Province.^ ^L'Homme a I'Oreille Cassee' (The Man 
 with the Broken Ear) — the story of a mummy resuscitated to a world 
 of new conditions after many years of apparent death — shows his 
 freakish delight in oddity. So does * Le Nez du Notaire > (The 
 Notary's Nose), a gruesome tale of the tribulations of a handsome 
 society man, whose nose is struck off in a duel by a revengeful Turk. 
 The victim buys a bit of living skin from a poor water-carrier, and 
 obtains a new nose by successful grafting. But he can nevermore get 
 rid of the uncongenial Aquarius, who exercises occult influence over 
 the skin with which he has parted. When he drinks too much, the 
 Notary's nose is red; when he starves, it dwindles away; when he 
 loses the arm from which the graft was made, the important feature 
 drops off altogether, and the sufferer must needs buy a silver one. 
 About's latest novel, ^ Le Roman d'un Brave Homme ^ (The Story of 
 an Honest Man), is in quite another vein, a charming picture of 
 bourgeois virtue in revolutionary days. * Madelon * and *■ La Vielle 
 Roche > (The Old School) are also popular. 
 
 French critics have not found much to say of this non-evolutionist 
 of letters, who is neither pure realist nor pure romanticist, and who 
 has no new theory of art. Some, indeed, may have scorned him for
 
 36 
 
 EDMOND ABOUT 
 
 the wise taste which refuses to tread the debatable ground common 
 to French fiction. But the reading public has received him with less 
 conscious analysis, and has delighted in him. If he sees only what 
 any clever man may see, and is no profound psychologist, yet he 
 tells what he sees and what he imagines with delightful spirit and 
 delightful wit, and tinges the fabric of his fancy with the ever-chan- 
 ging colors of his own versatile personality, fanciful suggestions, 
 homely realism, and bright antithesis. Above all, he has the great 
 gift of the story-teller. 
 
 THE CAPTURE 
 
 From <The King of the Mountains > 
 
 "Qt! St!» 
 O I raised my eyes. Two thickets of mastic-trees and arbutus 
 inclosed the road on the right and left. From each tuft 
 of trees protruded three or four musket-barrels. A voice cried 
 out in Greek, ^^ Seat yourselves on the ground ! ^* This operation 
 was the more easy to me, as my legs gave way under me. But I 
 consoled myself by thinking that Ajax, Agamemnon, and the fiery 
 Achilles, if they had found themselves in the same situation, would 
 not have refused the seat that was offered. 
 
 The musket-barrels were leveled upon us. It seemed to me 
 that they stretched out immeasurably, and that their muzzles were 
 about to join above our heads. It was not that fear disturbed my 
 vision; but I had never remarked so sensibly the desperate length 
 of the Greek muskets! The whole arsenal soon debouched into 
 the road, and every barrel showed its stock and its master. 
 
 The only difference which exists between devils and brigands 
 is, that devils are less black than they are said to be, and brigands 
 more dirty than people suppose. The eight bullies, who packed 
 themselves in a circle around us, were so filthy in appearance that 
 I should have wished to give them my money with a pair of tongs. 
 You might guess, with a little effort, that their caps had been 
 red; but lye-wash itself could not have restored the original color 
 of their clothes. All the rocks of the kingdom had stained their 
 cotton shirts, and their vests preserved a sample of the different 
 soils on which they had reposed. Their hands, their faces, and 
 even their moustachios were of a reddish-gray, like the soil which 
 supports them. Every animal is colored according to its abode 
 and its habits: the foxes of Greenland are of the color of snow;
 
 EDMOND ABOUT ,y 
 
 lions, of the desert; partridges, of the furrow; Greek brigands, of 
 the highway. 
 
 The chief of the httle troop which had made us prisoners was 
 distinguished by no outward mark. Perhaps, however, his face, 
 his hands, and his clothes were richer in dust than those of his 
 comrades. He leaned toward us from the height of his tall figure, 
 and examined us so closely that I felt the grazing of his mous- 
 tachios. You would have pronounced him a tiger, who smells of 
 his prey before tasting it. When his curiosity was satisfied, he 
 said to Dimitri, ^^ Empty your pockets ! '^ 
 
 Dimitri did not give him cause to repeat the order: he threw 
 down before him a knife, a tobacco-pouch, and three Mexican 
 dollars, which compose a sum of about sixteen francs. 
 
 " Is that all ? ^^ demanded the brigand, 
 
 "Yes, brother." 
 
 " You are the servant ? " 
 
 "Yes, brother." 
 
 "Take back one dollar. You must not return to the city 
 without money." 
 
 Dimitri haggled. " You could well allow me two, " said he : "I 
 have two horses below; they are hired from the riding-school; I 
 shall have to pay for the day." 
 
 "You will explain to Zimmerman that we have taken your 
 money from you." 
 
 " And if he wishes to be paid, notwithstanding ? " 
 
 " Answer that he is lucky enough to see his horses again. " 
 
 "He knows very well that you do not take horses. What 
 would you do with them in the mountains ? " 
 
 " Enough ! What is this big raw-boned animal next you ? " 
 
 I answered for myself: "An honest German, whose spoils will 
 not enrich you." 
 
 " You speak Greek well. Empty your pockets. " 
 
 I deposited on the road a score of francs, my tobacco, my 
 pipe, and my handkerchief. 
 
 " What is that ? " asked the grand inquisitor. 
 
 "A handkerchief." 
 
 " For what purpose ? * 
 
 "To wipe my nose." 
 
 " Why did you tell me that you were poor ? It is only milords 
 who wipe their noses with handkerchiefs. Take off the box which 
 you have behind your back. Good ! Open it ! "
 
 38 
 
 EDMOND ABOUT 
 
 My box contained some plants, a book, a knife, a little pack- 
 age of arsenic, a gourd nearly empty, and the remnants of my 
 breakfast, which kindled a look of covetousness in the eyes of 
 Mrs. Simons. I had the assurance to offer them to her before my 
 baggage changed masters. She accepted greedily, and began to 
 devour the bread and meat. To my great astonishment, this act 
 of gluttony scandalized our robbers, who murmured among them- 
 selves the word ** Schismatic ! '^ The monk made half a dozen 
 signs of the cross, according to the rite of the Greek Church. 
 
 * You must have a watch, ^* said the brigand : ^* put it with the 
 rest. » 
 
 I gave up my silver watch, a hereditary toy of the weight 
 of four ounces. The villains passed it from hand to hand, and 
 thought it very beautiful. I was in hopes that admiration, which 
 makes men better, would dispose them to restore me something, 
 and I begged their chief to let me have my tin box. He imposed 
 silence upon me roughly. "At least,'* said I, "give me back two 
 crowns for my return to the city ! '* He answered with a sardonic 
 smile, " You will not have need of them. " 
 
 The turn of Mrs. Simons had come. Before putting her hand 
 in her pocket, she warned our conquerors in the language of her 
 fathers. The English is one of those rare idioms which one can 
 speak with a mouth full. " Reflect well on what you are going to 
 do, '* said she, in a menacing tone. " I am an Englishwoman, and 
 English subjects are inviolable in all the countries of the world. 
 What you will take from me will serve you little, and will cost 
 you dear. England will avenge me, and you will all be hanged, 
 to say the least. Now if you wish my money, you have only to 
 speak ; but it will bum your fingers : it is English money ! *' 
 
 " What does she say ? " asked the spokesman of the brigands. 
 
 Dimitri answered, " She says that she is English. ** 
 
 " So much the better ! All the English are rich. Tell her to 
 do as you have done.'* 
 
 The poor lady emptied on the sand a purse, which contained 
 twelve sovereigns. As her watch was not in sight, and as they 
 made no show of searching us, she kept it. The clemency of the 
 conquerors left her her pocket-handkerchief. 
 
 Mary Ann threw down her watch, with a whole bunch of 
 charms against the evil eye. She cast before her, by a movement 
 full of mute grace, a shagreen bag, which she carried in her belt. 
 The brigand opened it with the eagerness of a custom-house
 
 EDMOND ABOUT ^g 
 
 officer. He drew from it a little English dressing-case, a vial of 
 English salts, a box of pastilles of English mint, and a hundred 
 and some odd francs in English money. 
 
 ** Now, " said the impatient beauty, " you can let us go : we 
 have nothing more for you.'^ They indicated to her, by a men- 
 acing gesture, that the session was not ended. The chief of the 
 band squatted down before our spoils, called **the good old man,** 
 counted the money in his presence, and delivered to him the sum 
 of forty-five francs. Mrs. Simons nudged me on the elbow. " You 
 see, ** said she, " the monk and Dimitri have betrayed us : he is 
 dividing the spoils with them.** 
 
 "No, madam,** replied I, immediately. "Dimitri has received 
 a mere pittance from that which they had stolen from him. It is 
 a thing which is done everywhere. On the banks of the Rhine, 
 when a traveler is ruined at roulette, the conductor of the game 
 gives him something wherewith to return home.** 
 
 « But the monk ? '* 
 
 " He has received a tenth part of the booty in virtue of an 
 immemorial custom. Do not reproach him, but rather be thank- 
 ful to him for having wished to save us, when his convent was 
 interested in our capture.** 
 
 This discussion was interrupted by the farewells of Dimitri. 
 They had just set him at liberty. 
 
 "Wait for me,** said I to him: "we will return together.'* He 
 shook his head sadly, and answered me in English, so as to be 
 understood by the ladies: — 
 
 " You are prisoners for some days, and you will not see Ath- 
 ens again before paying a ransom. I am going to inform the 
 milord. Have these ladies any messages to give me for him ? ** 
 
 "Tell him,** cried Mrs. Simons, "to run to the embassy, to 
 go then to the Piraeus and find the admiral, to complain at the 
 foreign office, to write to Lord Palmerston! They shall take us 
 away from here by force of arms, or by public authority, but I 
 do not intend that they shall disburse a penny for my liberty.** 
 
 "As for me,** replied I, without so much passion, "I beg you 
 to tell my friends in what hands you have left me. If some hun- 
 dreds of drachms are necessary to ransom a poor devil of a nat- 
 uralist, they will find them without trouble. These gentlemen of 
 the highway cannot rate me very high. I have a mind, while 
 you are still here, to ask them what I am worth at the lowest 
 price. **
 
 40 
 
 EDMOND ABOUT 
 
 *' It would be useless, my dear Mr. Hermann ! It is not they 
 who fix the figures of your ransom.* 
 « And who then ? *> 
 *^ Their chief, Hadgi-Stavros." 
 
 HADGI-STAVROS 
 
 From <The King of the Mountains > 
 
 THE camp of the King was a plateau, covering a surface of 
 seven or eight hundred metres. I looked in vain for the 
 tents of our conquerors. The brigands are not sybarites, 
 and they sleep under the open sky on the 30th of April. I saw 
 neither spoils heaped up nor treasures displayed, nor any of those 
 things which one expects to find at the headquarters of a band 
 of robbers. Hadgi-Stavros makes it his business to have the 
 booty sold ; every man receives his pay in money, and employs it 
 as he chooses. Some make investments in commerce, others take 
 mortgages on houses in Athens, others buy land in their villages ; 
 no one squanders the products of robbery. Our arrival inter- 
 rupted the breakfast of twenty-five or thirty men, who flocked 
 around us with their bread and cheese. The chief supports his 
 soldiers; there is distributed to them every day one ration of 
 bread, oil, wine, cheese, caviare, allspice, bitter olives, and meat 
 when their religion permits it. The epicures who wish to eat 
 mallows or other herbs are at liberty to gather delicacies in the 
 mountains. 
 
 The office of the King was as much like an office as the camp 
 of the robbers was like a camp. Neither tables nor chairs nor 
 movables of any sort were to be seen there. Hadgi-Stavros was 
 seated cross-legged on a square carpet in the shade of a fir-tree. 
 Four secretaries and two servants were grouped around him. A 
 boy of sixteen or eighteen was occupied incessantly in filling, 
 lighting, and cleaning the chibouk of his master. He carried in 
 his belt a tobacco-pouch, embroidered with gold and fine mother- 
 of-pearl, and a pair of silver pincers intended for taking up coals. 
 Another servant passed the day in preparing cups of coffee, 
 glasses of water, and sweetmeats to refresh the royal mouth. The 
 secretaries, seated on the bare rock, wrote on their knees, with 
 pens made of reeds. Each of them had at hand a long copper 
 box containing reeds, penknife, and inkhorn. Some tin cylinders,
 
 EDMOND ABOUT 41 
 
 like those in which our soldiers roll up their discharges, served 
 as a depository for the archives. The paper was not of native 
 manufacture, and for a good reason. Every leaf bore the word 
 BATH in capital letters. 
 
 The King was a fine old man, marvelously well preserved, 
 straight, slim, supple as a spring, spruce and shining as a new 
 sabre. His long white moustachios hung under his chin like two 
 marble stalactites. The rest of his face was carefully shaved, the 
 skull bare even to the occiput, where a long tress of white hair 
 was rolled up under his hat. The expression of his features ap- 
 peared to me calm and thoughtful. A pair of small, clear blue 
 eyes and a square chin announced an indomitable will. His face 
 was long, and the position of the wrinkles lengthened it still more. 
 All the creases of the forehead were broken in the middle, and 
 seemed to direct themselves toward the meeting of the eyebrows ; 
 two wide and deep furrows descended perpendicularly to the 
 corners of the lips, as if the weight of the moustachios had 
 drawn in the muscles of the face. 
 
 I have seen a good many septuagenarians ; I have even dis- 
 sected one who would have reached a hundred years, if the dili- 
 gence of Osnabriick had not passed over his body : but I do not 
 remember to have observed a more green and robust old age 
 than that of Hadgi-Stavros. He wore the dress of Tino and of 
 all the islands of the Archipelago. His red cap formed a large 
 crease at its base around his forehead. He had a vest of black 
 cloth, faced with black silk, immense blue pantaloons which con- 
 tained more than twenty metres of cotton cloth, and great boots 
 of Russia leather, elastic and stout. The only rich thing in his 
 costume was a scarf embroidered with gold and precious stones, 
 which might be worth two or three thousand francs. It inclosed 
 in its folds an embroidered cashmere purse, a Damascus sanjar 
 in a silver sheath, a long pistol mounted in gold and rubies, and 
 the appropriate baton. 
 
 Quietly seated in the midst of his employees, Hadgi-Stavros 
 moved only the ends of his fingers and his lips; the lips to dic- 
 tate his correspondence, the fingers to count the beads in his 
 chaplet. It was one of those beautiful chaplets of milky amber 
 which do not serve to number prayers, but to amuse the solemn 
 idleness of the Turk. 
 
 He raised his head at our approach, guessed at a glance the 
 occurrence which had brought us there, and said to us, with a
 
 -J EDMOND ABOUT 
 
 gravity which had in it nothing ironical, "You are welcome! Be 
 seated. '* 
 
 " Sir, '^ cried Mrs. Simons, " I am an Englishwoman, and — * 
 He interrupted the discourse by making his tongue smack against 
 the teeth of his upper jaw — superb teeth, indeed! "Presently," 
 said he : "I am occupied. " He understood only Greek, and Mrs. 
 Simons knew only English; but the physiognomy of the King was 
 so speaking that the good lady comprehended easily without the 
 aid of an interpreter. 
 
 Selections from <The King of the Mountains > used by permission of 
 
 J. E. Tilton and Company 
 
 THE VICTIM 
 
 From * The Man with the Broken Ear > : by permission of Henry Holt, the 
 
 Translator 
 
 LEON took his bunch of keys and opened the long oak box on 
 which he had been seated. The lid being raised, they saw 
 a great leaden casket which inclosed a magnificent walnut 
 box carefully polished on the outside, lined on the inside with 
 white silk, and padded. 
 
 The others brought their lamps and candles near, and the 
 colonel of the Twenty-third of the line appeared as if he were in 
 a chapel illuminated for his lying in state. 
 
 One would have said that the man was asleep. The perfect 
 preservation of the body attested the paternal care of the mur- 
 derer. It was truly a remarkable preparation, and would have 
 borne comparison with the finest European mummies described by 
 Vicq d'Azyr in 1779, and by the younger Puymaurin in 1787. The 
 part best preserved, as is always the case, was the face. All the 
 features had maintained a proud and manly expression. If any 
 old friend of the colonel had been at the opening of the third 
 box, he would have recognized him at first sight. Undoubtedly 
 the point of the nose was a little sharper, the nostrils less ex- 
 panded and thinner, and the bridge a little more marked, than in 
 the year 181 3. The eyelids were thinned, the lips pinched, the 
 comers of the mouth drawn down, the cheek bones too promi- 
 nent, and the neck visibly shrunken, which exaggerated the prom- 
 inence of the chin and larynx. But the eyelids were closed with- 
 out contraction, and the sockets much less hollow than one could 
 have expected; the mouth was not at all distorted, like the mouth
 
 EDMOND ABOUT 4^ 
 
 of a corpse; the skin was slightly wrinkled, but had not changed 
 color, — it had only become a little more transparent, showing 
 after a fashion the color of the tendons, the fat, and the muscles, 
 wherever it rested directly upon them. It also had a rosy tint 
 which is not ordinarily seen in embalmed corpses. Dr. Martout 
 explained this anomaly by saying that if the colonel had actually 
 been dried alive, the globules of the blood were not decomposed, 
 but simply collected in the capillary vessels of the skin and sub- 
 jacent tissues, where they still preserved their proper color, and 
 could be seen more easily than otherwise on account of the semi- 
 transparency of the skin. 
 
 The uniform had become much too large, as may be readily 
 understood, though it did not seem at a casual glance that the 
 members had become deformed. The hands were dry and angu- 
 lar, but the nails, although a little bent inward toward the root, 
 had preserved all their freshness. The only very noticeable 
 change was the excessive depression of the abdominal walls, which 
 seemed crowded downward to the posterior side; at the right, a 
 slight elevation indicated the place of the liver. A tap of the 
 finger on the various parts of the body produced a sound like 
 that from dry leather. While L^on was pointing out these details 
 to his audience and doing the honors of his mummy, he awk- 
 wardly broke off the lower part of the right ear, and a little 
 piece of the colonel remained in his hand. This trifling accident 
 might have passed unnoticed had not Clementine, who followed 
 with visible emotion all the movements of her lover, dropped her 
 candle and uttered a cry of affright. All gathered around her. 
 L6on took her in his arms and carried her to a chair. M. Re- 
 nault ran after salts. She was as pale as death, and seemed on 
 the point of fainting. She soon recovered, however, and reas- 
 sured them all by a charming smile. 
 
 "Pardon me,^^ she said, "for such a ridiculous exhibition of 
 terror; but what Monsieur Leon was saying to us — and then — 
 that figure which seemed sleeping — it appeared to me that the 
 poor man was going to open his mouth and cry out, when he 
 was injured.*^ 
 
 Leon hastened to close the walnut box, while M. Martout 
 picked up the piece of ear and put it in his pocket. But Cle- 
 mentine, while continuing to smile and make apologies, was 
 overcome by a fresh access of emotion and melted into tears. 
 The engineer threw himself at her feet, poured forth excuses
 
 .. EDMOND ABOUT 
 
 44 
 
 and tender phrases, and did all he could to console her inexpli- 
 cable grief. 
 
 Clementine dried her eyes, looked prettier than ever, and 
 sighed fit to break her heart, without knowing why. 
 
 ^* Beast that I am ! '^ muttered Leon, tearing his hair. ** On the 
 day when I see her again after three years' absence, I can think 
 of nothing more soul-inspiring than showing her mummies!** He 
 launched a kick at the triple coffin of the colonel, saying, ^* I wish 
 the devil had the confounded colonel ! ** 
 
 " No ! '* cried Clementine, with redoubled energy and emotion. 
 "Do not curse him. Monsieur Leon! He has suffered so much! 
 Ah ! poor, poor, unfortunate man ! ** 
 
 Mile. Sambucco felt a little ashamed. She made excuses for 
 her niece, and declared that never, since her tenderest childhood, 
 had she manifested such extreme sensitiveness. 
 
 * This will teach us,** said the aunt, "what staying up after 
 ten o'clock does. What! it is midnight, within a quarter of an 
 hour! Come, my child; you will recover fast enough after you 
 get to bed.** 
 
 Clementine arose submissively; but at the moment of leaving 
 the laboratory she retraced her steps, and with a caprice more 
 inexplicable than her grief, she absolutely demanded to see the 
 mummy of the colonel again. Her aunt scolded in vain; in spite 
 of the remarks of Mile. Sambucco and all the others present, she 
 reopened the walnut box, knelt down beside the mummy and 
 kissed it on the forehead. 
 
 " Poor man ! ** said she, rising. " How cold he is ! Monsieur 
 Leon, promise me that if he is dead you will have him laid in 
 consecrated ground ! ** 
 
 "As you please, mademoiselle. I intended to send him to the 
 anthropological museum, with my father's permission; but you 
 know that we can refuse you nothing.** 
 
 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY 
 
 From <The Man \vith the Broken Ear>: by permission of Henry Holt, the 
 
 Translator 
 
 FORTHWITH the colonel marched and opened the windows with 
 a precipitation which upset the gazers among the crowd. 
 "People,** said he, "I have knocked down a hundred beggarly 
 pandours, who respect neither sex nor infirmity. For the benefit
 
 EDMOND ABOUT 
 
 45 
 
 of those who are not satisfied, I will state that I call myself 
 Colonel Fougas of the Twenty-third. And Vive VEviperciir ! '* 
 
 A confused mixture of plaudits, cries, laughs, and jeers an- 
 swered this unprecedented allocution. Leon Renault hastened out 
 to make apologies to all to whom they were due. He invited a 
 few friends to dine the same evening with the terrible colonel, 
 and of course he did not forget to send a special messenger to 
 Clementine. Fougas, after speaking to the people, returned to his 
 hosts, swinging himself along with a swaggering air, set himself 
 astride a chair, took hold of the ends of his mustache, and said: — 
 
 <^Well! Come, let's talk this over. I've been sick, then?* 
 
 "Very sick." 
 
 << That's incredible! I feel entirely well; I'm hungry; and more- 
 over, while waiting for dinner I'll try a glass of your schnick. '* 
 
 Mme. Renault went out, gave an order, and returned in an 
 instant. 
 
 " But tell me, then, where I am ? " resumed the colonel. " By 
 these paraphernalia of work, I recognize a disciple of Urania; pos- 
 sibly a friend of Monge and Berthollet. Biit the cordial friendli- 
 ness impressed on your countenances proves to me that you are 
 not natives of this land of sauerkraut. Yes, I believe it from the 
 beatings of my heart. Friends, we have the same fatherland. 
 The kindness of your reception, even were there no other indica- 
 tions, would have satisfied me that you are French. What acci- 
 dents have brought you so far from our native soil ? Children of 
 my country, what tempest has thrown you upon this inhospitable 
 shore ? ** 
 
 "My dear colonel,'* replied M. Nibor, "if you want to become 
 very wise, you will not ask so many questions at once. Allow us 
 the pleasure of instructing you quietly and in order, for you have 
 a great many things to learn.'* 
 
 The colonel flushed with anger, and answered sharply: — 
 
 "At all events, you are not the man to teach them to me, my 
 little gentleman ! ** 
 
 A drop of blood which fell on his hand changed the current of 
 his thoughts. 
 
 " Hold on ! ** said he : " am I bleeding ? " 
 
 " That will amount to nothing : circulation is re-established, 
 and — and your broken ear — ** 
 
 He quickly carried his hand to his ear, and said: — 
 
 " It's certainly so. But devil take me if I recollect this acci- 
 dent !»
 
 g EDMOND ABOUT 
 
 << I'll make you a little dressing, and in a couple of days there 
 will be no trace of it left.'* 
 
 <* Don't give yourself the trouble, my dear Hippocrates : a pinch 
 of powder is a sovereign cure ! '* » 
 
 M. Nibor set to work to dress the ear in a little less military 
 fashion. During his operations Leon re-entered. 
 
 <^ Ah ! ah ! '* said he to the doctor : ^^ you are repairing the harm 
 I did.» 
 
 " Thunderation ! '* cried Fougas, escaping from the hands of 
 M. Nibor so as to seize L^on by the collar, "was it you, you 
 rascal, that hurt my ear?'' 
 
 Leon was very good-natured, but his patience failed him. He 
 pushed his man roughly aside. 
 
 "Yes, sir: it was I who tore your ear, in pulling it; and if 
 that little misfortune had not happened to me, it is certain that 
 you would have been to-day six feet under ground. It is I who 
 saved your life, after buying you with my money when you were 
 not valued at over twenty-five louis. It is I who have passed 
 three days and two nights in cramming charcoal under your 
 boiler. It is my father who gave you the clothes you have on. 
 You are in our house. Drink the little glass of brandy Gothon 
 just brought you; but for God's sake give up the habit of calling 
 me rascal, of calling my mother <Good Mother,* and of flinging 
 our friends into the street and calHng them beggarly pandours!'* 
 The colonel, all dumfounded, held out his hand to Leon, M, 
 Renault, and the doctor, gallantly kissed the hand of Mme. 
 Renault, swallowed at a gulp a claret glass filled to the brim 
 with brandy, and said, in a subdued voice: — [ 
 
 "Most excellent friends, forget the vagaries of an impulsive 
 but generous soul. To subdue my passions shall hereafter be 
 my law. After conquering all the nations in the universe, it ij) 
 well to conquer one's self.'* 
 
 This said, he submitted his ear to M. Nibor, who finishecl 
 dressing it. 
 
 " But, '* said he, summoning up his recollections, " they did not 
 shoot me, then ? '* 
 «No,'> 
 
 "And I wasn't frozen to death in the tower?* 
 "Not quite." 
 
 " Why has my uniform been taken off ? I see ! I am a pris- 
 oner ! "
 
 EDMOND ABOUT 
 
 47 
 
 * You are free. '* 
 
 ^<Free! Vive VEmpereiir! But then there's not a moment to 
 lose ! How many leagues is it to Dantzic ? *^ 
 
 ^* It's very far. ** 
 
 <*What do you call this chicken-coop of a town?'* 
 
 ** Fontainebleau. ^* 
 
 *< Fontainebleau ! In France ? *' 
 
 " Prefecture of Seine-et-Marne. We are going to introduce to 
 you the sub-pr6fect, whom you just pitched into the street.** 
 
 ^* What the devil are your sub-prefects to me ? I have a mes- 
 sage from the Emperor to General Rapp, and I must start this 
 very day for Dantzic. God knows whether I'll be there in time ! '* 
 
 " My poor colonel, you will arrive too late : Dantzic is given 
 up.» 
 
 " That's impossible ! Since when ? * 
 
 "About forty-six years ago.* 
 
 *^ Thunder ! I did not understand that you were — mocking 
 me!» 
 
 M. Nibor placed in his hand a calendar, and said, " See for 
 yourself! It is now the 17th of August, 1859; you went to sleep 
 in the tower of Liebenfeld on the nth of November, 181 3: there 
 have been, then, forty-six years, within three months, during 
 which the world has moved on without you. ** 
 
 " Twenty-four and forty-six : but then I would be seventy 
 years old, according to your statement ! ** 
 
 " Your vitality clearly shows that you are still twenty-four. ** 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, tore up the calendar, and said, 
 beating the floor with his foot, " Your almanac is a humbug ! '* 
 
 M. Renault ran to his library, took up half a dozen books at 
 Haphazard, and made him read, at the foot of the title-pages, the 
 dates 1826, 1833, 1847, and 1858. 
 
 " Pardon me ! ** said Fougas, burying his head in his hands. 
 "What has happened to me is so new! I do not think that 
 another human being was ever subjected to such a trial. I am 
 seventy years old ! ** 
 
 Good Mme. Renault went and got a looking-glass from the 
 bath-room and gave it to him, saying: — 
 
 «Look!» 
 
 He took the glass in both hands and was silently occupied in 
 resuming acquaintance with himself, when a hand-organ came 
 into the court and began playing ^ Partant pour la Syrie. *
 
 48 
 
 EDMOND ABOUT 
 
 Fougas threw the mirror to the ground, and cried out: — 
 
 " What is that you are telling me ? I hear the little song of 
 Queen Hortense ! '* 
 
 M. Renault patiently explained to him, while picking up the 
 pieces of the mirror, that the pretty little song of Queen Hor- 
 tense had become a national air, and even an official one, since 
 the regimental bands had substituted that gentle melody for the 
 fierce *■ Marseillaise * ; and that our soldiers, strange to say, had 
 not fought any the worse for it. But the colonel had already 
 opened the window, and was crying out to the Savoyard with the 
 organ : — 
 
 * Eh ! Friend ! A napoleon for you if you will tell me in 
 what year I am drawing the breath of life ! ^* 
 
 The artist began dancing as lightly as possible^ playing on his 
 musical instrument. 
 
 *^ Advance at the order ! '^ cried the colonel, " and keep that 
 devilish machine still ! ^* 
 
 " A little penny, my good monsieur ! " 
 
 « It is not a penny that I'll give you, but a napoleon, if you'll 
 tell what year it is.'* 
 
 «0h, but that's funny! Hi— hi— hi! » 
 
 "And if you don't tell me quicker than this amounts to, I'll 
 cut your ears oif ! ** 
 
 The Savoyard ran away, but he came back pretty soon, having 
 meditated, during his flight, on the maxim "Nothing risk, noth- 
 ing gain.** 
 
 "Monsieur," said he, in a wheedling voice, "this is the year 
 eighteen hundred and fifty-nine.'* 
 
 "Good!** cried Fougas. He felt in his pockets for money, and 
 found nothing there. Leon saw his predicament, and flung twenty 
 francs into the court. Before shutting the window, he pointed 
 out, to the right, the facade of a pretty little new building, where 
 the colonel could distinctly read: — 
 
 AUDRET ARCHITECTE 
 MDCCCLIX 
 
 A perfectly satisfactory piece of evidence, and one which did 
 not cost twenty francs. 
 
 Fougas, a little confused, pressed Leon's hand and said to 
 him : —
 
 EDMOND ABOUT 49 
 
 « My friend, I do not forget that Confidence is the first duty 
 from Gratitude toward Beneficence. But tell me of our country! 
 I tread the sacred soil where I received my being, and I am 
 ignorant of the career of my native land. France is still the 
 queen of the world, is she not ? '^ 
 
 * Certainly, ^* said Leon. 
 
 * How is the Emperor ? * 
 «Well.» 
 
 " And the Empress ? * 
 
 «Very well." 
 
 « And the King of Rome ? » 
 
 " The Prince Imperial ? He is a very fine child. ** 
 
 * How ? A fine child ! And you have the face to say that this 
 is 1859 !» 
 
 M. Nibor took up the conversation, and explained in a few 
 words that the reigning sovereign of France was not Napoleon I., 
 but Napoleon IH. 
 
 ^* But then," cried Fougas, "my Emperor is dead!" 
 
 «Yes." 
 
 ** Impossible ! Tell me anything you will but that ! My Em- 
 peror is immortal." 
 
 M. Nibor and the Renaults, who were not quite professional 
 historians, were obliged to give him a summary of the history of 
 our century. Some one v/ent after a big book, written by M. de 
 Norvins and illustrated with fine engravings by Raffet. He only 
 believed in the presence of Truth when he could touch her with 
 his hand, and still cried out almost every moment, * That's im- 
 possible! This is not history that you are reading to me: it is a 
 romance written to make soldiers weep ! " 
 
 This young man must indeed have had a strong and well-tem- 
 pered soul; for he learned in forty minutes all the woful events 
 which fortune had scattered through eighteen years, from the first 
 abdication up to the death of the King of Rome. Less happy 
 than his old companions in arms, he had no interval of repose 
 between these terrible and repeated shocks, all beating upon his 
 heart at the same time. One could have feared that the blow 
 might prove mortal, and poor Fougas die in the first hour of his 
 recovered life. But the imp of a fellow yielded and recovered 
 himself in quick succession like a spring. He cried out with 
 admiration on hearing of the five battles of the campaign in 
 France; he reddened with grief at the farewells of Fontainebleau. 
 1—4
 
 ^o EDMOND ABOUT 
 
 The return from the Isle of Elba transfigured his handsome and 
 noble countenance; at Waterloo his heart rushed in with the last 
 army of the Empire, and there shattered itself. Then he clenched 
 his fists and said between his teeth, << If I had been there at the 
 head of the Twenty-Third, Bliicher and Wellington would have 
 seen another fate ! >^ The invasion, the truce, the martyr of St. 
 Helena, the ghastly terror of Europe, the murder of Murat, — the 
 idol of the cavalry, — the deaths of Ney, Bruno, Mouton-Duvernet, 
 and so many other whole-souled men whom he had known, ad- 
 mired, and loved, threw him into a series of paroxysms of rage; 
 but nothing crushed him. In hearing of the death of Napoleon, 
 he swore that he would eat the heart of England; the slow agony 
 of the pale and interesting heir of the Empire inspired him with 
 a passion to tear the vitals out of Austria. When the drama was 
 over, and the curtain fell on Schonbrunn, he dashed away his 
 tears and said, « It is well. I have lived in a moment a man's 
 entire life. Now show me the map of France ! '^ 
 
 Leon began to turn over the leaves of an atlas, while M. 
 Renault attempted to continue narrating to the colonel the history 
 of the Restoration, and of the monarchy of 1830. But Fougas's 
 interest was in other things. 
 
 "What do I care,'^ said he, "if a couple of hundred babblers 
 of deputies put one king in place of another? Kings! I've seen 
 enough of them in the dirt. If the Empire had lasted ten years 
 longer, I could have had a king for a bootblack. '^ 
 
 When the atlas was placed before him, he at once cried out 
 
 with profound disdain, « That France ? *^ But soon two tears of 
 
 pitying affection, escaping from his eyes, swelled the rivers 
 
 Ardeche and Gironde. He kissed the map and said, with ati 
 
 emotion which communicated itself to nearly all those who were 
 
 present : — 
 
 "Forgive me, poor old love, for insulting your misfortunes. 
 
 Those scoundrels whom we always whipped have profited by my 
 
 sleep to pare down your frontiers; but little or great, rich or poor, 
 
 you are my mother, and I love you as a faithful son! Here in 
 
 Corsica, where the giant of our age was bom; here is Toulouse, 
 
 where I first saw the hght; here is Nancy, where I felt my heart 
 
 awakened — where, perhaps, she whom I call my yEgle waits fo> 
 
 me still! France! Thou hast a temple in my soul; this arm is 
 
 thine; thou shalt find me ever ready to shed my blood to the last 
 
 drop in defending or avenging thee!*>
 
 51 
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITER- 
 ATURE 
 
 BY CRAWFORD H. TOY 
 
 [ecent discoveries have carried the beginnings of civilization 
 farther and farther back into the remote past. Scholars are 
 not agreed as to what region can lay claim to the greatest 
 literary antiquity. The oldest historical records are found in Egypt 
 and Babylonia, and each of these lands has its advocates, who claim 
 for it priority in culture. The data now at our command are not suf- 
 ficient for the decision of this question. It may be doubted whether 
 any one spot on the globe will ever be shown to have precedence in 
 time over all others, — whether, that is, it will appear that the civili- 
 zation of the world has proceeded from a single centre. But though 
 we are yet far from having reached the very beginnings of culture, 
 we know that they lie farther back than the wildest dreams of half a 
 century ago would have imagined. Established kingdoms existed in 
 Babylonia in the fourth millennium before the beginning of our era; 
 royal inscriptions have been found which are with great probability 
 assigned to about the year 3800 B. C. These are, it is true, of the 
 simplest description, consisting of a few sentences of praise to a deity 
 or brief notices of a campaign or of the building of a temple; but 
 they show that the art of writing was known, and that the custom 
 existed of recording events of the national history. We may thence 
 infer the existence of a settled civilization and of some sort of literary 
 productiveness. I 
 
 The Babylonian-Assyrian writings with which we are acquainted 
 may be divided into the two classes of prose and poetry. The former 
 class consists of royal inscriptions (relating to military campaigns and 
 the construction of temples), chronological tables (eponym canons).   
 legal documents (sales, suits, etc.), grammatical tables (paradigms and 
 vocabularies), lists of omens and lucky and unlucky days, and letters 
 and reports passing between kings and governors; the latter class 
 includes cosmogonic poems, an epic poem in twelve books, detached 
 mythical narratives, magic formulas and incantations, and prayers to 
 deities (belonging to the ritual service of the temples). The prose 
 pieces, with scarcely an exception, belong to the historical period, and 
 may be dated with something like accuracy. The same thing is true 
 of a part of the poetical material, particularly the prayers; but the
 
 e2 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 cosmogonic and other mythical poems appear to go back, at least so 
 far as their material is concerned, to a very remote antiquity, and it 
 is difficult to assign them a definite date. 
 
 Whether this oldest poetical material belongs to the Semitic Baby- 
 lonians or to a non-Semitic (Sumerian-Accadian) people is a question 
 not yet definitely decided. The material which comes into consid- 
 eration for the solution of this problem is mainly linguistic. Along 
 with the inscriptions, which are obviously in the Semitic-Babylonian 
 language, are found others composed of words apparently strange. 
 These are held by some scholars to represent a priestly, cryptographic 
 writing, by others to be true Semitic words in slightly altered form, 
 and by others still to belong to a non-Semitic tongue. This last view 
 supposes that the ancient poetry comes, in substance at any rate, 
 from a non-Semitic people who spoke this tongue ; while on the other 
 hand, it is maintained that this poetry is so interwoven into Semitic 
 life that it is impossible to regard it as of foreign origin. The 
 majority of Semitic scholars are now of the opinion that the origin 
 of this early literature is foreign. However this may be, it comes to 
 us in Babylonian dress, it has been elaborated by Babylonian hands, 
 has thence found its way into the literature of other Semitic peoples, 
 and for our purposes may be accepted as Babylonian. In any case it 
 carries us back to very early religious conceptions. 
 
 The cosmogonic poetry is in its outlines not unlike that of Hesiod, 
 but develops the ruder ideas at greater length. In the shortest (but 
 probably not the earliest) form of the cosmogony, the beginning of 
 all things is found in the watery abyss. Two abysmal powers 
 (Tiamat and Apsu), represented as female and male, mingle their 
 waters, and from them proceed the gods. The list of deities (as in 
 the Greek cosmogony) seems to represent several dynasties, a concep- 
 tion which may embody the belief in the gradual organization of the 
 world. After two less-known gods, called Lahmu and Lahamu, come 
 the more familiar figures of later Babylonian writing, Anu and Ea. At 
 this point the list unfortunately breaks off, and the creative function 
 which may have been assigned to the gods is lost, or has not yet 
 been discovered. The general similarity between this account and 
 that of Gen. i. is obvious: both begin with the abysmal chaos. Other 
 agreements between the two cosmogonies will be pointed out below 
 The most interesting figure in this fragment is that of Tiamat. Wi 
 shall presently see her in the character of the enemy of the gods. 
 The two conceptions of her do not agree together perfectly, and the 
 priority in time must be assigned to the latter. The idea that the 
 world of gods and men and material things issued out of the womb 
 of the abyss is a philosophic generalization that is more naturally 
 assigned to a period of reflection.
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE ^3 
 
 In the second cosmogonic poem the account is more similar to that 
 of the second chapter of Genesis, and its present form originated in 
 or near Babylon. Here we have nothing of the primeval deep, but 
 are told how the gods made a beautiful land, with rivers and trees; 
 how Babylon was built and Marduk created man, and the Tigris and 
 the Euphrates, and the beasts and cities and temples. This also must 
 be looked on as a comparatively late form of the myth, since its hero 
 is Marduk, god of Babylon. As in the Bible account, men are created 
 before beasts, and the region of their first abode seems to be the same 
 as the Eden of Genesis. 
 
 Let us now turn to the poem in which the combat between Tiamat 
 and Marduk forms the principal feature. For some unexplained 
 reason Tiamat rebels against the gods. Collecting her hosts, among 
 them frightful demon shapes of all imaginable forms, she advances 
 for the purpose of expelling the gods from their seats. The affrighted 
 deities turn for protection to the high gods, Anu and Ea, who, how- 
 ever, recoil in terror from the hosts of the dragon Tiamat. Anshar 
 then applies to Marduk. The gods are invited to a feast, the situ- 
 ation is described, and Marduk is invited to lead the heavenly hosts 
 against the foe. He agrees on condition that he shall be clothed 
 with absolute power, so that he shall only have to say <^Let it be,*^ 
 and it shall be. To this the gods assent: a garment is placed before 
 him, to which he says " Vanish, ^> and it vanishes, and when he com- 
 mands it to appear, it is present. The hero then dons his armor and 
 advances against the enemy. He takes Tiamat and slays her, routs 
 her host, kills her consort Kingu, and utterly destroys the rebel- 
 lion. Tiamat he cuts in twain. Out of one half of her he forms the 
 heavens, out of the other half the earth, and for the gods Anu and 
 Bel and Ea he makes a heavenly palace, like the abyss itself in 
 extent. To the great gods also he assigns positions, forms the stars, 
 establishes the year and month and the day. At this point the his- 
 tory is interrupted, the tablet being broken. The creation of the 
 heavenly bodies is to be compared with the similar account in 
 Gen. i. ; whether this poem narrates the creation of the rest of the 
 world it is impossible to say. 
 
 In this history of the rebellion of Tiamat against the gods we have 
 a mythical picture of some natural phenomenon, perhaps of the con- 
 flict between the winter and the enlivening sun of summer. The 
 poem appears to contain elements of different dates. The rude char- 
 acter of some of the procedures suggests an early time: Marduk slays 
 Tiamat by driving the wind into her body; the warriors who accom- 
 pany her have those composite forms familiar to us from Babylo- 
 nian and Egyptian statues, paintings, and seals, which are the product 
 of that early thought for which there was no essential difiEerence
 
 e4 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 between man and beast. The festival in which the gods carouse is 
 of a piece with the divine Ethiopian feasts of Homer. On the other 
 hand, the idea of the omnipotence of the divine word, when Marduk 
 makes the garment disappear and reappear, is scarcely a primitive 
 one. It is substantially identical with the Biblical <^Let it be, and it 
 was.^* It is probable that the poem had a long career, and in success- 
 ive recensions received the coloring of different generations. Tiamat 
 herself has a long history. Here she is a dragon who assaults the 
 gods; elsewhere, as we have seen, she is the mother of the gods; 
 here also her body forms the heaven and the earth. She appears in 
 Gen. i. 2 as the Tehom, the primeval abyss. In the form of the 
 hostile dragon she is found in numerous passages of the Old Testa- 
 ment, though under different names. She is an enemy of Yahwe, 
 god of Israel, and in the New Testament (Rev. xii.) the combat 
 between Marduk and Tiamat is represented under the form of a fight 
 between Michael and the Dragon. In Christian literature Michael has 
 been replaced by St. George. The old Babylonian conception has been 
 fruitful of poetry, representing, as it does, in grand form the struggle 
 between the chaotic and the formative forces of the universe. 
 
 The most considerable of the old Babylonian poems, so far as 
 length and literary form are concerned, is that which has been com- 
 monly known as the Izdubar epic. The form of the name is not 
 certain: Mr. Pinches has recently proposed, on the authority of a 
 Babylonian text, to write it Gilgamesh, and this form has been 
 adopted by a number of scholars. The poem (discovered by George 
 Smith in 1872) is inscribed on twelve tablets, each tablet apparently 
 containing a separate episode. 
 
 The first tablet introduces the hero as the deliverer of his country 
 from the Elamites, an event which seems to have taken place before 
 2000 B. C. Of the second, third, fourth, and fifth tablets, only frag- 
 ments exist, but it appears that Gilgamesh slays the Elamite tyrant. 
 
 The sixth tablet recounts the love of Ishtar for the hero, to whom 
 she proposes marriage, offering him the tribute of the land. The 
 reason he assigns for his rejection of the goddess is the number and 
 fatal character of her loves. Among the objects of her affection were 
 a wild eagle, a lion, a war-horse, a ruler, and a husbandman; and all 
 these came to grief. Ishtar, angry at her rejection, complains to her 
 father, Anu, and her mother, Anatu, and begs them to avenge her 
 wrong. Anu creates a divine bull and sends it against Gilgamesh, 
 who, however, with the aid of his friend Eabani, slays the bull. 
 Ishtar curses Gilgamesh, but Eabani turns the curse against her. 
 
 The seventh tablet recounts how Ishtar descends to the underworld 
 seeking some better way of attacking the hero. The description of 
 the Babylonian Sheol is one of the most effective portions of the
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 55 
 
 poem, and with it George Smith connects a well-known poem which 
 relates the descent of Ishtar to the underworld. The goddess goes 
 down to the house of darkness from which there is no exit, and 
 demands admittance of the keeper; who, however, by command of 
 the queen of the lower world, requires her to submit to the condi- 
 tions imposed on all who enter. There are seven gates, at each of 
 which he removes some portion of her ornaments and dress. Ishtar, 
 thus unclothed, enters and becomes a prisoner. Meantime the upper 
 earth has felt her absence. All love and life has ceased. Yielding 
 to the persuasions of the gods, Ea sends a messenger to demand 
 the release of the goddess. The latter passes out, receiving at each 
 gate a portion of her clothing. This story of Ishtar's love belongs to 
 one of the earliest stages of religious belief. Not only do the gods 
 appear as under the control of ordinary human passions, but there is 
 no consciousness of material difference between man and beast. The 
 Greek parallels are familiar to all. Of these ideas we find no trace 
 in the later Babylonian and Assyrian literature, and the poem was 
 doubtless interpreted by the Babylonian sages in allegorical fashion. 
 
 In the eighth and ninth tablets the death of Eabani is recorded, 
 and the grief of Gilgamesh. The latter then wanders forth in search 
 of Hasisadra, the hero of the Flood-story. After various adventures 
 he reaches the abode of the divinized man, and from him learns the 
 story of the Flood, which is given in the eleventh tablet. 
 
 This story is almost identical with that of the Book of Genesis. 
 The God Bel is determined to destroy mankind, and Hasisadra 
 receives directions from Ea to build a ship, and take into it provis- 
 ions and goods and slaves and beasts of the field. The ship is cov- 
 ered with bitumen. The flood is sent by Shamash (the sun-god). 
 Hasisadra enters the ship and shuts the door. So dreadful is the 
 tempest that the gods in affright ascend for protection to the heaven 
 of Anu. Six days the storm lasts. On the seventh comes calm. 
 Hasisadra opens a window and sees the mountain of Nizir, sends forth 
 a dove, which returns; then a swallow, which returns; then a raven, 
 which does not return; then, knowing that the flood has passed, sends 
 oat the animals, builds an altar, and offers sacrifice, over which the 
 gods gather like flies. Ea remonstrates with Bel, and urges that here- 
 after, when he is angry with men, instead of sending a deluge, he 
 shall send wild beasts, who shall destroy them. Thereupon Bel makes 
 a compact with Hasisadra, and the gods take him and his v/ife and 
 people and place them in a remote spot at the mouth of the rivers. 
 It is now generally agreed that the Hebrew story of the Flood is 
 taken from the Babylonian, either mediately through the Canaanites 
 (for the Babylonians had occupied Canaan before the sixteenth cen- 
 tury B. C), or immediately during the exile in the sixth century.
 
 g6 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 The Babylonian account is more picturesque, the Hebrew more re- 
 strained and solemn. The early polytheistic features have been 
 excluded by the Jewish editors. 
 
 In addition to these longer stories there are a number of legends 
 of no little poetical and mythical interest. In the cycle devoted to 
 the eagle there is a story of the struggle between the eagle and the 
 serpent. The latter complains to the sun-god that the eagle has 
 eaten his young. The god suggests a plan whereby the hostile bird 
 may be caught: the body of a wild ox is to be set as a snare. Out 
 of this plot, however, the eagle extricates himself by his sagacity. 
 In the second story the eagle comes to the help of a woman who is 
 struggling to bring a man-child (apparently Etana) into the world. 
 In the third is portrayed the ambition of the hero Etana to ascend to 
 heaven. The eagle promises to aid him in accomplishing his design. 
 Clinging to the bird, he rises with him higher and higher toward the 
 heavenly space, reaching the abode of Anu, and then the abode of 
 Ishtar. As they rise to height after height the eagle describes the 
 appearance of the world lying stretched out beneath: at first it rises 
 like a huge mountain out of the sea; then the ocean appears as a 
 girdle encircling the land, and finally but as a ditch a gardener digs 
 to irrigate his land. When they have risen so high that the earth is 
 scarcely visible, Etana cries to the eagle to stop; so he does, but his 
 strength is exhausted, and bird and man fall to the earth. 
 
 Another cycle of stories deals with the winds. The god Zu longs 
 to have absolute power over the world. To that end he lurks about 
 the door of the sun-god, the possessor of the tablets of fate whereby 
 he controls all things. Each morning before beginning his journey, 
 the sun-god steps out to send light showers over the world. Watch- 
 ing his opportunity, Zu glides in, seizes the tablets of fate, and flies 
 away and hides himself in the mountains. So great horror comes 
 over the world: it is likely to be scorched by the sun-god's burning 
 beams. Anu calls on the storm-god Ramman to conquer Zu, but he 
 is frightened and declines the task, as do other gods. Here, unfor- 
 tunately, the tablet is broken, so that we do not know by whom the 
 normal order was finally restored. 
 
 In the collection of cuneiform tablets disinterred at Amama in 1887 
 was found the curious story of Adapa. The demigod Adapa, the son 
 of Ea, fishing in the sea for the family of his lord, is overwhelmed by 
 the stormy south wind and cast under the waves. In anger he breaks 
 the wings of the wind, that it may no longer rage in the storm. 
 Anu, informed that the south wind no longer blows, summons Adapa 
 to his presence. Ea instructs his son to put on apparel of mourning, 
 present himself at Ann's gate, and there make friends with the por- 
 ters, Tammuz and Iszida, so that they may speak a word for him to
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 57 
 
 Anu; going into the presence of the royal deity, he will be offered 
 food and drink which he must reject, and raiment and oil which 
 he must accept. Adapa carries out the instructions of his father to 
 the letter. Anu is appeased, but laments that Adapa, by rejecting 
 heavenly food and drink, has lost the opportunity to become immor- 
 tal. This story, the record of which is earlier than the sixteenth 
 century B. C, appears to contain two conceptions : it is a mythical 
 description of the history of the south wind, but its conclusion pre- 
 sents a certain parallelism with the end of the story of Eden in 
 Genesis; as there Adam, so here Adapa, fails of immortality because 
 he infringes the divine command concerning the divine food. We 
 have here a suggestion that the story in Genesis is one of the cycle 
 which dealt with the common earthly fact of man's mortality. 
 
 The legend of Dibbarra seems to have a historical basis. The god 
 Dibbarra has devastated the cities of Babylonia with bloody wars. 
 Against Babylon he has brought a hostile host and slain its people, so 
 that Marduk, the god of Babylon, curses him. And in like manner 
 he has raged against Erech, and is cursed by its goddess Ishtar. He 
 is charged with confounding the righteous and unrighteous in indis- 
 criminate destruction. But Dibbarra determines to advance against 
 the dwelling of the king of the gods, and Babylonia is to be further 
 desolated by civil war. It is a poetical account of devastating wars 
 as the production of a hostile deity. It is obvious that these legends 
 have many features in common with those of other lands, myths of 
 conflict between wind and sun, and the ambition of heroes to scale 
 the heights of heaven. How far these similarities are the independ- 
 ent products of similar situations, and how far the results of loans, 
 cannot at present be determined. 
 
 The moral-religious literature of the Babylonians is not inferior in 
 interest to the stories just mentioned. The hymns to the gods are 
 characterized by a sublimity and depth of feeling which remind us of 
 the odes of the Hebrew Psalter. The penitential hymns appear to 
 contain expressions of sorrow for sin, which would indicate a high 
 development of the religious consciousness. These hymns, apparently 
 a part of the temple ritual, probably belong to a relatively late stage 
 of history; but they are none the less proof that devotional feeling in 
 ancient times was not limited to any one country. 
 
 Other productions, such as the hymn to the seven evil spirits 
 (celebrating their mysterious power), indicate a lower stage of reli- 
 gious feeling; this is specially visible in the magic formulas, which 
 portray a very early stratum of religious history. They recall the 
 Shamanism of Central Asia and the rites of savage tribes; but there 
 is no reason to doubt that the Semitic religion in its early stages 
 contained this magic element, which is found all the world over.
 
 58 
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 Riddles and Proverbs are found among the Babylonians, as among 
 all peoples. Comparatively few have been discovered, and these pre- 
 sen'; nothing of peculiar interest. The following may serve as speci- 
 mens : — <^ What is that which becomes pregnant without conceiving, 
 fat without eating?^' The answer seems to be <*A cloud. ^^ <<My coal- 
 brazier clothes me with a divine garment, my rock is founded in the 
 sea ^^ (a volcano). ^* I dwell in a house of pitch and brick, but over 
 me glide the boats '^ (a canal). << He that says, < Oh, that I might 
 exceedingly avenge myself ! * draws from a waterless well, and rubs 
 the skin without oiling it. >' <^ When sickness is incurable and hunger 
 unappeasable, silver and gold cannot restore health nor appease hun- 
 ger. >^ «As the oven waxes old, so the foe tires of enmity.*^ <^The 
 life of yesterday goes on every day.*^ <^ When the seed is not good, 
 no sprout comes forth. ^> 
 
 The poetical form of all these pieces is characterized by that paral- 
 lelism of members with which we are familiar in the poetry of the 
 Old Testament. It is rhythmical, but apparently not metrical : the 
 harmonious flow of syllables in any one line, with more or less beats 
 or cadences, is obvious; but it does not appear that syllables were 
 combined into feet, or that there was any fixed rule for the num- 
 ber of syllables or beats in a line. So also strophic divisions may 
 be observed, such divisions naturally resulting from the nature of all 
 narratives. Sometimes the strophe seems to contain four lines, some- 
 times more. No strophic rule has yet been established; but it seems 
 not unlikely that when the longer poetical pieces shall have been 
 more definitely fixed in form, certain principles of poetical composition 
 will present themselves. The thought of the mythical pieces and the 
 prayers and hymns is elevated and imaginative. Some of this poetry 
 appears to have belonged to a period earlier than 2000 B. C. Yet 
 the Babylonians constructed no epic poem like the ^ Iliad, '* or at any 
 rate none such has yet been found. Their genius rather expressed 
 itself in brief or fragmentary pieces, like the Hebrews and the Ara.bs. 
 
 The Babylonian prose literature consists almost entirely of short 
 chronicles and annals. Royal inscriptions have been found covering 
 the period from 3000 B. C. to 539 B. C. There are eponym canons, 
 statistical lists, diplomatic letters, military reports; but none of these 
 rise to the dignity of history. Several connected books of chronicles 
 have indeed been found; there is a synchronistic book of annals of 
 Babylonia and Assyria, there is a long Assyrian chronicle, and there 
 are annalistic fragments. But there is no digested historical narrative 
 which gives a clear picture of the general civil and political situation, 
 or any analysis of the characters of kings, generals, and governors, 
 or any inquiry into causes of events. It is possible that narratives 
 having a better claim to the name of history may yet be discovered,
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE ^g 
 
 resembling those of the Biblical Book of Kings; yet the Book of 
 Kings is scarcely history — neither the Jews nor the Babylonians and 
 Assyrians seem to have had great power in this direction. 
 
 One of the most interesting collections of historical pieces is that 
 recently discovered at Amarna. Here, out of a mound which repre- 
 sents a palace of the Egyptian King Amenhotep IV., were dug up 
 numerous letters which were exchanged between the kings of Babylo- 
 nia and Egypt in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and numerous 
 reports sent to the Egyptian government by Egyptian governors of 
 Canaanite cities. These tablets show that at this early time there was 
 lively communication between the Euphrates and the Nile, and they 
 give a vivid picture of the chaotic state of affairs in Canaan, which 
 was exposed to the assaults of enemies on all sides. This country 
 was then in possession of Egypt, but at a still earlier period it must 
 have been occupied by the Babylonians. Only in this way can we 
 account for the surprising fact that the Babylonian cuneiform script 
 and the Babylonian language form the means of communication 
 between the east and west and between Egypt and Canaan. The 
 literary value of these letters is not great; their interest is chiefly 
 historic and linguistic. The same thing is true of the contract 
 tablets, which are legal documents: these cover the whole area of 
 Babylonian history, and show that civil law attained a high state of 
 perfection; they are couched in the usual legal phrases. 
 
 The literary monuments mentioned above are all contained in 
 tablets, which have the merit of giving in general contemporaneous 
 records of the things described. But an account of Babylonian liter- 
 ature would be incomplete without mention of the priest Berosus. 
 Having, as priest of Bel, access to the records of the temples, he 
 wrote a history of his native land, in which he preserved the sub- 
 stance of a number of poetical narratives, as well as the ancient 
 accounts of the political history. The fragments of his work which 
 have been preserved (see Cory's ^ Ancient Fragments *) exhibit a 
 number of parallels with the contents of the cuneiform tablets. 
 Though he wrote in Greek (he lived in the time of Alexander the 
 Great), and was probably trained in the Greek learning of his time, 
 his work doubtless represents the spirit of Babylonian historical writ- 
 ing. So far as can be judged from the remains which have come 
 down to us, its style is of the annalistic sort which appears in the 
 old inscriptions and in the historical books of the Bible. 
 
 The Babylonian literature above described must be understood to 
 include the Assyrian. Civilization was first established in Babylonia, 
 and there apparently were produced the great epic poems and the 
 legends; but Assyria when she succeeded to the headship of the Meso- 
 potamian valley, in the twelfth century B. C, adopted the literature
 
 6o ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 of her southern sister. A great part of the old poetry has been 
 found in the library of Assurbanipal, at Nineveh (seventh century 
 B. C), where a host of scribes occupied themselves with the study of 
 the ancient literature. They seem to have had almost all the appa- 
 ratus of modern critical work. Tablets were edited, sometimes with 
 revisions. There are bilingual tablets, presenting in parallel columns 
 the older texts (called Sumerian-Accadian) and the modern version. 
 There are numerous grammatical and lexicographical lists. The rec- 
 ords were accessible, and often consulted. Assurbanipal, in bringing 
 back a statue of the goddess Nana from the Elamite region, says that 
 it was carried off by the Elamites 1635 years before; and Nabonidus, 
 the last king of Babylon (circa B. C. 550), a man devoted to temple 
 restoration, refers to an inscription of King Naram-Sin, of Agane, who, 
 he says, reigned 3200 years before. In recent discoveries made at 
 Nippur, by the American Babylonian Expedition, some Assyriologists 
 find evidence of the existence of a Babylonian civilization many cen- 
 turies before B. C. 4000 (the dates B. C. 5000 and B. C. 6000 have been 
 mentioned) ; the material is now undergoing examination, and it is too 
 early to make definite statements of date. See Peters in American 
 Journal of Archaeology for January-March, 1895, and July-September, 
 1895; and Hilprecht, ^ The Babylonian Expedition of the University of 
 Pennsylvania,* Vol. i., Part 2, 1896. 
 
 The Assyrian and Babylonian historical inscriptions, covering as 
 they do the whole period of Jewish history down to the capture of 
 Babylon by Cyrus, are of very great value for the illustration of the 
 Old Testament. They have a literary interest also. Many of them 
 are written in semi-rhythmical style, a form which was favored by 
 the inscriptional mode of writing. The sentences are composed of 
 short parallel clauses, and the nature of the material induced a divis- 
 ion into paragraphs which resemble strophes. They are characterized 
 also by precision and pithiness of statement, and are probably as trust- 
 worthy as official records ever are.
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 61 
 
 I. THEOGONY 
 
 IN THE time when above the heaven was not named. 
 The earth beneath bore no name, 
 When the ocean, the primeval parent of both. 
 The abyss Tiamat the mother of both . . . 
 
 The waters of both mingled in one, 
 
 No fields as yet were tilled, no moors to be seen. 
 
 When as yet of the gods not one had been produced. 
 
 No names they bore, no titles they had. 
 
 Then were born of the gods . . . 
 
 Lachmu Lachamu came into existence. 
 
 Many ages past . . . 
 
 Anshar, Kishar were born. 
 
 Many days went by. Ann . . . 
 
 [Here there is a long lacuna. The lost lines completed the history of the 
 creation of the gods, and gave the reason for the uprising of Tiamat with her 
 hosts. What it was that divided the divine society into two hostile camps can 
 only be conjectured ; probably Tiamat, who represents the unfriendly or chaotic 
 forces of nature, saw that her domain was being encroached on by the light- 
 gods, who stand for cosmic order.] 
 
 II. REVOLT OF TIAMAT 
 
 TO HER came flocking all the gods. 
 They gathered together, they came to Tiamat; 
 Angry they plan, restless by night and by day, 
 Prepare for war with gestures of rage and hate, 
 With combined might to begin the battle. 
 The mother of the abyss, she who created them all, 
 Unconquerable warriors, gave them giant snakes, 
 Sharp of tooth, pitiless in might. 
 With poison like blood she filled their bodies. 
 Huge poisonous adders raging, she clothed them with dread. 
 Filled them with splendor . . . 
 He who sees them shuddering shall seize him, 
 They rear their bodies, none can resist their breast. 
 Vipers she made, terrible snakes . . . 
 
 . . . raging dogs, scorpion-men . . . fish men . . . 
 Bearing invincible arms, fearless in the fight. 
 Stern are her commands, not to be resisted.
 
 62 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 Of all the first-born gods, because he gave her help, 
 
 She raised up Kingu in the midst, she made him the greatest, 
 
 To march in front of the host, to lead the whole. 
 
 To begin the war of arms, to advance the attack, 
 
 Forward in the fight to be the triumpher. 
 
 This she gave into his hand, made him sit on the throne : — 
 
 By my command I make thee great in the circle of the gods; 
 
 Rule over all the gods I have given to thee. 
 
 The greatest shalt thou be, thou my chosen consort; 
 
 Be thy name made great over all the earth. 
 
 She gave him the tablets of fate, laid them on his breast. 
 
 Thy command be not gainsaid, thy word stand fast. 
 
 Thus lifted up on high, endued with Ann's rank. 
 
 Among the gods her children Kingu did bear rule. 
 
 [The gods, dismayed, first appeal to Anu for aid against Tiamat, but he 
 refuses to lead the attack. Anshar then sends to invite the gods to a feast.] 
 
 Anshar opened his mouth. 
 
 To Gaga, his servant, spake he: — 
 
 Go, O Gaga, my servant thou who delightest my soul, 
 
 To Lachmu Lachamu I will send thee . . . 
 
 That the gods may sit at the feast, 
 
 Bread to eat, wine to drink. 
 
 To give the rule to Marduk. 
 
 Up Gaga, to them go. 
 
 And tell what I say to thee: — 
 
 Anshar, your son, has sent me. 
 
 Told me the desire of his heart. 
 
 [He repeats the preceding description of Tiamat's preparations, and an- 
 nounces that Marduk has agreed to face the foe.] 
 
 I sent Anu, naught can he against her. 
 
 Nudimmud was afraid and turned cowering back, 
 
 Marduk accepted the task, the ruler of gods, your son. 
 
 Against Tiamat to march his heart impels him. 
 
 So speaks he to me : 
 
 If I succeed, I, your avenger. 
 
 Conquer Tiamat and save your lives. 
 
 Come, ye all, and declare me supreme, 
 
 In Upsukkenaku enter ye joyfully all. 
 
 With my mouth will I bear rule, 
 
 Unchangeable be whate'er I do. 
 
 The word of my lips be never reversed or gainsaid. 
 
 Come and to him give over the rule. 
 
 That he may go and meet the evil foe.
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 63 
 
 Gaga went, strode on his way, 
 
 Humbly before Lachmu and Lachamu, the gods, his 
 
 fathers, 
 He paid his homage and kissed the ground, 
 Bent lowly down and to them spake: — 
 Anshar, your son, has sent me, 
 Told me the desire of his heart. 
 
 [Gaga then repeats Anshar's message at length, and the narrative pro- 
 ceeds.] 
 
 Lachmu and Lachamu heard and were afraid, 
 
 The Igigi all lamented sore : 
 
 What change has come about that she thus hates us ? 
 
 We cannot understand this deed of Tiamat. 
 
 With hurry and haste they went. 
 
 The great gods, all the dealers of fate, 
 
 . . . with eager tongue, sat themselves down to the 
 
 feast. 
 Bread they ate, wine they drank. 
 The sweet wine entered their souls. 
 They drank their fill, full were their bodies. 
 
 [In this happy state they were ready to accept Marduk's conditions.] 
 
 To Marduk, their avenger, they gave over the rule. 
 
 They lifted him up on a lofty throne. 
 
 Above his fathers he took his place as judge: — 
 
 Most honored be thou among the great gods, 
 
 Unequaled thy rule, thy word is Anu. 
 
 From this time forth thy command be not gainsaid; 
 
 To lift up and cast down be the work of thy hand; 
 
 The speech of thy mouth stand fast, thy word be irresistible. 
 
 None of the gods shall intrude on thy domain. 
 
 Fullness of wealth, the desire of the temples of the gods. 
 
 Be the portion of thy shrine, though they be in need. 
 
 Marduk, thou, our avenger. 
 
 Thine be the kingdom over all forever. 
 
 Sit thee down in might, noble be thy word. 
 
 Thy arms shall never yield, the foes they shall crush. 
 
 O lord, he who trusts in thee, him grant thou life. 
 
 But the deity who set evil on foot, her life pour out. 
 
 Then in the midst they placed a garment. 
 
 To Marduk their first-born thus spake they: — 
 
 Thy rule, O lord, be chief among the gods, 
 
 To destroy and to create — speak and let it be-
 
 \ 
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 Open tliy moutti, let the garment vanish. 
 
 Utter again thy command, let the garment appear. 
 
 He spake with his mouth, vanished the garment; 
 
 Again he commanded, and the garment appeared. 
 
 When the gods, his fathers, saw thus his word fulfilled, 
 
 Joyful were they and did homage: Marduk is king. 
 
 On him conferred sceptre and throne. . . . 
 
 Gave him invincible arms to crush them that hate him. 
 
 Now go and cut short the life of Tiamat, 
 
 May the winds into a secret place carry her blood. 
 
 The ruler of the gods they made him, the gods, his fathers, 
 
 Wished him success and glory in the way on which he went. 
 
 He made ready a bow, prepared it for use. 
 
 Made ready a spear to be his weapon. 
 
 He took the . . . seized it in his right hand. 
 
 Bow and quiver hung at his side, 
 
 Lightning he fashioned flashing before him, 
 
 With glowing flame he filled its body, 
 
 A net he prepared to seize Tiamat, 
 
 Guarded the four corners of the world that nothing of her 
 
 should escape, 
 On South and North, on East and West 
 He laid the net, his father Ann's gift. 
 He fashioned the evil wind, the south blast, the tornado, 
 The four-and-seven wind, the wind of destruction and woe. 
 Sent forth the seven winds which he had made 
 Tiamat's body to destroy, after him they followed. 
 Then seized the lord the thunderbolt, his mighty weapon. 
 The irresistible chariot, the terrible, he mounted. 
 To it four horses he harnessed, pitiless, fiery, swift. 
 Their teeth were full of venom covered wdth foam. 
 
 On it mounted Marduk the mighty in battle. 
 To right and left he looked, lifting his eye. 
 His terrible brightness surrounded his head. 
 Against her he advanced, went on his way, 
 To Tiamat lifted his face. 
 
 They looked at him, at him looked the gods. 
 
 The gods, his fathers, looked at him ; at him looked the gods. 
 
 And nearer pressed the lord, with his eye piercing Tiamat. 
 
 On Kingu her consort rested his look. 
 
 As he so looked, every way is stopped.
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 6; 
 
 His senses Kin^ loses, vanishes his thought, 
 
 And the gods, his helpers, who stood by his side 
 
 Saw their leader powerless . . . 
 
 But Tiamat stood, not turning her back. 
 
 With fierce lips to him she spake : — 
 
 Then grasped the lord his thunderbolt, his mighty weapon, 
 Angry at Tiamat he hurled his words: — 
 
 When Tiamat heard these words. 
 
 She fell into fury, beside herself was she. 
 
 Tiamat cried wild and loud 
 
 Till through and through her body shook. 
 
 She utters her magic formula, speaks her word, 
 
 And the gods of battle rush to arms. 
 
 Then advance Tiamat, and Marduk the ruler of the goda 
 
 To battle they rush, come on to the fight. 
 
 His wide-stretched net over her the lord did cast, 
 
 The evil wind from behind him he let loose in her face. 
 
 Tiamat opened her throat as wide as she might. 
 
 Into it he sent the evil wind before she could close her lips. 
 
 The terrible winds filled her body. 
 
 Her senses she lost, wide open stood her throat. 
 
 He seized his spear, through her body he ran it. 
 
 Her inward parts he hewed, cut to pieces her heart. 
 
 Her he overcame, put an end to her life, 
 
 Cast away her corpse and on it stood. 
 
 So he, the leader, slew Tiamat, 
 
 Her power he crushed, her might he destroyed. 
 
 Then the gods, her helpers, who stood at her side, 
 
 Fear and trembling seized them, their backs they turned. 
 
 Away they fled to save their lives. 
 
 Fast were they girt, escape they could not. 
 
 Captive he took them, broke in pieces their arms. 
 
 They were caught in the net, sat in the toils, 
 
 All the earth they filled with their cry. 
 
 Their doom they bore, held fast in prison, 
 
 And the eleven creatures, clothed with dread, 
 
 A herd of demons who with her went. 
 
 These he subdued, destroyed their power. 
 
 Crushed their valor, trod them under foot; 
 
 And Kingu, who had grown great over them all, 
 
 Him he overcame with the god Kugga, [his. 
 
 Took from him the tablets of fate which were not rightfully
 
 66 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 Stamped thereon his seal, and hung them on his breast. "*^ 
 
 When thus the doughty Marduk had conquered his foes, 
 
 His proud adversary to shame had brought, 
 
 Had completed Anshar's triumph over the enemy, 
 
 Had fulfilled Nudimmud's will, 
 
 Then the conquered gods he put in prison. 
 
 And to Tiamat, whom he had conquered, returned. 
 
 Under his foot the lord Tiamat's body trod. 
 
 With his irresistible club he shattered her skull. 
 
 Through the veins of her blood he cut; 
 
 Commanded the north wind to bear it to a secret place. 
 
 His fathers saw it, rejoiced and shouted. 
 
 Gifts and offerings to him they brought. 
 
 The lord was appeased seeing her corpse. 
 
 Dividing her body, wise plans he laid. 
 
 Into two halves like a fish he divided her, 
 
 Out of one half he made the vault of heaven, 
 
 A bar he set and guards he posted. 
 
 Gave them command that the waters pass not through. 
 
 Through the heaven he strode, viewed its spaces. 
 
 Near the deep placed Nudimmud's dwelling. 
 
 And the lord measured the domain of the deep, 
 
 A palace like it, Eshara, he built, 
 
 The palace Eshara which he fashioned as heaven. 
 
 Therein made he Anu, Bel, and Ea to dwell. 
 
 He established the station of the great gods. 
 
 Stars which were like them, constellations he set. 
 
 The year he established, marked off its parts. 
 
 Divided twelve months by three stars. 
 
 From the day that begins the year to the day that ends it 
 
 He established the station Nibir to mark its limits. 
 
 That no harm come, no one go astray. 
 
 The stations of Bel and Ea he set by its side. 
 
 Great doors he made on this side and that. 
 
 Closed them fast on left and right. 
 
 The moon-god he summoned, to him committed the night. 
 
 [Here the account breaks off; there probably followed the history of the 
 creation of the earth and of man.]
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 67 
 
 III. FRAGMENTS OF A DESCENT TO THE UNDERWORLD 
 
 TO THE underworld I turn, 
 I spread my wings like a bird, 
 
 I descend to the house of darkness, to the dwelling of 
 Irkalla, 
 To the house from which there is no exit. 
 The road on which there is no return, 
 To the house whose dwellers long for light, 
 Dust is their nourishment and mud their food, 
 "Whose chiefs are like feathered birds, 
 Where light is never seen, in darkness they dwell. 
 In the house which I will enter 
 There is treasured up for me a crown. 
 With the crowned ones who of old ruled the earth. 
 To whom Anu and Bel have given terrible names. 
 Carrion is their food, their drink stagnant water. 
 There dwell the chiefs and unconquered ones, 
 There dwell the bards and the mighty men. 
 Monsters of the deep of the great gods. 
 It is the dwelling of Etana, the dwelling of Ner, 
 Of Ninkigal, the queen of the underworld . . . 
 Her I will approach and she will see me. 
 
 Ishtar's Descent to the Underworld 
 
 [After a description substantially identical with the first half of the pre- 
 ceding poem, the story goes on: — ] 
 
 so the gate of the underworld Ishtar came, 
 
 To the keeper of the gate her command she ad- 
 dressed: — 
 Keeper of the waters, open thy gate, 
 Open thy gate that I may enter. 
 If thou open not the gate and let me in, 
 I will strike the door, the posts I will shatter, 
 I will strike the hinges, burst open the doors, 
 I will raise up the dead devourers of the living. 
 Over the living the dead shall triumph. 
 The keeper opened his mouth and spake, 
 To the Princess Ishtar he cried: — 
 Stay, lady, do not thus. 
 Let me go and repeat thy words to Queen Ninkigal. 
 
 rpc
 
 6g ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 [He goes and gets the terrible queen's permission for Ishtar to enter on 
 certain conditions.] 
 
 Through the first gate he caused her to pass, 
 
 The crown of her head he took away. 
 
 Why, O keeper, takest thou away the great crown of my 
 
 head? 
 Thus, O lady, the goddess of the underworld doeth to all 
 
 her visitors at the entrance. 
 Through the second gate he caused her to pass, 
 The earrings of her ears he took away. 
 
 Why, O keeper, takest thou away the earrings of my ears ? 
 So, O lady, the goddess of the underworld doeth to all that 
 
 enter her realm. 
 
 [And so at each gate till she is stripped of clothing. A long time Ninki- 
 gal holds her prisoner, and in the upper world love vanishes and men and 
 gods mourn. Ea sees that Ishtar must return, and sends his messenger to 
 bring her.] 
 
 Go forth, O messenger. 
 
 Toward the gates of the underworld set thy face, 
 
 Let the seven gates of Hades be opened at thy presence. 
 
 Let Ninkigal see thee and rejoice at thy arrival. 
 
 That her heart be satisfied and her anger be removed. 
 
 Appease her by the names of the great gods . . . 
 
 Ninkigal, when this she heard. 
 
 Beat her breast and wrung her hands. 
 
 Turned away, no comfort would she take. 
 
 Go, thou messenger. 
 
 Let the great jailer keep thee, 
 
 The refuse of the city be thy food, 
 
 The drains of the city thy drink. 
 
 The shadow of the dungeon be thy resting-place. 
 
 The slab of stone be thy seat, 
 
 Ninkigal opened her mouth and spake. 
 
 To Simtar, her attendant, her command she gave. 
 
 Go, Simtar, strike the palace of judgment, 
 
 Pour over Ishtar the water of life, and bring her before me. 
 
 Simtar went and struck the palace of judgment, 
 
 On Ishtar he poured the water of life and brought her. 
 
 Through the first gate he caused her to pass, 
 
 And restored to her her covering cloak. 
 
 [And so through the seven gates till all her ornaments are restored. The 
 Jesuit of the visit to the underworld is not described.]
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 IV. THE FLOOD 
 
 69 
 
 [The hero Gilgamesh (Izdubar), wandering in search of healing for his 
 sickness, finds Hasisadra (Xisuthros), the Babylonian Noah, who tells him the 
 story oS. the Flood.] 
 
 HASISADRA spake to him, to Gilgamesh : — • 
 To thee I will reveal, Gilgamesh, the story of my 
 deliverance, 
 And the oracle of the gods I will make known to thee. 
 The city Surippak, which, as thou knowest, 
 Lies on the Euphrates' bank, 
 Alread}^ old was this city 
 When the gods that therein dwell 
 To send a flood their heart impelled them, 
 All the great gods: their father Anu, 
 Their counsellor the warlike Bel, 
 Adar their throne-bearer and the Prince Ennugi. 
 The lord of boundless wisdom, 
 Ea, sat with them in council. 
 Their resolve he announced and so he spake: — 
 O thou of Surippak, son of Ubaratutu, 
 Leave thy house and build a ship. 
 They will destroy the seed of life. 
 
 Do thou preserve in life, and hither bring the seed of life 
 Of every sort into the ship. 
 
 [Here follows a statement of the dimensions of the ship, but the numbers 
 are lost.] 
 
 When this I heard to Ea my lord I spake : — 
 
 The building of the ship, O lord, which thou commandest 
 
 If I perform it, people and elders will mock me. 
 
 Ea opened his mouth and spake, 
 
 Spake to me, his servant: — 
 
 [The text is here mutilated: Hasisadra is ordered to threaten the mockers 
 with Ea's vengeance.] 
 
 Thou, however, shut not thy door till I shall send thee word. 
 
 Then pass through the door and bring 
 
 All grain and goods and wealth, 
 
 Family, servants and maids and all thy kin, 
 
 The cattle of the field, the beasts of the field. 
 
 Hasisadra opened his mouth, to Ea his lord he said: — 
 
 O my lord, a ship in this wise hath no one ever built . . ,
 
 70 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 [Hasisadra tells how he built the ship according to Ea's directions.] 
 
 All that I had I brought together. 
 
 All of silver and all of gold, 
 
 And all of the seed of life into the ship I brought. 
 
 And my household, men and women, 
 
 The cattle of the field, the beasts of the field, 
 
 And all my kin I caused to enter. 
 
 Then when the sun the destined time brought on. 
 
 To me he said at even-fall: — 
 
 Destruction shall the heaven rain. 
 
 Enter the ship and close the door. 
 
 With sorrow on that day I saw the sun go down. 
 
 The day on which I was to enter the ship I was afraid. 
 
 Yet into the ship I went, behind me the door I closed. 
 
 Into the hands of the steersman I gave the ship with its 
 
 cargo. 
 Then from the heaven's horizon rose the dark cloud 
 Raman uttered his thunder, 
 Nabu and Sarru rushed on. 
 Over hill and dale strode the throne-bearers, 
 Adar sent ceaseless streams, floods the Anunnaki brought. 
 Their power shakes the earth, 
 
 Raman's billows up to heaven mount. 
 All light to darkness is turned. 
 
 Brother looks not after brother, no man for another cares. 
 The gods in heaven are frightened, refuge they seek, 
 Upward they mount to the heaven of Anu. 
 Like a dog in his lair. 
 
 So cower the gods together at the bars of heaven. 
 Ishtar cries out in pain, loud cries the exalted goddess: — 
 All is turned to mire. [evil. 
 
 This evil to the gods I announced, to the gods foretold the 
 This exterminating war foretold 
 Against my race of mankind. 
 
 Not for this bare I men that like the brood of the fishes 
 They should fill the sea. 
 
 Then wept the gods with her over the Anunnaki, 
 In lamentation sat the gods, their lips hard pressed together. 
 Six days and seven nights ruled wind and flood and storm. 
 But when the seventh day broke, subsided the storm, and 
 the flood
 
 ASSYRIAN CLAY TABLET. 
 
 Containing a part of the story of the flood, from the library ot Assur- 
 
 bainpal. Foitnd in recent explorations in Ancient Babylon. 
 
 London; British Museum.
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLQNIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 71 
 
 Which raged like a mighty host, settled itself to quiet. 
 
 Down went the sea, ceased storm and flood. 
 
 Through the sea I rode lamenting. 
 
 The upper dwellings of men were ruined, 
 
 Corpses floated like trees. 
 
 A window I opened, on my face the daylight fell. 
 
 I shuddered and sat me down weeping. 
 
 Over my face flowed my tears. 
 
 I rode over regions of land, on a terrible sea. 
 
 Then rose one piece of land twelve measures high. 
 
 To the land Nizir the ship was steered. 
 
 The mountain Nizir held the ship fast, and let it no more go. 
 
 At the dawn of the seventh day 
 
 I took a dove and sent it forth. 
 
 Hither and thither flew the dove. 
 
 No resting-place it found, back to me it came. 
 
 A swallow I took and sent it forth. 
 
 No resting-place it found, and back to me it came. 
 
 A raven I took and sent it forth, 
 
 Forth flew the raven and saw that the water had 
 fallen. 
 
 Carefully waded on but came not back. 
 
 All the animals then to the four winds I sent. 
 
 A sacrifice I offered. 
 
 An altar I built on the mountain-top, 
 
 By sevens I placed the vessels. 
 
 Under them spread sweet cane and cedar. 
 
 The gods inhaled the smoke, inhaled the sweet-smell- 
 ing smoke. 
 
 Like flies the gods collected over the offering. 
 
 Thither then came Ishtar, 
 
 Lifted on high her bow, which Anu had made: — 
 
 These days I will not forget, will keep them in remem- 
 brance. 
 
 Them I will never forget. 
 
 Let the gods come to the altar, 
 
 But let not Bel to the altar come, 
 
 Because he heedlessly wrought, the flood he brought on. 
 
 To destruction my people gave over. 
 
 Thither came Bel and saw the ship. 
 
 Full of anger was he 
 
 Against the gods and the spirits of heaven:— 
 
 What soul has escaped!
 
 >j2 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 In the destruction no man shall live. 
 
 Then Adar opened his mouth and spake, 
 
 Spake to the warlike Bel : — 
 
 Who but Ea knew it ? 
 
 He knew and all he hath told. 
 
 Then Ea opened his mouth, 
 
 Spake to the warlike B6l: — 
 Thou art the valiant leader of the gods, 
 
 Why hast thou heedlessly wrought, and brought on the flood? 
 Let the sinner bear his sin, the wrongdoer his wrong; 
 Yield to our request, that he be not wholly destroyed. 
 Instead of sending a flood, send lions that men be reduced; 
 Instead of sending a flood, send hyenas that men be reduced; 
 Instead of sending a flood, send flames to waste the land; 
 Instead of sending a flood, send pestilence that men be reduced. 
 The counsel of the great gods to him I did not impart; 
 A dream to Hasisadra I sent, and the will of the gods he learned. 
 
 Then came right reason to Bel, 
 
 Into the ship he entered, 
 
 Took my hand and lifted me up, 
 
 Raised my wife and laid her hand in mine. 
 
 To us he turned, between us he stepped, 
 
 His blessing he gave. 
 
 Human Hasisadra has been. 
 
 But he and his wife united 
 
 Now to the gods shall be raised, 
 
 And Hasisadra shall dwell far off at the mouth of the 
 streams. 
 
 Then they took me and placed me 
 
 Far off at the mouth of the streams. 
 
 V. THE EAGLE AND THE SNAKE 
 
 To Samas came the snake and said: — 
 The eagle has come to my nest, my young are scat- 
 tered. 
 See, O Samas, what evil he has done me. 
 Help me, thy nest is as broad as the earth, 
 Thy snare is like the heavens, 
 Who can escape out of thy net ? 
 Hearing the snake's complaint, 
 Samas opened his mouth and spake: — 
 Get thee on thy way, go to the mountain. 
 A wild ox shall be thy hiding-place,
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE j^ 
 
 Open his body, tear out his inward parts, 
 
 Make thy dwelling within him. 
 
 All the birds of heaven will descend, with them will 
 
 come the eagle. 
 Heedless and hurrying on the flesh he will swoop, 
 Thinking of that which is hidden inside. 
 So soon as he enters the ox, seize his wing, 
 Tear off his wing-feathers and claws. 
 Pull him to pieces and cast him away. 
 Let him die of hunger and thirst. 
 So as the mighty Samas commanded. 
 Rose the snake, went to the mountain. 
 There he found a wild ox, 
 Opened his body, tore out his inward parts, 
 Entered and dwelt within him. 
 And the birds of heaven descended, with them came the 
 
 eagle. 
 Yet the eagle, fearing a snare, ate not of the flesh with 
 
 the birds. 
 The eagle spake to his young: — 
 
 We will not fly down, nor eat of the flesh of the wild ox. 
 An eaglet, keen of eye, thus to his father spake: — 
 In the flesh of the ox lurks the snake 
 
 [The rest is lost.] 
 
 VI. THE FLIGHT OF ETANA 
 
 THE priests have offered my sacrifice 
 With joyful hearts to the gods. 
 
 O Lord, issue thy command. 
 Give me the plant of birth, show me the plant of birth. 
 Bring the child into the world, grant me a son. 
 Samas opened his mouth and spake to Etana: — 
 Away with thee, go to the mountain. . . . 
 The eagle opened his mouth and spake to Etana: — 
 Wherefore art thou come.'' 
 
 Etana opened his mouth and said to the eagle: — 
 My friend, give me the plant of birth, show me the plant 
 
 of birth. 
 Bring the child into the world, grant me a son. . . , 
 
 To Etana then spake the eagle: — 
 
 My friend, be of good cheer. 
 
 Come, let me bear thee to Ann's heaven.
 
 ^4 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 On my breast lay thy breast, 
 
 Grasp with thy hands the feathers of my wings, 
 
 On my side lay thy side. 
 
 On his breast he laid his breast, 
 
 On his feathers he placed his hands, 
 
 On his side laid his side, 
 
 Firmly he clung, great was his weight. 
 
 Two hours he bore him on high. 
 
 The eagle spake to him, to Etana: — 
 
 See my friend, the land, how it lies, 
 
 Look at the sea, the ocean-girded, [waters. 
 
 Like a mountain looks the land, the sea like petty 
 
 Two hours more he bore him up. 
 
 The eagle spake to him, to Etana: — 
 
 See my friend the land, how it lies. 
 
 The sea is like the girdle of the land. 
 
 Two hours more he bore him up. 
 
 The eagle spake to him, to Etana: — 
 
 See my friend the land, how it lies. 
 
 The sea is like the gardener's ditches. 
 
 Up they rose to Ann's heaven. 
 
 Came to the gate of Anu, Bel and Ea. . . . 
 
 Come, my friend, let me bear thee to Ishtar, 
 
 To Ishtar, the queen, shalt thou go, and dwell at her 
 
 feet. 
 On my side lay thy side, 
 Grasp my wing-feathers with thy hands. 
 On his side he laid his side. 
 His feathers he grasped with his hands. 
 Two hours he bore him on high. 
 My friend see the land, how it lies. 
 How it spreads itself out. 
 The broad sea is as great as a court. 
 Two hours he bore him on high. 
 My friend see the land, how it lies, 
 The land is like the bed of a garden. 
 The broad sea is as great as a [.] 
 Two hours he bore him on high. 
 My friend see the land, how it lies. 
 
 [Etana, frightened, begs the eagle to ascend no further; then, as it seems, 
 the bird's strength is exhausted.] 
 
 To the earth the eagle fell down 
 Shattered upon the ground.
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE yg 
 
 VII. THE GOD ZU 
 
 HE SEES the badges of rule. 
 His royal crown, his raiment divine. 
 On the tablets of fate of the god Zu fixes his look. 
 On the father of the gods, the god of Duranki, Zu fixes 
 
 his gaze. 
 Lust after rule enters into his soul. 
 I will take the tablets of fate of the gods, 
 Will determine the oracle of all the gods, 
 "Will set up my throne, all orders control. 
 Will rule all the heavenly spirits. 
 
 His heart was set on combat. [of day. 
 
 At the entrance of the hall he stands, waiting the break 
 When Bel dispensed the tender rains. 
 Sat on his throne, put off his crown. 
 He snatched the tablets of fate from his hands. 
 Seized the power, the control of commands. 
 Down flew Zu, in a mountain he hid. 
 There was anguish and crying. 
 On the earth Bel poured out his wrath. 
 Anu opened his mouth and spake. 
 Said to the gods his children: — 
 Who will conquer Zu ? 
 
 Great shall be his name among the dwellers of all lands. 
 They called for Ramman, the mighty, Ann's son. 
 To him gives Anu command: — 
 Up, Ramman, my son, thou hero. 
 From thine attack desist not, conquer Zu with thy 
 
 weapons, [gods. 
 
 That thy name may be great in the assembly of the great 
 Among the gods thy brethren, none shall be thy equal. 
 Thy shrines on high shall be built; 
 Found thee cities in all the world; 
 Thy cities shall reach to the mountain of the world; 
 Show thyself strong for the gods, strong be thy name! 
 To Anu his father's command Ramman answered and 
 
 spake : — 
 My father, who shall come to the inaccessible mound ? 
 Who is like unto Zu among the gods thy sons? 
 The tablets of fate he has snatched from his hands, 
 Seized on the power, the control of commands. 
 ZvL has fled and hides in his mountain. 
 
 f The rest is lost. ]
 
 76 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 VIII. ADAPA AND THE SOUTHWIND 
 
 UNDER the water the Southwind blew him 
 Sunk him to the home of the fishes. 
 O Southwind, ill hast thou used me, thy wings I 
 will break. 
 As thus with his mouth he spake the wings of the South- 
 wind were broken. 
 Seven days long the Southwind over the earth blew no 
 
 more. 
 To his messenger Ila-Abrat 
 Anu then spake thus: — 
 "Why for seven days long 
 Blows the Southwind no more on the earth ? 
 His messenger Ila-Abrat answered and said: My lord, 
 Adapa, Ea's son, hath broken the wings of the Southwind. 
 When Anu heard these words, 
 « Aha ! >> he cried, and went forth. 
 
 [Ea, the ocean-god, then directs his son how to proceed in order to avert 
 Ann's wrath. Some lines are mutilated.] 
 
 At the gate of Anu stand. 
 
 The gods Tammuz and Iszida will see thee and ask: — 
 
 Why lookest thou thus, Adapa, 
 
 For whom wearest thou garments of mourning? 
 
 From the earth two gods have vanished, therefore do I 
 
 thus. 
 Who are these two gods who from the earth have vanished ? 
 At each other they will look, Tammuz and Iszida, and 
 
 lament. 
 A friendly word they will speak to Anu 
 Ann's sacred face they will show thee. 
 When thou to Anu comest, 
 
 Food of death will be offered thee, eat not thereof. 
 Water of death will be offered thee, drink not thereof. 
 A garment will be offered thee, put it on. 
 Oil will be offered thee, anoint thyself therewith. 
 What I tell thee neglect not, keep my word in mind. 
 Then came Anu's messenger: — 
 The wing of the Southwind Adapa has broken. 
 Deliver him up to me. 
 
 Up to heaven he came, approached the gate of Ann. 
 At Anu's gate Tammuz and Iszida stand, 
 Adapa they see, and * Aha ! " they cry.
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 77 
 
 O Adapa, wherefore lookest thou thus, 
 
 For whom wearest thou apparel of mourning ? 
 
 From the earth two gods have vanished 
 
 Therefore I wear apparel of mourning. 
 
 Who are these two gods who from the earth have vanished ? 
 
 At one another look Tammuz and Iszida and lament. 
 
 Adapa go hence to Anu. 
 
 When he came, Anu at him looked, saying, O Adapa, 
 
 Why hast thou broken the South wind's wing? 
 
 Adapa answered: My lord, 
 
 'Fore my lord's house I was fishing, 
 
 In the midst of the sea, it was smooth, 
 
 Then the Southwind began to blow 
 
 Under it forced me, to the home of the fishes I sank. 
 
 [By this speech Anu's anger is turned away.] 
 
 A beaker he set before him. 
 
 What shall we offer him ? Food of life 
 
 Prepare for him that he may eat. 
 
 Food of life was brought for him, but he ate not. 
 
 Water of life was brought for him, but he drank not. 
 
 A garment was brought him, he put it on. 
 
 Oil they gave him, he anointed himself therewith. 
 
 Anu looked at him and mourned: — 
 
 And now, Adapa, wherefore 
 
 Has thou not eaten or drunken ? 
 
 Now canst thou not live forever . . « 
 
 Ea, my lord, commanded me: — 
 
 Thou shalt not eat nor drink. 
 
 IX. PENITENTIAL PSALMS 
 
 I 
 
 The Suppliant: 
 
 I THY servant, full of sin cry to thee. 
 The sinner's earnest prayer thou dost accept. 
 The man on whom thou lookest lives, 
 Mistress of all, queen of mankind. 
 Merciful one, to whom it is good to turn. 
 Who acceptest the sigh of the heart. 
 
 The Priest: 
 
 Because his god and his goddess are angfry, he cries 
 
 to thee. 
 To him turn thy face, take his hand.
 
 78 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 The Suppliant: 
 
 Beside thee there is no god to guide me. 
 
 Look in mercy on me, accept my sigh, 
 
 Say why do I wait so long. 
 
 Let thy face be softened! 
 
 How long, O my lady! 
 
 May thy kindness be turned to me! 
 
 Like a dove I mourn, full of sighing. 
 
 The Priest: 
 
 With sorrow and woe 
 
 His soul is full of sighing, 
 
 Tears he sheds, he pours out laments. 
 
 II 
 
 O mother of the gods, who performest the commands of Bel, 
 
 Who makest the young grass sprout, queen of mankind, 
 
 Creator of all, guide of every birth. 
 
 Mother Ishtar, whose might no god approaches. 
 
 Exalted mistress, mighty in command! 
 
 A prayer I will utter, let her do what seems her good. 
 
 O my lady, make me to know my doing, 
 
 Food I have not eaten, weeping was my nourishment, 
 
 Water I have not drunk, tears were my drink, 
 
 My heart has not been joyful nor my spirits glad. 
 
 Many are my sins, sorrowful my soul. 
 
 O my lady, make me to know my doing, 
 
 Make me a place of rest. 
 
 Cleanse my sin, lift up my face. 
 
 May my god, the lord of prayer, before thee set my prayer! 
 
 May my goddess, the lady of supplication, before thee set my 
 
 supplication ! 
 May the storm-god set my prayer before thee! 
 
 [The intercession of a number of gods is here invoked.] 
 
 Let thy eye rest graciously on me. . . . 
 
 Turn thy face graciously to me. . . . 
 
 Let thy heart be gentle, thy spirit mild. . . , 
 
 III 
 
 O lady, in sorrow of heart sore oppressed I cry to thee. 
 O lady, to thy servant favor show. 
 Let thy heart be favorable,
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE yg 
 
 To thy servant full of sorrow show thy pity, 
 Turn to him thy face, accept his prayer. 
 
 IV 
 
 To thy servant with whom thou art angry graciously turn. 
 May the anger of my lord be appeased, 
 Appeased the god I know not! 
 The goddess I know, the goddess I know not. 
 The god who was angry with me, 
 The goddess who was angry with me be appeased! 
 The sin which I have committed I know not. 
 May my god name a g^racious name. 
 My goddess name a gracious name. 
 The god I know, the god I know not 
 Name a gracious name. 
 
 The goddess I know, the goddess I know not 
 Name a gracious name! 
 Pure food I have not eaten. 
 Pure water I have not drunk. 
 
 The wrath of my god, though I knew it not, was my food, 
 The anger of my goddess, though I knew it not, cast me 
 down. 
 
 lord, many are my sins, great my misdeeds. 
 
 [These phrases are repeated many times.] 
 
 The lord has looked on me in anger. 
 The god has punished me in wrath, 
 
 The goddess was angry with me and hath brought me to 
 sorrow. 
 
 1 sought for help, but no one took my hand, 
 I wept, but no one to me came, 
 
 I cry aloud, there is none that hears me, 
 
 Sorrowful I lie on the ground, look not up. 
 
 To my merciful god I turn, I sigh aloud, 
 
 The feet of my goddess I kiss [.] 
 
 To the known and unknown god I loud do sigh. 
 
 To the known and unknown goddess I loud do sigh, 
 
 O lord, look on me, hear my prayer, 
 
 O goddess, look on me, hear my prayer. 
 
 Men are perverse, nothing they know. 
 Men of every name, what do they know? 
 Do they good or ill, nothing they know. 
 O lord, cast not down thy servant!
 
 8o ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 Him, plunged into the flood, seize by the hand! "• 
 
 The sin I have committed turn thou to favor! 
 
 The evil I have done may the wind carry it away! 
 
 Tear in pieces my wrong-doings like a garment! 
 My god, my sins are seven times seven — forgive my sins! 
 My goddess, my sins are seven times seven — forgive my sins! 
 Known and unknown god, my sins are seven times seven — forgive 
 
 my sins! 
 Known and unknown goddess, my sins are seven times seven — forgive 
 
 my sins! 
 Forgive my sins, and I will humbly bow before thee. 
 
 May the lord, the mighty ruler Adar, announce my prayer to thee! 
 
 May the suppliant lady Nippur announce my prayer to thee ! 
 
 May the lord of heaven and earth, the lord of Eridu, announce my 
 prayer to thee! 
 
 The mother of the great house, the goddess Damkina, announce my 
 prayer to thee ! 
 
 May Marduk, the lord of Babylon, announce my prayer to thee! 
 
 May his consort, the exalted child of heaven and earth, announce my 
 prayer to thee! 
 
 May the exalted minister, the god who names the good name, an- 
 nounce my prayer to thee ! 
 
 May the bride, the first-born of the god, announce my prayer to thee! 
 
 May the god of storm-flood, the lord Harsaga, announce my prayer 
 to thee ! 
 
 May the gracious lady of the land announce my prayer to thee! 
 
 X. INSCRIPTION OF SENNACHERIB 
 (Taylor-cylinder, B.C. 701. Cf. 2 Kings xviii., xix.) 
 
 SENNACHERIB, the great king, the powerful king. 
 The king of the world, the king of Assj^ria, 
 The king of the four zones. 
 The wise shepherd, the favorite of the great gods. 
 The protector of justice, the lover of righteousness. 
 The giver of help, the aider of the weak. 
 The perfect hero, the stalwart warrior, the first of princes. 
 The destroyer of the rebellious, the destroyer of enemies — 
 Assur, the mighty rock, a kingdom without rival has granted 
 me,
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE gl 
 
 Over all who sit on sacred seats he has exalted my arms, 
 From the upper sea of the setting sun 
 To the lower sea of the rising sun, 
 
 All the blackheaded people he has cast beneath my feet. 
 The rebellious princes shun battle with me. 
 They forsook their dwellings; like a falcon 
 Which dwells in the clefts, they fled alone to an inaccessi- 
 ble place. 
 
 To the city of Ekron I went. 
 
 The governors and princes who had done evil I slew, 
 
 I bound their corpses to poles around the city. 
 
 The inhabitants of the city who had done evil I reckoned as 
 spoil ; 
 
 To the rest who had done no wrong I spoke peace. 
 
 Padi, their king, I brought from Jerusalem, 
 
 King over them I made him. 
 
 The tribute of my lordship I laid upon him. 
 
 Hezekiah of Judah, who had not submitted to me. 
 
 Forty-six of his strong cities, small cities without number, I 
 besieged. 
 
 Casting down the walls, advancing engines, by assault I took 
 them. 
 
 Two hundred thousand, one hundred and fifty men and 
 women, young and old, 
 
 Horses, mules, asses, camels, oxen, sheep, 
 
 I brought out and reckoned as spoil. 
 
 Hezekiah himself I shut up like a caged bird 
 
 In Jerusalem, his royal city. 
 
 The walls I fortified against him. 
 
 Whoever came out of the gates I turned him back. 
 
 His cities which I had plundered I divided from his land 
 
 And gave them to Mitinti, king of Ashdod, 
 
 To Padi, king of Ekron, and to Silbal, king of Gaza. 
 
 To the former tribute paid yearly 
 
 I added the tribute of alliance of my lordship and 
 
 Laid that upon him. Hezekiah himself 
 
 Was overwhelmed by the fear of the brightness of my lord- 
 ship. 
 
 The Arabians and his other faithful warriors 
 
 Whom, for the defence of Jerusalem, his royal city, 
 
 He had brought in, fell into fear, 
 
 With thirty talents of gold and eight hundred talents of 
 silver, precious stones, 
 1—6
 
 g2 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN AND ASSYRIAN LITERATURE 
 
 Couches of ivory, thrones of ivory, 
 
 And his daughters, his women of the palace, 
 
 The young men and the young women, to Nineveh, the city 
 
 of my lordship, 
 I caused to be brought after me, and he sent his ambassadors 
 To give tribute and to pay homage. 
 
 XL INVOCATION TO THE GODDESS BELTIS 
 
 To Beltis, the great Lady, chief of heaven and earth. 
 Queen of all the gods, mighty in all the lands. 
 Honored is her festival among the Ishtars. 
 She surpasses her offspring in power. 
 She, the shining one, like her brother, the sun, 
 Enlightens Heaven and earth, 
 Mistress of the spirits of the underworld, 
 First-born of Anu, great among the gods, 
 Ruler over her enemies. 
 The seas she stirs up, 
 
 The wooded mountains tramples under foot. 
 Mistress of the spirits of upper air. 
 Goddess of battle and fight. 
 Without whom the heavenly temple 
 None would render obedience. 
 She, the bestower of strength, grants the desire of the 
 
 faithful, 
 Prayers she hears, supplication receives, entreaty accepts. 
 Ishtar, the perfect light, all-powerful, 
 "Who enlightens Heaven and earth. 
 Her name is proclaimed throughout all the lands, 
 Esarhaddon, king of lands, fear not. 
 To her it is good to pray. 
 
 XII. ORACLES OF ISHTAR OF ARBELA 
 (B. C. 680-668) 
 
 ESARHADDON, king of lands, fear not. 
 The lord, the spirit who speaks to thee 
 I speak to him, I have not kept it back. 
 Thine enemies, like the floods of Sivan 
 Before thee flee perpetually. 
 I the great goddess, Ishtar of Arbela 
 Have put thine enemies to flight.
 
 ACCADIAN-BABYLONIAN Ah'O ASSYRIAN LITERATURE Ss 
 
 Where are the words I spake to thee ? 
 
 Thou hast not trusted them. 
 
 I, Ishtar of Arbela, thy foes 
 
 Into thy hands I give 
 
 In the van and by thy side I go, fear not 
 
 In the midst of thy princes thou art. 
 
 In the midst of my host I advance and rest. 
 
 O Esarhaddon, fear not. 
 
 Sixty great gods are with me to guard thee, 
 
 The Moon-god on thy right, the Sun-god on thy left. 
 
 Around thee stand the sixty great gods, 
 
 And make the centre firm. 
 
 Trust not to man, look thou to me 
 
 Honor me and fear not. 
 
 To Esarhaddon, my king. 
 
 Long days and length of years I give. 
 
 Thy throne beneath the heavens I have established; 
 
 In a golden dwelling thee I will guard in heaven 
 
 Guard like the diadem of my head. 
 
 The former word which I spake thou didst not trust, 
 
 But trust thou now this later word and glorify me, 
 
 When the day dawns bright complete thy sacrifice. 
 
 Pure food thou shalt eat, pure waters drink, 
 
 In thy palace thou shalt be pure. 
 
 Thy son, thy son's son the kingdom 
 
 By the blessing of Nergal shall rule. 
 
 XIII. AN ERECHITE'S LAMENT 
 
 How long, O my Lady, shall the strong enemy hold thy 
 sanctuary ? 
 There is want in Erech, thy principal city; 
 Blood is flowing like water in Eulbar, the house of thy oracle; 
 He has kindled and poured out fire like hailstones on all thy 
 
 lands. 
 My Lady, sorely am I fettered by misfortune; 
 My Lady, thou hast surrounded me, and brought me to grief. 
 The mighty enemy has smitten me down like a single reed. 
 Not wise myself, I cannot take counsel; 
 I mourn day and night like the fields. 
 I, thy servant, pray to thee. 
 Let thy heart take rest, let thy disposition be softened.
 
 84 
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 (1744-1818) 
 
 BY LUCIA GILBERT RUNKLE 
 
 JHE Constitution of the State of Massachusetts, adopted in the 
 year 1780, contains an article for the Encouragement of 
 Literature, which, it declares, should be fostered because its 
 influence is «to countenance and inculcate the principles of humanity 
 and general benevolence, public and private charity, industry and fru- 
 gality, honesty and punctuality in dealings, sincerity and good humor, 
 and all social affections and generous sentiments among the people." 
 In these words, as in a mirror, is reflected the Massachusetts of the 
 
 eighteenth century, where households like 
 the Adamses', the "Warrens', the Otises', 
 made the standard of citizenship. Six 
 years before this remarkable document 
 was framed, Abigail Adams had written 
 to her husband, then engaged in nation- 
 making in Philadelphia: — «I most sincerely 
 wish that some more liberal plan might 
 be laid and executed for the benefit of 
 the rising generation, and that our new 
 Constitution may be distinguished for en- 
 couraging learning and virtue. » And he, 
 spending his days and nights for his coun- 
 try, sacrificing his profession, giving up 
 the hope of wealth, writes her: — «I believe my children will think 
 that I might as well have labored a little, night and day, for their 
 benefit. But I will tell them that I studied and labored to procure 
 a free constitution of government for them to solace themselves 
 under; and if they do not prefer this to ample fortune, to ease and 
 elegance, they are not my children. They shall live upon thin diet, 
 wear mean clothes, and work hard with cheerful hearts and free 
 spirits, or they may be the children of the earth, or of no one, 
 for me." 
 
 In old Weymouth, one of those quiet Massachusetts towns, half- 
 hidden among the umbrageous hills, where the meeting-house and the 
 school-house rose before the settlers' cabins were built, where the one 
 elm-shaded main street stretches its breadth between two lines of 
 self-respecting, isolated frame houses, each with its grassy dooryard, 
 its lilac bushes, its fresh-painted offices, its decorous wood-pile laid 
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 85 
 
 with architectural balance and symmetry, — there, in the dignified 
 parsonage, on the nth of November, 1744, was bom to Parson William 
 Smith and Elizabeth his wife, Abigail, the second of three beautiful 
 daughters. Her mother was a Quincy, of a distinguished line, and 
 her mother was a Norton, of a strain not less honorable. Nor were 
 the Smiths unimportant. 
 
 In that day girls had little instruction. Abigail says of herself, in 
 one of her letters: — ^*I never was sent to any school. Female educa- 
 tion, in the best families, went no further than writing and arithmetic; 
 in some few and rare instances, music and dancing. It was fashion- 
 able to ridicule female learning. >' But the household was bookish. 
 Her mother knew the ^^ British Poets ^^ and all the literature of Queen 
 Anne's Augustan age. Her beloved grandmother Quincy, at Mount 
 Wollaston, seems to have had both learning and wisdom, and to her 
 father she owed the sense of fun, the shrewdness, the clever way of 
 putting things which make her letters so delightful. 
 
 The good parson was skillful in adapting Scripture to special exi- 
 gencies, and throughout the Revolution he astonished his hearers by 
 the peculiar fitness of his texts to political uses. It is related of him 
 that when his eldest daughter married Richard Cranch, he preached 
 to his people from Luke, tenth chapter, forty-second verse : ^^And 
 Mary hath chosen that good part which shall not be taken away 
 from her.'* When, a year later, young John Adams came courting 
 the brilliant Abigail, the parish, which assumed a right to be heard 
 on the question of the destiny of the minister's daughter, grimly ob- 
 jected. He was upright, singularly abstemious, studious; but he was 
 poor, he was the son of a small farmer, and she was of the gentry. 
 He was hot-headed and somewhat tactless, and offended his critics. 
 Worst of all, he was a lawyer, and the prejudice of colonial society 
 reckoned a lawyer hardly honest. He won this most important of 
 his cases, however, and Parson Smith's marriage sermon for the bride 
 of nineteen was preached from the text, " For John came neither 
 eating bread nor drinking wine, and ye say, He hath a devil.'* 
 
 For ten years Mrs. Adams seems to have lived a most happy life, 
 either in Boston or Braintree, her greatest grief being the frequent 
 absences of her husband on circuit. His letters to her are many and 
 delightful, expressing again and again, in the somewhat formal 
 phrases of the period, his affection and admiration. She wrote 
 seldom, her household duties and the care of the children, of whom 
 there were four in ten years, occupying her busy hands. 
 
 Meanwhile, the clouds were growing black in the political sky. 
 Mr. Adams wrote arguments and appeals in the news journals over 
 Latin signatures, papers of instructions to Representatives to the 
 General Court, and legal portions of the controversy between the
 
 35 ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 delegates and Governor Hutchinson. In all this work Mrs. Adams 
 constantly sympathized and advised. In August, 1774, he went to 
 Philadelphia as a delegate to a general council of the colonies called 
 to concert measures for united action. And now begins the famous 
 correspondence, which goes on for a period of nine years, which was 
 intended to be seen only by the eyes of her husband, which she 
 begs him, again and again, to destroy as not worth the keeping, yet 
 which has given her a name and place among the world's most charm- 
 ing letter-writers. 
 
 Her courage, her cheerfulness, her patriotism, her patience never 
 fail her. Braintree, where, with her little brood, she is to stay, is 
 close to the British lines. Raids and foraging expeditions are immi- 
 nent. Hopes of a peaceful settlement grow dim. "What course you 
 can or will take,'^ she writes her husband, "is all wrapped in the 
 bosom of futurity. Uncertainty and expectation leave the mind great 
 scope. Did ever any kingdom or State regain its liberty, when once 
 it was invaded, without bloodshed ? I cannot think of it without hor- 
 ror. Yet we are told that all the misfortunes of Sparta were occas- 
 ioned by their too great solicitude for present tranquillity, and, from 
 an excessive love of peace, they neglected the means of making it 
 sure and lasting. They ought to have reflected, says Polybius, that, 
 <as there is nothing more desirable or advantageous than peace, when 
 founded in justice and honor, so there is nothing more shameful, and 
 at the same time more pernicious, when attained by bad measures, 
 and purchased at the price of liberty. ^ ^^ 
 
 Thus in the high Roman fashion she faces danger; yet her sense 
 of fun never deserts her, and in the very next letter she writes, 
 parodying her husband's documents: — "The drouth has been very 
 severe. My poor cows will certainly prefer a petition to you, setting 
 forth their grievances, and informing you that they have been de- 
 prived of their ancient privileges, whereby they are become great 
 sufferers, and desiring that these may be restored to them. More 
 especially as their living, by reason of the drouth, is all taken from 
 them, and their property which they hold elsewhere is decaying, they 
 humbly pray that you would consider them, lest hunger should break 
 through stone walls.'* 
 
 By midsummer the small hardships entailed by the British occu- 
 pation of Boston were most vexatious. "We shall very soon have no 
 coffee, nor sugar, nor pepper, but whortleberries and milk we are 
 not obliged to commerce for,» she writes, and in letter after letter 
 she begs for pins. Needles are desperately needed, but without pins 
 how can domestic life go on, and not a pin in the province! 
 
 On the 14th of September she describes the excitement in Boston, 
 the Governor mounting cannon on Beacon Hill, digging intrenchments
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 87 
 
 on the Neck, planting guns, throwing up breastworks, encamping a 
 regiment. In consequence of the powder being taken from Charles- 
 town, she goes on to say, a general alarm spread through all the 
 towns and was soon caught in Braintree. And then she describes 
 one of the most extraordinary scenes in history. About eight o'clock 
 on Sunday evening, she writes to her husband, at least two hundred 
 men, preceded by a horse-cart, passed by her door in dead silence, 
 and marched down to the powder-house, whence they took out the 
 town's powder, because they dared not trust it where there were so 
 many Tories, carried it into the other parish, and there secreted it. 
 On their way they captured a notorious ^* King's man,'* and found on 
 him two warrants aimed at the Commonwealth. When their patriotic 
 trust was discharged, they turned their attention to the trembling 
 Briton. Profoundly excited and indignant though they were, they 
 never thought of mob violence, but, true to the inherited instincts of 
 their race, they resolved themselves into a public meeting! The 
 hostile warrants being produced and exhibited, it was put to a vote 
 whether they should be burned or preserved. The majority voted 
 for burning them. Then the two hundred gathered in a circle round 
 the single lantern, and maintained a rigid silence while the offending 
 papers were consumed. That clone — the blazing eyes in that grim 
 circle of patriots watching the blazing writs — "they called a vote 
 whether they should huzza; but, it being Sunday evening, it passed 
 in the negative ! '' 
 
 Only in the New England of John Winthrop and the Mathers, of 
 John Quincy and the Adamses, would such a scene have been pos- 
 sible : a land of self-conquest and self-control, of a deep love of the 
 public welfare and a willingness to take trouble for a public object. 
 
 A little later Mrs. Adams writes her husband that there has been 
 a conspiracy among the negroes, though it has been kept quiet. "I 
 wish most sincerely,'' she adds, <Hhat there was not a slave in the 
 province. It always appeared a most iniquitous scheme to me — to 
 fight ourselves for what we are daily robbing and plundering from 
 those who have as good a right to freedom as we have." 
 
 Nor were the sympathies of this clever logician confined to 
 the slaves. A month or two before the Declaration of Independence 
 was made she writes her constructive statesman : — • " I long to hear 
 that you have declared an independence. And by the way, in the 
 new code of laws which I suppose it will be necessary for you to 
 make, I desire you would remember the ladies, and be more gener- 
 ous and favorable to them than 5^our ancestors. Do not put such un- 
 limited power into the hands of the husbands! Remember, all men 
 would be tyrants if they could! If particular care and attention is 
 not paid to the ladies, we are determined to foment a rebellion, and
 
 88 
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 will not hold ourselves bound by any laws in which we have no voice 
 or representation. That your sex are naturally tyrannical is a truth 
 so thoroughly established as to admit of no dispute; but such of you 
 as wish to be happy willingly give up the harsh title of master for 
 the more tender and endearing one of friend. "Why, then, not put 
 it out of the power of the vicious and the lawless to use us with 
 cruelty and indignity with impunit)^ ? Men of sense in all ages abhor 
 those customs which treat us only as the vassals of your sex. Regard 
 us, then, as being placed by Providence under your protection; and 
 in imitation of the Supreme Being, make use of that power only for 
 our happiness,** — a declaration of principles which the practical house- 
 wife follows up by saying : — << I have not yet attempted making salt- 
 petre, but after soap-making, believe I shall make the experiment. I 
 find as much as I can do to manufacture clothing for my family, 
 which would else be naked. I have lately seen a small manuscript 
 describing the proportions of the various sorts of powder fit for can- 
 non, small arms, and pistols. If it would be of any service your 
 way, I will get it transcribed and send it to you.** 
 
 She is interested in everything, and she writes about everything 
 in the same whole-hearted way, — farming, paper money, the mak- 
 ing of molasses from corn-stalks, the new remedy of inoculation, 
 * Common Sense * and its author, the children's handwriting, the state 
 of Harvard College, the rate of taxes, the most helpful methods 
 of enlistment, Chesterfield's Letters, the town elections, the higher 
 education of women, and the getting of homespun enough for Mr. 
 Adams's new suit. 
 
 She manages, with astonishing skill, to keep the household in 
 comfort. She goes through trials of sickness, death, agonizing sus- 
 pense, and ever with the same heroic cheerfulness, that her anxious 
 husband may be spared the pangs which she endures. When he is 
 sent to France and Holland, she accepts the new parting as another 
 service pledged to her country. She sees her darling boy of ten go 
 with his father, aware that at the best she must bear months of 
 silence, knowing that they may perish at sea or fall into the hands 
 of privateers; but she writes with indomitable cheer, sending the lad 
 tender letters of good advice, a little didactic to modern taste, but 
 throbbing with affection. << Dear as you are to me,** says this tender 
 mother, ^< I would much rather you should have found your grave in 
 the ocean you have crossed than see you an immoral, profligate, or 
 graceless child.** 
 
 It was the lot of this country parson's daughter to spend three 
 years in London as wife of the first American minister, to see her 
 husband Vice-President of the United States for eight years and Pres- 
 ident for four, and to greet her son as the eminent Monroe's valued
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 89 
 
 Secretary of State, though she died, << seventy-four years young, *^ 
 before he became President. She could not, in any station, be more 
 truly a lady than when she made soap and chopped kindling on her 
 Braintree farm. At Braintree she was no more simply modest than 
 at the Court of St. James or in the Executive Mansion. Her letters 
 exactly reflect her ardent, sincere, energetic nature. She shows a 
 charming delight when her husband tells her that his affairs could 
 not possibly be better managed than she manages them, and that she 
 shines not less as a statesman than as a farmeress. And though she 
 was greatly admired and complimented, no praise so pleased her as 
 his declaration that for all the ingratitude, calumnies, and misunder- 
 standings that he had endured, — and they were numberless, — her 
 perfect comprehension of him had been his sufficient compensation. 
 
 'Ut^ 
 
 My Dearest Friend: 
 
 TO HER HUSBAND 
 
 Braintree, May 24th, 1775. 
 
 OUR house has been, upon this alarm, in the same scene of 
 confusion that it was upon the former. Soldiers coming 
 in for a lodging, for breakfast, for supper, for drink, etc. 
 Sometimes refugees from Boston, tired and fatigued, seek an 
 asylum for a day, a night, a week. You can hardly imagine 
 how we live; yet — 
 
 <<To the houseless child of want, 
 Our doors are open still ; 
 And though our portions are but scant, 
 We give them with good will.'* 
 
 My best wishes attend you, both for your health and happiness, 
 and that you may be directed into the wisest and best measures 
 for our safety and the security of our posterity. I wish you 
 were nearer to us: we know not what a day will bring forth, 
 nor what distress one hour may throw us into. Hitherto I have 
 been able to maintain a calmness and presence of mind, and 
 hope I shall, let the exigency of the time be what it will. 
 Adieu, breakfast calls. 
 
 Your afEectionate Portia.
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 Weymouth, June 15th, 1775. 
 
 I HOPE we shall see each other again, and rejoice together in 
 happier days; the little ones are well, and send duty to papa. 
 Don't fail of letting me hear from you by every opportunity. 
 Every line is like a precious relic of the saints. 
 
 I have a request to make of you; something like the barrel 
 of sand, I suppose you will think it, but really of much more 
 importance to me. It is, that you would send out Mr. Bass, and 
 purchase me a bundle of pins and put them in your trunk for 
 me. The cry for pins is so great that what I used to buy for 
 seven shillings and sixpence are now twenty shillings, and not 
 to be had for that. A bundle contains six thousand, for which 
 I used to give a dollar; but if you can procure them for fifty 
 shillings, or three pounds, pray let me have them. I am, with 
 the tenderest regard, Your Portia, 
 
 Braintree, June i8th, 1775. 
 My Dearest Friend : 
 
 The day — perhaps the decisive day is come, on which the 
 fate of America depends. My bursting heart must find vent 
 at my pen. I have just heard that our dear friend. Dr. Warren, 
 is no more, but fell gloriously fighting for his country, saying, 
 ^* Better to die honorably in the field than ignominiously hang 
 upon the gallows.*^ Great is our loss. He has distinguished 
 himself in every engagement by his courage and fortitude, by ani- 
 mating the soldiers, and leading them on by his own example. A 
 particular account of these dreadful but, I hope, glorious days, 
 will be transmitted you, no doubt, in the exactest manner. 
 
 ^^ The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong ; 
 but the God of Israel is He that giveth strength and power unto 
 His people. Trust in Him at all times, ye people: pour out your 
 hearts before Him; God is a refuge for us.'* Charlestown is laid 
 in ashes. The battle began upon our intrench ments upon Bunker's 
 Hill, Saturday morning about three o'clock, and has not ceased 
 yet, and it is now three o'clock Sabbath afternoon. 
 
 It is expected they will come out over the Neck to-night, and 
 a dreadful battle must ensue. Almighty God, cover the heads of 
 our coimtrymen, and be a shield to our dear friends! How many
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS c,i 
 
 have fallen we know not. The constant roar of the cannon is so 
 distressing that we cannot eat, drink, or sleep. May we Le sup- 
 ported and sustained in the dreadful conflict. I shall tarry here 
 till it is thought unsafe by my friends, and then I have secured 
 myself a retreat at your brother's, who has kindly offered me part 
 of his house. I cannot compose myself to write any further at 
 present. I will add more as I hear further. 
 
 Your Portia. 
 
 Braintree, November 27th, 1775. 
 
 COLONEL Warren returned last week to Plymouth, so that I 
 shall not hear anything from you until he goes back again, 
 which will not be till the last of this month. He damped 
 my spirits greatly by telling me that the court had prolonged 
 your stay another month. I was pleasing myself with the thought 
 that you would soon be iipon your return. It is in vain to repine. 
 I hope the public will reap what I sacrifice. 
 
 I wish I knew what mighty things were fabricating. If a 
 form of government is to be established here, what one will be 
 assumed ? Will it be left to our Assemblies to choose one ? And 
 will not many men have many minds ? And shall we not run into 
 dissensions among ourselves ? 
 
 I am more and more convinced that man is a dangerous creat- 
 ure; and that power, whether vested in many or a few, is ever 
 grasping, and, like the grave, cries, ^* Give, give ! '* The great fish 
 swallow up the small ; and he who is most strenuous for the rights 
 of the people, when vested with power, is as eager after the pre- 
 rogatives of government. You tell me of degrees of perfection to 
 which human nature is capable of arriving, and I believe it, but 
 at the same time lament that our admiration should arise from the 
 scarcity of the instances. 
 
 The building up a great empire, which was only hinted at by 
 my correspondent, may now, I suppose, be realized even by the 
 unbelievers; yet will not ten thousand difficulties arise in the 
 formation of it ? The reins of government have been so long 
 slackened that I fear the people will not quietly submit to those 
 restraints which are necessary for the peace and security of the 
 community. If we separate from Britain, what code of laws will 
 be established ? How shall we be governed so as to retain our 
 liberties ? Can any government be free which is not administered
 
 -, ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 by general stated laws ? Who shall frame these laws ? Who will 
 give them force and energy ? It is true, your resolutions, as a 
 body, have hitherto had the force of laws; but will they continue 
 to have ? 
 
 When I consider these things, and the prejudices of people in 
 favor of ancient customs and regulations, I feel anxious for the 
 fate of our monarchy, or democracy, or whatever is to take place. 
 I soon get lost in the labyrinth of perplexities; but, whatever 
 occurs, may justice and righteousness be the stability of our times, 
 and order arise out of confusion. Great difficulties may be sur- 
 mounted by patience and perseverance. 
 
 I believe I have tired you with politics. As to news, we have 
 not any at all. I shudder at the approach of winter, when I 
 think I am to remain desolate. 
 
 I must bid you good-night; 'tis late for me, who am much 
 of an invalid. I was disappointed last week in receiving a packet 
 by post, and, upon unsealing it, finding only four newspapers. 
 I think you are more cautious than you need be. All letters, I 
 believe, have come safe to hand. I have sixteen from you, and 
 wish I had as many more. Your Portia. 
 
 [By permission of the family.] ' 
 
 Braintree, April 20th, 1777. 
 
 THERE is a general cry against the merchants, against monopo- 
 lizers, etc., who, 'tis said, have created a partial scarcity. 
 That a scarcity prevails of every article, not only of luxury 
 but even the necessaries of life, is a certain fact. Everj^hing 
 bears an exorbitant price. The Act, which was in some measure 
 regarded and stemmed the torrent of oppression, is now no more 
 heeded than if it had never been made. Indian com at five shil- 
 lings; rye, eleven and twelve shillings, but scarcely any to be had 
 even at that price; beef, eightpence; veal, sixpence and eight- 
 pence; butter, one and sixpence; mutton, none; lamb, none; pork, 
 none; mean sugar, four pounds per hundred; molasses, none; 
 cotton-wool, none; New England rum, eight shillings per gallon; 
 coffee, two and sixpence per pound; chocolate, three shillings. 
 
 What can be done ? Will gold and silver remedy this evil ? 
 By your accounts of board, housekeeping, etc., I fancy you are 
 not better off than we are here. I live in hopes that we see the
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS 93 
 
 most difficult time we have to experience. Why is Carolina so 
 
 much better furnished than any other State, and at so reasonable 
 
 prices? Your Portia. 
 
 Braintree, June 8th, 1779. 
 
 SIX months have already elapsed since I heard a syllable from 
 you or my dear son, and five since I have had one single 
 opportunity of conveying" a line to you. Letters of various 
 dates have lain months at the Navy Board, and a packet and frig- 
 ate, both ready to sail at an hour's warning, have been months 
 waiting the orders of Congress. They no doubt have their rea- 
 sons, or ought to have, for detaining them. I must patiently wait 
 their motions, however painful it is; and that it is so, your own 
 feelings will testify. Yet I know not but you are less a sufferer 
 than you would be to hear from us, to know our distresses, and 
 yet be unable to relieve them. The universal cry for bread, to 
 a humane heart, is painful beyond description, and the great price 
 demanded and given for it verifies that pathetic passage of Sacred 
 Writ, <^A11 that a man hath will he give for his life.** Yet He 
 who miraculously fed a multitude with five loaves and two fishes 
 has graciously interposed in our favor, and delivered many of the 
 enemy's supplies into our hands, so that our distresses have been 
 mitigated. I have been able as yet to supply my own family, 
 sparingly, but at a price that would astonish you. Com is sold at 
 four dollars, hard money, per bushel, which is equal to eighty at 
 the rate of exchange. 
 
 Labor is at eight dollars per day, and in three weeks it will be 
 at twelve, it is probable, or it will be more stable than anything 
 else. Goods of all kinds are at such a price that I hardly dare 
 mention it. Linens are sold at twenty dollars per yard; the most 
 ordinary sort of calicoes at thirty and forty; broadcloths at forty 
 pounds per yard; West India goods full as high; molasses at 
 twenty dollars per gallon; sugar, four dollars per pound; Bohea 
 tea at forty dollars; and our own produce in proportion; butch- 
 er's meat at six and eight shillings per pound; board at fifty and 
 sixty dollars per week; rates high. That, I suppose, you will re- 
 joice at; so would I, did it remedy the evil. I pay five hundred 
 dollars, and a new Continental rate has just appeared, my pro- 
 portion of which will be two hundred more. I have come to this 
 determination, — to sell no more bills, unless I can procure hard
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 94 
 
 money for them, although I shall be obliged to allow a discount. 
 If I sell for paper, I throw away more than half, so rapid is the 
 depreciation; nor do I know that it will be received long. I sold 
 a bill to Blodget at five for one, which was looked upon as high 
 at that time. The week after I received it, two emissions were 
 taken out of circulation, and the greater part of what I had 
 proved to be of that sort; so that those to whom I was indebted 
 are obliged to wait, and before it becomes due, or is exchanged, 
 it will be good for — as much as it will fetch, which will be noth- 
 ing, if it goes on as it has done for this three months past. I 
 will not tire your patience any longer. I have not drawn any 
 further upon you. I mean to wait the return of the Alliance, 
 which with longing eyes I look for. God grant it may bring 
 me comfortable tidings from my dear, dear friend, whose welfare 
 is so essential to my happiness that it is entwined around my 
 heart, and cannot be impaired or separated from it without rend- 
 ing it asunder. 
 
 I cannot say that I think our affairs go very well here. Our 
 currency seems to be the source of all our evils. We cannot fill 
 up our Continental army by means of it. No bounty will prevail 
 with them. What can be done with it ? It will sink in less than 
 a year. The advantage the enemy daily gains over us is owing 
 to this. Most truly did you prophesy, when you said that they 
 would do all the mischief in their power with the forces they had 
 here. 
 
 My tenderest regards ever attend you. In all places and situ- 
 ations, know me to be ever, ever yours. 
 
 AuTEUiL, 5th September, 1784. 
 My Dear Sister: 
 
 AUTEUIL is a village four miles distant from Paris, and one from 
 Passy. The house we have taken is large, commodious, 
 and agreeably situated near the woods of Boulogne, which 
 belong to the King, and which Mr. Adams calls his park, for he 
 walks an hour or two every day in them. The house is much 
 larger than we have need of; upon occasion, forty beds may be 
 made in it. I fancy it must be very cold in winter. There are 
 few houses with the privilege which this enjoys, that of having 
 the salon, as it is called, the apartment where we receive com- 
 pany, upon the first floor. This room is very elegant, and about
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS pe 
 
 a third larger than General Warren's hall. The dining-room is 
 upon the right hand, and the salon upon the left, of the entry, 
 which has large glass doors opposite to each other, one opening 
 into the court, as they call it, the other into a large and beauti- 
 ful garden. Out of the dining-room you pass through an entry 
 into the kitchen, which is rather small for so large a house. In 
 this entry are stairs which you ascend, at the top of which is a 
 long gallery fronting the street, with six windows, and opposite to 
 each window you open into the chambers, which all look into the 
 garden. 
 
 But with an expense of thirty thousand livres in looking- 
 glasses, there is no table in the house better than an oak board, 
 nor a carpet belonging to the house. The floors I abhor, made 
 of red tiles in the shape of Mrs. Quincy's floor-cloth tiles. These 
 floors will by no means bear water, so that the method of clean- 
 ing them is to have them waxed, and then a manservant with 
 foot brushes drives round your room, dancing here and there like 
 a Merry Andrew. This is calculated to take from your foot every 
 atom of dirt, and leave the room in a few moments as he found 
 it. The house must be exceedingly cold in winter. The dining- 
 rooms, of which you make no other use, are laid with small 
 stones, like the red tiles for shape and size. The servants' apart- 
 ments are generally upon the first floor, and the stairs which you 
 commonly have to ascend to get into the family apartments are 
 so dirty that I have been obliged to hold up my clothes as though 
 I was passing through a cow-yard. 
 
 I have been but little abroad. It is customary in this country 
 for strangers to make the first visit. As I cannot speak the lan- 
 guage, I think I should make rather an awkward figure. I have 
 dined abroad several times with Mr. Adams's particular friends, 
 the Abbes, who are very polite and civil, — three sensible and 
 worthy men. The Abbe de Mably has lately published a book, 
 which he has dedicated to Mr. Adams. This gentleman is nearly 
 eighty years old; the Abbe Chalut, seventy-five; and Amoux 
 about fifty, a fine sprightly man, who takes great pleasure in 
 obliging his friends. Their apartments were really nice. I have 
 dined once at Dr. Franklin's, and once at Mr. Barclay's, our con- 
 sul, who has a very agreeable woman for his wife, and where I 
 feel like being with a friend. Mrs. Barclay has assisted me in 
 my purchases, gone with me to different shops, etc. To-morrow 
 I am to dine at Monsieur Grand's; but I have really felt so
 
 g ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 happy within doors, and am so pleasingly situated, that I have 
 had little inclination to change the scene. I have not been to one 
 public amusement as yet, not even the opera, though we have 
 one very near us. 
 
 You may easily suppose I have been fully employed, beginning 
 housekeeping anew, and arranging my family to our no small 
 expenses and trouble; for I have had bed-linen and table-linen to 
 purchase and make, spoons and forks to get made of silver, — 
 three dozen of each, — besides tea furniture, china for the table, 
 servants to procure, etc. The expense of living abroad I always 
 supposed to be high, but my ideas were nowise adequate to the 
 thing. I could have furnished myself in the town of Boston with 
 everything I have, twenty or thirty per cent, cheaper than I have 
 been able to do it here. Everything which will bear the name of 
 elegant is imported from England, and if you will have it, you 
 must pay for it, duties and all. I cannot get a dozen handsome 
 wineglasses under three guineas, nor a pair of small decanters for 
 less than a guinea and a half. The only gauze fit to wear is 
 English, at a crown a yard; so that really a guinea goes no further 
 than a copper with us. For this house, garden, stables, etc., we 
 give two hundred guineas a year. Wood is two guineas and a 
 half per cord; coal, six livres the basket of about two bushels; 
 this article of firing we calculate at one hundred guineas a year. 
 The difference between coming upon this negotiation to France, 
 and remaining at the Hague, where the house was already fur- 
 nished at the expense of a thousand pounds sterling, will increase 
 the expense here to six or seven hundred guineas; at a time, too, 
 when Congress has cut off five hundred guineas from what they 
 have heretofore given. For our coachman and horses alone (Mr. 
 Adams purchased a coach in England) we give fifteen guineas a 
 month. It is the policy of this country to oblige you to a certain 
 number of servants, and one will not touch what belongs to the 
 business of another, though he or she has time enough to per- 
 form the whole. In the first place, there is a coachman who does 
 not an individual thing but attend to the carriages and horses; 
 then the gardener, who has business enough; then comes the cook; 
 then the maitre d'hotel, — his business is to purchase articles in 
 the family, and oversee that nobody cheats but himself; a valet de 
 chambre^ — John serves in this capacity; a feinme de chambre, — 
 Esther serves for this, and is worth a dozen others; a coiffeuse, — 
 for this place I have a French girl about nineteen, whom T have
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS 97 
 
 been upon the point of turning away, because madam will not 
 brush a chamber: "it is not de fashion, it is not her business.'* 
 I would not have kept her a day longer, but found, upon inquiry, 
 that I could not better myself, and hair-dressing here is very- 
 expensive unless you keep such a madam in the house. She 
 sews tolerably well, so I make her as useful as I can. She is 
 more particularly devoted to mademoiselle. Esther diverted me 
 yesterday evening by telling me that she heard her go muttering 
 by her chamber door, after she had been assisting Abby in dress- 
 ing. " Ah, mon Dieu, 'tis provoking '* — (she talks a little Eng- 
 lish). — "Why, what is the matter, Pauline: what is provoking?'* 
 — "Why, Mademoiselle look so pretty, I so maiivais.^^ There is 
 another indispensable servant, who is called a frotteur: his busi- 
 ness is to rub the floors. 
 
 We have a servant who acts as inaitre d'hotel, whom I like at 
 present, and who is so very gracious as to act as footman too, 
 to save the expense of another servant, upon condition that we 
 give him a gentleman's suit of clothes in lieu of a livery. Thus, 
 with seven servants and hiring a charwoman upon occasion of 
 company, we may possibly make out to keep house; with less, we 
 should be hooted at as ridiculous, and could not entertain any 
 company. To tell this in our own country would be considered as 
 extravagance; but would they send a person here in a public char- 
 acter to be a public jest ? At lodgings in Paris last year, during 
 Mr. Adams's negotiation for a peace, it was as expensive to him 
 as it is now at housekeeping, without half the accommodations. 
 
 Washing is another expensive article: the servants are all 
 allowed theirs, besides their wages; our own costs us a guinea a 
 week. I have become steward and bookkeeper, determined to 
 know with accuracy what our expenses are, to prevail with Mr. 
 Adams to return to America if he finds himself straitened, as I 
 think he must be. Mr. Jay went home because he could not 
 support his family here with the whole salary; what then can be 
 done, curtailed as it now is, with the additional expense ? Mr. 
 Adams is determined to keep as little company as he possibly 
 can; but some entertainments we must make, and it is no 
 unusual thing for them to amount to fifty or sixty guineas at 
 a time. More is to be performed by way of negotiation, many 
 times, at one of these entertainments, than at twenty serious con- 
 versations; but the policy of our coimtry has been, and still is, 
 to be penny-wise and pound-foolish. We stand in sufficient 
 1—7
 
 g ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 need of economy, and in the curtailment of other salaries I 
 suppose they thought it absolutely necessary to cut off their 
 foreign ministers. But, my own interest apart, the system is bad; 
 for that nation which degrades their own ministers by obliging 
 them to live in narrow circumstances, cannot expect to be held in 
 high estimation themselves. We spend no evenings abroad, make 
 no suppers, attend very few public entertainments, — or specta- 
 cles, as they are called, — and avoid every expense that is not 
 held indispensable. Yet I cannot but think it hard that a gentle- 
 man who has devoted so great a part of his life to the service 
 of the public, who has been the means, in a great measure, of 
 procuring such extensive territories to his country, who saved their 
 fisheries, and who is still laboring to procure them further advan- 
 tages, should find it necessary so cautiously to calculate his pence, 
 for fear of overrunning them. I will add one more expense. 
 There is now a court mourning, and every foreign miftister, with 
 his family, must go into mourning for a Prince of eight years old, 
 whose father is an ally to the King of France. This mourning is 
 ordered by the Court, and is to be worn eleven days only. Poor 
 Mr. Jefferson had to hie away for a tailor to get a whole black- 
 silk suit made up in two days; and at the end of eleven days, 
 should another death happen, he will be obliged to have a new 
 suit of mourning, of cloth, because that is the season when silk 
 must be left off. We may groan and scold, but these are expenses 
 which cannot be avoided; for fashion is the deity every one 
 worships in this country, and from the highest to the lowest, you 
 must submit. Even poor John and Esther had no comfort among 
 the servants, being constantly the subjects of ridicule, until we 
 ' were obliged to direct them to have their hair dressed. Esther 
 had several crying fits upon the occasion, that she should be 
 forced to be so much of a fool; but there was no way to keep 
 them from being trampled upon but this, and now that they are 
 h la mode de Paris, they are much respected. To be out of 
 fashion is more criminal than to be seen in a state of nature, to 
 which the Parisians are not averse. 
 
 AuTEuiL, NEAR Paris, I oth May, 1785. 
 
 DID you ever, my dear Betsey, see a person in real life such 
 as your imagination formed of Sir Charles Grandison ? The 
 Baron de Stael, the Swedish Ambassador, comes nearest to 
 that character, in his manners and personal appearance, of any
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS gg 
 
 gentleman I ever saw. The first time I saw him I was prejudiced 
 in his favor, for his countenance commands your good opinion: 
 it is animated, intelHgent, sensible, affable, and without being per- 
 fectly beautiful, is most perfectly agreeable; add to this a fine 
 figure, and who can fail in being charmed with the Baron de 
 Stael ? He lives in a grand hotel, and his suite of apartments, his 
 furniture, and his table, are the most elegant of anything I have 
 seen. Although you dine upon plate in every noble house in 
 France, I cannot say that you may see your face in it; but here 
 the whole furniture of the table was burnished, and shone with 
 regal splendor. Seventy thousand livres in plate will make no 
 small figure; and that is what his Majesty gave him. The dessert 
 was served on the richest china, with knives, forks, and spoons 
 of gold. As you enter his apartments, you pass through files of 
 servants into his ante-chamber, in which is a throne covered with 
 green velvet, upon which is a chair of state, over which hangs 
 the picture of his royal master. These thrones are common to all 
 ambassadors of the first order, as they are immediate representa- 
 tives of the king. Through this ante-chamber you pass into the 
 grand salon, which is elegantly adorned with architecture, a beauti- 
 ful lustre hanging from the middle. Settees, chairs, and hangings 
 of the richest silk, embroidered with gold; marble slabs upon 
 fluted pillars, round which wreaths of artificial flowers in gold 
 entwine. It is usual to find in all houses of fashion, as in this, 
 several dozens of chairs, all of which have stuffed backs and 
 cushions, standing in double rows round the rooms. The dining- 
 room was equally beautiful, being hung with Gobelin tapestry, the 
 colors and figures of which resemble the most elegant painting. 
 In this roam were hair-bottom mahogany-backed chairs, and the 
 first I have seen since I came to France. Two small statues of a 
 
 Venus de Medicis, and a Venus de (ask Miss Paine for the 
 
 other name), were upon the mantelpiece. The latter, however, 
 was the most modest of the kind, having something like a loose 
 robe thrown partly over her. From the Swedish Ambassador's 
 we went to visit the Duchess d'Enville, who is mother to the 
 Duke de Rochefoucault. We found the old lady sitting in an easy- 
 chair; around her sat a circle of Academicians, and by her side a 
 young lady. Your uncle presented us, and the old lady rose, and, 
 as usual, gave us a salute. As she had no paint, I could put up 
 with it; but when she approached yotir cousin I could think of 
 nothing but Death taking hold of Hebe. The duchess is near
 
 jQQ ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 eighty, very tall and lean. She was dressed in a silk chemise, 
 with very large sleeves, coming half-way down her arm, a large 
 cape, no stays, a black- velvet girdle round her waist, some very 
 rich lace in her chemise, round her neck, and in her sleeves; but 
 the lace was not sufficient to cover the upper part of her neck, 
 which old Time had harrowed; she had no cap on, but a little 
 gauze bonnet, which did not reach her ears, and tied under her 
 chin, her venerable white hairs in full view. The dress of old 
 women and young girls in this country is detestable, to speak in 
 the French style; the latter at the age of seven being clothed 
 exactly like a woman of twenty, and the former have such a fan- 
 tastical appearance that I cannot endure it. The old lady has all 
 the vivacity of a young one. She is the most learned woman in 
 France; her house is the resort of all men of literature, with 
 whom she converses upon the most abstruse subjects. She is of 
 one of the most ancient, as well as the richest families in the 
 kingdom. She asked very archly when Dr. Franklin was going to 
 America. Upon being told, says she, ^^ I have heard that he is a 
 prophet there ; ^^ alluding to that text of Scripture, "A prophet is 
 not without honor, ^* etc. It was her husband who commanded 
 the fleet which once spread such terror in our country. 
 
 TO HER SISTER 
 
 London, Friday, 24th July 1784. 
 My Dear Sister: 
 
 I AM not a little surprised to find dress, unless upon public occas- 
 ions, so little regarded here. The gentlemen are very plainly 
 dressed, and the ladies much more so than with us. 'Tis true, 
 you must put a hoop on and have your hair dressed; but a com- 
 mon straw hat, no cap, with only a ribbon upon the crown, is 
 thought dress sufficient to go into company. Muslins are much in 
 taste; no silks but lutestrings worn; but send not to London for 
 any article you want: you may purchase anything you can name 
 much lower in Boston. I went yesterday into Cheapside to pur- 
 chase a few articles, but found everything higher than in Boston. 
 Silks are in a particular manner so; they say, when they are 
 exported, there is a drawback upon them, which makes them 
 lower with us. Our country, alas, our country! they are extrava- 
 gant to astonishment in entertainments compared with what Mr. 
 Smith and Mr. Storer tell me of this. You will not find at a
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS loi 
 
 gentleman's table more than two dishes of meat, thongh invited 
 several days beforehand. Mrs. Atkinson went out with me yes- 
 terday, and Mrs. Hay, to the shops. I returned and dined with 
 Mrs. Atkinson, by her invitation the evening before, in company 
 with Mr. Smith, Mrs. Hay, Mr. Appleton. We had a turbot, a 
 soup, and a roast leg of lamb, with a cherry pie. . . . 
 
 The wind has prevented the arrival of the post. The city of 
 London is pleasanter than I expected; the buildings more regu- 
 lar, the streets much wider, and more sunshine than I thought to 
 have found: but this, they tell me, is the pleasantest season to be 
 in the city. At my lodgings I am as quiet as at any place in Bos- 
 ton; nor do I feel as if it could be any other place than Boston. 
 Dr. Clark visits us every day; says he cannot feel at home any- 
 where else: declares he has not seen a handsome woman since he 
 
 came into the city; that every old woman looks like Mrs. H , 
 
 and every young one like — like the D — 1. They paint here nearly 
 as much as in France, but with more art. The head-dress disfig- 
 ures them in the eyes of an American. I have seen many ladies, 
 but not one elegant one since I came; there is not to me that 
 neatness in their appearance which you see in our ladies. 
 
 The American ladies are much admired here by the gen- 
 tlemen, I am told, and in truth I wonder not at it. Oh, my 
 country,- my country! preserve, preserve the little purity and 
 simplicity of manners you yet possess. Believe me, they are 
 jewels of inestimable value; the softness, peculiarly characteristic 
 of our sex, and which is so pleasing to the gentlemen, is wholly 
 laid aside here for the masculine attire and manners of Amazonians. 
 
 London, Bath Hotel, Westminster, 24th June, 1785. 
 My Dear Sister : 
 
 I HAVE been here a month without writing a single line to my 
 American friends. On or about the twenty-eighth of May we 
 reached London, and expected to have gone into our old quiet 
 lodgings at the Adelphi; but we found every hotel full. The sit- 
 ting of Parliament, the birthday of the King, and the famous 
 celebration of the music of Handel, at Westminster Abbey, had 
 drawn together such a concourse of people that we were glad to 
 get into lodgings at the moderate price of a guinea per day, for 
 +vWO rooms and two chambers, at the Bath Hotel, Westminster, 
 Piccadillj^, where we yet are. This being the Court end of the
 
 JQ2 ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 city, it is the resort of a vast concourse of carriages. It is too 
 public and noisy for pleasure, but necessity is without law. The 
 ceremony of presentation, upon one week to the King, and the 
 next to the Queen, was to take place, after which I was to pre- 
 pare for mine. It is customary, upon presentation, to receive visits 
 from all the foreign ministers; so that we could not exchange our 
 lodgings for more private ones, as we might and should, had we 
 been only in a private character. The foreign ministers and sev- 
 eral English lords and earls have paid their compliments here, 
 and all hitherto is civil and polite. I was a fortnight, all the 
 time I could get, looking at different houses, but could not find any 
 one fit to inhabit under ;^2oo, beside the taxes, which mount up 
 to ;j^5o or ;^6o. At last my good genius carried me to one in 
 Grosvenor Square, which was not let, because the person who had 
 the care of it could let it only for the remaining lease, which was 
 one year and three-quarters. The price, which is not quite two 
 hundred pounds, the situation, and all together, induced us to 
 close the bargain, and I have prevailed upon the person who lets 
 it to paint two rooms, which will put it into decent order; so that, 
 as soon as our furniture comes, I shall again commence house- 
 keeping. Living at a hotel is, I think, more expensive than 
 housekeeping, in proportion to what one has for his money. We 
 have never had more than two dishes at a time upon our table, 
 and have not pretend jd to ask any company, and yet we live at a 
 greater expense than twenty-five guineas per week. The wages 
 of servants, horse hire, house rent, and provisions are much 
 dearer here than in France. Servants of various sorts, and for 
 different departments, are to be procured; their characters are to 
 be inquired into, and this I take upon me, even to the coachman. 
 You can hardly form an idea how much I miss my son on this, 
 as well as on many other accounts; but I cannot bear to trouble 
 Mr. Adams with anything of a domestic kind, who, from morning 
 until evening, has sufficient to occupy all his time. You can have 
 no idea of the petitions, letters, and private applications for 
 assistance, which crowd our doors. Every person represents his 
 case as dismal. Some may really be objects of compassion, and 
 some we assist; but one must have an inexhaustible purse to 
 supply them all. Besides, there are so many gross impositions 
 practiced, as we have found in more instances than one, that it 
 would take the whole of a person's time to trace all their stories. 
 Many pretend to have been American soldiers, some have served
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 103 
 
 as officers. A most glaring instance of falsehood, however, 
 Colonel Smith detected in a man of these pretensions, who sent 
 to Mr. Adams from the King's Bench prison, and modestly 
 desired five guineas; a qualified cheat, but evidently a man of 
 letters and abilities: but if it is to continue in this way, a galley 
 slave would have an easier task. 
 
 The Tory venom has begun to spit itself forth in the public 
 papers, as I expected, bursting with envy that an American min- 
 ister should be received here with the same marks of attention, 
 politeness, and civility, which are shown to the ministers of any 
 other power. When a minister delivers his credentials to the 
 King, it is always in his private closet, attended only by the 
 Minister for Foreign Affairs, which is called a private audience, 
 and the minister presented makes some little address to his 
 Majesty, and the same ceremony to the Queen, whose reply was 
 in these words : ^^ Sir, I thank you for your civility to me and 
 my family, and I am glad to see you in this country ; '* then she 
 very politely inquired whether he had got a house yet. The 
 answer of his Majesty was much longer; but I am not at liberty 
 to say more respecting it, than that it was civil and polite, and 
 that his Majesty said he was glad the choice of his country had 
 fallen upon him. The news-liars know nothing of the matter; 
 they represent it just to answer their purpose. Last Thursday, 
 Colonel Smith was presented at Court, and to-morrow, at the 
 Queen's circle, my ladyship and your niece make our compli- 
 ments. There is no other presentation in Europe in which I 
 should feel as much as in this. Your own reflections will easily 
 suggest the reasons. 
 
 I have received a very friendly and polite visit from the 
 Countess of Effingham. She called, and not finding me at home, 
 left a card. I returned her visit, but was obliged to do it by leav- 
 ing my card too, as she was gone out of town; but when her 
 ladyship returned, she sent her compliments and word that if 
 agreeable she would take a dish of tea with me, and named her 
 day. She accordingly came, and appeared a very polite, sensible 
 woman. She is about forty, a good person, though a little mas- 
 culine, elegant in her appearance, very easy and social. The Earl 
 of Effingham is too well remembered by America to need any 
 particular recital of his character. His mother is first lady to the 
 Queen. When her ladyship took leave, she desired I would let 
 her know the day I would favor her with a visit, as she should be
 
 J04 ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 loath to be absent. She resides, in summer, a little distance 
 from town. The Earl is a member of Parliament, which obliges 
 him now to be in town, and she usually comes with him, and 
 resides at a hotel a little distance from this. 
 
 I find a good many ladies belonging to the Southern States 
 here, many of whom have visited me; I have exchanged visits 
 with several, yet neither of us have met. The custom is, how- 
 ever, here much more agreeable than in France, for it is as with 
 us: the stranger is first visited. 
 
 The ceremony of presentation here is considered as indispens- 
 able. There are four minister-plenipotentiaries' ladies here; but 
 one ambassador, and he has no lady. In France, the ladies of 
 ambassadors only are presented. One is obliged here to attend the 
 circles of the Queen, which are held in summer once a fortnight, 
 but once a week the rest of the year; and what renders it exceed- 
 ingly expensive is, that you cannot go twice the same season in 
 the same dress, and a Court dress you cannot make use of any- 
 where else. I directed my mantuamaker to let my dress be ele- 
 gant, but plain as I could possibly appear, with decency; accord- 
 ingly, it is white lutestring, covered and full trimmed with white 
 crape, festooned with lilac ribbon and mock point lace, over a 
 hoop of enormous extent; there is only a narrow train of about 
 three yards in length to the gown waist, which is put into a rib- 
 bon upon the left side, the Queen only having her train borne. 
 Ruffle cuffs for married ladies, treble lace lappets, two white 
 plumes, and a blond lace handkerchief. This is my rigging. I 
 should have mentioned two pearl pins in my hair, earrings and 
 
 necklace of the same kind. 
 
 Thursday Morning. 
 
 My head is dressed for St. James's, and in my opinion looks 
 very tasty. While my daughter's is undergoing the same opera- 
 tion, I set myself down composedly to write you a few lines. 
 "Well,^' methinks I hear Betsey and Lucy say, "what is cousin's 
 dress ? '^ White, my dear girls, like your aunt's, only differently 
 trimmed and ornamented: her train being wholly of white crape, 
 and trimmed with white ribbon; the petticoat, which is the most 
 showy part of the dress, covered and drawn up in what are called 
 festoons, with light wreaths of beautiful flowers; the sleeves white 
 crape, drawn over the silk, with a row of lace round the sleeve 
 near the shoulder, another half-way down the arm, and a third 
 upon the top of the ruffle, a little flower stuck between; a kind
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 105 
 
 of hat-cap, with three large feathers and a bunch of flowers; a 
 wreath of flowers upon the hair. Thus equipped, we go in our 
 own carriage, and Mr. Adams and Colonel Smith in his. But I 
 must quit my pen to put myself in order for the ceremony, which 
 begins at two o'clock. When I return, I will relate to you my 
 reception; but do not let it circulate, as there may be persons 
 eager to catch at everything, and as much given to misrepresent- 
 ation as here. I would gladly be excused the ceremony, 
 
 \ 
 Friday Morning. 
 
 Congratulate me, my dear sister: it is over. I was too much 
 fatigued to write a line last evening. At two o'clock we went to 
 the circle, which is in the drawing-room of the Queen. We 
 passed through several apartments, lined as usual with specta- 
 tors upon these occasions. Upon entering the ante-chamber, the 
 Baron de Lynden, the Dutch Minister, who has been often here, 
 came and spoke with me. A Count Sarsfield, a French noble- 
 man, with whom I was acquainted, paid his compliments. As I 
 passed into the drawing-room, Lord Carmarthen and Sir Clement 
 Cotterel Dormer were presented to me. Though they had been 
 several times here, I had never seen them before. The Swedish 
 and the Polish Ministers made their compliments, and several 
 other gentlemen; but not a single lady did I know until the 
 Countess of Effingham came, who was very civil. There were 
 three young ladies, daughters of the Marquis of Lothian, who were 
 to be presented at the same time, and two brides. We were 
 placed in a circle round the drawing-room, which was very full; 
 I believe two hundred persons present. Only think of the task! 
 The royal family have to go round to every person and find small 
 talk enough to speak to them all, though they very prudently 
 speak in a whisper, so that only the person who stands next to 
 you can hear what is said. The King enters the room and goes 
 round to the right; the Queen and Princesses to the left. The 
 lord-in-waiting presents you to the King; and the lady-in-waiting 
 does the same to her Majesty. The King is a personable man; 
 but, my dear sister, he has a certain countenance, which you and 
 I have often remarked: a red face and white eyebrows. The 
 Queen has a similar countenance, and the numerous royal family 
 confirm the observation. Persons are not placed according to 
 their rank in the drawing-room, but promiscuously; and when the 
 King comes in, he takes persons as they stand. When he came
 
 lo5 ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 to me, Lord Onslow said, "Mrs. Adams; *^ upon which I drew off 
 my right-hand glove, and his Majesty saluted my left cheek; then 
 asked me if I had taken a walk to-day. I could have told his 
 Majesty that I had been all the morning preparing to wait upon 
 him; but I replied, "No, Sire.^^ "Why, don't you love walking?* 
 says he. I answered that I was rather indolent in that respect. 
 He then bowed, and passed on. It was more than two hourS 
 after this before it came to my turn to be presented to the Queen. 
 The circle was so large that the company were four hours stand- 
 ing. The Queen was evidently embarrassed when I was presented 
 to her, I had disagreeable feelings, too. She, however, said, 
 "Mrs. Adams, have you got into your house? Pray, how do you 
 like the situation of it ? * While the Princess Royal looked com- 
 passionate, and asked me if I was not much fatigued; and ob- 
 served, that it was a very full drawing-room. Her sister, who 
 came next, Princess Augusta, after having asked your niece if she 
 was ever in England before, and her answering " Yes, '^ inquired 
 of me how long ago, and supposed it was when she was very 
 young. All this is said with much affability, and the ease and 
 freedom of old acquaintance. The manner in which they make 
 their tour round the room is, first, the Queen, the lady-in-waiting 
 behind her, holding up her train; next to her, the Princess Royal; 
 after her. Princess Augusta, and their lady-in-waiting behind them. 
 They are pretty, rather than beautiful; well-shaped, fair complex- 
 ions, and a tincture of the King's countenance. The two sisters 
 look much alike; they were both dressed in black and silver silk, 
 with silver netting upon the coat, and their heads full of diamond 
 pins. The Queen was in purple and silver. She is not well 
 shaped nor handsome. As to the ladies of the Court, rank and 
 title may compensate for want of personal charms; but they are, 
 in general, very plain, ill-shaped, and ugly; but don't you tell any- 
 body that I say so. If one wants to see beauty, one must go to 
 Ranelagh; there it is collected, in one bright constellation. There 
 were two ladies very elegant, at Court, — Lady Salisbury and 
 Lady Talbot; but the observation did not in general hold good 
 that fine feathers make fine birds. I saw many who were vastly 
 richer dressed than your friends, but I will venture to say that I 
 saw none neater or more elegant: which praise I ascribe to the 
 taste of Mrs. Temple and my mantuamaker; for, after having 
 declared that I would not have any foil or tinsel about me, they 
 fixed upon the dress I have described.
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS 1 07 
 
 [Inclosure to her niece] 
 My Dear Betsey: 
 
 I BELIEVE I once promised to give you an account of that kind 
 of visiting called a ladies' rout. There are two kinds; one 
 where a lady sets apart a particular day in the week to see 
 company. These are held only five months in the year, it being 
 quite out of fashion to be seen in London during the summer. 
 When a lady returns from the country she goes round and leaves 
 a card with all her acquaintance, and then sends them an invita- 
 tion to attend her routs during the season. The other kind is 
 where a lady sends to you for certain evenings, and the cards are 
 always addressed in her own name, both to gentlemen and ladies. 
 The rooms are all set open, and card tables set in each room, the 
 lady of the house receiving her company at the door of the draw- 
 ing-room, where a set number of courtesies are given and received, 
 with as much order as is necessary for a soldier who goes through 
 the different evolutions of his exercise. The visitor then proceeds 
 into the room without appearing to notice any other person, and 
 takes her seat at the card table. 
 
 * Nor can the muse her aid impart. 
 Unskilled in all the terms of art, 
 Nor in harmonious numbers put 
 The deal, the shuffle, and the cut. 
 Go, Tom, and light the ladies up. 
 It must be one before we sup." 
 
 At these parties it is usual for each lady to play a rubber, ag 
 it is termed, when you must lose or win a few guineas. To give 
 each a fair chance, the lady then rises and gives her seat to 
 another set. It is no unusual thing to have your rooms so 
 crowded that not more than half the company can sit at once, 
 yet this is called society and polite life. They treat their com- 
 pany with coffee, tea, lemonade, orgeat, and cake. I know of 
 but one agreeable circumstance attending these parties, which is, 
 that you may go away when you please without disturbing any- 
 body. I was early in the winter invited to Madame de Pinto's, 
 the Portuguese Minister's. I went accordingly. There were about 
 two hundred persons present. I knew not a single lady but by 
 sight, having met them at Court; and it is an established rule, 
 though you were to meet as often as three nights in the week, 
 never to speak together, or know each other unless particularly
 
 io8 
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS 
 
 introduced. I was, however, at no loss for conversation, Madame 
 de Pinto being very polite, and the foreign ministers being the 
 most of them present, who had dined with us, and to whom I 
 had been early introduced. It being Sunday evening, I declined 
 playing cards; indeed, I always get excused when I can. And 
 Heaven forbid I should 
 
 "Catch the manners living as they rise.* 
 
 Yet I must submit to a party or two of this kind. Having 
 attended several, I must return the compliment in the same way. 
 Yesterday we dined at Mrs. Paradice's. I refer you to Mr. 
 Storer for an account of this family. Mr. Jefferson, Colonel 
 Smith, the Prussian and Venetian ministers, were of the com- 
 pany, and several other persons who were strangers. At eight 
 o'clock we returned home in order to dress ourselves for the ball 
 at the French Ambassador's, to which we had received an invi- 
 tation a fortnight before. He has been absent ever since our 
 arrival here, till three weeks ago. He has a levee every Sunday 
 evening, at which there are usually several hundred persons. 
 The Hotel de France is beautifully situated, fronting St. James's 
 Park, one end of the house standing upon Hyde Park. It is a 
 most superb building. About half-past nine we went, and found 
 some company collected. Many very brilliant ladies of the first 
 distinction were present. The dancing commenced about ten, 
 and the rooms soon filled. The room which he had built for this 
 purpose is large enough for five or six hundred persons. It is 
 most elegantly decorated, hung with a gold tissue, ornamented 
 with twelve brilliant cut lustres, each containing twenty-four 
 candles. At one end there are two large arches; these were 
 adorned with wreaths and bunches of artificial flowers upon the 
 walls; in the alcoves were cornucopiae loaded with oranges, sweet- 
 meats, and other trifles. Coffee, tea, lemonade, orgeat, and so 
 forth, were taken here by every person who chose to go for 
 them. There were covered seats all around the room for those 
 who chose to dance. In the other rooms, card tables, and a 
 large faro table, were set; this is a new kind of game, which is 
 much practiced here. Many of the company who did not dance 
 retired here to amuse themselves. The whole style of the house 
 and furniture is such as becomes the ambassador from one of the 
 first monarchies in Europe. He had twenty thousand guineas 
 allowed him in the first instance to furnish his house, and aii
 
 ABIGAIL ADAMS K^rt 
 
 annual salary of ten thousand more. He has agreeably blended 
 the magnificence and splendor of France with the neatness and 
 elegance of England. Your cousin had unfortunately taken a 
 cold a few days before, and was very unfit to go out. She 
 appeared so unwell that about one we retired without staying for 
 supper, the sight of which only I regretted, as it was, in style, 
 no doubt, superior to anything I have seen. The Prince of 
 Wales came about eleven o'clock. Mrs. Fitzherbert was also 
 present, but I could not distinguish her. But who is this lady ? 
 methinks I hear you say. She is a lady to whom, against the 
 laws of the realm, the Prince of Wales is privately married, as is 
 universally believed. She appears with him in all public parties, 
 and he avows his marriage wherever he dares. They have been 
 the topic of conversation in all companies for a long time, and it 
 is now said that a young George may be expected in the course 
 of the summer. She was a widow of about thirty-two years of 
 age, whom he a long time persecuted in order to get her upon 
 his own terms; but finding he could not succeed, he quieted her 
 conscience by matrimony, which, however valid in the eye of 
 heaven, is set aside by the laws of the land, which forbids a 
 prince of the blood to marry a subject. As to dresses, I believe 
 I must leave them to be described to your sister. I am sorry I 
 have nothing better to send you than a sash and a Vandyke 
 ribbon. The narrow is to put round the edge of a hat, or you 
 may trim whatever you please with it.
 
 no 
 
 HENRY ADAMS 
 
 (1838-) 
 
 *iTir!>(?i?; 
 
 iHE gifts of expression and literary taste which have always 
 characterized the Adams family are most prominently rep- 
 resented by this historian. He has also its great memory, 
 power of acquisition, intellectual independence, and energy of nature. 
 The latter is tempered in him with inherited self-control, the mod- 
 eration of judgment bred by wide historical knowledge, and a pervas- 
 ive atmosphere of literary good-breeding which constantly substitutes 
 allusive irony for crude statement, the rapier for the tomahawk. 
 
 Henry Adams is the third son of Charles Francis Adams, Sr., — 
 the able Minister to England during the Civil War, — and grandson 
 of John Quincy Adams. He was born in Boston, February i6th, 1838, 
 graduated from Harvard in 1858, and served as private secretary to 
 his father in England. In 1870 he became editor of the North 
 American Review and Professor of History at Harvard, in which 
 place he won wide repute for originality and power of inspiring 
 enthusiasm for research in his pupils. He has written several essays 
 and books on historical subjects, and edited others, — ^Essays on 
 Anglo-Saxon Law^ (1876), ^Documents Relating to New England Fed- 
 eralism' (1877), < Albert Gallatin > (1879), ^Writings of Albert Gallatin* 
 (1879), <John Randolph' (1882) in the ^American Statesmen' Series, 
 and < Historical Essays'; but his great life-work and monument is his 
 nine-volume * History of the United States, 1801-17' (the Jefferson 
 and Madison administrations), to write which he left his professorship 
 in 1877, and after passing many years in London, in other foreign cap- 
 itals, in Washington, and elsewhere, studying archives, family papers, 
 published works, shipyards, and many other things, in preparation for 
 it, published the first volume in 1889, and the last in 1891. 
 
 The work in its inception (though not in its execution) is a 
 polemic tract — a family vindication, an act of pious duty; its sub- 
 title might be, <A Justification of John Quincy Adams for Breaking 
 with the Federalist Party.' So taken, the reader who loves historical 
 fights and seriously desires truth should read the chapters on the 
 Hartford Convention and its preliminaries side by side with the 
 corresponding pages in Henry Cabot Lodge's <Life of George Cabot.* 
 If he cannot judge from the pleadings of these two able advocates 
 with briefs for different sides, it is not for lack of full exposition. 
 
 But the ^History' is far more and higher than a piece of special 
 pleading. It is in the main, both as to domestic and international
 
 HENRY ADAMS HI 
 
 matters, a resolutely cool and impartial presentation of facts and 
 judgments on all sides of a period where passionate partisanship lies 
 almost in the very essence of the questions — a tone contrasting oddly 
 with the political action and feeling of the two Presidents. Even 
 where, as toward the New England Federalists, many readers will 
 consider him unfair in his deductions, he never tampers with or 
 unfairly proportions the facts. 
 
 The work is a model of patient study, not alone of what is con- 
 ventionally accepted as historic material, but of all subsidiary matter 
 necessary to expert discussion of the problems involved. He goes 
 deeply into economic and social facts; he has instructed himself in 
 military science like a "West Point student, in army needs like a quar- 
 termaster, in naval construction, equipment, and management like 
 a naval officer. Of purely literary qualities, the history presents a 
 high order of constructive art in amassing minute details without 
 obscuring the main outlines; luminous statement; and the results of 
 a very powerful memory, which enables him to keep before his 
 vision every incident of the long chronicle with its involved group- 
 ings, so that an armory of instructive comparisons, as well as of 
 polemic missiles, is constantly ready to his hand. 
 
 The history advances many novel views, and controverts many 
 accepted facts. The relation of Napoleon's warfare against Hayti 
 and Toussaint to the great Continental struggle, and the position he 
 assigns it as the turning point of that greater contest, is perhaps 
 the most important of these. But almost as striking are his views 
 on the impressment problem and the provocations to the War of 
 1812; wherein he leads to the most unexpected deduction, — namely 
 that the grievances on both sides were much greater than is generally 
 supposed. He shows that the profit and security of the American 
 merchant service drew thousands of English seamen into it, where 
 they changed their names and passed for American citizens, greatly 
 embarrassing English naval operations. On the other hand he shows 
 that English outrages and insults were so gross that no nation with 
 spirit enough to be entitled to separate existence ought to have 
 endured them. He reverses the severe popular judgment on Lladi- 
 son for consenting to the war — on the assumed ground of coveting 
 another term as President — which every other historian and biogra- 
 pher from Hildreth to Sydney Howard Gay has pronounced, and 
 which has become a stock historical convention; holds Jackson's 
 campaign ending at New Orleans an imbecile undertaking redeemed 
 only by an act of instinctive pugnacity at the end; gives Scott and 
 Jacob Brown the honor they have never before received in fair meas- 
 ure; and in many other points redistributes praise and blame with 
 entire independence, and with curious effect on many popular ideas.
 
 JJ2 HENRY ADAMS 
 
 THE AUSPICES OF THE WAR OF 1812 
 
 From (History of the United States >: copyright 1S90, by Charles Scribner's Sons 
 
 THE American declaration of war against England, July iSth, 
 181 2, annoyed those European nations that were gathering 
 their utmost resources for resistance to Napoleon's attack. 
 Russia could not but regard it as an unfriendly act, equally bad 
 for political and commercial interests. Spain and Portugal, whose 
 armies were fed largely if not chiefly on American grain imported 
 by British money under British protection, dreaded to see their 
 supplies cut off. Germany, waiting only for strength to recover 
 her freedom, had to reckon against one more element in Napo- 
 leon's vast military resources. England needed to make greater 
 efforts in order to maintain the advantages she had gained in 
 Russia and Spain. Even in America no one doubted the earnest- 
 ness of England's wish for peace; and if Madison and Monroe 
 insisted on her acquiescence in their terms, they insisted because 
 they believed that their military position entitled them to expect 
 it. The reconquest of Russia and Spain by Napoleon, an event 
 almost certain to happen, could hardly fail to force from England 
 the concessions, not in themselves unreasonable, which the United 
 States required. 
 
 This was, as Madison to the end of his life maintained, "a 
 fair calculation ; » but it was exasperating to England, who thought 
 that America ought to be equally interested with Europe in over- 
 throwing the military despotism of Napoleon, and should not con- 
 spire with him for gain. At first the new war disconcerted the 
 feeble Ministry that remained in office on the death of Spencer 
 Perceval: they counted on preventing it, and did their utmost to 
 stop it after it was begun. The tone of arrogance which had so 
 long characterized government and press disappeared for the 
 moment. Obscure newspapers, like the London Evening Star, still 
 sneered at the idea that Great Britain was to be <^ driven from 
 the proud pre-eminence which the blood and treasure of her sons 
 have attained for her among the nations, by a piece of striped 
 bunting flying at the mastheads of a few fir-built frigates, manned 
 by a handful of bastards and outlaws, '^ — a phrase which had 
 great success in America, — but such defiances expressed a temper 
 studiously held in restraint previous to the moment when the war 
 was seen to be inevitable. ...
 
 HENRY ADAMS H^ 
 
 The realization that no escape could be found from an Ameri- 
 can war was forced on the British public at a moment of much 
 discouragement. Almost simultaneously a series of misfortunes 
 occurred which brought the stoutest and most intelligent English- 
 men to the verge of despair. In Spain Wellington, after win- 
 ning the battle of Salamanca in July, occupied Madrid in August, 
 and obliged Soult to evacuate Andalusia; but his siege of Burgos 
 failed, and as the French generals concentrated their scattered 
 forces, Wellington was obliged to abandon. Madrid once more. 
 October 21st he was again in full retreat on Portugal. The 
 apparent failure of his campaign was almost simultaneous with 
 the apparent success of Napoleon's; for the Emperor entered 
 Moscow September 14th, and the news of this triumph, probably 
 decisive of Russian submission, reached England about Octo- 
 ber 3d. Three days later arrived intelligence of William Hull's 
 surrender at Detroit; but this success was counterbalanced by 
 simultaneous news of Isaac Hull's startling capture of the Guer- 
 riere, and the certainty of a prolonged war. 
 
 In the desponding condition of the British people, — with a de- 
 ficient harvest, bad weather, wheat at nearly five dollars a bushel, 
 and the American supply likely to be cut off; consols at 57/4, 
 gold at thirty per cent, premium; a Ministry without credit or 
 authority, and a general consciousness of blunders, incompetence, 
 and corruption, — every new tale of disaster sank the hopes of 
 England and called oiit wails of despair, In that state of mind 
 the loss of the Guerriere assumed portentous dimensions. The 
 Times was especially loud in lamenting the capture: — 
 
 <^We witnessed the gloom which that event cast over high and 
 honorable minds. . . . Never before in the history of the world 
 did an English frigate strike to an American; and though we cannot 
 say that Captain Dacres, under all circumstances, is punishable for 
 this act, yet we do say there are commanders in the English navy 
 who would a thousand times rather have gone down with their colors 
 flying, than have set their fellow sailors so fatal an example.* 
 
 No country newspaper in America, railing at Hull's coward- 
 ice and treachery, showed less knowledge or judgment than the 
 London Times, which had written of nothing but war since its 
 name had been known in England. Any American could have 
 assured the English press that British frigates before the Guer- 
 riere had struck to American; and even in England men had not 
 forgotten the name of the British frigate Serapis, or that of the 
 
 American captain Paul Jones. Yet the Times's ignorance was less 
 1—8
 
 ^^. HENRY ADAMS 
 
 114 
 
 unreasonable than its requirement that Dacres should have gone 
 down with his ship, — a cry of passion the more unjust to Dacres 
 because he fought his ship as long as she could float. Such 
 sensitiveness seemed extravagant in a society which had been 
 hardened by centuries of warfare; yet the Times reflected fairly 
 the feelings of Englishmen, George Canning, speaking in open 
 Parliament not long afterward, said that the loss of the Guerri- 
 ere and the Macedonian produced a sensation in the country 
 scarcely to be equaled by the most violent convulsions of nature. 
 <* Neither can I agree with those who complain of the shock of 
 consternation throughout Great Britain as having been greater 
 than the occasion required. ... It cannot be too deeply felt 
 that the sacred spell of the invincibility of the British navy was 
 broken by those unfortunate captures.^* 
 
 Of all spells that could be cast on a nation, that of believing 
 itself invincible was perhaps the one most profitably broken; but 
 the process of recovering its senses was agreeable to no nation, 
 and to England, at that moment of distress, it was as painful as 
 Canning described. The matter was not mended by the Courier 
 and Morning Post, who, taking their tone from the Admiralty, 
 complained of the enormous superiority of the American frigates, 
 and called them ^4ine-of -battle ships in disguise. ^^ Certainly the 
 American forty-four was a much heavier ship than the British 
 thirty-eight, but the difference had been as well known in the 
 British navy before these actions as it was afterward; and Cap- 
 tain Dacres himself, the Englishman who best knew the relative 
 force of the ships, told his court of inquiry a different story: — 
 ^* I am so well aware that the success of my opponent was owing 
 to fortime, that it is my earnest wish, and would be the happiest 
 period of my life, to be once more opposed to the Constitution, 
 with them [the old crew] under my command, in a frigate of 
 similar force with the Guerriere.'^ After all had been said, the 
 unpleasant result remained that in future, British frigates, like 
 other frigates, could safely fight only their inferiors in force. 
 What applied to the Guerriere and Macedonian against the Con- 
 stitution and United States, where the British force was inferior, 
 applied equally to the Frolic against the Wasp, where no inferi- 
 ority could be shown. The British newspapers thenceforward 
 admitted what America wished to prove, that, ship for ship, 
 British were no more than the equals of Americans. 
 
 Society soon learned to take a more sensible view of the suu- 
 ject; but as the first depression passed away, a consciousness 0/
 
 HENRY ADAMS ne 
 
 personal wrong took its place. The United States were supposed 
 to have stabbed England in the back at the moment when her 
 hands were tied, when her existence was in the most deadly peril 
 and her anxieties were most heavy. England never could forgive 
 treason so base and cowardice so vile. That Madison had been 
 from the first a tool and accomplice of Bonaparte was thence- 
 forward so fixed an idea in British history that time could not 
 shake it. Indeed, so complicated and so historical had the causes 
 of war become that no one even in America could explain or 
 understand them, while Englishmen could see only that America 
 required England as the price of peace to destroy herself by 
 abandoning her naval power, and that England preferred to die 
 fighting rather than to die by her own hand. The American 
 party in England was extinguished; no further protest was heard 
 against the war; and the British people thought moodily of 
 revenge. 
 
 This result was unfortunate for both parties, but was doubly 
 unfortunate for America, because her mode of making the issue 
 told in her enemy's favor. The same impressions which silenced 
 in England open sympathy with America, stimulated in America 
 acute sympathy with England. Argument was useless against 
 people in a passion, convinced of their own injuries. Neither 
 Englishmen nor Federalists were open to reasoning. They found 
 their action easy from the moment they classed the United States 
 as an ally of France, like Bavaria or Saxony; and they had no 
 scruples of conscience, for the practical alliance was clear, and the 
 fact proved sufficiently the intent. 
 
 The loss of two or three thirty-eight-gun frigates on the 
 ocean was a matter of trifling consequence to the British govern- 
 ment, which had a force of four ships-of-the-line and six or eight 
 frigates in Chesapeake Bay alone, and which built every year 
 dozens of ships-of-the-line and frigates to replace those lost or 
 worn out; but although American privateers wrought more in- 
 jury to British interests than was caused or could be caused by 
 the American navy, the pride of England cared little about mer- 
 cantile losses, and cared immensely for its fighting reputation. 
 The theory that the American was a degenerate Englishman — a 
 theory chiefly due to American teachings — lay at the bottom of 
 British politics. Even the late British minister at Washington, 
 Foster, a man of average intelligence, thought it manifest good 
 taste and good sense to say of the Americans in his speech of 
 February i8th, 1813, in Parliament, that ^* generally speaking.
 
 J 3^5 HENRY ADAMS 
 
 they were not a people we should be proud to acknowledge as 
 our relations.'* Decatur and Hull were engaged in a social 
 rather than in a political contest, and were aware that the 
 serious work on their hands had little to do with England's 
 power, but much to do with her manners. The mortification of 
 England at the capture of her frigates was the measure of her 
 previous arrogance. . . . 
 
 Every country must begin war by asserting that it will never 
 give way; and of all countries England, which had waged innu- 
 merable wars, knew best when perseverance cost more than con- 
 cession. Even at that early moment Parliament was evidently 
 perplexed, and would willingly have yielded had it seen means of 
 escape from its naval fetich, impressment. Perhaps the perplexity 
 was more evident in the Commons than in the Lords; for Castle- 
 reagh, while defending his own course with elaborate care, visibly 
 stumbled over the right of impressment. Even while claiming 
 that its abandonment would have been ^Witally dangerous if not 
 fataP' to England's security, he added that he *^ would be the 
 last man in the world to underrate the inconvenience which the 
 Americans sustained in consequence of our assertion of the right 
 of search.'' The embarrassment became still plainer when he 
 narrowed the question to one of statistics, and showed that the 
 whole contest was waged over the forcible retention of some 
 eight hundred seamen among one hundred and forty-five thou- 
 sand employed in British service. Granting the number were 
 twice as great, he continued, <^ would the House believe that there 
 was any man so infatuated, or that the British empire was driven 
 to such straits that for such a paltry consideration as seventeen 
 hundred sailors, his Majesty's government would needlessly irri- 
 tate the pride of a neutral nation or violate that justice which 
 was due to one country from another ? " If Liverpool's argument 
 explained the causes of war, Castlereagh's explained its inevitable 
 result; for since the war must cost England at least 10,000,000 
 pounds a year, could Parliament be so infatuated as to pay 10,000 
 pounds a year for each American sailor detained in service, when 
 one-tenth of the amount, if employed in raising the wages of the 
 British sailor, would bring any required number of seamen back 
 to their ships? The whole British navy in 1812 cost 20,000,000 
 pounds; the pay-roll amounted to only 3,000,000 pounds; the 
 common sailor was paid four pounds bounty and eighteen pounds 
 a year, which might have been trebled at half the cost of an 
 American war.
 
 HENRY ADAMS jj- 
 
 WHAT THE WAR OF 1812 DEMONSTRATED 
 From < History of the United States': copyright 1890, by Charles Scribner's Sons 
 
 A PEOPLE whose chief trait was antipathy to war, and to any 
 system organized with mihtary energy, could scarcely develop 
 great results in national administration; yet the Americans 
 prided themselves chiefly on their political capacity. Even the 
 war did not undeceive them, although the incapacity brought into 
 evidence by the war was undisputed, and was most remarkable 
 among the commimities which believed themselves to be most 
 gifted with political sagacity. Virginia and Massachusetts by turns 
 admitted failure in dealing with issues so simple that the newest 
 societies, like Tennessee and Ohio, understood them by instinct. 
 That incapacity in national politics should appear as a leading 
 trait in American character was unexpected by Americans, but 
 might naturally result from their conditions. The better test of 
 American character was not political but social, and was to be 
 found not in the govermnent but in the people. 
 
 The sixteen years of Jefferson and Madison's rule ftirnished 
 international tests of popular intelligence upon which Americans 
 could depend. The ocean was the only open field for competition 
 among nations. Americans enjoyed there no natural or artificial 
 advantages over Englishmen, Frenchmen, or Spaniards; indeed, 
 all these countries possessed navies, resources, and experience 
 greater than were to be found in the United States. Yet the 
 Americans developed, in the course of twenty years, a surprising 
 degree of skill in naval affairs. The evidence of their success was 
 to be found nowhere so complete as in the avowals of English- 
 men who knew best the history of naval progress. The Ameri- 
 can invention of the fast-sailing schooner or clipper was the more 
 remarkable because, of all American inventions, this alone sprang 
 from direct competition with Europe. During ten centuries of 
 struggle the nations of Europe had labored to obtain superiority 
 over each other in ship-construction; yet Americans instantly 
 made improvements which gave them superiority, and which 
 Europeans were unable immediately to imitate even after seeing 
 them. Not only were American vessels better in model, faster in 
 sailing, easier and quicker in handling, and more economical in 
 working than the European, but they were also better equipped. 
 The English complained as a grievance that the Americans
 
 ii8 
 
 HENRY ADAMS 
 
 adopted new and unwarranted devices in naval warfare; that their 
 vessels were heavier and better constructed, and their missiles of 
 unusual shape and improper use. The Americans resorted to 
 expedients that had not been tried before, and excited a mixture 
 of irritation and respect in the English service, until " Yankee 
 smartness '* became a national misdemeanor. 
 
 The English admitted themselves to be slow to change their 
 habits, but the French were both qtiick and scientific; yet Ameri- 
 cans did on the ocean what the French, under stronger induce- 
 ments, failed to do. The French privateer preyed upon British 
 commerce for twenty years without seriously injuring it; but no 
 sooner did the American privateer sail from French ports than 
 the rates of insurance doubled in London, and an outcry for pro- 
 tection arose among English shippers which the Admiralty could 
 not calm. The British newspapers were filled with assertions 
 that the American cruiser was the superior of any vessel of its 
 class, and threatened to overthrow England's supremacy on the 
 ocean. 
 
 Another test of relative intelligence was furnished by the 
 battles at sea. Instantly after the loss of the Guerriere the 
 English discovered and complained that American gunnery was 
 superior to their own. They explained their inferiority by the 
 length of time that had elapsed since their navy had found on 
 the ocean an enemy to fight. Every vestige of hostile fleets had 
 been swept away, until, after the battle of Trafalgar, British 
 frigates ceased practice with their guns. Doubtless the British 
 navy had become somewhat careless in the absence of a danger- 
 ous enemy, but Englishmen were themselves aware that some 
 other cause must have affected their losses. Nothing showed that 
 Nelson's line-of-battle ships, frigates, or sloops were, as a rule, 
 better fought than the Macedonian and Java, the Avon and 
 Reindeer. Sir Howard Douglas, the chief authority on the 
 subject, attempted in vain to explain British reverses by the 
 deterioration of British gunnery. His analysis showed only that 
 American gunnery was extraordinarily good. Of all vessels, the 
 sloop-of-war — on accoimt of its smallness, its quick motion, and 
 its more accurate armament of thirty-two-pound carronades — 
 offered the best test of relative gunnery, and Sir Howard Douglas 
 in commenting upon the destruction of the Peacock and Avon 
 could only say : — <* In these two actions it is clear that the fire of 
 the British vessels was thrown too high, and that the ordnance
 
 HENRY ADAMS ug 
 
 of their opponents were expressly and carefully aimed at and 
 took effect chiefly in the hull. ^^ 
 
 The battle of the Hornet and Penguin, as well as those of 
 the Reindeer and Avon, showed that the excellence of American 
 gunnery continued till the close of the war. Whether at point- 
 blank range or at long-distance practice, the Americans used guns 
 as they had never been used at sea before. 
 
 None of the reports of former British victories showed that 
 the British fire had been more destructive at any previous time 
 than in 1812, and no report of any commander since the British 
 navy existed showed so much damage inflicted on an opponent in 
 so short a time as was proved to have been inflicted on them- 
 selves by the reports of British commanders in the American 
 war. The strongest proof of American superiority was given by 
 the best British officers, like Broke, who strained every nerve to 
 maintain an equality with American gunnery. So instantaneous 
 and energetic was the effort that according" to the British historian 
 of the war, "A British forty-six-gun frigate of 18 13 was half as 
 effective again as a British forty- six -gim frigate of 181 2;'* and as 
 he justly said, " the slaughtered crews and the shattered hulks *^ of 
 the captured British ships proved that no want of their old fight- 
 ing qualities accounted for their repeated and almost habitual 
 mortifications. 
 
 Unwilling as the English were to admit the superior skill of 
 Americans on the ocean, they did not hesitate to admit it, in 
 certain respects, on land. The American rifle in American hands 
 was affirmed to have no equal in the world. This admission 
 could scarcely be withheld after the lists of killed and wounded 
 which followed almost every battle; but the admission served to 
 check a wider inquiry. In truth, the rifle played but a small part 
 in the war. Winchester's men at the river Raisin may have 
 owed their over-confidence, as the British Forty-first owed its 
 losses, to that weapon, and at New Orleans five or six hundred 
 of Coffee's men, who were out of range, were armed with the 
 rifle; but the surprising losses of the British were commonly due 
 to artillery and musketry fire. At New Orleans the artillery was 
 chiefly engaged. The artillery battle of January ist, according to 
 British accounts, amply proved the superiority of American 
 gunnery on that occasion, which was probably the fairest test 
 during the war. The battle of January 8th was also chiefly an 
 artillery battle: the main British column never arrived within fair
 
 120 HENRY ADAMS 
 
 musket range; Pakenham was killed by a grape-shot, and the 
 main column of his troops halted more than one hundred yards 
 from the parapet. 
 
 The best test of British and American military qualities, both 
 for men and weapons, was Scott's battle of Chippawa. Nothing 
 intervened to throw a doubt over the fairness of the trial. Two 
 parallel lines of regular soldiers, practically equal in numbers, 
 armed with similar weapons, moved in close order toward each 
 jother across a wide, open plain, without cover or advantage of 
 position, stopping at intervals to load and fire, until one line 
 broke and retired. At the same time two three-gun batteries, 
 the British being the heavier, maintained a steady fire from posi- 
 tions opposite each other. According to the reports, the two 
 infantry lines in the centre never came nearer than eighty yards. 
 Major-General Riall reported that then, owing to severe losses, 
 his troops broke and could not be rallied. Comparison of official, 
 reports showed that the British lost in killed and wounded four 
 hundred and sixty-nine men; the Americans, two hundred and 
 ninety-six. Some doubts always affect the returns of wounded, 
 because the severity of the wound cannot be known; but dead 
 men tell their own tale. Riall reported one hundred and forty- 
 eight killed; Scott reported sixty-one. The severity of the losses 
 showed that the battle was sharply contested, and proved the 
 personal bravery of both armies. Marksmanship decided the re- 
 sult, and the returns proved that the American fire was superior 
 to that of the British in the proportion of more than fifty per 
 cent, if estimated by the entire loss, and of two hundred and 
 forty-two to one hundred if estimated by the deaths alone. 
 
 The conclusion seemed incredible, but it was supported by the 
 results of the naval battles. The Americans showed superiority 
 amounting in some cases to twice the efficiency of their enemies 
 in the use of weapons. The best French critic of the naval war, 
 Jurien de la Graviere, said: — "An enomious superiority in the 
 rapidity and precision of their fire can alone explain the differ- 
 ence in the losses sustained by the combatants,^* So far from 
 denying this conclusion, the British press constantly alleged it, 
 and the British officers complained of it. The discovery caused 
 great surprise, and in both British services much attention was 
 at once directed to improvement in artillery and musketry. Noth- 
 ing could exceed the frankness with which Englishmen avowed 
 their inferiority. According to Sir Francis Head, "gunnery was
 
 HENRY ADAMS 12 i 
 
 in naval warfare in the extraordinary state of ignorance we have 
 just described, when our lean children, the American people, 
 taught us, rod in hand, our first lesson in the art. *^ The English 
 text-book on Naval Gunnery, written by Major-General Sir How- 
 ard Douglas immediately after the peace, devoted more attention 
 to the short American war than to all the battles of Napoleon, 
 and began by admitting that Great Britain had "entered with too 
 great confidence on war with a marine much more expert than 
 that of any of our European enemies. ^^ The admission appeared 
 "objectionable'* even to the author; but he did not add, what 
 was equally true, that it applied as well to the land as to the sea 
 service. 
 
 No one questioned the bravery of the British forces, or the 
 ease with which they often routed larger bodies of militia; but 
 the losses they inflicted were rarely as great as those they suf- 
 fered. Even at Bladensburg, where they met little resistance, their 
 loss was several times greater than that of the Americans. At 
 Plattsburg, where the intelligence and quickness of Macdonough 
 and his men alone won the victory, his ships were in effect sta- 
 tionary batteries, and enjoyed the same superiority in gunnery. 
 " The Saratoga, '* said his official report, " had fifty-five round-shot 
 in her hull; the Confiance, one hundred and five. The enemy's 
 shot passed principally just over our heads, as there were not 
 twenty whole hammocks in the nettings at the close of the action.'* 
 
 The greater skill of the Americans was not due to special 
 training; for the British service was better trained in gunnery, as 
 in everything else, than the motley armies and fleets that fought 
 at New Orleans and on the Lakes. Critics constantly said that 
 every American had learned from his childhood the use of the 
 rifle; but he certainly had not learned to use cannon in shooting 
 birds or hunting deer, and he knew less than the Englishman 
 about the handling of artillery and muskets. The same intelli- 
 gence that selected the rifle and the long pivo,t-gun for favorite 
 weapons was shown in handling the carronade, and every other 
 instrument however clumsy. 
 
 Another significant result of the war was the sudden develop- 
 ment of scientific engineering in the United States. This branch 
 of the military service owed its efficiency and almost its existence 
 to the military school at West Point, established in 1802. The 
 school was at first much neglected by government. The number 
 of graduates before the year 18 12 was very small; but at the
 
 HENRY ADAMS 
 122 
 
 outbreak of the war the corps of engineers was already efficient. 
 Its chief was Colonel Joseph Gardner Swift, of Massachusetts, 
 the first graduate of the academy: Colonel Swift planned the 
 defenses of New York Harbor. The lieutenant-colonel in 1812 
 was Walker Keith Armistead, of Virginia,— the third graduate, 
 who planned the defenses of Norfolk. Major William McRee, of 
 North Carolina, became chief engineer to General Brown and 
 constructed the fortifications at Fort Erie, which cost the British 
 General Gordon Drummond the loss of half his army, besides the 
 mortification of defeat. Captain Eleazer Derby Wood, of New 
 York, constructed Fort Meigs, which enabled Harrison to defeat 
 the attack of Proctor in May, 1813. Captain Joseph Gilbert 
 Totten, of New York, was chief engineer to General Izard at 
 Plattsburg, where he directed the fortifications that stopped the 
 advance of Prevost's great army. None of the works constructed 
 by a graduate of West Point was captured by the enemy; and 
 had an engineer been employed at Washington by Armstrong 
 and Winder, the city would have been easily saved. 
 
 Perhaps without exaggeration the West Point Academy might 
 be said to haye decided, next to the navy, the result of the war. 
 The works at New Orleans were simple in character, and as far 
 as they were due to engineering skill were directed by Major 
 Latour, a Frenchman; but the war was already ended when the 
 battle of New Orleans was fought. During the critical campaign 
 of 1 814, the West Point engineers doubled the capacity of the 
 little American army for resistance, and introduced a new and 
 scientific character into American life. 
 
 THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE CONSTITUTION AND THE GUER- 
 
 RIERE 
 
 From < History of the United States >: copyright 1890, by Charles Scribner's Sons 
 
 As Broke's squadron swept along the coast it seized whatever 
 it met, and on July i6th caught one of President Jefferson's 
 sixteen-gun brigs, the Nautilus. The next day it came on 
 a richer prize. The American navy seemed ready to outstrip the 
 army in the race for disaster. The Constitution, the best frigate 
 in the United States service, sailed into the midst of Broke's five 
 ships. Captain Isaac Hull, in command of the Constitution, had 
 been detained at Annapolis shipping a new crew until July 5th,
 
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 HENRY ADAMS 
 
 123 
 
 the day when Broke's squadron left HaHfax; then the ship got 
 under way and stood down Chesapeake Bay on her voyage to 
 New York. The wind was ahead and very light. Not until July 
 loth did the ship anchor off Cape Henry lighthouse, and not till 
 sunrise of July 12th did she stand to the eastward and northward. 
 Light head winds and a strong current delayed her progress till 
 July 17th, when at two o'clock in the afternoon, off Barnegat on 
 the New Jersey coast, the lookout at the masthead discovered 
 four sails to the northward, and two hours later a fifth sail to the 
 northeast. Hull took them for Rodgers's squadron. The wind 
 was light, and Hull being to windward determined to speak the 
 nearest vessel, the last to come in sight. The afternoon passed 
 without bringing the ships together, and at ten o'clock in the 
 evening, finding that the nearest ship could not answer the night 
 signal, Hull decided to lose no time in escaping. 
 
 Then followed one of the most exciting and sustained chases 
 recorded in naval history. At daybreak the next morning one 
 British frigate was astern within five or six miles, two more were 
 to leeward, and the rest of the fleet some ten miles astern, all 
 making chase. Hull put out his boats to tow the Constitution; 
 Broke summoned the boats of the squadron to tow the Shannon. 
 Hull then bent all his spare rope to the cables, dropped a small 
 anchor half a mile ahead, in twenty-six fathoms of water, and 
 warped his ship along. Broke quickly imitated the device, and 
 slowly gained on the chase. The Guerriere crept so near Hull's 
 lee beam as to open fire, but her shot fell short. Fortunately the 
 wind, though slight, favored Hull. All night the British and 
 American crews toiled on, and when morning came the Belvidera, 
 proving to be the best sailer, got in advance of her consorts, 
 working two kedge anchors, until at two o'clock in the afternoon 
 she tried in her turn to reach the Constitution with her bow 
 guns, but in vain. Hull expected capture, but the Belvidera 
 could not approach nearer without bringing her boats under the 
 Constitution's stern guns; and the wearied crews toiled on, towing 
 and kedging, the ships barely out of gunshot, till another morn- 
 ing came. The breeze, though still light, then allowed Hull to 
 take in his boats, the Belvidera being two and a half miles in his 
 wake, the Shannon three and a half miles on his lee, and the 
 three other frigates well to leeward. The wind freshened, and 
 the Constitution drew ahead, until, toward seven o'clock in the 
 evening of July 19th, a heavy rain squall struck the ship, and by
 
 124 HENRY ADAMS 
 
 taking skillful advantage of it Hull left the Belvidera and Shan- 
 non far astern; yet until eight o'clock the next morning they 
 were still in sight, keeping up the chase. 
 
 Perhaps nothing during the war tested American seamanship 
 more thoroughly than these three days of combined skill and 
 endurance in the face of the irresistible enemy. The result 
 showed that Hull and the Constitution had nothing to fear in 
 these respects. There remained the question whether the superi- 
 ority extended to his guns; and such was the contempt of the 
 British naval officers for American ships, that with this experi- 
 ience before their eyes they still believed one of their thirty-eight- 
 gun frigates to be more than a match for an American forty-four, 
 although the American, besides the heavier armament, had proved 
 his capacity to outsail and out-manoeuvre the Englishman. Both 
 parties became more eager than ever for the test. For once, even 
 the Federalists of New England felt their blood stir; for their 
 own President and their own votes had called these frigates into 
 existence, and a victory won by the Constitution, which had been 
 built by their hands, was in their eyes a greater victory over 
 their political opponents than over the British. With no half- 
 hearted spirit the seagoing Bostonians showered well-weighed 
 praises on Hull when his ship entered Boston Harbor, July 26th, 
 after its narrow escape, and when he sailed again New England 
 waited with keen interest to learn his fate. 
 
 Hull could not expect to keep command of the Constitution. 
 Bainbridge was much his senior, and had the right to a prefer- 
 ence in active service. Bainbridge then held and was ordered to 
 retain command of the Constellation, fitting out at the Wash- 
 ington Navy Yard; but Secretary Hamilton, July 28th, ordered 
 him to take command also of the Constitution on her arrival in 
 port. Doubtless Hull expected this change, and probably the 
 expectation induced him to risk a dangerous experiment; for 
 without bringing his ship to the Charlestown Navy Yard, but 
 remaining in the outer harbor, after obtaining such supplies as he 
 needed, August 2d, he set sail without orders, and stood to the 
 eastward. Having reached Cape Race without meeting an enemy, 
 he turned southward, until on the night of August i8th he spoke 
 a privateer, which told him of a British frigate near at hand. 
 Following the privateersman's directions, the Constitution the next 
 day, August 19th, [1812,] at two o'clock in the afternoon, latitude 
 41 deg. 42 min., longitude 55 deg. 48 min., sighted the Guerriere.
 
 HENRY ADAMS I2g 
 
 The meeting was welcome on both sides. Only three days 
 before, Captain Dacres had entered on the log of a merchantman 
 a challenge to any American frigate to meet him off Sandy Hook. 
 Not only had the Guerriere for a long time been extremely offens- 
 ive to eveiy seafaring American, but the mistake which caused 
 the Little Belt to suffer so seriously for the misfortune of being 
 taken for the Guerriere had caused a corresponding feeling of 
 anger in the officers of the British frigate. The meeting of Au- 
 gust 19th had the character of a preconcerted duel. 
 
 The wind was blowing fresh from the northwest, with the sea 
 running high. Dacres backed his main topsail and waited. Hull 
 shortened sail, and ran down before the wind. For about an 
 hour the two ships wore and wore again, trying to get advantage 
 of position; until at last, a few minutes before six o'clock, they 
 came together side by side, within pistol shot, the wind almost 
 astern, and running before it, they pounded each other with all 
 their strength. As rapidly as the guns could be worked, the 
 Constitution poured in broadside after broadside, double-shotted 
 with round and grape; and without exaggeration, the echo of 
 these guns startled the world. ^* In less than thirty minutes from 
 the time we got alongside of the enemy, ^^ reported Hull, " she 
 was left without a spar standing, and the hull cut to pieces in 
 such a manner as to make it difficult to keep her above water. '^ 
 
 That Dacres should have been defeated was not surprising; 
 that he should have expected to win was an example of British 
 arrogance that explained and excused the war. The length of the 
 Constitution was one hundred and seventy-three feet, that of the 
 Guerriere was one hundred and fifty-six feet; the extreme breadth 
 of the Constitution was forty-four feet, that of the Guerriere was 
 forty feet: or within a few inches in both cases. The Consti- 
 tution carried thirty-two long twenty-four-pounders, the Guerri- 
 ere thirty long eighteen-pounders and two long twelve-pounders; 
 the Constitution carried twenty thirty-two-pound carronades, the 
 Guerriere sixteen. In every respect, and in proportion of ten to 
 seven, the Constitution was the better ship; her crew was more 
 numerous in proportion of ten to six. Dacres knew this very 
 nearly as well as it was known to Hull, yet he sought a duel. 
 What he did not know was that in a still greater proportion 
 the American officers and crew were better and more intelligent 
 seamen than the British, and that their passionate wish to repay 
 old scores gave them extraordinary energy. So much greater
 
 J 26 HENRY ADAMS 
 
 was the moral superiority than the physical, that while the 
 Guerriere's force counted as seven against ten, her losses counted 
 as thoug-h her force were only two against ten. 
 
 Dacres's error cost him dear; for among the Guerriere's crew 
 of two hundred and seventy-two, seventy-nine were killed or 
 wounded, and the ship was injured beyond saving before Dacres 
 realized- his mistake, although he needed only thirty minutes of 
 close fighting for the purpose. He never fully understood the 
 causes of his defeat, and never excused it by pleading, as he 
 might have done, the great superiority of his enemy. 
 
 Hull took his prisoners on board the Constitution, and after 
 blowing up the Guerriere sailed for Boston, where he arrived on 
 the morning of August 30th. The Sunday silence of the Puritan 
 city broke into excitement as the news passed through the quiet 
 streets that the Constitution was below in the outer harbor with 
 Dacres and his crew prisoners on board. No experience of his- 
 tory ever went to the heart of New England more directly than 
 this victory, so peculiarly its own: but the delight was not confined 
 to New England, and extreme though it seemed, it was still not 
 extravagant; for however small the affair might appear on the 
 general scale of the world's battles, it raised the United States 
 in one half-hour to the rank of a first class Power in the world.
 
 127 
 
 JOHN ADAMS 
 
 (1735-1826) 
 
 foHN Adams, second President of the United States, was born 
 at Braintree, Massachusetts, October 19th, 1735, ^.nd died 
 there July 4th, 1826, the year after his son too was inaugu- 
 rated President. He was the first conspicuous member of an endur- 
 ingly powerful and individual family. The Adams race have mostly 
 been vehement, proud, pugnacious, and independent, with hot tempers 
 and strong wills; but with high ideals, dramatic devotion to duty, 
 and the intense democratic sentiment so often found united with 
 personal aristocracy of feeling. They have been men of affairs first, 
 with large practical ability, but with a deep strain of the man of 
 letters which in this generation has outshone the other faculties; 
 strong-headed and hard-working students, with powerful memories 
 and fluent gifts of expression. 
 
 All these characteristics went to make up John Adams; but their 
 enumeration does not furnish a complete picture of him, or reveal the 
 virile, choleric, masterful man. And he was far more lovable and far 
 more popular than his equally great son, also a typical Adams, from 
 the same cause which produced some of his worst blunders and mis- 
 fortunes, — a generous impulsiveness of feeling which made it impos- 
 sible for him to hold his tongue at the wrong time and place for 
 talking. But so fervid, combative, and opinionated a man was sure 
 to gain much more hate than love ; because love results from compre- 
 hension, which only the few close to him could have, while hate — 
 toward an honest man — is the outcome of ignorance, which most of 
 the world cannot avoid. Admiration and respect, however, he had 
 from the majority of his party at the worst of times; and the best 
 encomium on him is that the closer his public acts are examined, the 
 more credit they reflect not only on his abilities but on his unselfish- 
 ness. 
 
 Born of a line of Massachusetts farmers, he graduated from Har- 
 vard in 1755. After teaching a grammar school and beginning to read 
 theology, he studied law and began practice in 1758, soon becoming 
 a leader at the bar and in public life. In 1764 he married the noble 
 and delightful woman whose letters furnish unconscious testimony to 
 his lovable qualities. All through the germinal years of the Revolu- 
 tion he was one of the foremost patriots, steadily opposing any
 
 128 JOHN ADAMS 
 
 abandonment or compromise of essential rights. In 1765 he was 
 counsel for Boston with Otis and Gridley to support the town's 
 memorial against the Stamp Act. In 1766 he was selectman. In 1768 
 the royal government offered him the post of advocate-general in the 
 Court of Admiralty, — a lucrative bribe to desert the opposition; but 
 he refused it. Yet in 1770, as a matter of high professional duty, he 
 became counsel (successfully) for the British soldiers on trial for the 
 « Boston Massacre.'* Though there was a present uproar of abuse, 
 Mr. Adams was shortly after elected Representative to the General 
 Court by more than three to one. In March, 1774, he contemplated 
 writing the "History of the Contest between Britain and America !>> 
 On June 17th he presided over the meeting at Faneuil Hall to con- 
 sider the Boston Port Bill, and at the same hour was elected Repre- 
 sentative to the first Congress at Philadelphia (September i) by the 
 Provincial Assembly held in defiance of the government. Returning 
 thence, he engaged in newspaper debate on the political issues till 
 the battle of Lexington. 
 
 Shortly after, he again journeyed to Philadelphia to the Congress 
 of May 5th, 1775; where he did on his own motion, to the disgust 
 of his Northern associates and the reluctance even of the Southern- 
 ers, one of the most important and decisive acts of the Revolution, — 
 induced Congress to adopt the forces in New England as a national 
 army and put George Washington of Virginia at its head, thus 
 engaging the Southern colonies irrevocably in the war and securing 
 the one man who could make it a success. In 1776 he was a chief 
 agent in carrying a declaration of independence. He remained in 
 Congress till November, 1777, as head of the War Department, very 
 useful and laborious though making one dreadful mistake: he was 
 largely responsible for the disastrous policy of ignoring the just 
 claims and decent dignity of the military commanders, which lost the 
 country some of its best officers and led directly to Arnold's treason. 
 His reasons, exactly contrary to his wont, were good abstract logic 
 but thorough practical nonsense. 
 
 In December, 1777, he was appointed commissioner to France to 
 succeed Silas Deane, and after being chased by an English man-of- 
 war (which he wanted to fight) arrived at Paris in safety. There 
 he reformed a very bad state of affairs; but thinking it absurd to 
 keep three envoys at one court (Dr. Franklin and Arthur Lee were 
 there before him), he induced Congress to abolish his office, and 
 returned in 1779. Chosen a delegate to the Massachusetts constitu- 
 tional convention, he was called away from it to be sent again to 
 France. There he remained as Franklin's colleague, detesting and 
 distrusting him and the French foreign minister, Vergennes, embroil- 
 ing himself with both and earning a cordial return of his warmest
 
 JOHN ADAMS 1 29 
 
 dislike from both, till July, 1780. He then went to Holland as volun- 
 teer minister, and in 1782 was formally recognized as from an inde- 
 pendent nation. Meantime Vergennes intrigued with all his might to 
 have Adams recalled, and actually succeeded in so tying his hands 
 that half the advantages of independence would have been lost but 
 for his contumacious persistence. In the final negotiations for peace, 
 he persisted against his instructions in making the New England fish- 
 eries an ultimatum, and saved them. In 1783 he was commissioned 
 to negotiate a commercial treaty with Great Britain, and in 1785 was 
 made minister to that power. The wretched state of American affairs 
 under the Confederation made it impossible to obtain any advantages 
 for his country, and the vindictive feeling of the English made his 
 life a purgatory, so that he was glad to come home in 1788. 
 
 In the first Presidential election of that year he was elected Vice- 
 President on the ticket with Washington ; and began a feud with 
 Alexander Hamilton, the mighty leader of the Federalist party and 
 chief organizer of our governmental machine, which ended in the 
 overthrow of the party years before its time, and had momentous 
 personal and literary results as well. He was as good a Federalist 
 as Hamilton, and felt as much right to be leader if he could; Hamil- 
 ton would not surrender his leadership, and the rivalry never ended 
 till Hamilton's murder. In 1796 he was elected President against 
 Jefferson. His Presidency is recognized as one of the ablest and 
 most useful on the roll; but its personal memoirs are most painful 
 and scandalous. The cabinet were nearly all Hamiltonians, regularly 
 laid all the official secrets before Hamilton, and took advice from 
 him to thwart the President. They disliked Mr. Adams's overbear- 
 ing ways and obtrusive vanity, considered his policy destructive to 
 the party and injurious to the country, and felt that loyalty to 
 these involved and justified disloyalty to him. Finally his best act 
 brought on an explosion. The French Directory had provoked a war 
 with this country, which the Hamiltonian section of the leaders 
 and much of the party hailed with delight; but showing signs of a 
 better spirit, Mr. Adams, without consulting his Cabinet, who he knew 
 would oppose it almost or quite unanimously, nominated a commis- 
 sion to frame a treaty with France. The storm of fury that broke 
 on him from his party has rarely been surpassed, even in the case of 
 traitors outright, and he was charged with being little better. He 
 was renominated for President in 1800, but beaten by Jefferson, owing 
 to the defections in his own party, largely of Hamilton's producing. 
 The Federalist party never won another election; the Hamilton sec- 
 tion laid its death to Mr. Adams, and American history is hot with 
 the fires of this battle even yet. Henry Adams's great History is 
 only a small item in the immense literature it has produced. 
 1-9
 
 j^o JOHN ADAMS 
 
 Mr. Adams's later years were spent at home, where he was always 
 interested in public affairs and sometimes much too free in com- 
 ments on them; where he read immensely and wrote somewhat. He 
 heartily approved his son's break with the Federalists on the Em- 
 bargo. He died on the same day as Jefferson, both on the fiftieth 
 anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. 
 
 As a writer Mr. Adams's powers show best in the work which 
 can hardly be classed as literature, — his forcible and bitter political 
 letters, diatribes, and polemics. As in his life, his merits and defects 
 not only lie side by side, but spring from the same source, — his 
 vehemence, self-confidence, and impatience of obstruction. He writes 
 impetuously because he feels impetuously. With little literary grace, 
 he possesses the charm that belongs to clear and energetic thought 
 and sense transfused with hot emotion. John Fiske goes so far as to 
 say that <^as a writer of English, John Adams in many respects sur- 
 passed all his American contemporaries." He was by no means with- 
 out humor, — a characteristic which shows in some of his portraits, — 
 and sometimes realized the humorous aspects of his own intense and 
 exaggerative temperament. His remark about Timothy Pickering, 
 that ^* under the simple appearance of a bald head and straight hair, 
 he conceals the most ambitious designs," is perfectly self-conscious 
 in its quaint naivete. 
 
 His ^ Life and Works, ^ edited by his grandson, Charles Francis 
 Adams, Sr. , in ten volumes, is the great storehouse of his writings. 
 The best popular account of his life is by John T. Morse, Jr., in the 
 ^American Statesmen* series. 
 
 AT THE FRENCH COURT 
 From his Diary, June 7th, 177S, with his later comments in brackets 
 
 WENT to Versailles, in company with Mr. Lee, Mr. Izard 
 and his lady, Mr Lloyd and his lady, and Mr. Frangois. 
 Saw the grand procession of the Knights dii Saint-Esprit, 
 or du Cordon Bleti. At nine o'clock at night went to the grand 
 convert^ and saw the king, queen, and royal family at supper; 
 had a fine seat and situation close by the royal family, and had 
 a distinct and full view of the royal pair. 
 
 [Our objects were to see the ceremonies of the knights, and 
 in the evening the public supper of the royal family. The 
 kneelings, the bows, and the courtesies of the knights, the 
 dresses and decorations, the king seated on his throne, his
 
 JOHN ADAMS I^I 
 
 investiture of a new created knight with the badges and orna- 
 ments of the order, and his majesty's profound and reverential 
 bow before the altar as he retired, were novelties and curiosities 
 to me, but surprised me much less than the patience and perse- 
 verance with which they all kneeled, for two hours together, 
 upon the hard marble of which the floor of the chapel was made. 
 The distinction of the blue ribbon was very dearly purchased at 
 the price of enduring this painful operation four times in a year. 
 The Count de Vergennes confessed to me that he was almost 
 dead with the pain of it. And the only insinuation I ever heard, 
 that the king was in any degree touched by the philosophy of 
 the age, was, that he never discovered so much impatience, 
 tinder any of the occurrences of his life, as in going through 
 those tedious ceremonies of religion, to which so many hours of 
 his life were condemned by the catholic church. 
 
 The queen was attended by her ladies to the gallery opposite 
 to the altar, placed in the centre of the seat, and there left alone 
 by the other ladies, who all retired. She was an object too 
 sublime and beautiful for my dull pen to describe. I leave this 
 enterprise to Mr. Burke. But in his description, there is more 
 of the orator than of the philosopher. Her dress was everything 
 that art and wealth could make it. One of the maids of honor 
 told me she had diamonds upon her person to the value of 
 eighteen millions of livres; and I always thought her majesty 
 much beholden to her dress. Mr. Burke saw her probably but 
 once. I have seen her fifty times perhaps, and in all the varie- 
 ties of her dresses. She had a fine complexion, indicating 
 perfect health, and was a handsome woman in her face and 
 figure. But I have seen beauties much superior, both in counte- 
 nance and form, in France, England, and America. 
 
 After the ceremonies of this institution are over, there is a 
 collection for the poor; and that this closing scene may be as 
 elegant as any of the former, a young lady of some of the first 
 families in France is appointed to present the box to the knights. 
 Her dress must be as rich and elegant, in proportion, as the 
 Queen's, and her hair, motions, and curtsies must have as much 
 dignity and grace as those of the knights. It was a curious 
 entertainment to observe the easy air, the graceful bow, and the 
 conscious dignity of the knight, in presenting his contribution; 
 and the corresponding ease, grace, and dignity of the lady, in 
 receiving it, were not less charming. Every muscle, nerve, and
 
 J -2 JOHN AbAMS 
 
 fibre of both seemed perfectly disciplined to perform its func- 
 tions. The elevation of the arm, the bend of the elbow, and 
 every finger in the hand of the knight, in putting his louis d'ors 
 into the box appeared to be perfectly studied, because it was 
 perfectly natural. How much devotion there was in all this I 
 know not, but it was a consummate school to teach the rising 
 generation the perfection of the French air, and external polite- 
 ness and good-breeding. I have seen nothing to be compared 
 to it in any other country. . . . 
 
 At nine o'clock we went and saw the king, queen, and royal 
 family, at the grand convert. Whether M. Frangois, a gentleman 
 who undertook upon this occasion to conduct us, had contrived a 
 plot to gratify the curiosity of the spectators, or whether the 
 royal family had a fancy to see the raw American at their 
 leisure, or whether they were willing to gratify him with a con- 
 venient seat, in which he might see all the royal family, and all 
 the splendors of the place, I know not; but the scheme could 
 not have been carried into execution, certainly, without the 
 orders of the king. I was selected, and summoned indeed, from 
 all my company, and ordered to a seat close beside the royal 
 family. The seats on both sides of the hall, arranged like the 
 seats in a theatre, were all full of ladies of the first rank and 
 fashion in the kingdom, and there was no room or place for me 
 but in the midst of them. It was not easy to make room for 
 one more person. However, room was made, and I was situated 
 between two ladies, with rows and ranks of ladies above and 
 below me, and on the right hand and on the left, and ladies 
 only. My dress was a decent French dress, becoming the station 
 I held, but not to be compared with the gold, and diamonds, 
 and embroidery, about me. I could neither speak nor under- 
 stand the language in a manner to support a conversation, but I 
 had soon the satisfaction to find it was a silent meeting, and 
 that nobody spoke a word but the royal family to each other, 
 and they said very little. The eyes of all the assembly were 
 turned upon me, and I felt sufficiently humble and mortified, for 
 I was not a proper object for the criticisms of such a company. 
 I found myself gazed at, as we in America used to gaze at the 
 sachems who came to make speeches to us in Congress; but I 
 thought it very hard if I could not command as much power of 
 face as one of the chiefs of the Six Nations, and therefore deter- 
 mined that I would assume a cheerful countenance, enjoy the
 
 JOHN ADAMS 13^ 
 
 scene around me, and observe it as coolly as an astronomer con- 
 templates the stars. Inscriptions of Fructus Belli were seen on 
 the ceiling and all about the walls of the room, among paint- 
 ings of the trophies of war; probably done by the order of 
 Louis XIV., who confessed in his dying hour as his successor 
 and exemplar Napoleon will probably do, that he had been too 
 fond of war. The king was the royal carver for himself and all 
 his family. His majesty ate like a king, and made a royal 
 supper of solid beef, and other things in proportion. The queen 
 took a large spoonful of soup, and displayed her fine person and 
 graceful manners, in alternately looking at the company in vari- 
 ous parts of the hall, and ordering several kinds of seasoning to 
 be brought to her, by which she fitted her supper to her taste.] 
 
 THE CHARACTER OF FRANKLIN 
 
 From Letter to the Boston Patriot, May 15th, 1811 
 
 FRANKLIN had a great genius, original, sagacious, and inventive, 
 capable of discoveries in science no less than of improve- 
 ments in the fine arts and the mechanic arts. He had a 
 vast imagination, equal to the comprehension of the greatest 
 objects, and capable of a cool and steady comprehension of them. 
 He had wit at will. He had humor that when he pleased was 
 delicate and delightful. He had a satire that was good-natured 
 or caustic, Horace or Juvenal, Swift or Rabelais, at his pleasure. 
 He had talents for irony, allegory, and fable, that he could adapt 
 with great skill to the promotion of 'moral and political truth. 
 He was master of that infantine simplicity which the French call 
 naivete, which never fails to charm in Phaedrus and La Fontaine, 
 from the cradle to the grave. Had he been blessed with the 
 same advantages of scholastic education in his early youth, and 
 pursued a course of studies as unembarrassed with occupations 
 of public and private life as Sir Isaac Newton, he might have 
 emulated the first philosopher. Although I am not ignorant that 
 most of his positions and hypotheses have been controverted, I 
 cannot but think he has added much to the mass of natural 
 knowledge, and contributed largely to the progress of the human 
 mind, both by his own writings and by the controversies and 
 experiments he has excited in all parts of Europe. He had abil- 
 ities for investigating statistical questions, and in some parts of
 
 ^ . JOHN ADAMS 
 
 his life has written pamphlets and essays upon public topics with 
 great ingenuity and success; but after my acquaintance with him, 
 which commenced in Congress in 1775, his excellence as a legis- 
 lator, a politician, or a negotiator most certainly never appeared. 
 No sentiment more weak and superficial was ever avowed by the 
 most absurd philosopher than some of his, particularly one that 
 he procured to be inserted in the first constitution of Pennsyl- 
 vania, and for which he had such a fondness as to insert it in 
 his will. I call it weak, for so it must have been, or hypocritical; 
 unless he meant by one satiric touch to ridicule his own republic, 
 or throw it into everlasting contempt. 
 
 I must acknowledge, after all, that nothing in life has morti- 
 fied or grieved me more than the necessity which compelled me 
 to oppose him so often as I have. He was a man with whom I 
 always wished to live in friendship, and for that purpose omitted 
 no demonstration of respect, esteem, and veneration in my power, 
 until I had unequivocal proofs of his hatred, for no other reason 
 under the sun but because I gave my judgment in opposition 
 to his in many points which materially affected the interests of 
 our country, and in many more which essentially concerned our 
 happiness, safety, and well-being. I could not and would not 
 sacrifice the clearest dictates of my understanding- and the purest 
 principles of morals and policy in compliance to Dr. Franklin.
 
 ■- n <S^ P -^^ <=s>
 
 135 
 
 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS 
 
 (1 767-1 848) 
 
 ?HE chief distinction in character between John Adams and 
 his son is the strangest one imaginable, when one remem- 
 bers that to the fiery, combative, bristling Adams blood was 
 added an equal strain from the gay, genial, affectionate Abigail Smith. 
 The son, though of deep inner affections, and even hungering for good- 
 will if it would come without his help, was on the surface incom- 
 parably colder, harsher, and thornier than his father, with all the 
 socially repellent traits of the race and none of the softer ones. The 
 father could never control his tongue or his temper, and not always 
 his head; the son never lost the bridle of either, and much of his ter- 
 rible power in debate came from his ability to make others lose 
 theirs while perfectly keeping his own. The father had plenty of 
 warm friends and allies, — at the worst he worked with half a party; 
 the son in the most superb part of his career had no friends, no 
 allies, no party except the group of constituents who kept him in 
 Congress. The father's self-confidence deepened in the son to a soli- 
 tary and even contemptuous gladiatorship against the entire govern- 
 ment of the country, for long years of hate and peril. The father's 
 irritable though generous vanity changed in the son to an icy 
 contempt or white-hot scorn of nearly all around him. The father's 
 spasms of acrimonious judgment steadied in the son to a constant 
 rancor always finding new objects. But only John Quincy Adams 
 could have done the work awaiting John Quincy Adams, and each of 
 his unamiable qualities strengthened his fibre to do it. And if a 
 man is to be judged by his fruits, Mr. Morse is justified in saying 
 that he was ^* not only pre-eminent in ability and acquirements, but 
 even more to be honored for profound, immutable honesty of pur- 
 pose, and broad, noble humanity of aims.*^ 
 
 It might almost be said that the sixth President of the United 
 States was cradled in statesmanship. Born July nth, 1767, he was a 
 little lad of ten when he accompanied his father on the French miss- 
 ion. Eighteen months elapsed before he returned, and three months 
 later he was again upon the water, bound once more for the French 
 capital. There were school days in Paris, and other school days in 
 Amsterdam and in Ley den ; but the boy was only fourteen, — the ma- 
 ture old child! — when he went to St. Petersburg as private secretary 
 and interpreter to Francis Dana, just appointed minister plenipoteU' 
 tiary to the court of the Empress Catherine. Such was his appren- 
 ticeship to a public career which began in earnest in 1794, and lasted,
 
 J ^ JOHN QUINCY ADAMS 
 
 with slight interruptions, for fifty-four years. Minister to the United 
 Netherlands, to Russia, to Prussia, and to England; commissioner to 
 frame the Treaty of Ghent which ended the war of 1812; State Sen- 
 ator, United States Senator; Secretary of State, a position in which 
 he made the treaty with Spain which conceded Florida, and enun- 
 ciated the Monroe Doctrine before Monroe and far more thoroughly 
 than he; President, and then for many years Member of the National 
 House of Representatives,— it is strange to find this man writing in 
 his later years, <* My whole life has been a succession of disappoint- 
 ments. I can scarcely recollect a single instance of success to any- 
 thing that I ever undertook. >> 
 
 It is true, however, that his successes and even his glories always 
 had some bitter ingredient to spoil their flavor. As United States 
 Senator he was practically « boycotted, » for years, even by his own 
 party members, because he was an Adams. In 1807 he definitely 
 broke with the Federalist party — for what he regarded as its slavish 
 crouching under English outrages, conduct which had been for years 
 estranging him — by supporting Jefferson's Embargo, as better than 
 no show of resistance at all; and was for a generation denounced by 
 the New England Federalists as a renegade for the sake of office and 
 a traitor to New England. The Massachusetts Legislature practically 
 censured him in 1808, and he resigned. 
 
 His winning of the Presidency brought pain instead of pleasure: 
 he valued it only as a token of national confidence, got it only as 
 a minority candidate in a divided party, and was denotmced by the 
 Jacksonians as a corrupt political bargainer. And his later Congress- 
 ional career, though his chief title to glory, was one long martyrdom 
 (even though its worst pains were self-inflicted), and he never knew 
 the immense victory he had actually won. The <*old man eloquent," 
 after ceasing to be President, was elected in 1830 by his home 
 district a Representative in Congress, and regularly re-elected till his 
 death. For a long time he bore the anti-slavery standard almost 
 alone in the halls of Congress, a unique and picturesque figure, rous- 
 ing every demon of hatred in his fellow-members, in constant and 
 envenomed battle with them, and more than a match for them all. 
 He fought single-handed for the right of petition as an indefeasible 
 right, not hesitating to submit a petition from citizens of Virginia 
 praying for his own expulsion from Congress as a nuisance. In 1836 
 he presented a petition from one hundred and fifty-eight ladies, 
 citizens of Massachusetts , ^* for, I said, I had not yet brought myself 
 to doubt whether females were citizens." After eight years of per- 
 sistent struggle against the <* Atherton gag law," which practically 
 denied the right of petition in matters relating to slavery, he carried 
 a vote rescinding it, and nothing of the kind was again enacted. He
 
 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS 1 37 
 
 had a fatal stroke of paralysis on the floor of Congress February 
 2ist, 1848, and died two days later. 
 
 As a writer he was perspicuous, vigorous, and straightforward. 
 He had entered Harvard in the middle of the college course, and 
 been graduated with honors. He had then studied and practiced 
 law. He was Professor of Rhetoric and Oratory at Harvard from 
 1806 to 1809, and was well drilled in the use of language, but was 
 too downright in his temper and purposes to spend much labor upon 
 artistic effects. He kept an elaborate diary during the greater part 
 of his life, — since published in twelve volumes of " Memoirs >* by 
 his son Charles Francis Adams; a vast storehouse of material relat- 
 ing to the political history of the country, but, as published, largely 
 restricted to public affairs. He delivered orations on Lafayette, on 
 Madison, on Monroe, on Independence, and on the Constitution; pub- 
 lished essays on the Masonic Institution and various other matters; 
 a report on weights and measures, of enormous labor and permanent 
 value ; Lectures on Rhetoric and Oratory ; a tale in verse on the Con- 
 quest of Ireland, with the title ^Dermot MacMorrogh^; an account of 
 Travels in Silesia; and a volume of ^ Poems of Religion and Society.* 
 He had some facility in rhyme, but his judgment was not at fault in 
 informing him that he was not a poet. Mr. Morse says that <^No 
 'man can have been more utterly void of a sense of humor or an 
 appreciation of wit ^' ; and yet he very fairly anticipated Holmes in 
 his poem on ^The Wants of Man,* and hits rather neatly a familiar 
 foible in the verse with which he begins ^Dermot MacMorrogh*: — • 
 
 «'Tis strange how often readers will indulge 
 Their wits a mystic meaning to discover; 
 
 Secrets ne'er dreamt of by the bard divulge, 
 
 And where he shoots a duck, will find a plover; 
 
 Satiric shafts from every line promulge, 
 
 Detect a tyrant where he draws a lover: 
 
 Nay, so intent his hidden thoughts to see. 
 
 Cry, if he paint a scoundrel — <That means me.>» 
 
 Selections from Letters and Memoirs used by permission of 
 J. B. Lippincott Company 
 
 LETTER TO HIS FATHER 
 (At the Age of Ten) 
 
 DEAR Sir, — I love to receive letters very well; much better than 
 I love to write them. I make but a poor figure at compo- 
 sition, my head is too fickle, my thoughts are running after 
 birds eggs play and trifles, till I get vexed with myself. Mamma
 
 j-g JOHN QUINCY ADAMS 
 
 has a troublesome task to keep me steady, and I own I am 
 ashamed of myself. I have but just entered the third volume of 
 Smollett, tho' I had designed to have got it half through by this 
 time. I have determined this week to be more diligent, as Mr. 
 Thaxter will be absent at Court, and I cannot pursue my other 
 studies. I have Set myself a Stent and determine to read the 3rd 
 volume Half out. If I can but keep my resolution, I will write 
 again at the end of the week and give a better account of myself. 
 I wish. Sir, you would give me some instructions, with regard to 
 my time, and advise me how to proportion my Studies and my 
 Play, in writing, and I will keep them by me, and endeavor to 
 follow them. I am, dear Sir, with a present determination of 
 growing better, yours. 
 
 P. S. — Sir, if you will be so good as to favor me with a Blank 
 Book, I will transcribe the most remarkable occurances I meet 
 with in my reading, which will serve to fix them upon my mind. 
 
 FROM THE MEMOIRS 
 
 (At the Age of Eighteen) 
 
 APRIL 26TH, 1785. — A letter from Mr. Gerry of Feb. 25th Says 
 that Mr. Adams is appointed Minister to the Court of 
 London. 
 I believe he will promote the interests of the United States, 
 as much as any man, but I fear his duty will induce him to make 
 exertions which may be detrimental to his health. I wish how- 
 ever it may be otherwise. Were I now to go with him, probably 
 my immediate satisfaction might be greater than it will be in 
 returning to America. After having been traveling for these 
 seven years almost all over Europe, and having been in the 
 World, and among company, for three; to return to spend one 
 or two years in the pale of a College, subjected to all the rules 
 which I have so long been freed from; then to plunge into the 
 dry and tedious study of the Law for three years; and afterwards 
 not expect (however good an opinion I may have of myself) to 
 bring myself into notice under three or four years more ; if ever ! 
 It is really a prospect somewhat discouraging for a youth of my 
 ambition (for I have ambition, though I hope its object is laud- 
 able). But still 
 
 << Oh ! how wretched 
 Is that poor Man, that hangs on Princes' favors ^^
 
 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS I^q 
 
 or on those of anybody else. I am determined that so long as I 
 shall be able to get my own living in an honorable manner, I 
 will depend upon no one. My Father has been so much taken up 
 all his lifetime with the interests of the public, that his own for- 
 tune has suffered by it; so that his children will have to provide 
 for themselves, which I shall never be able to do, if I loiter away 
 my precious time in Europe and shun going home until I am 
 forced to it. With an ordinary share of Common sense which I 
 hope I enjoy, at least in America I can live independent and free; 
 and rather than live otherwise I would wish to die before the 
 time when I shall be left at my own discretion. I have before 
 me a striking example of the distressing and humiliating situation 
 a person is reduced to by adopting a different line of conduct, 
 and I am determined not to fall into the same error. 
 
 FROM THE MEMOIRS 
 
 JANUARY 14TH, 1 83 1. — I received a letter from John C. Calhoun, 
 now Vice-President of the United States, relating to his pres- 
 ent controversy with President Jackson and William H. Craw- 
 ford. He questions me concerning the letter of General Jackson 
 to Mr. Monroe which Crawford alleges to have been produced at 
 the Cabinet meetings on the Seminole War, and asks for copies, 
 if I think proper to give them, of Crawford's letter to me which 
 I received last summer, and of my answer. I answered Mr. Cal- 
 houn's letter immediately, rigorously confining myself to the direct 
 object of his inquiries. This is a new bursting out of the old and 
 rancorous feud between Crawford and Calhoun, both parties to 
 which, after suspending their animosities and combining together 
 to effect my ruin, are appealing to me for testimony to sustain 
 themselves each against the other. This is one of the occasions 
 upon which I shall eminently need the direction of a higher power 
 to guide me in every step of my conduct. I see my duty to dis- 
 card all consideration of their treatment of me; to adhere, in 
 everything that I shall say or write, to the truth; to assert noth- 
 ing positively of which I am not absolutely certain; to deny 
 nothing upon which there remains a scruple of doubt upon my 
 memory; to conceal nothing which it may be lawful to divulge, 
 and which may promote truth and justice between the parties. 
 With these principles, I see further the necessity for caution and 
 prudence in the course I shall take. The bitter enmity of all
 
 , .Q JOHN QUINCY ADAMS 
 
 three of the parties — Jackson, Calhoun, and Crawford — against 
 me, an enmity the more virulent because kindled by their own 
 ingratitude and injustice to me; the interest which every one of 
 them, and all their partisans, have in keeping up that load 
 of obloquy and public odium which their foul calumnies have 
 brought down upon me; and the disfavor in which I stand before 
 a majority of the people, excited against me by their artifices; — 
 their demerits to me are proportioned to the obligations to me — 
 Jackson's the greatest, Crawford's the next, Calhoun's the least of 
 positive obligation, but darkened by his double-faced setting him- 
 self up as a candidate for the Presidency against me in 1821, his 
 prevarications between Jackson and me in 1824, and his icy- 
 hearted dereliction of all the decencies of social intercourse with 
 me, solely from the terror of Jackson, since the 4th of March, 
 1829. I walk between burning ploughshares; let me be mindful 
 where I place my foot. 
 
 FROM THE MEMOIRS 
 
 JUNE 7TH, 1833. — The first seedling apple-tree that I had observed 
 on my return here just out of the ground was on the 2 2d 
 of April. It had grown slowly but constantly since, and had 
 put out five or six leaves. Last evening, after my return from 
 Boston, I saw it perfectly sound. This morning I found it broken 
 off, leaving one lobe of the seed-leaves, and one leaf over it. This 
 may have been the work of a bug, or perhaps of a caterpillar. It 
 would not be imaginable to any person free from hobby-horse or 
 fanciful attachments, how much mortification such an incident oc- 
 casions. St. Evremond, after removing into the country, returned 
 to a city life because he found himself in despair for the loss of 
 a pigeon. His conclusion was, that rural life induced exorbitant 
 attachment to insignificant objects. My experience is conformable 
 to this. My natural propensity was to raise trees, fruit and forest, 
 from the seed. I had it in early youth, but the course of my life 
 deprived me of the means of pursuing the bent of my inclina- 
 tion. One shellbark-walnut-tree in my garden, the root of which 
 I planted 8th October, 1804, and one Mazzard cherry-tree in the 
 grounds north of the house, the stone of which I planted about 
 the same time, are the only remains of my experiments of so 
 ancient a date. Had my life been spent in the country, and my 
 experiments commenced while I was at College, I should now
 
 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS j^I 
 
 have a large fruit garden, flourishing orchards of native fruit, and 
 very vahmble forests ; instead of which I have a nursery of about 
 half an acre of ground, half full of seedlings, from five years to 
 five days old, bearing for the first time perhaps twenty peaches, 
 and a few blossoms of apricots and cherries; and hundreds of 
 seedlings of the present year perishing from day to day before my 
 eyes. 
 
 FROM THE MEMOIRS 
 
 SEPTEMBER 9TH, 1833. — Colcl and cloudy day, clearing off toward 
 evening. In the multitudinous whimseys of a disabled mind 
 and body, the thick-coming fancies often come to me that 
 the events which affect my life and adventures are specially 
 shaped to disappoint my purposes. My whole life has been a 
 succession of disappointments. I can scarcely recollect a single 
 instance of success to anything that I ever undertook. Yet, with 
 fervent gratitude to God, I confess that my life has been equally 
 marked by great and signal successes which I neither aimed at 
 nor anticipated. Fortune, by which I understand Providence, has 
 showered blessings upon me profusely. But they have been 
 blessings unforeseen and imsought. *^ Non nobis Domine, non 
 nobis, sed nomini tuo da gloriam ! '* I ought to have been taught 
 by it three lessons: — i. Of implicit reliance upon Providence. 
 2. Of humility and humiliation; the thorough conviction of my 
 own impotence to accomplish anything. 3. Of resignation; and 
 not to set my heart upon anything which can be taken from me 
 or denied. 
 
 THE MISSION OF AMERICA 
 From his Fourth of July Oration at Washington, 1821 
 
 AND now, friends and countrymen, if the wise and learned 
 philosophers of the older world, the first observers of nuta- 
 tion and aberration, the discoverers of maddening ether and 
 invisible planets, the inventors of Congreve rockets and shrapnel 
 shells, should find their hearts disposed to inquire, What has 
 America done for mankind? let our answer be this: — America, 
 with the same voice which spoke herself into existence as a 
 nation, proclaimed to mankind the inextinguishable rights of 
 human nature, and the only lawful foundations of government. 
 America, in the assembly of nations, since her admission among
 
 J -2 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS 
 
 them, has invariably, though often fruitlessly, held forth to them 
 the hand of honest friendship, of equal freedom, of generous 
 reciprocity. She has imiformly spoken among them, though often 
 to heedless and often to disdainful ears, the language of equal 
 liberty, equal justice, and equal rights. She has, in the lapse of 
 nearly half a century, without a single exception, respected the 
 independence of other nations, while asserting and maintaining 
 her own. She has abstained from interference in the concerns of 
 others, even when the conflict has been for principles to which 
 she clings, as to the last vital drop that visits the heart. She 
 has seen that probably for centuries to come, all the contests of 
 that Aceldama, the European World, will be contests between 
 inveterate power and emerging right. Wherever the standard of 
 freedom and independence has been or shall be unfurled, there 
 will her heart, her benedictions, and her prayers be. But she 
 goes not abroad in search of monsters to destroy. She is the 
 well-wisher to the freedom and independence of all. She is the 
 champion and vindicator only of her own. She will recommend 
 the general cause, by the countenance of her voice, and the 
 benignant sympathy of her example. She well knows that by 
 once enlisting under other banners than her own, were they even 
 the banners of foreign independence, she would involve herself, 
 beyond the power of extrication, in all the wars of interest and 
 intrigue, of individual avarice, envy, and ambition, which assume 
 the colors and usurp the standard of freedom. The fundamental 
 maxims of her policy would insensibly change from liberty to 
 force. The frontlet upon her brows would no longer beam with 
 the ineffable splendor of freedom and independence; but in its 
 stead would soon be substituted an imperial diadem, flashing in 
 false and tarnished lustre the murky radiance of dominion and 
 power. She might become the dictatress of the world; she would 
 no longer be the ruler of her own spirit. 
 
 THE RIGHT OF PETITION 
 Quoted in Memoir by Josiah Quincy 
 
 SIR, it is . . . well known that, from the time I entered this 
 house, down to the present day, I have felt it a sacred duty 
 to present any petition, couched in respectful language, from 
 any citizen of the United States, be its object what it may, — be
 
 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS l^^ 
 
 the prayer of it that in which I could concur, or that to which I 
 was utterly opposed. I adhere to the right of petition; and let 
 me say here that, let the petition be, as the gentleman from 
 Virginia has stated, from free negroes, prostitutes, as he supposes, 
 — for he says there is one put on this paper, and he infers that 
 the rest are of the same description, — that has not altered my 
 opinion at all. Where is your law that says that the mean, the 
 low, and the degraded, shall be deprived of the right of petition, 
 if their moral character is not good ? Where, in the land of free- 
 men, was the right of petition ever placed on the exclusive basis 
 of morality and virtue? Petition is supplication — it is entreaty — 
 it is prayer ! And where is the degree of vice or immorality 
 which shall deprive the citizen of the right to supplicate for a 
 boon, or to pray for inercy ? Where is such a law to be found ? 
 It does not belong to the most abject despotism. There is no 
 absolute monarch on earth who is not compelled, by the constitu- 
 tion of his country, to receive the petitions of his people, whoso- 
 ever they may be. The Sultan of Constantinople cannot walk 
 the streets and refuse to receive petitions from the meanest and 
 vilest in the land. This is the law even of despotism; and what 
 does your law say ? Does it say, that, before presenting a peti- 
 tion, you shall look into it and see whether it comes from the 
 virtuous, and the great, and the mighty? No, sir; it says no such 
 thing. The right of petition belongs to all; and so far from 
 refusing to present a petition because it might come from those 
 low in the estimation of the world, it would be an additional 
 incentive, if such an incentive were wanting. 
 
 NULLIFICATION 
 From his Fourth of July Oration at Quincy, 1831 
 
 NULLIFICATION is the provocation to that brutal and foul contest 
 of force, which has hitherto baffled all the efforts of the 
 European and Southern American nations, to introduce 
 among them constitutional governments of liberty and order. It 
 strips us of that peculiar and unimitated characteristic of all our 
 legislation — free debate; it makes the bayonet the arbiter of law; 
 it has no argument but the thunderbolt. It were senseless to 
 imagine that twenty-three States of the Union would suffer their 
 laws to be trampled upon by the despotic mandate of one. The 
 act of nullification would itself be null and void. Force must be
 
 J JOHN QUINCY ADAMS 
 
 called in to execute the law of the Union. Force must be applied 
 by the nullifying State to resist its execution — 
 
 «Ate, hot from Hell, 
 Cries Havoc! and lets slip the dogs of war.» 
 
 The blood of brethren is shed by each other. The citizen of 
 the nullifying State is a traitor to his country, by obedience to 
 the law of his State; a traitor to his State, by obedience to the law 
 of his country. The scaffold and the battle-field stream alter- 
 nately with the blood of their victims. Let this agent but once 
 intrude upon your deliberations, and Freedom will take her flight 
 for heaven. The Declaration of Independence will become a phi- 
 losophical dream, and uncontrolled, despotic sovereignties will 
 trample with impunity, through a long career of after ages, at 
 interminable or exterminating war with one another, upon the 
 indefeasible and unalienable rights of man. 
 
 The event of a conflict of arms, between the Union and one 
 of its members, whether terminating in victory or defeat, would 
 be but an alternative of calamity to all. In the holy records of 
 antiquity, we have two examples of a confederation ruptured by 
 the severance of its members; one of which resulted, after three 
 desperate battles, in the extermination of the seceding tribe. And 
 the victorious people, instead of exulting in shouts of triumph, 
 " came to the House of God, and abode there till even before 
 God; and lifted up their voices, and wept sore, and said,'^0 
 Lord God of Israel, why is this come to pass in Israel, that there 
 should be to-day one tribe lacking in Israel ? *^ The other was a 
 successful example of resistance against tyrannical taxation, and 
 severed forever the confederacy, the fragments forming separate 
 kingdoms; and from that day, their history presents an unbroken 
 series of disastrous alliances and exterminating wars — of assas- 
 sinations, conspiracies, revolts, and rebellions, until both parts of 
 the confederacy sunk in tributary' servitude to the nations around 
 them; till the countrymen of David and Solomon hung their 
 harps upon the willows of Babylon, and were totally lost among 
 the multitudes of the Chaldean and Assyrian monarchies, " the 
 most despised portion of their slaves.^* 
 
 In these mournful memorials of their fate, we may behold 
 the sure, too sure prognostication of our own, from the hour 
 when force shall be substituted for deliberation in the settlement 
 of our Constitutional questions. This is the deplorable alternative
 
 JOHN QUINCY ADAMS I45 
 
 — the extirpation of the seceding member, or the never-ceasing 
 struggle of two rival confederacies, ultimately bending the neck of 
 both under the yoke of foreign domination, or the despotic sov- 
 ereignty of a conqueror at home. May Heaven avert the omen ! 
 The destinies of not only our posterity, but of the human race, 
 are at stake. 
 
 Let no such melancholy forebodings intrude upon the festivi- 
 ities of this anniversary. Serene skies and balmy breezes are not 
 congenial to the climate of freedom. Progressive improvement 
 in the condition of man is apparently the purpose of a superin- 
 tending Providence. That purpose will not be disappointed. In 
 no delusion of national vanity, but with a feeling of profound 
 gratitude to the God of our Fathers, let us indulge the cheering 
 hope and belief, that our country and her people have been 
 selected as instruments for preparing and maturing much of the 
 good yet in reserve for the welfare and happiness of the human 
 race. Much good has already been effected by the solemn pro- 
 clamation of our principles, much more by the illustration of our 
 example. The tempest which threatens desolation, may be des- 
 tined only to purify the atmosphere. It is not in tranquil ease 
 and enjoyment that the active energies of mankind are displayed. 
 Toils and dangers are the trials of the soul. Doomed to the 
 first by his sentence at the fall, man, by his submission, converts 
 them into pleasures. The last are since the fall the condition of 
 his existence. To see them in advance, to guard against them 
 by all the suggestions of prudence, to meet them with the com- 
 posure of unyielding resistance, and to abide with firm resigna- 
 tion the final dispensation of Him who rules the ball, — these are 
 the dictates of philosophy — these are the precepts of religion — 
 these are the principles and consolations of patriotism; these re- 
 main when all is lost — and of these is composed the spirit of 
 independence — the spirit embodied in that beautiful personifica- 
 tion of the poet, which may each of you, my countrymen, to the 
 last hour of his life, apply to himself : — 
 
 << Thy spirit, Independence, let me share, 
 Lord of the lion heart and eagle eye! 
 Thy steps I follow, with my bosom bare, 
 
 Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky.^* 
 
 In the course of nature, the voice which now addresses you 
 must soon cease to be heard upon earth. Life and all which it 
 I— 10
 
 g SARAH FLOWER ADAMS 
 
 inherits, lose of their value as it draws toward its close. But for 
 most of you, my friends and neighbors, long and many years of 
 futurity are yet in store. May they be years of freedom — years 
 of prosperity — years of happiness, ripening for immortality! But, 
 were the breath which now gives utterance to my feelings, the 
 last vital air I should draw, my expiring words to you and your 
 children should be, Independence and Union forever! 
 
 SARAH FLOWER ADAMS 
 
 (1805— 1848) 
 
 tnis English poet, whose hymn, < Nearer, my God, to Thee,> is 
 known wherever the English language is spoken, was born 
 at Great Harlow, Essex, England, in 1805. She was the 
 daughter of Benjamin Flower, who in 1799 was prosecuted for plain 
 speaking in his paper, the Cambridge Intelligencer. From the out- 
 come of his trial is to be dated the liberty of political discussion 
 in England. Her mother was Eliza Gould, who first met her future 
 husband in jail, whither she had gone on a visit to assure him of her 
 sympathy. She also had suffered for liberal opinions. From their 
 parents two daughters inherited a distinguished nobility and purity of 
 character. Eliza excelled in the composition of music for congrega- 
 tional worship, and arranged a musical service for the Unitarian 
 South Place Chapel, London. Sarah contributed first to the Monthly 
 Repository, conducted by W. J. Fox, her Unitarian pastor, in whose 
 family she lived after her father's death. In 1834 she married William 
 Bridges Adams. Her delicate health gave way under the shock of 
 her sister's death in 1846, -and she died of decline in 1848. 
 
 Her poetic genius found expression both in the drama and in 
 hymns. Her play, ^Vivia Perpetua' (1841), tells of the author's rapt 
 aspiration after an ideal, symbolized in a pagan's conversion to Christ- 
 ianity. She published also ^ The Royal Progress, > a ballad (1845), on 
 the giving up of the feudal privileges of the Isle of Wight to Edward 
 I. ; and poems upon the humanitarian interests which the Anti-Corn- 
 Law League endeavored to further. Her hymns are the happiest 
 expressions of the religious trust, resignation, and sweetness of her 
 nature. 
 
 < Nearer, my God, to Thee,> was written for the South Place 
 Chapel service. There are stories of its echoes having been heard 
 from a dilapidated log cabin in Arkansas, from a remote corner of 
 the north of England, and from the Heights of Benjamin in the Holy
 
 SARAH FLOWER ADAMS 
 
 147 
 
 Land. But even its devotion and humility have not escaped censure — 
 arising, perhaps, from denominational bias. The fault found with it 
 is the fault of Addison's < How are thy servants blessed, O Lord,* 
 and the fault of the Psalmody begun by Sternhold and Hopkins, 
 which, published in Geneva in 1556, electrified the congregation of 
 six thousand souls in Elizabeth's reign, — it has no direct reference 
 to Jesus. Compilers of hymn-books have sought to rectify what they 
 deem a lapse in Christian spirit by the substitution of a verse begin- 
 ing « Christ alone beareth me.>* But the quality of the interpolated 
 verse is so inferior to the lyric itself that it has not found general 
 acceptance. Others, again, with an excess of zeal, have endeavored 
 to substitute "the Cross >> for «a cross ^' in the first stanza. 
 
 An even share of its extraordinary vogue must in bare justice be 
 credited to the tune which Dr. Lowell Mason has made an insepa- 
 rable part of it; though this does not detract in the least from its 
 own high merit, or its capacity to satisfy the feelings of a devout 
 soul. A taking melody is the first condition of even the loveliest 
 song's obtaining popularity; and this hymn was sung for many years 
 to various tunes, including chants, with no general recognition of its 
 quality. It was Dr. Mason's tune, written about i860, which sent it 
 at once into the hearts of the people. 
 
 HE SENDETH SUN, HE SENDETH SHOWER 
 
 HE SENDETH sun, he sendeth shower, 
 Alike they're needful to the flower; 
 And joys and tears alike are sent 
 To give the soul fit nourishment. 
 As comes to me or cloud or sun, 
 Father! thy will, not mine, be done. 
 
 Can loving children e'er reprove 
 
 With murmurs, whom they trust and love? 
 
 Creator, I would ever be 
 
 A trusting, loving child to thee: 
 
 As comes to me or cloud or sun. 
 
 Father! thy will, not mine, be done. 
 
 Oh, ne'er will I at life repine, — 
 Enough that thou hast made it mine. 
 When falls the shadow cold of death, 
 I yet will sing with parting breath, 
 As comes to me or cloud or sun. 
 Father! thy will, not mine, be done.
 
 148 SARAH PLO-WER ADAMS 
 
 NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE 
 
 NEARER, my God, to thee, 
 Nearer to thee! 
 E'en though it be a cross 
 That raiseth me; 
 Still all my song shall be, — 
 Nearer, my God, to thee, 
 Nearer to thee! 
 
 Though, like a wanderer, 
 
 The sun gone down, 
 Darkness be over me, 
 
 My rest a stone; 
 Yet in my dreams I'd be 
 Nearer, my God, to thee. 
 
 Nearer to thee! 
 
 There let the way appear 
 
 Steps unto heaven; 
 All that thou sendest me 
 
 In mercy given; 
 Angels to beckon me 
 Nearer, my God, to thee, 
 
 Nearer to thee! 
 
 Then with my waking thoughts 
 
 Bright with thy praise, 
 Out of my stony griefs 
 
 Bethel I'll raise; 
 So by my woes to be 
 Nearer, my God, to thee, 
 
 Nearer to thee! 
 
 Or if on joyful wing, 
 
 Cleaving the sky. 
 Sun, moon, and stars forgot, 
 
 Upward I fly; 
 Still all my song shall be, — 
 Nearer, my God, to thee. 
 
 Nearer to thee! 
 
 From < Adoration, Aspiration, and Belief."
 
 149 
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON 
 
 (1672-1719) 
 
 BY HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE 
 
 fHERE are few figures in literary history more dignified and 
 attractive than Joseph Addison; few men more eminently 
 representative, not only of literature as a profession, but of 
 literature as an art. It has happened more than once that literary 
 gifts of a high order have been lodged in very frail moral tenements; 
 that taste, feeling, and felicity of expression have been divorced from 
 general intellectual power, from intimate acquaintance with the best 
 in thought and art, from grace of manner and dignity of life. There 
 have been writers of force and originality who failed to attain a rep- 
 resentative eminence, to identify themselves with their art in the 
 memory of the world. There have been other writers without claim 
 to the possession of gifts of the highest order, who have secured this 
 distinction by virtue of harmony of character and work, of breadth 
 of interest, and of that fine intelligence which instinctively allies 
 itself with the best in its time. Of this class Addison is an illustrious 
 example. His gifts are not of the highest order; there was none of 
 the spontaneity, abandon, or fertility of genius in him; his thought 
 made no lasting contribution to the highest intellectual life; he set no 
 pulses beating by his eloquence of style, and fired no imagination by 
 the insight and emotion of his verse ; he was not a scholar in the 
 technical sense : and yet, in an age which was stirred and stung by 
 the immense satiric force of Swift, charmed by the wit and elegance 
 of Pope, moved by the tenderness of Steele, and enchanted by the 
 fresh realism of De Foe, Addison holds the most representative place. 
 He is, above all others, the Man of Letters of his time; his name 
 instantly evokes the literature of his period. 
 
 Born in the rectory at Milston, Wiltshire, on May Day, 1672, it was 
 Addison's fortune to take up the profession of Letters at the very 
 moment when it was becoming a recognized profession, with a field 
 of its own, and with emoluments sufficient in kind to make decency 
 of living possible, and so related to a man's work that their accept- 
 ance involved loss neither of dignity nor of independence. He was 
 contemporary with the first English publisher, Jacob Tonson. He 
 was also contemporary with the notable reorganization of English 
 prose which freed it from exaggeration, complexity, and obscurity; 
 and he contributed not a little to the flexibility, charm, balance, and 
 ease which have since characterized its best examples. He saw the
 
 jeo JOSEPH ADDISON 
 
 rise of polite society in its modern sense; the development of the 
 social resources of the city; the enlargement of what is called <<the 
 reading class >* to embrace all classes in the community and all orders 
 in the nation. And he was one of the first, following the logic of 
 a free press, an organized business for the sale of books, and the 
 appearance of popular interest in literature, to undertake that work of 
 translating the best thought, feeling, sentiment, and knowledge of 
 his time, and of all times, into the language of the drawing-room, the 
 club, and the street, which has done so much to humanize and civilize 
 the modern world. 
 
 To recognize these various opportunities, to feel intuitively the 
 drift of sentiment and conviction, and so to adjust the uses of art to 
 life as to exalt the one. and enrich and refine the other, involved 
 not only the possession of gifts of a high order, but that training 
 which puts a man in command of himself and of his materials. 
 Addison was fortunate in that incomparably important education 
 which assails a child through every sense, and above all through the 
 imagination — in the atmosphere of a home, frugal in its service to 
 the body, but prodigal in its ministry to the spirit. His father was 
 a man of generous culture : an Oxford scholar, who had stood frankly 
 for the Monarchy and Episcopacy in Puritan times; a voluminous and 
 agreeable writer; of whom Steele says that he bred his five children 
 "with all the care imaginable in a liberal and generous way.^^ From 
 this most influential of schools Addison passed on to other masters: 
 from the Grammar School at Lichfield, to the well-known Charter 
 House; and thence to Oxford, where he first entered Queen's College, 
 and later, became a member of Magdalen, to the beauty of whose 
 architecture and natural situation the tradition of his walks and per- 
 sonality adds no small charm. He was a close student, shy in man- 
 ner, given to late hours of work. His literary tastes and appetite 
 were early disclosed, and in his twenty-second year he was already 
 known in London, had written an < Account of the Greatest English 
 Poets, ^ and had addressed some complimentary verses to Dryden, 
 then the recognized head of English Letters. 
 
 While Addison was hesitating what profession to follow, the lead- 
 ers of the political parties were casting about for men of literary 
 power. A new force had appeared in English politics — the force of 
 public opinion ; and in their experiments to control and direct this 
 novel force, politicians were eager to secure the aid of men of Let- 
 ters. The shifting of power to the House of Commons involved a 
 radical readjustment, not only of the mechanism of political action, 
 but of the attitude of public men to the nation. They felt the need 
 of trained and persuasive interpreters and advocates; of the resources 
 of wit, satire, and humor. It was this very practical service which
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON l^l 
 
 literature was in the way of rendering to political parties, rather than 
 any deep regard for literature itself, which brought about a brief but 
 brilliant alliance between groups of men who have not often worked 
 together to mutual advantage. It must be said, however, that there 
 was among the great Whig and Tory leaders of the time a certain 
 liberality of taste, and a care for those things which give public life 
 dignity and elegance, which were entirely absent from Robert Wal- 
 pole and the leaders of the two succeeding reigns, when literature 
 and politics were completely divorced, and the government knew 
 little and cared less for the welfare of the arts. Addison came on 
 the stage at the very moment when the government was not only 
 ready but eager to foster such talents as his. He was a Whig of 
 pronounced although modern type, and the Whigs were in power. 
 
 Lord Somers and Charles Montagu, better known later as Lord 
 Halifax, were the heads of the ministry, and his personal friends as 
 well. They were men of culture, lovers of Letters, and not unap- 
 preciative of the personal distinction which already stamped the 
 studious and dignified Magdalen scholar. A Latin poem on the Peace 
 of Ryswick, dedicated to Montagu, happily combined Virgilian ele- 
 gance and felicity with Whig sentiment and achievement. It con- 
 firmed the judgment already formed of Addison's ability; and, setting 
 aside with friendly insistence the plan of putting that ability into the 
 service of the Church, Montagu secured a pension of ;^3oo for the 
 purpose of enabling Addison to fit himself for public employment 
 abroad by thorough study of the French language, and of manners, 
 methods, and institutions on the Continent. With eight Latin poems, 
 published in the second volume of the ^Musae Anglicanas,* as an 
 introduction to foreign scholars, and armed with letters of introduction 
 from Montagu to many distinguished personages, Addison left Oxford 
 in the summer of 1699, and, after a prolonged stay at Blois for pur- 
 poses of study, visited many cities and interesting localities in France, 
 Italy, Switzerland, Austria, Germany, and Holland. The shy, reticent, 
 but observing young traveler was everywhere received with the 
 courtesy which early in the century had made so deep an impression 
 on the young Milton. He studied hard, saw much, and meditated 
 more. He was not only fitting himself for public service, but for 
 that delicate portraiture of manners which was later to become his 
 distinctive work. Clarendon had already drawn a series of lifelike 
 portraits of men of action in the stormy period of the Revolution: 
 Addison was to sketch the society of his time with a touch at once 
 delicate and firm ; to exhibit its life in those aspects which emphasize 
 individual humor and personal quality, against a carefully wrought 
 background of habit, manners, usage, and social condition. The 
 habit of observation and the wide acquaintance with cultivated and
 
 J -2 JOvSEPH ADDISON 
 
 elegant social life which was a necessary part of the training for the 
 work which was later to appear in the pages of the Spectator, were 
 perhaps the richest educational results of these years of travel and 
 study; for Addison the official is a comparatively obscure figure, but 
 Addison the writer is one of the most admirable and attractive figures 
 in English history. 
 
 Addison returned to England in 1703 with clouded prospects. The 
 accession of Queen Anne had been followed by the dismissal of the 
 Whigs from office; his pension was stopped, his opportunity of ad- 
 vancement gone, and his father dead. The skies soon brightened, 
 however: the support of the "Whigs became necessary to the Govern- 
 ment; the brilliant victory of Blenheim shed lustre not only on Marl- 
 borough, but on the men with whom he was politically affiliated; and 
 there was great dearth of poetic ability in the Tory ranks at the very 
 moment when a notable achievement called for brave and splendid 
 verse. Lord Godolphin, that easy-going and eminently successful 
 politician of whom Charles the Second once shrewdly said that he 
 was << never in the way and never out of it,'> was directed to Addison 
 in this emergency; and the story goes that the Chancellor of the 
 Exchequer, afterward Lord Carleton, who was sent to express to the 
 needy scholar the wishes of the Government, found him lodged in a 
 garret over a small shop. The result of this memorable embassy 
 from politics to literature was ^ The Campaign ' : an eminently suc- 
 cessful poem of the formal, «occasionaP> order, which celebrated the 
 victor of Blenheim with tact and taste, pleased the ministry, delighted 
 the public, and brought reputation and fortune to its unknown 
 writer. Its excellence is in skillful avoidance of fulsome adulation, in 
 the exclusion of the well-worn classical allusions, and in a straight- 
 forward celebration of those really great qualities in Marlborough 
 which set his military career in brilliant contrast with his private life. 
 The poem closed with a simile which took the world by storm: — 
 
 «So when an angel, by divine command, 
 With rising tempests shakes a guilty land, 
 (Such as of late o'er pale Britannia passed,) 
 Calm and serene he drives the furious blast; 
 And, pleased the Almighty's orders to perform, 
 Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm. » 
 
 « Addison left off at a good moment, » says Thackeray, "That 
 simile was pronounced to be the greatest ever produced in poetry. 
 That angel, that good angel, flew off with Mr. Addison, and landed 
 him in the place of Commissioner of Appeals — vice Mr. Locke, provi- 
 dentially promoted. In the following year Mr. Addison went to 
 Hanover with Lord Halifax, and the year after was made Under- 
 Secretary of State. O angel visits I You come ^few and far between*
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON 1^3 
 
 to literary gentlemen's lodgings ! Your wings seldom quiver at the 
 second-floor windows now!'^ 
 
 The prize poem was followed by a narrative of travel in Italy, 
 happily written, full of felicitous description, and touched by a humor 
 which, in quality and manner, was new to English readers. Then 
 came one of those indiscretions of the imagination which showed 
 that the dignified and somewhat sober young poet, the ^< parson in a 
 tye-wig,*^ as he was called at a later day, was not lacking in gayety 
 of mood. The opera < Rosamond* was not a popular success, mainly 
 because the music to which it was set fell so far below it in grace 
 and ease. It must be added, however, that Addison lacked the quali- 
 ties of a successful libretto writer. He was too serious, and despite 
 the lightness of his touch, there was a certain rigidity in him which 
 made him unapt at versification which required quickness, agility, 
 and variety. When he attempted to give his verse gayety of manner, 
 he did not get beyond awkward simulation of an ease which nature 
 
 had denied him: — 
 
 << Since conjugal passion 
 
 Is come into fashion. 
 And marriage so blest on the throne is, 
 
 Like a Venus I'll shine. 
 
 Be fond and be fine. 
 And Sir Trusty shall be my Adonis. » 
 
 Meantime, in spite of occasional clouds, Addison's fortunes were 
 steadily advancing. The Earl of Wharton was appointed Lord Lieu- 
 tenant of Ireland, and Addison accepted the lucrative post of Secre- 
 tary. Spenser had found time and place, during a similar service in 
 the same country, to complete the * Faery Queene * ; although the fair 
 land in which the loveliest of English poems has its action was not 
 unvexed by the chronic turbulence of a mercurial and badly used 
 race. Irish residence was coincident in Addison's case, not only with 
 prosperous fortunes and with important friendships, but also with the 
 beginning of the work on which his fame securely rests. In Ireland 
 the acquaintance he had already made in London with Swift ripened 
 into a generous friendship, which for a time resisted political differ- 
 ences when such differences were the constant occasion of personal 
 animosity and bitterness. The two men represented the age in an 
 uncommonly complete way. Swift had the greater genius: he was, 
 indeed, in respect of natural endowment, the foremost man of his 
 time; but his nature was undisciplined, his temper uncertain, and his 
 great powers quite as much at the service of his passions as of his 
 principles. He made himself respected, feared, and finally hated; 
 his lack of restraint and balance, his ferocity of spirit when opposed, 
 and the violence with which he assailed his enemies^ neutralized
 
 154 JOSEPH ADDISOK 
 
 his splendid gifts, marred his fortune, and sent him into lonely exile 
 at Dublin, where he longed for the ampler world of London, Few 
 figures in literary history are more pathetic than that of the old 
 Dean of St. Patrick's, broken in spirit, failing in health, his noble 
 faculties gone into premature decay, forsaken, bitter, and remorseful. 
 At the time of Addison's stay in Ireland, the days of Swift's eclipse 
 were, however, far distant; both men were in their prime. That 
 Swift loved Addison is clear enough; and it is easy to understand 
 the qualities which made Addison one of the most deeply loved men 
 of his time. He was of an eminently social temper, although averse 
 to large companies and shy and silent in their presence. <^ There is 
 no such thing, '* he once said, <*as real conversation but between two 
 persons. '> He was free from malice, meanness, or jealousy. Pope to 
 the contrary notwithstanding. He was absolutely loyal to his prin- 
 ciples and to his friends, in a time when many men changed both 
 with as little compunction as they changed wigs and swords. His 
 personality was singularly winning; his features regular, and full of 
 refinement and intelligence; his bearing dignified and graceful; his 
 temper kindly and in perfect control; his character without a stain; 
 his conversation enchanting, its charm confessed by persons so 
 diverse in taste as Pope, Swift, Steele, and Young. Lady Mary 
 Montagu declared that he was the best company she had ever known. 
 He had two faults of which the world has heard much : he loved the 
 company of men who flattered him, and at times he used wine 
 too freely. The first of these defects was venial, and did not blind 
 his judgment either of himself or his friends; the second defect was 
 so common among the men of his time that Addison's occasional 
 over-indulgence, in contrast with the excesses of others, seems like 
 temperance itself. 
 
 The harmony and symmetry of this winning personality has, in a 
 sense, told against it; for men are prone to call the well-balanced 
 nature cold and the well-regulated life Pharisaic. Addison did not 
 escape charges of this kind from the wild livers of his own time, 
 who could not dissociate genius from profligacy nor generosity of 
 nature from prodigality. It was one of the great services of Addison 
 to his generation and to all generations, that in an age of violent 
 passions, he showed how a strong man could govern himself. In a 
 time of reckless living, he illustrated the power which flows from 
 subordination of pleasure to duty. In a day when wit was identified 
 with malice, he brought out its power to entertain, surprise, and 
 delight, without taking on the irreverent levity of Voltaire, the bit- 
 terness of Swift, or the malice of Pope. 
 
 It was during Addison's stay in Ireland that Richard Steele pro- 
 jected the Tatler, and brought out the first number in 1709. His
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON 155 
 
 friendship for Addison amounted almost to a passion; their intimacy 
 was cemented by harmony of tastes and diversity of character. 
 Steele was ardent, impulsive, warm-hearted, mercurial; full of aspi- 
 ration and beset by lamentable weaknesses, — preaching the highest 
 morality and constantly falling into the prevalent vices of his time; 
 a man so lovable of temper, so generous a spirit, and so frank a 
 nature, that his faults seem to humanize his character rather than 
 to weaken and stain it. Steele's gifts were many, and they were 
 always at the service of his feelings; he had an Irish warmth of 
 sympathy and an Irish readiness of humor, with great facility of 
 inventiveness, and an inexhaustible interest in all aspects of human 
 experience. There had been political journals in England since the 
 time of the Revolution, but Steele conceived the idea of a journal 
 which should comment on the events and characteristics of the time 
 in a bright and humorous way; using freedom with judgment and 
 taste, and attacking the vices and follies of the time with the light 
 equipment of wit rather than with the heavy armament of the formal 
 moralist. The time was ripe for such an enterprise. London was 
 full of men and women of brilliant parts, whose manners, tastes, 
 and talk presented rich material for humorous report and delineation 
 or for satiric comment. Society, in the modern sense, was fast tak- 
 ing form, and the resources of social intercourse were being rapidly 
 developed. Men in public life were intimately allied with society 
 and sensitive to its opinion; and men of all interests — public, fashion- 
 able, literary — gathered in groups at the different chocolate or coffee 
 houses, and formed a kind of organized community. It was distinctly 
 an aristocratic society: elegant in dress, punctilious in manner, exact- 
 ing in taste, ready to be amused, and not indifferent to criticism 
 when it took the form of sprightly badinage or of keen and trench- 
 ant satire. The informal organization of society, which made it pos- 
 sible to reach and affect the Town as a whole, is suggested by the 
 division of the Tatler: — 
 
 "All accounts of Gallantry, Pleasure, and Entertainment, shall be 
 under the article of White's Chocolate-House: Poetry under that of 
 Will's Coffee-House; Learning under the title of Grecian; Foreign and 
 Domestic News you will have from St. James's Coffee-House: and 
 what else I have to offer on any other subject shall be dated from 
 my own apartment.'^ 
 
 So wrote Steele in his introduction to the readers of the new jour- 
 nal, which was to appear three times a week, at the cost of a penny. 
 Of the coffee-houses enumerated, St. James's and White's were the 
 headquarters of men of fashion and of politics ; the Grecian of men of 
 legal learning; Will's of men of Letters. The Tatler was successful 
 from the start. It was novel in form and in spirit; it was sprightly
 
 1^6 JOSEPH ADDISON 
 
 without being frivolous, witty without being indecent, keen without 
 being libelous or malicious. In the general license and coarseness of 
 the time, so close to the Restoration and the powerful reaction against 
 Puritanism, the cleanness, courtesy, and good taste which characterized 
 the journal had all the charm of a new diversion. In paper No. i8, 
 Addison made his appearance as a contributor, and gave the world 
 the first of those inimitable essays which influenced their own time so 
 widely, and which have become the solace and delight of all times. 
 To Addison's influence may perhaps be traced the change which 
 came over the Tatler, and which is seen in the gradual disappearance 
 of the news element, and the steady drift of the paper away from 
 journalism and toward literature. Society soon felt the full force of 
 the extraordinary talent at the command of the new censor of con- 
 temporary manners and morals. There was a well-directed and inces- 
 sant fire of wit against the prevailing taste of dramatic art; against 
 the vices of gambling and dueling; against extravagance and affect- 
 ation of dress and manner: and there was also criticism of a new 
 order. 
 
 The Tatler was discontinued in January, 171 1, and the first num- 
 ber of the Spectator appeared in March. The new journal was issued 
 daily, but it made no pretensions to newspaper timeliness or interest; 
 it aimed to set a new standard in manners, morals, and taste, with- 
 out assuming the airs of a teacher. ^* It was said of Socrates,'^ wrote 
 Addison, in a memorable chapter in the new journal, <* that he 
 brought Philosophy down from heaven to inhabit among men; and I 
 shall be happy to have it said of me that I have brought Philosophy 
 out of closets and libraries, schools and colleges, to dwell in clubs 
 and assemblies, at tea-tables and in coffee-houses.^^ For more than 
 two years the Spectator discharged with inimitable skill and success 
 the difficult function of chiding, reproving, and correcting, without 
 irritating, wounding, or causing strife. Swift found the paper too 
 gentle, but its influence was due in no small measure to its persuas- 
 iveness. Addison studied his method of attack as carefully as Mat- 
 thew Arnold, who undertook a similar educational work in our own 
 time, studied his means of approach to a public indifferent or hostile 
 to his ideas. The two hundred and seventy-four papers furnished by 
 Addison to the columns of the Spectator may be said to mark the 
 full development of English prose as a free, flexible, clear, and ele- 
 gant medium of expressing the most varied and delicate shades of 
 thought. They mark also the perfection of the essay form in our 
 literature; revealing clear perception of its limitations and of its 
 resources; easy mastery of its possibilities of serious exposition and 
 of pervading charm; ability to employ its full capacity of conveying 
 serious thought in a manner at once easy and authoritative;, They
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON 157 
 
 mark also the beginning of a deeper and more intelligent criticism; 
 for their exposition of Milton may be said to point the way to a new 
 quality of literary judgment and a new order of literary comment. 
 These papers mark, finally, the beginnings of the English novel; for 
 they contain a series of character-studies full of insight, delicacy of 
 drawing, true feeling, and sureness of touch. Addison was not con- 
 tent to satirize the follies, attack the vices, and picture the manners 
 of his times: he created a group of figures which stand out as dis- 
 tinctly as those which were drawn more than a century later by 
 the hand of Thackeray, our greatest painter of manners. De Foe had 
 not yet published the first of the great modern novels of incident 
 and adventure in < Robinson Crusoe,^ and Richardson, Fielding, and 
 Smollett were unborn or unknown, when Addison was sketching Sir 
 Roger de Coverley and Will Honeycomb, and filling in the back- 
 ground with charming studies of life in London and in the country. 
 The world has instinctively selected Sir Roger de Coverley as the 
 truest of all the creations of Addison's imagination ; and it sheds clear 
 light on the fineness of Addison's nature that among the four charac- 
 ters in fiction whom English readers have agreed to accept as typical 
 gentlemen, — Don Quixote, Sir Roger de Coverley, Henry Esmond, and 
 Colonel Newcombe, — the old English baronet holds a secure place. 
 
 Finished in style, but genuinely human in feeling, betraying the 
 nicest choice of words and the most studied care for elegant and 
 effective arrangement, and yet penetrated by geniality, enlivened by 
 humor, elevated by high moral aims, often using the dangerous 
 weapons of irony and satire, and yet always well-mannered and 
 kindly, — these papers reveal the sensitive nature of Addison and the 
 delicate but thoroughly tempered art which he had at his command. 
 
 Rarely has literature of so high an order had such instant suc- 
 cess; for the popularity of the Spectator has been rivaled in English 
 literature only by that of the Waverley novels or of the novels of 
 Dickens. Its influence was felt not only in the sentiment of the 
 day, and in the crowd of imitators which followed in its wake, but 
 also across the Channel. In Germany, especially, the genius and 
 methods of Addison made a deep and lasting impression. 
 
 No man could reach such eminence in the first quarter of the 
 last century without being tempted to try his hand at play- writing ; 
 and the friendly fortune which seemed to serve Addison at every 
 turn reached its climax in the applause which greeted the production 
 of ^ Cato. * The motive of this tragedy, constructed on what were 
 then held to be classic lines, is found in the two lines of the Pro- 
 logue; it was an endeavor to portray 
 
 «A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, 
 And greatly falling with a falling State. »
 
 1^8 JOSEPH ADDISON 
 
 The play was full of striking lines which were instantly caught 
 up and applied to the existing political situation; the theatre was 
 crowded night after night, and the resources of Europe in the way 
 of translations, plaudits, and favorable criticisms were exhausted in 
 the endeavor to express the general approval. The judgment of a 
 later period has, however, assigned < Cato ^ a secondary place, and it 
 is remembered mainly on account of its many felicitous passages. 
 It lacks real dramatic unity and vitality; the character of Cato is 
 essentially an abstraction; there is little dramatic necessity in the 
 situations and incidents. It is rhetorical rather than poetic, declama- 
 tory rather than dramatic. Johnson aptly described it as <^ rather a 
 poem in dialogue than a drama, rather a succession of just senti- 
 ments in elegant language than a representation of natural affections, 
 or of any state probable or possible in human life.'* 
 
 Addison's popularity touched its highest point in the production 
 of *■ Cato. * Even his conciliatory nature could not disarm the envy 
 which such brilliant success naturally aroused, nor wholly escape the 
 bitterness which the intense political feeling of the time constantly 
 bred between ambitious and able men. Political differences separated 
 him from Swift, and Steele's uncertain character and inconsistent 
 course blighted what was probably the most delightful intimacy of 
 his life. Pope doubtless believed that he had good ground for char- 
 ging Addison with jealousy and insincerity, and in 171 5 an open 
 rupture took place between them. The story of the famous quarrel 
 was first told by Pope, and his version was long accepted in many 
 quarters as final; but later opinion inclines to hold Addison guiltless 
 of the grave accusations brought against him. Pope was morbidly 
 sensitive to slights, morbidly eager for praise, and extremely irritable. 
 To a man of such temper, trifles light as air became significant of 
 malice and hatred. Such trifles unhappily confirmed Pope's sus- 
 picions; his self-love was wounded, sensitiveness became animosity, 
 and animosity became hate, which in the end inspired the most 
 stinging bit of satire in the language: — 
 
 « Should such a one, resolved to reign alone. 
 Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, 
 View him with jealous yet with scornful eyes, 
 Hate him for arts that caused himself to rise. 
 Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer. 
 And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer j 
 Alike unused to blame or to commend, 
 A timorous foe and a suspicious friend, 
 Fearing e'en fools, by flatterers besieged. 
 And so obliging that he ne'er obliged; 
 Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike.*
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON 1 59 
 
 There was just enough semblance of truth in these inimitable 
 lines to give them lasting stinging power; but that they were grossly 
 unjust is now generally conceded. Addison was human, and there- 
 fore not free from the frailties of men of his profession; but there 
 was no meanness in him. 
 
 Addison's loyalty to the "Whig party and his ability to serve it 
 kept him in intimate relations with its leaders and bound him to its 
 fortunes. He served the Whig cause in Parliament, and filled many 
 positions which required tact and judgment, attaining at last the 
 very dignified post of Secretary of State. A long attachment for 
 the Countess of Warwick culminated in marriage in 17 16, and 
 Addison took up his residence in Holland House; a house famous 
 for its association with men of distinction in politics and letters. 
 The marriage was not happy, if report is to be trusted. The union 
 of the ill-adapted pair was, in any event, short-lived; for three years 
 later, in 17 19, Addison died in his early prime, not yet having com- 
 pleted his fort^'-eighth year. On his death-bed. Young tells us, he 
 called his stepson to his side and said, ^^ See in what peace a Christ- 
 ian can die.^* His body was laid in Westminster Abbey; his work 
 is one of the permanent possessions of the English-speaking race; 
 his character is one of its finest traditions. He was, as truly as Sir 
 Philip Sidney, a gentleman in the sweetness of his spirit, the cour- 
 age of his convictions, the refinement of his bearing, and the purity 
 of his life. He was unspoiled by fortune and applause; uncorrupted 
 by the tempting chances of his time ; stainless in the use of gifts 
 which in the hands of a man less true would have caught the con- 
 tagion of Pope's malice or of Swift's corroding cynicism. 
 
 ^U^^llLZ A/, hj^ 
 
 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY AT THE PLAY 
 
 From the Spectator, No. 335 
 
 MY FRIEND Sir Roger de Coverley, when we last met together 
 at the Club, told me, that he had a great mind to see the 
 new Tragedy with me, assuring me at the same time that 
 he had not been at a Play these twenty Years. The last I 
 saw, said Sir Roger, was the Committee, which I should not have 
 gone to neither, had not I been told beforehand that it was a 
 good Church-oi-Eftglaud Comedy. He then proceeded to enquire 
 of me who this Distrest Mother was; and upon hearing that she 
 was Hector's Widow, he told me that her Husband was a brave
 
 j6o JOSEPH ADDISON ' " 
 
 Man, and that when he was a Schoolboy he had read his Life at 
 the end of the Dictionary. My friend asked me in the next 
 place, if there would not be some danger in coming home late, 
 in case the Mohocks* should be Abroad. I assure you, says he, 
 I thought I had fallen into their Hands last Night; for I observed 
 two or three lusty black Men that follow 'd me half way up Fleet- 
 street, and mended their pace behind me, in proportion as I put 
 on to get away from them. You must know, continu'd the 
 Knight with a Smile, I fancied they had a mind to Jiunt me; for 
 I remember an honest Gentleman in my Neighbourhood, who was 
 served such a trick in King Charles the Second's time; for which 
 reason he has not ventured himself in Town ever since. I might 
 have shown them very good Sport, had this been their Design; 
 for as I am an old Fox-hunter, I should have turned and dodg'd, 
 and have play'd them a thousand tricks they had never seen in 
 their Lives before. Sir Roger added, that if these gentlemen had 
 any such Intention, they did not succeed very well in it: for I 
 threw them out, says he, at the End of Norfolk street, where I 
 doubled the Corner, and got shelter in my Lodgings before they 
 could imagine what was become of me. However, says the 
 Knight, if Captain Sentry will make one with us to-morrow 
 night, and if you will both of you call upon me about four 
 a Clock, that we may be at the House before it is full, I will 
 have my own Coach in readiness to attend you, for John tells me 
 he has got the Fore -Wheels mended. 
 
 The Captain, who did not fail to meet me there at the 
 appointed Hour, bid Sir Roger fear nothing, for that he had put 
 on the same Sword which he made use of at the Battel of Steen- 
 kirk. Sir Roger's Servants, and among the rest my old Friend 
 the Butler, had, I found, provided themselves with good Oaken 
 Plants, to attend their Master upon this occasion. When he had 
 placed him in his Coach, with my self at his Left-Hand, the 
 Captain before him, and his Butler at the Head of his Footmen 
 in the Rear, we convoy'd him in safety to the Play-house, where, 
 after having marched up the Entry in good order, the Captain 
 and I went in with him, and seated him betwixt us in the Pit. 
 As soon as the House was full, and the Candles lighted, my old 
 Friend stood up and looked about him with that Pleasure, which 
 a Mind seasoned with Humanity naturally feels in its self, at the 
 
 * London « bucks >> who disguised themselves as savages and roamed the 
 Streets at night, committing outrages on persons and property.
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON l6i 
 
 sight of a Multitude of People who seem pleased with one an- 
 other, and partake of the same common Entertainment. I could 
 not but fancy to myself, as the old Man stood up in the middle 
 of the Pit, that he made a very proper Center to a Tragick Au- 
 dience. Upon the entring of Pyrrhiis, the Knight told me that 
 he did not believe the King of France himself had a better Strut. 
 I was indeed very attentive to my old Friend's Remarks, because 
 I looked upon them as a Piece of natural Criticism, and was well 
 pleased to hear him at the Conclusion of almost every Scene, 
 telling me that he could not imagine how the Play would end. 
 One while he appeared much concerned for Andromache; and a 
 little while after as much for Hennione: and was extremely puz- 
 zled to think what would become of Pyrrhus. 
 
 When Sir Roger saw Andromache's obstinate Refusal to her 
 Lover's importunities, he whisper'd me in the Ear, that he was 
 sure she would never have him; to which he added, with a more 
 than ordinary Vehemence, You can't imagine, Sir, what 'tis to 
 have to do with a Widow. Upon Pyrrhus his threatning after- 
 wards to leave her, the Knight shook his Head, and muttered to 
 himself. Ay, do if you can. This Part dwelt so much upon my 
 Friend's Imagination, that at the close of the Third Act, as I was 
 thinking of something else, he whispered in my Ear, These 
 Widows, Sir, are the most perverse Creatures in the World. 
 But pray, says he, you that are a Critick, is this Play accord- 
 ing to your Dramatick Rules, as you call them ? Should your 
 People in Tragedy always talk to be understood ? Why, there 
 is not a single Sentence in this Play that I do not know the 
 Meaning of. 
 
 The Fourth Act very luckily begun before I had time to give 
 the old Gentleman an Answer: Well, says the Knight, sitting 
 down with great Satisfaction, I suppose we are now to see 
 Hector's Ghost. He then renewed his Attention, and, from time 
 to time, fell a praising the Widow. He made, indeed, a little 
 Mistake as to one of her Pages, whom at his first entering, he 
 took for Astyanax; but he quickly set himself right in that Par- 
 ticular, though, at the same time, he owned he should have been 
 very glad to have seen the little Boy, who, says he, must needs 
 be a very fine Child by the Account that is given of him. Upon 
 Hermione's going ofE with a Menace to Pyrrhus^ the Audience 
 gave a loud Clap; to which Sir Roger added, On my Word, a 
 
 notable young Baggage! 
 I— jr
 
 jg, JOSEPH ADDISON 
 
 As there was a very remarkable Silence and Stillness in the 
 Audience during the whole Action, it was natural for them to 
 take the Opportunity of these Intervals between the Acts, to 
 express their Opinion of the Players, and of their respective 
 Parts. Sir Roger hearing a Cluster of them praise Orestes, struck 
 in with them, and told them, that he thought his Friend Pylades 
 was a very sensible Man; as they were afterwards applauding 
 Pyrrhus, Sir Roger put in a second time; And let me tell you, 
 says he, though he speaks but little, I like the old Fellow in 
 Whiskers as well as any of them. Captain Sentry seeing two or 
 three Waggs who sat near us, lean with an attentive Ear towards 
 Sir Roger, and fearing lest they should Smoke the Knight, 
 pluck'd him by the Elbow, and whisper'd something in his Ear, 
 that lasted till the Opening of the Fifth Act. The Knight was 
 wonderfully attentive to the Account which Orestes gives of Pyr- 
 rJius his Death, and at the Conclusion of it, told me it was such 
 a bloody Piece of Work, that he was glad it was not done upon 
 the Stage. Seeing afterwards Orestes in his raving Fit, he grew 
 more than ordinary serious, and took occasion to moralize (in his 
 way) upon an Evil Conscience, adding, that Orestes, in his Mad- 
 ness, looked as if he saiv sometJiing. 
 
 As we were the first that came into the House, so we were 
 the last that went out of it; being resolved to have a clear Pass- 
 age for our old Friend, whom we did not care to venture among 
 the justling of the Crowd. Sir Roger went out fully satisfied 
 with his Entertainment, and we guarded him to his Lodgings in 
 the same manner that we brought him to the Playhouse;' being 
 highly pleased, for my own part, not only with the Performance 
 of the excellent Piece which had been Presented, but with the 
 Satisfaction which it had given to the good old Man. L. 
 
 A VISIT TO SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY 
 
 From the Spectator, No. io6 
 
 HAVING often received an Invitation from my Friend Sir Roger 
 de Coverley to pass away a Month with him in the Country, 
 I last Week accompanied him thither, and am settled with 
 him for some time at his Country-house, where I intend to form 
 several of my ensuing Speculations. Sir Roger, who is very well 
 acquainted with my Humour, lets me rise and go to Bed when I 
 please, dine at his own Table or in my Chamber as I think fit
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON 163 
 
 sit Still and say nothing without bidding me be merry. When 
 the Gentlemen of the Country come to see him, he only shews 
 me at a distance: As I have been walking in his Fields I have 
 observed them stealing a Sight of me over an Hedge, and have 
 heard the Knight desiring them not to let me see them, for that 
 I hated to be stared at. 
 
 I am the more at Ease in Sir Roger's Family, because it con- 
 sists of sober and staid Persons: for as the Knight is the best 
 Master in the World, he seldom changes his Servants; and as he 
 is beloved by all about him, his Servants never care for leaving 
 him: by this means his Domesticks are all in years, and grown 
 old with their Master. You would take his Valet de Chambre 
 for his Brother, his Butler is grey-headed, his Groom is one of 
 the Gravest men that I have ever seen, and his Coachman has 
 the Looks of a Privy- Counsellor. You see the Goodness of the 
 Master even in the old House-dog, and in a grey Pad that is 
 kept in the Stable with great Care and Tenderness out of Regard 
 to his past Services, tho' he has been useless for several Years. 
 
 I could not but observe with a great deal of pleasure the Joy 
 that appeared in the Countenances of these ancient Domesticks 
 upon my Friend's Arrival at his Country-Seat. Some of them 
 could not refrain from Tears at the Sight of their old Master; 
 every one of them press'd forward to do something for him, and 
 seemed discouraged if they were not employed. At the same 
 time the good old Knight, with a Mixture of the Father and the 
 Master of the Family, tempered the Enquiries after his own 
 Affairs with several kind Questions relating to themselves. This 
 Humanity and good Nature engages every Body to him, so that 
 when he is pleasant upon any of them, all his Family are in 
 good Humour, and none so much as the Person whom he diverts 
 himself with: On the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays any 
 Infirmity of old Age, it is easy for a Stander-by to observe a 
 secret Concern in the Looks of all his Servants. 
 
 My worthy Friend has put me under the particular Care of 
 his Butler, who is a very prudent Man, and, as well as the rest 
 of his Fellow- Servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing me, 
 because they have often heard their Master talk of me as of his 
 particular Friend. 
 
 My chief Companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself in 
 the Woods or the Fields, is a very venerable man who is ever 
 with Sir Roger, and has lived at his House in the Nature of a
 
 jg JOSEPH ADDISON 
 
 Chaplain above thirty Years. This Gentleman is a Person of 
 good Sense and some Learning, of a very regular Life and 
 obliging Conversation: He heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows 
 that he is very much in the old Knight's Esteem, so that he lives 
 in the Family rather as a Relation than a Dependent. 
 
 I have observed in several of my Papers, that my Friend Sir 
 Roger, amidst all his good Qualities, is something of an Humour- 
 ist; and that his Virtues, as well as Imperfections, are as it were 
 tinged by a certain Extravagance, which makes them particularly 
 /«>, and distinguishes them from those of other Men. This Cast 
 of Mind, as it is generally very innocent in it self, so it renders 
 his Conversation highly agreeable, and more delightful than the 
 same Degree of Sense and Virtue would appear in their common 
 and ordinary Colours. As I was walking with him last Night, 
 he asked me how I liked the good Man whom I have just now 
 mentioned ? and without staying for my Answer told me. That he 
 was afraid of being insulted with Latin and Greek at his own 
 Table; for which Reason he desired a particular Friend of his at 
 the University to find him out a Clergyman rather of plain Sense 
 than much Learning, of a good Aspect, a clear Voice, a sociable 
 Temper, and, if possible, a Man that understood a little of Back- 
 Gammon. My Friend, says Sir Roger, found me out this Gentle- 
 man, who, besides the Endowments required of him, is, they tell 
 me, a good Scholar, tho' he does not shew it. I have given him 
 the Parsonage of the Parish; and because I know his Value have 
 settled upon him a good Annuity for Life. If he outlives me, he 
 shall find that he was higher in my Esteem than perhaps he 
 thinks he is. He has now been with me thirty Years; and tho' 
 he does not know I have taken Notice of it, has never in all that 
 time asked anything of me for himself, tho' he is every Day 
 soliciting me for something in behalf of one or other of my 
 Tenants his Parishioners. There has not been a Law-suit in the 
 Parish since he has liv'd among them: 'If any Dispute arises they 
 apply themselves to him for the Decision,- if they do not acquiesce 
 in his Judgment, which I think never happened above once or 
 twice at most, they appeal to me. At his first settling with me, 
 I made him a Present of all the good Sermons which have been 
 printed in English^ and only begg'd of him that every Sunday he 
 would pronounce one of them in the Pulpit. Accordingly, he has 
 digested them into such a Series, that they follow one another 
 naturally, and make a continued System of practical Divinity.
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON ig^ 
 
 As Sii Roger was going on in his Story, the Gentleman we 
 were talking of came up to us; and upon the Knight's asking 
 him who preached to morrow (for it was Saturday Night) told 
 us, the Bishop of St. Asaph in the Morning, and Dr. South in 
 the Afternoon. He then shewed us his List of Preachers for the 
 whole Year, where I saw with a great deal of Pleasure Arch- 
 bishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, Doctor Barroiv, Doctor 
 Calaviy, with several living Authors who have published Dis- 
 courses of Practical Divinity. I no sooner saw this venerable 
 Man in the Pulpit, but I very much approved of my Friend's 
 insisting upon the Qualifications of a good Aspect and a clear 
 Voice; for I was so charmed with the Gracefulness of his Figure 
 and Delivery, as well as with the Discourses he pronounced, that 
 I think I never passed any Time more to my Satisfaction. A 
 Sermon repeated after this Manner, is like the Composition of a 
 Poet in the Mouth of a graceful Actor. 
 
 I could heartily wish that more of our Country Clergy would 
 follow this Example; and in stead of wasting their Spirits in labo- 
 rious Compositions of their own, would endeavour after a hand- 
 some Elocution, and all those other Talents that are proper to 
 enforce what has been penned by greater Masters. This would 
 not only be more easy to themselves, but more edifying to the 
 People. 
 
 THE VANITY OF HUMAN LIFE 
 <The Vision of Mirzah,* from the Spectator, No. 159 
 
 WHEN I was at Grand Cairo, I picked up several Oriental 
 IManuscripts, which I have still by me. Among others I 
 met with one entitled, The Visions of Mirsah, which I 
 have read over w^th great Pleasure. I intend to give it to the 
 Publick when I have no other entertainment for them; and shall 
 begfin with the first Vision, which I have translated Word for 
 Word as follows. 
 
 <^ On the fifth Day of the Moon, which according to the Cus- 
 tom of my Forefathers I always keep holy, after having washed 
 my self, and offered up my Morning Devotions, I ascended the 
 high hills of Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the Day in 
 Meditation and Prayer. As I was here airing my self on the 
 Tops of the Mountains, I fell into a profound Contemplation on 
 the Vanity of human Life; and passing from one Thought to
 
 J ^5 JOSEPH ADDISON 
 
 another, Surely, said I, Man is but a Shadow and Life a Dream. 
 Whilst I was thus musing, I cast my eyes towards the Summit of 
 a Rock that was not far from me, where I discovered one in the 
 Habit of a Shepherd, with a little Musical Instrument in his 
 Hand. As I looked upon him he applied it to his Lips, and be- 
 gan to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet, and 
 wrought into a Variety of Tunes that were inexpressibly melodi- 
 ous, and altogether different from any thing I had ever heard: 
 They put me in mind of those heavenly Airs that are played to 
 the departed Souls of good Men upon their first Arrival in Para- 
 dise, to wear out the Impressions of the last Agonies, and 
 qualify them for the Pleasures of that happy Place. My Heart 
 melted away in secret Raptures. 
 
 I had been often told that the Rock before me was the 
 Haunt of a Genius; and that several had been entertained with 
 Musick who had passed by it, but never heard that the Musi- 
 cian had before made himself visible. When he had raised my 
 Thoughts by those transporting Airs which he played, to taste 
 the Pleasures of his Conversation, as I looked upon him like one 
 astonished, he beckoned to me, and by the waving of his Hand 
 directed me to approach the Place where he sat. I drew near 
 with that Reverence which is due to a superior Nature; and as 
 my heart was entirely subdued by the captivating Strains I 
 heard, I fell down at his Feet and wept. The Genius smiled 
 apon me with a Look of Compassion and Affability that famil- 
 iarized him to my Imagination, and at once dispelled all the 
 Fears and Apprehensions with which I approached him. He 
 lifted me from the Ground, and taking me by the hand, Mirsak, 
 said he, I have heard thee in thy Soliloquies; follow me. 
 
 He then led me to the highest Pinnacle of the Rock, and 
 placing me on the Top of it. Cast thy Eyes Eastward, said he, 
 and tell me what thou seest. I see, said I, a huge Valley, and a 
 prodigious Tide of Water rolling through it. The Valley that 
 thou seest, said he, is the Vale of Misery, and the Tide of 
 Water that thou seest is part of the great Tide of Eternity. 
 What is the Reason, said I, that the Tide I see rises out of a 
 thick Mist at one End, and again loses itself in a thick Mist at 
 the other ? What thou seest, said he, is that Portion of Eternity 
 which is called Time, measured out by the Sun, and reaching 
 from the Beginning of the World to its Consummation. Examine 
 now, said he, this Sea that is bounded with darkness at both
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON 167 
 
 Ends, and tell me what thou discoverest in it. I see a Bridge, 
 said I, standing in the Midst of the Tide. The Bridge thou 
 seest, said he, is human Life, consider it attentively. Upon a 
 more leisurely Survey of it, I found that it consisted of three- 
 score and ten entire Arches, with several broken Arches, which 
 added to those that were entire, made up the Number about an 
 hundred. As I was counting the Arches, the Genius told me 
 that this Bridge consisted at first of a thousand Arches; but that 
 a great Flood swept away the rest, and left the Bridge in the 
 ruinous Condition I now beheld it: But tell me further, said he, 
 what thou discoverest on it. I see Multitudes of People passing 
 over it, said I, and a black Cloud hanging on each End of it. 
 As I looked more attentively, I saw several of the Passengers 
 dropping thro' the Bridge, into the great Tide that flowed under- 
 neath it; and upon farther Examination, perceived there were 
 innumerable Trap-doors that lay concealed in the Bridge, which 
 the Passengers no sooner trod upon, but they fell thro' them into 
 the Tide and immediately disappeared. These hidden Pit-falls 
 were set very thick at the Entrance of the Bridge, so that the 
 Throngs of People no sooner broke through the Cloud, but many 
 of them fell into them. They grew thinner towards the Middle, 
 but multiplied and lay closer together toward the End of the 
 Arches that were entire. There were indeed some Persons, but 
 their number was very small, that continued a kind of a hobbling 
 March on the broken Arches, but fell through one after another, 
 being quite tired and spent with so long a Walk. 
 
 I passed some Time in the Contemplation of this wonderful 
 Structure, and the great Variety of Objects which it presented. 
 My heart was filled with a deep Melancholy to see several drop- 
 ping unexpectedly in the midst of Mirth and Jollity, and catching 
 at every thing that stood by them to save themselves. Some 
 were looking up towards the Heavens in a thoughtful Posture, 
 and in the midst of a Speculation stumbled and fell out of Sight. 
 Multitudes were very busy in the Pursuit of Bubbles that glit- 
 tered in their Eyes and danced before them; but often when they 
 thought themselves within the reach of them their Footing failed 
 and down they sunk. In this Confusion of Objects, I observed 
 some with Scymetars in their Hands, and others with Urinals, 
 who ran to and fro upon the Bridge, thrusting several Persons 
 on Trap-doors which did not seem to lie in their way, and which 
 they might have escaped had they not been forced upon them.
 
 j68 JOSEPH ADDISON 
 
 The Genius seeing me indulge my self in this melancholy Pros- 
 pect, told me I had dwelt long enough upon it: Take thine Eyes 
 off the Bridge, said he, and tell me if thou yet seest any thing 
 thou dost not comprehend. Upon looking up, What mean, said I, 
 those great Flights of Birds that are perpetually hovering about 
 the Bridge, and settling upon it from time to time ? I see Vul- 
 tures, Harpyes, Ravens, Cormorants, and among many other 
 feather'd Creatures several little winged Boys, that perch in great 
 Numbers upon the middle Arches. These, said the Genius, are 
 Envy, Avarice, Superstition, Despair, Love, with the like Cares 
 and Passions that infest human Life. 
 
 I here fetched a deep Sigh, Alas, said I, Man was made in 
 vain! How is he given away to Misery and Mortality! tortured 
 in Life, and swallowed up in Death! The Genius being moved 
 with Compassion towards me, bid me quit so uncomfortable a 
 Prospect: Look no more, said he, on Man in the first Stage of his 
 Existence, in his setting out for Eternity; but cast thine Eye on 
 that thick Mist into which the Tide bears the several Generations 
 of Mortals that fall into it. I directed my Sight as I was ordered, 
 and (whether or no the good Genius strengthened it with any 
 supernatural Force, or dissipated Part of the Mist that was before 
 too thick for the Eye to penetrate) I saw the Valley opening at 
 the farther End, and spreading forth into an immense Ocean, 
 that had a huge Rock of Adamant running through the Midst 
 of it, and dividing it into two equal parts. The Clouds still 
 rested on one Half of it, insomuch that I could discover nothing 
 in it: But the other appeared to me a vast Ocean planted with 
 innumerable Islands, that were covered with Fruits and Flowers, 
 and interwoven with a thousand little shining Seas that ran 
 among them. I could see Persons dressed in glorious Habits 
 with Garlands upon their Heads, passing among the Trees, lying 
 down by the Side of Fountains, or resting on Beds of Flowers; 
 and could hear a confused Harmony of singing Birds, falling 
 Waters, human Voices, and musical Instruments. Gladness g^ew 
 in me upon the Discovery of so delightful a Scene. I wished for 
 the Wings of an Eagle, that I might fly away to those happy 
 Seats; but the Genius told me there was no Passage to thern, 
 except through the Gates of Death that I saw opening every 
 Moment upon the Bridge. The Islands, said he, that lie so fresh 
 and green before thee, and with which the whole Face of the 
 Ocean appears spotted as far as thou canst see, are more in 
 
 /
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON 169 
 
 number than the Sands on the Sea-shore; there are Myriads of 
 Islands behind those which thou here discoverest, reaching further 
 than thine Eye, or even thine Imagination can extend it self. 
 These are the Mansions of good Men after Death, who according 
 to the Degree and Kinds of Virtue in which they excelled, are 
 distributed among these several Islands, which abound with 
 Pleasures of different Kinds and Degrees, suitable to the Relishes 
 and Perfections of those who are settled in them; every Island is 
 a Paradise accommodated to its respective Inhabitants. Are not 
 these, O Mirzah, Habitations worth contending for ? Does Life 
 appear miserable, that gives thee Opportunities of earning such a 
 Reward ? Is Death to be feared, that will convey thee to so 
 happy an Existence ? Think not Man was made in vain, who 
 has such an Eternity reserved for him. I gazed with inexpress- 
 ible Pleasure on these happy Islands. At length, said I, shew me 
 now, I beseech thee, the Secrets that lie hid under those dark 
 Clouds which cover the Ocean on the other side of the Rock of 
 Adamant. The Genius making me no Answer, I turned about to 
 address myself to him a second time, but I found that he had 
 left m.e; I then turned again to the Vision which I had been so 
 long contemplating; but Instead of the rolling Tide, the arched 
 Bridge, and the happy Islands, I saw nothing but the long hollow 
 Valley of Bagdat^ with Oxen, Sheep, and Camels grazing upon 
 the Sides of it. 
 
 AN ESSAY ON FANS 
 From the Spectator, No. 102 
 
 I DO not know whether to call the following Letter a Satyr upon 
 Coquets, or a Representation of their several fantastical Accom- 
 plishments, or what other Title to give it; but as it is I shall 
 communicate it to the Publick. It will sufficiently explain its own 
 Intentions, so that I shall give it my Reader at Length, without 
 either Preface or Postscript. 
 
 Mr. Spectator: 
 
 Women are armed with Fans as Men with Swords, and some- 
 times do more Execution with them. To the end therefore that 
 Ladies may be entire Mistresses of the Weapon which they bear, 
 I have erected an Academy for the training up of j^oung Women 
 in the Exercise of the Fan, according to the most fashionable Airs 
 and Motions that are now practis'd at Court. The Ladies who
 
 j_Q JOSEPH ADDISON 
 
 carry Fans under me are drawn up twice a-day in my great 
 Hall, where they are instructed in the Use of their Arms, and 
 exercised by the following Words of Command, 
 
 Handle your Fans, 
 Unfurl your Fans, 
 Discharge your Fans, 
 Ground your Fans, 
 Recover your Fans, 
 Flutter your Fans. 
 
 By the right Observation of these few plain Words of Command, 
 a Woman of a tolerable Genius, who will apply herself diligently 
 to her Exercise for the Space of but one half Year, shall be able 
 to give her Fan all the Graces that can possibly enter into that 
 little modish Machine. 
 
 But to the end that my Readers may form to themselves a 
 right Notion of this Exercise^ I beg leave to explain it to them 
 in all its Parts. When my Female Regiment is drawn up in 
 Array, with every one her Weapon in her Hand, upon my giving 
 the Word to handle their Fans, each of them shakes her Fan at 
 me with a Smile, then gives her Right-hand Woman a Tap upon 
 the Shoulder, then presses her Lips with the Extremity of her 
 Fan, then lets her Arms fall in an easy Motion, and stands in a 
 Readiness to receive the next Word of Command. All this is 
 done with a close Fan, and is generally learned in the first Week. 
 
 The next Motion is that of unfiirli^ig the Fan, in which are 
 comprehended several little Flirts and Vibrations, as also gradual 
 and deliberate Openings, with many voluntary Fallings asunder in 
 the Fan itself, that are seldom learned under a Month's Practice. 
 This part of the Exercise pleases the Spectators more than any 
 other, as it discovers on a sudden an infinite Number of Ciipids, 
 [Garlands,] Altars, Birds, Beasts, Rainbows, and the like agre- 
 a''-.1c Figures, that display themselves to View, whilst every one in 
 the Regiment holds a Picture in her Hand. 
 
 Upon my giving the Word to discharge their Fans, they give 
 one general Crack that may be heard at a considerable distance 
 when the Wind sits fair. This is one of the most difficult parts 
 of the Exercise; but I have several ladies with me who at their 
 first Entrance could not give a Pop loud enough to be heard at 
 the further end of a Room, who can now discharge a Fan in such 
 a manner that it shall make a Report like a Pocket- Pistol. I have
 
 JOSEPH ADDISON 171 
 
 likewise taken care (in order to hinder young Women from letting 
 off their Fans in wrong Places or unsuitable Occasions) to shew 
 upon what Subject the Crack of a Fan may come in properly: 1 
 have likewise invented a Fan, with which a Girl of Sixteen, by 
 the help of a little Wind which is inclosed about one of the largest 
 Sticks, can make as loud a Crack as a Woman of Fifty with an 
 ordinary Fan. 
 
 When the Fans are thus discharged, the Word of Command in 
 course is to ground their Fans. This teaches a Lady to quit her 
 Fan gracefully, when she throws it aside in order to take up a 
 Pack of Cards, adjust a Curl of Hair, replace a falling Pin, or 
 apply her self to any other Matter of Importance. This Part of 
 the Exercise, as it only consists in tossing a Fan with an Air 
 upon a long Table (which stands by for that Purpose) may be 
 learned in two Days Time as well as in a Twelvemonth. 
 
 When my Female Regiment is thus disarmed, I generally let 
 them walk about the Room for some Time; when on a sudden 
 (like Ladies that look upon their Watches after a long Visit) they 
 all of them hasten to their Arms, catch them up in a Hurry, and 
 place themselves in their proper Stations upon my calling out 
 Recover your Fans. This Part of the Exercise is not difficult, 
 provided a Woman applies her Thoughts to it. 
 
 The Fluttering of the Fan is the last, and indeed the Master- 
 piece of the whole Exercise; but if a Lady does not mis-spend her 
 Time, she may make herself Mistress of it in three Months. I 
 generally lay aside the Dog-days and the hot Time of the Sum- 
 mer for the teaching this Part of the Exercise; for as soon as 
 ever I pronounce Flutter your Fans, the Place is fill'd with so 
 many Zephyrs and gentle Breezes as are very refreshing in that 
 Season of the Year, tho' they might be dangerous to Ladies of a 
 tender Constitution in any other. 
 
 There is an infinite variety of Motions to be made use of m 
 the Flutter of a Fan. There is an Angry Flutter, the modest 
 Flutter, the timorous Flutter, the confused Flutter, the merry 
 Flutter, and the amorous Flutter. Not to be tedious, there is 
 scarce any Emotion in the Mind which does not produce a suit- 
 able Agitation in the Fan; insomuch, that if I only see the Fan 
 of a disciplin'd Lady, I know very well whether she laughs, 
 frowns, or blushes. I have seen a Fan so very Angry, that it 
 would have been dangerous for the absent Lover who provoked 
 it to have come w'thin the Wind of it; and at other times so
 
 J -2 JOSEPH ADDISON 
 
 very languishing, that I have been glad for the Lady's sake the 
 Lover was at a sufficient Distance from it. I need not add, that a 
 Fan is either a Prude or Coquet according to the Nature of the 
 Person who bears it. To conclude my Letter, I must acquaint 
 you that I have from my own Observations compiled a little Trea- 
 tise for the use of my Scholars, entitled The Passions of the Fan; 
 which I will communicate to you, if you think it may be of use 
 to the Publick. I shall have a general Review on Thursday 
 next; to which you shall be very welcome if you will honour it 
 with your Presence. / am^ &c. 
 
 P. S. I teach young Gentlemen the whole Art of Gallanting 
 a Fan. 
 
 N. B. I have several little plain Fans made for this Use, to 
 avoid Expence. L. 
 
 HYMN 
 From the Spectator, No. 465 
 
 THE Spacious Firmament on high 
 With all the blue Etherial Sky, 
 And Spangled Heav'ns, a Shining Frame, 
 Their great Original proclaim : 
 Th' unwearied Sun, from Day to Day, 
 Does his Creator's Pow'r display, 
 And publishes to 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 list'ning 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 rowl,   
 And spread the Truth from Pole to Pole. 
 
 What though, in solemn Silence, all 
 Move round the dark terrestrial Ball ? 
 What tho' nor real Voice nor Sound 
 Amid their radiant Orbs be found ? 
 In Reason's Ear they all rejoice, 
 And utter forth a glorious Voice, 
 For ever singing, as they shine, 
 *The Hand that made us is Divine. ^^
 
 173 
 
 /ELIANUS CLAUDIUS 
 
 (Second Century A. D.) 
 
 3CCORDING to his ^Varia Historia,^ ^lianus Claudius was a 
 native of Praeneste and a citizen of Rome, at the time of 
 the emperor Hadrian. He taught Greek rhetoric at Rome, 
 and hence was known as ** the Sophist. '' He spoke and wrote Greek 
 with the fluency and ease of a native Athenian, and gained thereby 
 the epithet of ^Hhe honey-tongued.^^ He lived to be sixty years of 
 age, and never married because he would not incur the responsi- 
 bility of children. 
 
 The ^ Varia Historia ' is the most noteworthy of his works. It is 
 a curious and interesting collection of short narratives, anecdotes, 
 and other historical, biographical, and antiquarian matter, selected 
 from the Greek authors whom he said he loved to study. And it 
 is valuable because it preserves scraps of works now lost. The 
 extracts are either in the words of the original, or give the com- 
 piler's version; for, as he says, he liked to have his own way and 
 to follow his own taste. They are grouped without method; but in 
 this very lack of order — which shows that ^* browsing >> instinct which 
 Charles Lamb declared to be essential to a right feeling for liter- 
 ature — the charm of the book lies. This habit of straying, and his 
 lack of style, prove ^lianus more of a vagabond in the domain of 
 letters than a rhetorician. 
 
 His other important book, < De Animalium Natura ^ (On the Nature 
 of Animals), is a medley of his own observations, both in Italy and 
 during his travels as far as Egypt. For several hundred years it 
 was a popular and standard book on zoology; and even as late as the 
 fourteenth century, Manuel Philes, a Byzantine poet, founded upon it 
 a poem on animals. Like the ^ Varia Historia,* it is scrappy and 
 gossiping. He leaps from subject to subject: from elephants to 
 dragons, from the liver of mice to the uses of oxen. There was. 
 however, method in this disorder; for as he says, he sought thereby 
 to give variety and hold his reader's attention. The book is inter- 
 esting, moreover, as giving us a personal glimpse of the man and of 
 his ^methods of work; for in a concluding chapter he states the gen- 
 eral principle on which he composed: that he has spent great labor, 
 thought, and care in writing it; that he has preferred the pursuit of 
 knowledge to the pursuit of wealth ; that for his part, he found more 
 pleasure in observing the habits of the lion, the panther, and the 
 fox, in listening to the song of the nightingale, and in studying the
 
 J-, ^LIANUS CLAUDIUS 
 
 migrations of cranes, than in mere heaping up of riches and finding 
 himself numbered among the great; and that throughout his work 
 he has sought to adhere to the truth. 
 
 ^lianus was more of a moralizer than an artist in words; his 
 .style has no distinctive literary qualities, and in both of his chief 
 works is the evident intention to set forth religious and moral prin- 
 ciples. He wrote, moreover, some treatises expressly on religious 
 and philosophic subjects, and some letters on husbandry. 
 
 The <Varia Historia* has been twice translated into English: by 
 Abraham Fleming in 1576, and by Thomas Stanley, son of the poet 
 and philosopher Stanley, in 1665. Fleming was a poet and scholar 
 of the English Renaissance, who translated from the ancients, and 
 made a digest of Holinshed's ^Historie of England.* His version of 
 .(Elianus loses nothing by its quaint wording, as will be seen from 
 the subjoined stories. The full title of the book is ^A Registre of 
 Hystories containing martial! Exploits of worthy Warriours, poli- 
 tique Practices and civil Magistrates, wise Sentences of famous 
 Philosophers, and other Matters manifolde and memorable written in 
 Greek by -.Elianus Claudius and delivered in English by Abraham 
 Fleming* (1576). 
 
 [All the selections following are from <A Registre of Hystories*] 
 
 OF CERTAIN NOTABLE MEN THAT MADE THEMSELVES PLAY- 
 
 FELLOWES WITH CHILDREN 
 
 HERCULES (as some say) assuaged the tediousness of his labors, 
 which he sustayned in open and common games, with play- 
 ing. This Hercules, I say, being an incomparable warriour, 
 and the Sonne of Jupiter and Latona, made himselfe a playfellowe 
 with boys. Euripides the poet introduceth, and bringeth in, 
 the selfe same god speaking in his owne person, and saying, <* I 
 play because choyce and chaunge of labors is delectable and 
 sweete unto me,'* whiche wordes he uttered holdinge a boy by 
 the hande. Socrates also was espied of Alcibiades upon a time, 
 playing with Lamprocles, who was in manner but a childe. 
 Agesilaus riding upon a rude, or cock-horse as they terme it, 
 played with his sonne beeing but a boy: and when a certayn man 
 passing by sawe him so doe and laughed there withall, Agesilaus 
 sayde thus, Now hold thy peace and say nothing; but when thou 
 art a father I doubt not thou wilt doe as fathers should doe with 
 their children. Architas Tarentinus being both in authoritie in
 
 ^LIANUS CLADDIUS j-^ 
 
 the commonwealth, that is to say a magestrat, and also a philoso- 
 pher, not of the obscurest sorte, but a precise lover of wisdom, 
 at that time he was a housband, a housekeeper, and maintained 
 many servauntes, he was greatly delighted with their younglinges, 
 used to play oftentimes v/ith his servauntes' children, and was 
 wonte, when he was at dinner and supper, to rejoyce in the sight 
 and presence of them: yet was Tarentinus (as all men knowe) a 
 man of famous memorie and noble name. 
 
 OF A CERTAINE SICILIAN WHOSE EYSIGHT WAS WOONDER- 
 
 FULL SHARPE AND QUICK i 
 
 THERE was in Sicilia a certaine man indued with such sharp- 
 nesse, quicknesse, and clearnesse of sight (if report may 
 challenge credite) that hee coulde see from Lilyuseus to 
 Carthage with such perfection and constancy that his eies coulde 
 not be deceived: and that he tooke true and just account of all 
 ships and vessels which went under sayle from Carthage, over- 
 skipping not so much as one in the universall number. 
 
 Something straunge it is that is recorded of Argus, a man 
 that had no lesse than an hundred eyes, unto whose custody Juno 
 committed lo, the daughter of Inachus, being transformed into a 
 young heifer: while Argus (his luck being such) was slaine sleep- 
 ing, but the Goddess Juno so provided that all his eyes (whatso- 
 ever became of his carkasse) should be placed on the pecock's 
 taile; wherupon (sithence it came to passe) the pecock is called 
 Avis Junonia, or Lady Juno Birde. This historic is notable, but 
 7et the former (in mine opinion) is more memorable. 
 
 THE LAWE OF THE LACEDEMONIANS AGAINST COVETOUS- 
 
 NESS 
 
 A CERTAIN young man of Lacedsemonia having bought a plot 
 of land for a small and easy price (and, as they say, dogge 
 cheape) was arrested to appear before the magistrates, and 
 after the trial of his matter he was charged with a penalty. The 
 reason why hee was judged worthy this punishment was because 
 he being but a young man gaped so gredely after gain and 
 yawned after filthy covetousness. For yt was a most commend- 
 able thing among the Lacedaemonians not only to fighte against 
 the enemie in battell manfully; but also to wrestle and struggle 
 with covetousness (that misschievous monster) valliauntly.
 
 176 
 
 ^LIANUS CLAUDIUS 
 
 THAT SLEEP IS THE BROTHER OF DEATH, AND OF GORGIAS 
 
 DRAWING TO HIS END 
 
 GORGIAS Leontinus looking towardes the end of his life and 
 beeing wasted with the weaknes and wearysomenesse of 
 drooping olde age, falling into sharp and sore sicknesse 
 upon a time slumbered and slept upon his soft pillowe a little sea- 
 son. Unto whose chamber a familiar freend of his resorting to 
 visit him in his sicknes demaunded how he felt himself affected in 
 body. To whom Gorgias Leontinus made this pithy and plaus- 
 ible answeer, " Now Sleep beginneth to deliver me up into the 
 jurisdiction of his brother-germane, Death.** 
 
 OF THE VOLUNTARY AND WILLING DEATH OF CALANUS 
 
 THE ende of Calanus deserveth no lesse commendation than it 
 procureth admiration; it is no less praiseworthy than it was 
 worthy wonder. The manner, therefore, was thus. The 
 within-named Calanus, being a sophister of India, when he had 
 taken his long leave and last farewell of Alexander, King of 
 Macedonia, and of his life in lyke manner, being willing, desirous, 
 and earnest to set himselfe at lybertie from the cloggs, chaines, 
 barres, boults, and fetters of the prison of the body, pyled up a 
 bonnefire in the suburbs of Babylon of dry woodde and chosen 
 sticks provided of purpose to give a sweete savour and an 
 odoriferous smell in burning. The kindes of woodde which hee 
 used to serve his turne in this case were these: Cedre, Rose- 
 mary, Cipres, Mirtle, and Laurell. These things duely ordered, 
 he buckled himselfe to his accustomed exercise, namely, running 
 and leaping into the middest of the wodstack he stoode bolte 
 upright, having about his head a garlande made of the greene 
 leaves of reedes, the sunne shining full in his face, as he stoode 
 in the pile of stycks, whose glorious majesty, glittering with 
 bright beams of amiable beuty, he adored and worshipped. Fur- 
 thermore he gave a token and signe to the Macedonians to kindle 
 the fire, which, when they had done accordingly, hee beeing com- 
 passed round about with flickering flames, stoode stoutly and 
 valiauntly in one and the selfe same place, and dyd not shrincke 
 one foote, until hee gave up the ghost, whereat Alexander un- 
 vailyng, as at a rare strange sight and worldes wonder, saide
 
 ^LIANUS CLAUDIUS I77 
 
 (as the voice goes) these words : — " Calanus hath subdued, over- 
 come, and vanquished stronger enemies than I. For Alexander 
 made warre against Porus, Taxiles, and Darius. But Calanus did 
 denounce and did battell to labor and fought fearcely and man- 
 fully with death." 
 
 OF DELICATE DINNERS, SUMPTUOUS SUPPERS, AND PRODI- 
 GALL BANQUETING 
 
 TIMOTHY, the son of Conon, captain of the Athenians, leaving 
 his sumptuous fare and royall banqueting, beeing desired 
 and intertained of Plato to a feast philosophicall, seasoned 
 with contentation and musick, at his returning home from that 
 supper of Plato, he said unto his familiar freends : — ^* They whiche 
 suppe with Plato, this night, are not sick or out of temper the 
 next day following;" and presently upon the enunciation of that 
 speech, Timothy took occasion to finde fault with great dinners, 
 suppers, feasts, and banquets, furnished with excessive fare, im- 
 moderate consuming of meats, delicates, dainties, toothsome jun- 
 kets, and such like, which abridge the next dayes joy, gladnes, 
 delight, mirth, and pleasantnes. Yea, that sentence is consonant 
 and agreeable to the former, and importeth the same sense not- 
 withstanding in words it hath a little difference. That the within 
 named Timothy meeting the next day after with Plato said to 
 him : — ^^ You philosophers, f reend Plato, sup better the day fol- 
 lowing than the night present." 
 
 OF BESTOWING TIME, AND HOW WALKING UP AND DOWNE 
 WAS NOT ALLOWABLE AMONG THE LACEDEMONIANS 
 
 THE Lacedaemonians were of this judgment, that measureable 
 spending of time was greatly to be esteemed, and therefore 
 did they conforme and apply themselves to any kinde of 
 laboure moste earnestly and painfully, not withdrawing their hands 
 from works of much bodyly mooving, not permitting any particu- 
 lar person, beeing a citizen, to spend the time in idlenes, to waste 
 it in unthrifty gaming, to consume it in trifling, in vain toyes and 
 lewd loytering, all whiche are at variance and enmity with vertue. 
 Of this latter among many testimonyes, take this for one. 
 
 When it was reported to the magistrates of the Lacedaemo- 
 nians called Ephori, in manner of complaint, that the inhabitants 
 I — 12
 
 178 
 
 ^LIANUS CLAUDIUS 
 
 of Deceleia used afternoone walkings, they sent unto them mes- 
 sengers with their commandmente, saying : — " Go not up and 
 doune Hke loyterers, nor walke not abrode at your pleasure, pam- 
 pering the wantonnes of your natures rather than accustoming 
 yourself to exercises of activity. For it becometh the Lacedaemo- 
 nians to regarde their health and to maintaine their safety not 
 with walking to and fro, but with bodily labours.^* 
 
 HOW SOCRATES SUPPRESSED THE PRYDE AND HAUTINESSE 
 
 OF ALCIBIADES 
 
 SOCRATES, seeing Alcibiades puft up with pryde and broyling in 
 ambitious behavioure (because possessor of such great wealth 
 and lorde of so large lands) brought him to a place where 
 a table did hang containing a discription of the worlde universall. 
 Then did Socrates will Alcibiades to seeke out the situation of 
 Athens, which when he found Socrates proceeded further and 
 willed him to point out that plot of ground where his lands and 
 lordships lay. Alcibiades, having sought a long time and yet 
 never the nearer, sayde to Socrates that his livings were not set 
 forth in that table, nor any discription of his possession therein 
 made evident. When Socrates, rebuked with this secret quip: 
 *^And art thou so arrogant (sayeth he) and so hautie in heart for 
 that which is no parcell of the world ? ^^ 
 
 OF CERTAINE WASTGOODES AND SPENDTHRIFTES 
 
 PRODiGALL lavishing of substance, unthrifty and wastifull spend- 
 ing, voluptuousness of life and palpable sensuality brought 
 Pericles, Callias, the sonne of Hipponicus, and Nicias not 
 only to necessitie, but to povertie and beggerie. Who, after their 
 money waxed scant, and turned to a very lowe ebbe, they three 
 drinking a poysoned potion one to another (which was the last 
 cuppe that they kissed with their lippes) passed out of this life 
 (as it were from a banquet) to the powers infemall.
 
 179 
 
 y^SCHINES 
 
 (389-314 B.C.) 
 
 !he life and oratory of ^schines fall fittingly into that period 
 of Greek history when the free spirit of the people which 
 had created the arts of Pindar and Sophocles, Pericles, Phi- 
 dias, and Plato, was becoming- the spirit of slaves and of savans, who 
 sought to forget the freedom of their fathers in learning, luxury, 
 and the formalism of deducers of rules. To this slavery ^schines 
 himself contributed, both in action with Philip of Macedon and in 
 speech. Philip had entered upon a career of conquest; a policy 
 legitimate in itself and beneficial as judged by 
 its larger fruits, but ruinous to the advanced 
 civilization existing in the Greek City-States 
 below, whose high culture was practically con- 
 fiscated to spread out over a waste of semi- 
 barbarism and mix with alien cultures. Among 
 his Greek sympathizers, ^schines was perhaps 
 his chief support in the conquest of the Greek 
 world that lay to the south within his reach. 
 
 ^schines was born in 389 B. C, six years 
 before his lifelong rival Demosthenes. If we 
 may trust that rival's elaborate details of his 
 early life, his father taught a primary school 
 and his mother was overseer of certain initia- 
 tory rites, to both of which occupations .^Eschines gave his youthful 
 hand and assistance. He became in time a third-rate actor, and the 
 duties of clerk or scribe presently made him familiar with the execu- 
 tive and legislative affairs of Athens. Both vocations served as an 
 apprenticeship to the public speaking toward which his ambition was 
 turning. We hear of his serving as a heavy-armed soldier in various 
 Athenian expeditions, and of his being privileged to carry to Athens, 
 in 349 B. C, the first news of the victory of Tamynas, in Euboea, in 
 reward for the bravery he had shown in the battle. 
 
 Two years afterward he was sent as an envoy into the Pelopon- 
 nesus, with the object of forming a union of the Greeks against Philip 
 for the defense of their liberties. But his mission was unsuccessful. 
 Toward the end of the same year he served as one of the ten 
 ambassadors sent to Philip to discuss terms of peace. The harangues 
 of the Athenians at this meeting were followed in turn by a speech 
 of Philip, whose openness of manner, pertinent arguments, and pre- 
 tended desire for a settlement led to a second embassy, empowered 
 
 -^SCHINES.
 
 t8o 
 
 ^SCHINES 
 
 to receive from him the oath of allegiance and peace. It was dur- 
 ing this second embassy that Demothenes says he discovered the 
 philippizing spirit and foul play of ^schines. Upon their return to 
 Athens, ^schines rose before the assembly to assure the people that 
 Philip had come to Thermopylae as the friend and ally of Athens. 
 *We, your envoys, have satisfied him,>> said ^schines. "You will 
 hear of benefits still more direct which we have determined Philip 
 to confer upon you, but which it would not be prudent as yet to 
 specify.'^ 
 
 But the alarm of the Athenians at the presence of Philip within 
 the gates was not allayed. The king, however, anxious to temporize 
 with them until he could receive his army supplies by sea, suborned 
 /Eschines, who assured his countrymen of Philip's peaceful intentions. 
 On another occasion, by an inflammatory speech at Delphi, he so 
 played upon the susceptibilities of the rude Amphictyones that they 
 rushed forth, uprooted their neighbors' harvest fields, and began a 
 devastating war of Greek against Greek. Internal dissensions prom- 
 ised the shrewd Macedonian the conquest he sought. At length, in 
 August, 338, came Philip's victory at Chaeronea, and the complete 
 prostration of Greek power, ^schines, who had hitherto disclaimed 
 all connection with Philip, now boasted of his intimacy with the 
 king. As Philip's friend, while yet an Athenian, he offered himself 
 as ambassador to entreat leniency from the victor toward the un- 
 happy citizens. 
 
 The memorable defense of Demosthenes against the attack of 
 ^schines was delivered in 330 B. C. Seven years before this, Ctesi- 
 phon had proposed to the Senate that the patriotic devotion and 
 labors of Demosthenes should be acknowledged by the gift of a 
 golden crown — a recognition willingly accorded. But as this decis- 
 ion, to be legal, must be confirmed by the Assembly, ^schines gave 
 notice that he would proceed against Ctesiphon for proposing an 
 unconstitutional measure. He managed to postpone action on the 
 notice for six years. At last he seized a moment when the victo- 
 ries of Philip's son and successor, Alexander, were swaying popular 
 feeling, to deliver a bitter harangue against the whole life and pol- 
 icy of his political opponent. Demosthenes answered in that magnifi- 
 cent oration called by the Latin writers ^ De Corona.* ^schines was 
 not upheld by the people's vote. He retired to Asia, and, it is said, 
 opened a school of rhetoric at Rhodes. There is a legend that after 
 he had one day delivered in his school the masterpiece of his enemy, 
 his students broke into applause: "What,** he exclaimed, "if you 
 had heard the wild beast thunder it out himself!** 
 
 ^schines was what we call nowadays a self-made man. The great 
 faults of his life, his philippizing policy and his confessed corruption,
 
 ^SCHINES l8i 
 
 arose, doubtless, from the results of youthful poverty: a covetousness 
 growing out of want, and a lack of principles of conduct which a 
 broader education would have instilled. As an orator he was second 
 only to Demosthenes; and while he may at times be compared to 
 his rival in intellectual force and persuasiveness, his moral defects — 
 which it must be remembered that he himself acknowledged — make 
 a comparison of character impossible. 
 
 His chief works remaining to us are the speeches < Against Timar- 
 chus,* <0n the Embassy, > < Against Ctesiphon,* and letters, which are 
 included in the edition of G. E. Benseler (1855-60). In his < History of 
 Greece,^ Grote discusses at length — of course adversely — the influence 
 of ^schines; especially controverting Mitford's favorable view and 
 his denunciation of Demosthenes and the patriotic party. The trend 
 of recent writing is toward Mitford's estimate of Philip's policy, 
 and therefore less blame for the Greek statesmen who supported it, 
 though without Mitford's virulence toward its opponents. Mahaffy 
 (* Greek Life and Thought >) holds the whole contest over the crown 
 to be mere academic threshing of old straw, the fundamental issues 
 being obsolete by the rise of a new world under Alexander. 
 
 A DEFENSE AND AN ATTACK 
 From the < Oration against Ctesiphon> 
 
 IN REGARD to the calumnies with which I am attacked, I wish 
 to say a word or two before Demosthenes speaks. He will 
 
 allege, I am told, that the State has received distinguished 
 services from him, while from me it has suffered injury on 
 many occasions; and that the deeds of Philip and Alexander, 
 and the crimes to which they gave rise, are to be imputed to me. 
 Demosthenes is so clever in the art of speaking that he does not 
 bring accusation against me, against any point in my conduct of 
 affairs or any counsels I may have brought to our public meet- 
 ings; but he rather casts reflections upon my private life, and 
 charges me with a criminal silence. 
 
 Moreover, in order that no circumstance may escape his cal- 
 umny, he attacks my habits of life when I was in school with my 
 young companions; and even in the introduction of his speech 
 he will say that I have begun this prosecution, not for the benefit 
 of the State, but because I want to make a show of myself to 
 Alexander and gratify Alexander's resentment against him. He 
 purposes, as I learn, to ask why I blame his administration as a 
 whole, and yet never hindered or indicted any one separate act;
 
 J 32 .ESCHINES 
 
 why, after a considerable interval of attention to public affairs, 
 I now return to prosecute this action. . . . 
 
 But what I am now about to notice — a matter which I hear 
 Demosthenes will speak of — about this, by the Olympian deities, 
 I cannot but feel a righteous indignation. He will liken my 
 speech to the Sirens', it seems, and the legend anent their art is 
 that those who listen to them are not charmed, but destroyed; 
 wherefore the music of the Sirens is not in good repute. Even 
 so he will aver that knowledge of my words and myself is a 
 source of injury to those who listen to me. I, for my part, think 
 it becomes no one to urge such allegations against me; for it is 
 a shame if one who makes charges cannot point to facts as full 
 evidence. And if such charges must be made, the making surely 
 does not become Demosthenes, but rather some military man — 
 some man of action — who has done good work for the State, and 
 who, in his untried speech, vies with the skill of antagonists 
 because he is conscious that he can tell no one of his deeds, and 
 because he sees his accusers able to show his audience that he 
 had done what in fact he never had done. But when a man 
 made up entirely of words, — of sharp words and overwrought 
 sentences, — when he takes refuge in simplicity and plain facts, who 
 then can endure it? — whose tongue is like a flute, inasmuch as if 
 you take it away the rest is nothing. 
 
 This man thinks himself worthy of a crown — that his honoi 
 should be proclaimed. But should you not rather send into exile 
 this common pest of the Greeks ? Or will you not seize upon him 
 as a thief, and avenge yourself upon him whose mouthings have 
 enabled him to bear full sail through our commonwealth? Re- 
 member the season in which you cast your vote. In a few days 
 the Pythian Games will come round, and the convention of the 
 Hellenic States will hold its sessions. Our State has been con- 
 cerned on account of the measures of Demosthenes regarding 
 present crises. You will appear, if you crown him, accessory to 
 those who broke the general peace. But if, on the other hand, 
 you refuse the crown, you will free the State from blame. Do 
 not take counsel as if it were for an alien, but as if it concerned, 
 as it does, the private interest of your city; and do not dispense 
 your honors carelessly, but with judgment; and let your public 
 gifts be the distinctive possession of men most worthy. Not only 
 hear, but also look around you and consider who are the men 
 who support Demosthenes. Are they his fellow-hunters, or his
 
 ^SCHINES 
 
 183 
 
 associates in old athletic sports ? No, by Olympian Zeus, he was 
 never engaged in hunting the wild boar, nor in care for the 
 well-being of his body; but he was toiling at the art of those 
 who keep up possessions. 
 
 Take into consideration also his art of juggling, when he says 
 that by his embassy he wrested Byzantium from the hands of 
 Philip, and that his eloquence led the Acarnanians to revolt, and 
 struck dumb the Thebans. He thinks, forsooth, that you have 
 fallen to such a degree of weakness that he can persuade you 
 that you have been entertaining Persuasion herself in your city, 
 and not a vile slanderer. And when at the conclusion of his 
 argument he calls upon his partners in bribe-taking, then fancy 
 that you see upon these steps, from which I now address you, 
 the benefactors of your State arrayed against the insolence of 
 those men. Solon, who adorned our commonwealth with most 
 noble laws, a man who loved wisdom, a worthy legislator, asking 
 you in dignified and sober manner, as became his character, 
 not to follow the pleading of Demosthenes rather than your 
 oaths and laws. Aristides, who assigned to the Greeks their 
 tributes, to whose daughters after he had died the people gave 
 portions — imagine Aristides complaining bitterly at the insult to 
 public justice, and asking if you are not ashamed that when your 
 fathers banished Arthurias the Zelian, who brought gold from 
 the Medes (although while he was sojourning in the city and a 
 guest of the people of Athens they were scarce restrained from 
 killing him, and by proclamation forbade him the city and any 
 dominion the Athenians had power over), nevertheless that you 
 are going to crown Demosthenes, who did not indeed bring gold 
 from the Medes, but who received bribes and has them still in 
 his possession. And Themistocles and those who died at Mara- 
 thon and at Plataea, and the very graves of your ancestors — 
 will they not cry out if you venture to grant a crown to one who 
 confesses that he united with the barbarians against the Greeks ? 
 
 And now, O earth and sun ! virtue and intelligence ! and thou, 
 
 genius of the humanities, who teachest us to judge between 
 the noble and the ignoble, I have come to your succor and I 
 have done. If I have made my pleading with dignity and 
 worthily, as I looked to the flagrant wrong which called it forth, 
 
 1 have spoken as I wished. If I have done ill, it was as I was 
 able. Do you weigh well my words and all that is left unsaid, 
 and vote in accordance with justice and the interests of the city.'
 
 i84 
 
 y^SCHYLUS 
 
 (B.C. 525-456) 
 BY JOHN WILLIAMS WHITE 
 
 Ihe mightiest of Greek tragic poets was the son of Etiphorion, 
 an Athenian noble, and was born B. C. 525. When he was a 
 lad of eleven, the tyrant Hipparchus fell in a public street 
 of Athens under the daggers of Harmodius and Aristogeiton. Later, 
 ^schylus saw the family of tyrants, which for fifty years had ruled 
 Attica with varying fortunes, banished from the land. With a boy's 
 eager interest he followed the establishment of the Athenian democ- 
 racy by Cleisthenes. He grew to manhood in stirring times. The 
 
 new State was engaged in war with 
 the powerful neighboring island of 
 ^gina; on the eastern horizon was 
 gathering the cloud that was to burst 
 in storm at Marathon, ^schylus was 
 trained in that early school of Athe- 
 nian greatness whose masters were 
 Miltiades, Aristides, and Themistocles. 
 During the struggle with Persia, 
 fought out on Greek soil, the poet 
 was at the height of his physical 
 powers, and we may feel confidence 
 in the tradition that he fought not 
 only at Marathon, but also at Sala- 
 mis. Two of his extant tragedies 
 breathe the very spirit of war, and 
 show a soldier's experience; and the epitaph upon his tomb, which 
 was said to have been written by himself, recorded how he had been 
 one of those who met the barbarians in the first shock of the great 
 struggle and had helped to save his country, 
 
 «How brave in battle was Euphorion's son, 
 The long-haired Mede can tell who fell at Marathon.® 
 
 Before ^schylus, Attic tragedy had been essentially lyrical. It 
 arose from the dithyrambic chorus that was sung at the festivals of 
 Dionysus. Thespis had introduced the first actor, who, in the pauses 
 of the choral song, related in monologue the adventures of the god 
 or engaged in dialogue with the leader of the chorus. To ^schylus 
 
 -^SCHYLUS
 
 ^SCHYLUS 185 
 
 is due the invention of the second actor. This essentially changed the 
 character of the performance. The dialogue could now be carried on 
 by the two actors, who were thus able to enact a complete story. 
 The functions of the chorus became less important, and the lyrical 
 element was subordinated to the action. ( The word ^* drama ^^ signi- 
 fies action.) The number of actors was subsequently increased to 
 three, and ^schylus in his later plays used this number. This re- 
 striction imposed upon the Greek playwright does not mean that he 
 was limited to tAvo or three characters in his play, but that only two, 
 or at the most three, of these might take part in the action at once. 
 The same actor might assume different parts. The introduction of 
 the second actor was so capital an innovation that it rightly entitles 
 u^schylus to be regarded as the creator of the drama, for in his 
 hands tragedy first became essentially dramatic. This is his great 
 distinction, but his powerful genius wrought other changes. He per- 
 fected, if he did not discover, the practice of introducing three plays 
 upon a connected theme (technically named a trilogy), with an after- 
 piece of lighter character. He invented the tragic dress and buskin, 
 and perfected the tragic mask. He improved the tragic dance, and 
 by his use of scenic decoration and stage machinery, secured effects 
 that were unknown before him. His chief claim to superior excel- 
 lence, however, lies after all in his poetry. Splendid in diction, vivid 
 in the portraiture of character, and powerful in the expression of 
 passion, he is regarded by many competent critics as the greatest 
 tragic poet of all time. 
 
 The Greek lexicographer, Suidas, reports that ^schylus wrote 
 ninety plays. The titles of seventy-two of these have been handed 
 down in an ancient register. He brought out the first of these at 
 the age of twenty-five, and as he died at the age of sixty-nine, he 
 wrote on an average two plays each year throughout his lifetime. 
 Such fertility would be incredible, were not similar facts authen- 
 tically recorded of the older tragic poets of Greece. The Greek 
 drama, moreover, made unusual demands on the creative powers of 
 the poet. It was lyrical, and the lyrics were accompanied by the 
 dance. All these elements — poetry, song, and dance — the poet con- 
 tributed ; and we gain a new sense of the force of the word " poet '* 
 (it means ^'creator >*), when we contemplate his triple function. 
 Moreover, he often << staged*^ the play himself, and sometimes he 
 acted in it. ^schylus was singularly successful in an age that pro- 
 duced many great poets. He took the first prize at least thirteen 
 times; and as he brought out four plays at each contest, more than 
 half his plays were adjudged by his contemporaries to be of the 
 highest quality. After the poet's death, plays which he had writ- 
 ten, but which had not been acted in his lifetime, were brought out
 
 igg ^SCHYLUS 
 
 by his sons and a nephew. It is on record that his son Euphorion 
 took the first prize four times with plays of his father; so the poet's 
 art lived after him and suffered no eclipse. 
 
 Only seven complete plays of ^schylus are still extant. The 
 best present source of the text of these is a manuscript preserved in 
 the Laurentian Library, at Florence in Italy, which was written in 
 the tenth or eleventh century after Christ. The number of plays 
 still extant is small, but fortunately, among them is the only com- 
 plete Greek trilogy that we possess, and luckily also the other four 
 serve to mark successive stages in the poet's artistic development. 
 The trilogy of the * Oresteia * is certainly his masterpiece ; in some of 
 the other plays he is clearly seen to be still bound by the limitations 
 which hampered the earlier writers of Greek tragedy. In the follow- 
 ing analysis the seven plays will be presented in their probable 
 chronological order. 
 
 The Greeks signally defeated Xerxes in the great sea fight in the 
 bay of Salamis, B. C. 480. The poet made this victory the theme of 
 his < Persians.^ This is the only historical Greek tragedy which we 
 now possess: the subjects of all the rest are drawn from mythology. 
 But -iEschylus had a model for his historical play in the ^ Phoeni- 
 cian Women' of his predecessor Phrynichus, which dealt with the 
 same theme, ^schylus, indeed, is said to have imitated it closely 
 in the < Persians.' Plagiarism was thought to be a venial fault by 
 the ancients, just as in the Homeric times piracy was not considered 
 a disgrace. The scene of the play is not Athens, as one might 
 expect, but Susa. It opens without set prologue. The Chorus con- 
 sists of Persian elders, to whom the government of the country has 
 been committed in the absence of the King. These venerable men 
 gather in front of the royal palace, and their leader opens the play 
 with expressions of apprehension: no news has come from the host 
 absent in Greece. The Chorus at first express full confidence in the 
 resistless might of the great army; but remembering that the gods 
 are jealous of vast power and success in men, yield to gloomy fore- 
 bodings. These grow stronger when Atossa, the aged mother of 
 Xerxes, appears from the palace and relates the evil dreams which 
 she has had on the previous night, and the omen that followed. The 
 Chorus beseech her to make prayer to the gods, to offer libations to 
 the dead, and especially to invoke the spirit of Darius to avert ths 
 evil which threatens his ancient kingdom. Too late ! A messenger 
 arrives and announces that all is lost. By one fell stroke the might 
 of Persia has been laid low at Salamis. At Atossa's request, the mes- 
 senger, interrupted at first by the lamentations of the Chorus, recounts 
 what has befallen. His description of the battle in the straits is a 
 passage of signal power, and is justly celebrated. The Queen retires,
 
 ^SCHYLUS 
 
 187 
 
 and the Chorus sing a song full of gloomy reflections. The Queen 
 reappears, and the ghost of Darius is invoked from the lower world. 
 He hears from Atossa what has happened, sees in this the fulfill- 
 ment of certain ancient prophecies, foretells disaster still to come, 
 and warns the Chorus against further attempts upon Greece. As he 
 departs to the underworld, the Chorus sing in praise of the wisdom 
 of his reign. Atossa has withdrawn. Xerxes now appears with 
 attendants, laments with the Chorus the disaster that has overtaken 
 him, and finally enters the palace. 
 
 The economy of the play is simple : only two actors are required. 
 The first played the parts of Atossa and Xerxes, the second that of 
 the messenger and the ghost of Darius. The play well illustrates 
 the conditions under which ^schylus at this period wrote. The 
 Chorus was still of first importance ; the ratio of the choral parts in 
 the play to the dialogue is about one to two. 
 
 The exact date of the ^ Suppliants^ cannot be determined; but the 
 simplicity of its plot, the lack of a prologue, the paucity of its char- 
 acters, and the prominence of the Chorus, show that it is an early 
 play. The scene is Argos. The Chorus consists of the daughters of 
 Danaiis, and there are only three characters, — Danaiis, a Herald, and 
 Pelasgus King of Argos. 
 
 Danaiis and ^gyptus, brothers, and descendants of lo and Epa- 
 phus, had settled near Canopus at the mouth of the Nile, ^gyptus 
 sought to unite his fifty sons in marriage with the fifty daughters of 
 the brother. The daughters fled with their father to Argos. Here 
 his play opens. The Chorus appeal for protection to the country, 
 once the home of lo, and to its gods and heroes. Pelasgus, with the 
 consent of the Argive people, grants them refuge, and at the end of 
 the play repels the attempt to seize them made by the Herald of the 
 sons of ^gyptus. 
 
 A part of one of the choruses is of singular beauty, and it is 
 doubtless to them that the preservation of the play is due. The 
 play hardly seems to be a tragedy, for it ends without bloodshed. 
 Further, it lacks dramatic interest, for the action almost stands still. 
 It is a cantata rather than a tragedy. Both considerations, however, 
 are sufficiently explained by the fact that this was the first play of a 
 trilogy. The remaining plays must have furnished, in the death of 
 forty-nine of the sons of ^gyptus, both action and tragedy in suffi- 
 cient measure to satisfy the most exacting demands. 
 
 The ^ Seven Against Thebes > deals with the gloomy myth of the 
 house of Laius. The tetralogy to which it belonged consisted of the 
 *Laius,* 'CEdipus,' < Seven Against Thebes, > and < Sphinx. > The 
 themes of Greek tragedy were drawn from the national mythology, 
 but the myths were treated with a free hand. In his portrayal of
 
 i88 
 
 ^SCHYLUS 
 
 the fortunes of this doomed race, ^schylus departed in important 
 particulars, with gain in dramatic effect, from the story as it is read 
 in Homer. 
 
 CEdipus had pronounced an awful curse upon his sons, Eteocles 
 and Polynices, for their unfilial neglect, — <* they should one day 
 divide their land by steel. ^* They thereupon agreed to reign in 
 turn, each for a year; but Eteocles, the elder, refused at the end of 
 the first year to give up the throne. Polynices appealed to Adrastus 
 King of Argos for help, and seven chiefs appeared before the walls 
 of Thebes to enforce his claim, and beleaguered the town. Here 
 the play opens, with an appeal addressed by Eteocles to the citizens 
 of Thebes to prove themselves stout defenders of their State in its 
 hour of peril. A messenger enters, and describes the sacrifice and 
 oath of the seven chiefs. The Chorus of Theban maidens enter in 
 confusion and sing the first ode. The hostile army is hurrying from 
 its camp against the town; the Chorus hear their shouts and the 
 rattling din of their arms, and are overcome by terror. Eteocles 
 reproves them for their fears, and bids them sing a paean that shall 
 hearten the people. The messenger, in a noteworthy scene, de- 
 scribes the appearance of each hostile chief. The seventh and last 
 is Polynices. Eteocles, although conscious of his father's curse, nev- 
 ertheless declares with gloomy resoluteness that he will meet his 
 brother in single combat, and, resisting the entreaties of the Chorus, 
 goes forth to his doom. The attack on the town is repelled, but 
 the brothers fall, each by the other's hand. Thus is the curse ful- 
 filled. Presently their bodies are wheeled in. Their sisters, Antigone 
 and Ismene, follow and sing a lament over the dead. A herald an- 
 nounces that the Theban Senate forbid the burial of Polynices; his 
 body shall be cast forth as prey of dogs. Antigone declares her 
 resolution to brave their mandlate, and perform the last sad rites for 
 her brother. 
 
 « Dread tie, the common womb from which we sprang, — 
 Of wretched mother born and hapless sire.>> 
 
 The Chorus divides. The first semi-chorus sides with Antigone; 
 the second declares its resolution to follow to its last resting-place 
 the body of Eteocles. And thus the play ends. The theme is here 
 sketched, just at the close of the play, in outline, that Sophocles 
 has developed with such pathetic effect in his ^Antigone.* 
 
 The *■ Prometheus * transports the reader to another world. The 
 characters are gods, the time is the remote past, the place a desolate 
 waste in Scythia, on the confines of the Northern Ocean. Pr@- 
 metheus had sinned against the authority of Zeus. Zeus wished to 
 destroy the old race of mankind; but Prometheus gave them fire.
 
 ^SCHYLUS 189 
 
 taught them arts and handicrafts, developed in them thought and 
 consciousness, and so assured both their existence and their happi- 
 ness. The play deals with his punishment. Prometheus is borne 
 upon the scene by Force and Strength, and is nailed to a lofty cliff 
 by Hephaestus. His appeal to Nature, when his tormentors depart 
 and he is left alone, is peculiarly pathetic. The daughters of Oce- 
 anus, constituting the Chorus, who have heard the sound of the ham- 
 mer in their ocean cave, are now borne in aloft on a winged car, 
 and bewail the fate of the outraged god. Oceanus appears upon a 
 winged steed, and offers his mediation; but this is scornfully rejected. 
 The resolution of Prometheus to resist Zeus to the last is strength- 
 ened by the coming of lo. She too, as it seems, is a victim of the 
 Ruler of the Universe; driven by the jealous wrath of Hera, she 
 roams from land to land. She tells the tale of her sad wandering, 
 and finally rushes from the scene in frenzy, crazed by the sting of 
 the gadfly that Hera has sent to torment her. Prometheus knows a 
 secret full of menace to Zeus. Relying on this, he prophesies his 
 overthrow, and defies him to do his worst. Hermes is sent to de- 
 mand with threats its revelation, but fails to accomplish his purpose. 
 Prometheus insults and taunts him. Hermes warns the Chorus to 
 leave, for Zeus is about to display his wrath. At first they refuse, 
 but then fly affrighted: the cliff is rending and sinking, the elements 
 are in wild tumult. As he sinks, about to be engulfed in the bowels 
 of the earth, Prometheus cries: — 
 
 « Earth is rocking in space ! 
 And the thunders crash up with a roar upon roar, 
 
 And the eddying lightnings flash fire in my face. 
 And the whirlwinds are whirling the dust round and round, 
 
 And the blasts of the winds universal leap free 
 And blow each upon each with a passion of sound. 
 
 And aether goes mingling in storm with the sea.^> 
 
 The play is Titanic. Its huge shapes, its weird effects, its mighty 
 passions, its wild display of the forces of earth and air, — these im- 
 press us chiefly at first; but its ethical interest is far greater. Zeus 
 is apparently represented in it as relentless, cruel, and unjust, — a 
 lawless ruler, who knows only his own will, — whereas in all the 
 other plays of ^schylus he is just and righteous, although sometimes 
 severe, ^schylus, we know, was a religious man. It seems incred- 
 ible that he should have had two contradictory conceptions of the 
 character of Zeus. The solution of this problem is to be found in 
 the fact that this ^ Prometheus * was the first play of the trilogy. In 
 the second play, the ^Prometheus Unbound,* of which we have only 
 fragments, these apparent contradictions must have been reconciled. 
 Long ages are supposed to elapse between the plays. Prometheus
 
 I go ^SCHYLUS 
 
 yields. He reveals the secret and is freed from his bonds. What 
 before seemed to be relentless wanton cruelty is now seen to have 
 been only the harsh but necessary severity of a ruler newly estab- 
 lished on his throne. By the reconciliation of this stern ruler with 
 the wise Titan, the giver of good gifts to men, order is restored to 
 the universe. Prometheus acknowledges his guilt, and the course 
 of Zeus is vindicated; but the loss of the second play of the trilogy 
 leaves much in doubt, and an extraordinary number of solutions of 
 the problem has been proposed. The reader must not look for one 
 of these, however, in the *■ Prometheus Unbound ^ of Shelley, who 
 deliberately rejected the supposition of a reconciliation. 
 
 The three remaining plays are founded on the woful myth of the 
 house of Atreus, son of Pelops, a theme much treated by the Greek 
 tragic poets. They constitute the only existing Greek trilogy, and 
 are the last and greatest work of the poet. They were brought out 
 at Athens, B. C. 458, two years after the author's death. The ^Aga- 
 memnon > sets forth the crime, — the murder, by his wife, of the 
 great King, on his return home from Troy; the ^Choephori,^ the ven- 
 geance taken on the guilty wife by her own son ; the *■ Eumenides, ' the 
 atonement made by that son in expiation of his mother's murder. 
 
 Agamemnon on departing for Troy left behind him in his palace 
 a son and a daughter, Orestes and Electra. Orestes was exiled from 
 home by his mother Clytemnestra, who in Agamemnon's absence 
 lived in guilty union with ^gisthus, own cousin of the King, and 
 who could no longer endure to look upon the face of her son. 
 
 The scene of the *■ Agamemnon ^ is the royal palace in Argos. 
 The time is night. A watchman is discovered on the flat roof of 
 the palace. For a year he has kept weary vigil there, waiting for 
 the beacon-fire that, sped from mountain-top to mountain-top, shall 
 announce the fall of Troy. The signal comes at last, and joyously 
 he proclaims the welcome news. The sacrificial fires which have 
 been made ready in anticipation of the event are set alight through- 
 out the city. The play naturally falls into three divisions. The 
 first introduces the Chorus of Argive elders, Clytemnestra, and a 
 Herald who tells of the hardships of the siege and of the calamitous 
 return, and ends with the triumphal entrance of Agamemnon with 
 Cassandra, and his welcome by the Queen; the second comprehends 
 the prophecy of the frenzied Cassandra of the doom about to fall 
 upon the house and the murder of the King; the third the conflict 
 between the Chorus, still faithful to the murdered King, and Cly- 
 temnestra, beside whom stands her paramour ^gisthus. 
 
 Interest centres in Clytemnestra. Crafty, unscrupulous, resolute, 
 remorseless, she veils her deadly hatred for her lord, and welcomes 
 him home in tender speech: —
 
 ^SCHYLUS 191 
 
 «So now, dear lord, I bid thee welcome home — 
 True as the faithful watchdog of the fold, 
 Strong as the mainstay of the laboring bark. 
 Stately as column, fond as only child, 
 Dear as the land to shipwrecked mariner, 
 Bright as fair sunshine after winter's storms, 
 Sweet as fresh fount to thirsty wanderer — 
 All this, and more, thou art, dear love, to me.>> 
 
 Agamemnon passes within the palace; she slays him in his bath, 
 enmeshed in a net, and then, reappearing, vaunts her bloody deed: 
 
 «I smote him, and he bellowed; and again 
 I smote, and with a groan his knees gave way; 
 And as he fell before me, with a third 
 And last libation from the deadly mace, 
 I pledged the crowning draught to Hades due, 
 That subterranean Saviour — of the dead! 
 At which he spouted up the Ghost in such 
 A flood of purple as, bespattered with, 
 No less did I rejoice than the green ear 
 Rejoices in the largesse of the skies 
 That fleeting Iris follows as it flies. >> 
 
 ^schylus departs from the Homeric account, which was followed 
 by other poets, in making the action of the next play, the *■ Cho- 
 ephori,* follow closer upon that of the ^Agamemnon.* Orestes has 
 heard in Phocis of his father's murder, and returns in secret, with 
 his friend Pylades, to exact vengeance. The scene is still Argos, 
 but Agamemnon's tomb is now seen in front of the palace. The 
 Chorus consists of captive women, who aid and abet the attempt. 
 The play sets forth the recognition of Orestes by Electra; the plot 
 by which Orestes gains admission to the palace; the deceit of the 
 old Nurse, a homely but capital character, by whom ^gisthus is 
 induced to come to the palace without armed attendants; the death 
 of ^gisthus and Clytemnestra ; the appearance of the avenging 
 Furies; and the flight of Orestes. 
 
 The last play of the trilogy, the <Eumenides,* has many singular 
 features. The Chorus of Furies seemed even to the ancients to be 
 a weird and terrible invention; the scene of the play shifts from 
 Delphi to Athens; the poet introduces into the play a trial scene; 
 and he had in it a distinct political purpose, whose development 
 occupies one-half of the drama. 
 
 Orestes, pursued by the avenging Furies, << Gorgon-like, vested in 
 sable stoles, their locks entwined with clustering snakes," has fled to 
 Delphi to invoke the aid of Apollo. He clasps the navel-stone and 
 in his exhaustion falls asleep. Around him sleep the Furies. The
 
 192 
 
 ^SCHYLUS 
 
 play opens with a prayer made by the Pytl- .; x\ priestess at an altar 
 in front of the temple. The interior of thu sanctuary is then laid 
 bare. Orestes is awake, but the Furies sleep on. Apollo, standing 
 beside Orestes, promises to protect him, but bids him make all haste 
 to Athens, and there clasp, as a suppliant, the image of Athena. 
 Orestes flies. The ghost of Clytemnestra rises from the underworld, 
 and calls upon the Chorus to pursue. Overcome by their toil, they 
 moan in their sleep, but finally start to their feet. Apollo bids them 
 quit the temple. 
 
 The scene changes to the ancient temple of Athena on the 
 Acropolis at Athens, where Orestes is seen clasping the image of the 
 goddess. The Chorus enter in pursuit of their victim, and sing an ode 
 descriptive of their powers. 
 
 Athena appears, and learns from the Chorus and from Orestes the 
 reasons for their presence. She declares the issue to be too grave 
 even for her to decide, and determines to choose judges of the mur- 
 der, who shall become a solemn tribunal for all future time. These 
 are to be the best of the citizens of Athens. After an ode by the 
 Chorus, she returns, the court is established, and the trial proceeds 
 in due form. Apollo appears for the defense of Orestes. When the 
 arguments have been presented, Athena proclaims, before the vote 
 has been taken, the establishment of the court as a permanent tri- 
 bunal for the trial of cases of bloodshed. Its seat shall be the Are- 
 opagus. The votes are cast and Orestes is acquitted. He departs for 
 Argos. The Furies break forth in anger and threaten woes to the 
 land, but are appeased by Athena, who establishes their worship for- 
 ever in Attica. Heretofore they have been the Erinnyes, or Furies; 
 henceforth they shall be the Eumenides, or Gracious Goddesses. 
 The Eumenides are escorted from the scene in solemn procession. 
 
 Any analysis of the plays so brief as the preceding is necessarily 
 inadequate. The English reader is referred to the histories of Greek 
 Literature by K. O. Miiller and by J. P. Mahaffy, to the striking 
 chapter on u93schylus in J. A. Symonds's < Greek Poets, ^ and, for the 
 trilogy, to Moulton's < Ancient Classical Drama. ^ If he knows French, 
 he should add Croiset's ^ Histoire de la Litterature Grecque,^ and 
 should by all means read M. Patin's volume on ^schylus in his 
 < Etudes sur les Tragi que Grecs.' There are translations in English 
 of the poet's complete works by Potter, by Plumptre, by Blackie, 
 and by Miss Swanwick. Flaxman illustrated the plays. Ancient 
 illustrations are easily accessible in Baumeister's ^Denkmaler,' under 
 the names of the different characters in the plays. There is a transla- 
 tion of the ^ Prometheus * by Mrs. Browning, and of the ^ Suppliants * 
 by Morshead, who has also translated the Atridean trilogy under 
 the title of < The House of Atreus. ^ Goldwin Smith has translated 
 portions of six of the plays in his < Specimens of Greek Tragedy,*
 
 EC- 
 
 PROMETHEUS BOUND 
 
 'Nailed to this wall of oagle-baffling mountain
 
 ^SCHYLtrS 
 
 193 
 
 Many translations of the ^Agamemnon ^ have been made, among oth- 
 ers by Milman, by Symmons, by Lord Carnarvon, and by Fitzgerald. 
 Robert Brov/ning also translated the play, with appalling literalness. 
 
 y!^^*- <JM^ »*«.c^ iJutLr. 
 
 THE COMPLAINT OF PROMETHEUS 
 
 PROMETHEUS (alone) 
 
 OHOLY ^ther, and swift-winged Winds, 
 And River-wells, and laughter innumerous 
 Of yon Sea-waves! Earth, mother of us all. 
 And all- vie wing cyclic Sun, I cry on you, — 
 Behold me a god, what I endure from gods! 
 Behold, with throe on throe. 
 How, wasted by this woe, 
 I wrestle down the myriad years of Time! 
 
 Behold, how fast around me 
 The new King of the happy ones sublime 
 Has flung the chain he forged, has shamed and bound me! 
 Woe, woe ! to-day's woe and the coming morrow's 
 I cover with one groan. And where is found me 
 
 A limit to these sorrows ? 
 And yet what word do I say ? I have foreknown 
 Clearly all things that should be ; nothing done 
 Comes sudden to my soul — and I must bear 
 What is ordained with patience, being aware 
 Necessity doth front the universe 
 With an invincible gesture. Yet this curse 
 Which strikes me now, I find it hard to brave 
 In silence or in speech. Because I gave 
 Honor to mortals, I have yoked my soul 
 To this compelling fate. Because I stole 
 The secret fount of fire, whose bubbles went 
 Over the ferrule's brim, and manward sent 
 Art's mighty means and perfect rudiment, 
 That sin I expiate in this agony. 
 Hung here in fetters, 'neath the blanching sky. 
 Ah, ah me ! what a sound, 
 What a fragrance sweeps up from a pinion unseen 
 Of a god, or a mortal, or nature between. 
 Sweeping up to this rock where the earth has her bound, 
 1-13
 
 194 
 
 AESCHYLUS 
 
 To have sight of my pangs, or some guerdon obtain — 
 Lo, a god in the anguish, a god in the chain! 
 
 The god Zeus hateth sore, 
 
 And his gods hate again, 
 As many as tread on his glorified floor. 
 Because I loved mortals too much evermore. 
 Alas me! what a murmur and motion I hear, 
 
 As of birds flying near! 
 
 And the air undersings 
 
 The light stroke of their wings — 
 And all life that approaches I wait for in fear. 
 
 From E. B. Browning's Translation of < Prometheus. 
 
 A PRAYER TO ARTEMIS 
 
 STROPHE IV 
 
 THOUGH Zeus plan all things right. 
 Yet is his heart's desire full hard to trace; 
 Nathless in every place 
 Brightly it gleameth, e'en in darkest night. 
 Fraught with black fate to man's speech-gifted race. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE IV 
 
 Steadfast, ne'er thrown in fight, 
 The deed in brow of Zeus to ripeness brought; 
 For wrapt in shadowy night, 
 
 Tangled, unscanned by mortal sight, 
 Extend the pathways of his secret thought. 
 
 STROPHE V 
 
 From towering hopes mortals he hurleth prone 
 To utter doom: but for their fall 
 No force arrayeth he; for all 
 That gods devise is without effort wrought. 
 A mindful Spirit aloft on holy throne 
 By inborn energy achieves his thought. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE V 
 
 But let him mortal insolence behold: — 
 
 How with proud contumacy rife, 
 
 Wantons the stem in lusty life 
 My marriage craving; — frenzy over-bold. 
 Spur ever-pricking, goads them on to fate. 
 By ruin taught their folly all too late.
 
 ^SCHYLUS 195 
 
 STROPHE VI 
 
 Thus I complain, in piteous strain, 
 Grief-laden, tear-evoking, shrill; 
 
 Ah woe is me ! woe ! woe ! 
 Dirge-like it sounds; mine own death-trill 
 I pour, yet breathing vital air. 
 Hear, hill-crowned Apia, hear my prayer! 
 Full well, O land, 
 My voice barbaric thou canst understand; 
 
 While oft with rendings I assail 
 My byssine vesture and Sidonian veil. 
 
 ANTISTROPHE VI 
 
 My nuptial right in Heaven's pure sight 
 Pollution were, death-laden, rude; 
 
 Ah woe is me! woe! woe! 
 Alas for sorrow's murky brood! 
 Where will this billow hurl me ? Where ? 
 Hear, hill-crowned Apia, hear my prayer; 
 Full well, O land, 
 My voice barbaric thou canst understand, 
 
 While oft with rendings I assail 
 My byssine vesture and Sidonian veil. 
 
 STROPHE VII 
 
 The oar indeed and home with sails 
 Flax-tissued, swelled with favoring gales, 
 Stanch to the wave, from spear-storm free. 
 Have to this shore escorted me, 
 Nor so far blame I destiny. 
 But may the all-seeing Father send 
 In fitting time propitious end; 
 So our dread Mother's mighty brood 
 The lordly couch may 'scape, ah me, 
 Unwedded, unsubdued! 
 
 ANTISTROPHE VII 
 
 Meeting my will with will divine, 
 Daughter of Zeus, who here dost hold 
 
 Steadfast thy sacred shrine, — 
 Me, Artemis unstained, behold. 
 Do thou, who sovereign might dost wield, 
 Virgin thyself, a virgin shield;
 
 ig6 ^SCHYLUS 
 
 So our dread Mother's mighty brood 
 The lordly couch may 'scape, ah me, 
 Unwedded, unsubdued! 
 
 From Miss Swanwnck's Translation of <The Suppliants.* 
 
 THE DEFIANCE OF ETEOCLES 
 
 MESSENGER 
 
 NOW at the Seventh Gate the seventh chief, 
 Thy proper mother's son, I will announce, 
 What fortune for this city, for himself, 
 With curses he invoketh: — on the walls 
 Ascending, heralded as king, to stand. 
 With paeans for their capture ; then with thee 
 To fight, and either slaying near thee die. 
 Or thee, who wronged him, chasing forth alive, 
 Requite in kind his proper banishment. 
 Such words he shouts, and calls upon the gods 
 Who o'er his race preside and Fatherland, 
 With gracious eye to look upon his prayers. 
 A well-wrought buckler, newly forged, he bears, 
 With twofold blazon riveted thereon, 
 For there a woman leads, with sober mien, 
 A mailed warrior, enchased in gold; 
 Justice her style, and thus the legend speaks: — 
 <^ This man I will restore, and he shall hold 
 The city and his father's palace homes.'* 
 Such the devices of the hostile chiefs. 
 'Tis for thyself to choose whom thou wilt send; • 
 But never shalt thou blame my herald-words. 
 To guide the rudder of the State be thine! 
 
 ETEOCLES 
 
 O heaven-demented race of CEdipus, 
 
 My race, tear-fraught, detested of the gods! 
 
 Alas, our father's curses now bear fruit. 
 
 But it beseems not to lament or weep. 
 
 Lest lamentations sadder still be born. 
 
 For him, too truly Polyneikes named, — 
 
 What his device will work we soon shall know; 
 
 Whether his braggart words, with madness fraught. 
 
 Gold-blazoned on his shield, shall lead him back. 
 
 Hath Justice communed with, or claimed him hers.
 
 ^SCHYLUS 197 
 
 Guided his deeds and thoughts, this might have been; 
 But neither when he fled the darksome womb, 
 Or in his childhood, or in youth's fair prime. 
 Or when the hair thick gathered on his chin. 
 Hath Justice communed with, or claimed him hers, 
 Nor in this outrage on his Fatherland 
 Deem I she now beside him deigns to stand. 
 For Justice would in sooth belie her name, 
 Did she with this all-daring man consort. 
 In these regards confiding will I go. 
 Myself will meet him. Who with better right ? 
 Brother to brother, chieftain against chief, 
 Foeman to foe, I'll stand. Quick, bring my spear, 
 My greaves, and armor, bulwark against stones. 
 Prom Miss Swan\\nck's Translation of <The Seven Against Thebes.> 
 
 THE VISION OF CASSANDRA 
 
 CASSANDRA 
 
 P 
 
 HCEBus Apollo! 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Hark I 
 
 The lips at last unlocking. 
 
 CASSANDRA 
 
 Phoebus ! Phoebus ! 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 "Well, what of Phoebus, maiden ? though a name 
 'Tis but disparagement to call upon 
 In misery. 
 
 CASSANDRA 
 
 Apollo ! Apollo ! Again ! 
 Oh, the burning arrow through the brain! 
 Phoebus Apollo! Apollo! 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Seemingly 
 Possessed indeed — whether by — 
 
 CASSANDRA 
 
 Phoebus ! Phoebust 
 Through trampled ashes, blood, and fiery rain,
 
 I9S 
 
 ^SCHYLUS 
 
 Over water seefhing, and behind the breathing 
 War-horse in the darkness — till you rose again, 
 Took the helm — took the rein — 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 As one that half asleep at dawn recalls 
 A night of Horror! 
 
 CASSANDRA 
 
 Hither, whither, Phoebus ? And with whom, 
 Leading me, lighting me — 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 I can answer that — 
 
 CASSANDRA 
 
 Down to what slaughter-house! 
 Foh! the smell of carnage through the door 
 Scares me from it — drags me toward it — 
 Phoebus Apollo! Apollo! 
 
 ' CHORUS 
 
 One of the dismal prophet-pack, it seems, 
 That hunt the trail of blood. But here at fault — 
 This is no den of slaughter, but the house 
 Of Agamemnon. 
 
 CASSANDRA 
 
 Down upon the towers, [man, 
 
 Phantoms of two mangled children hover — and a famished 
 At an empty table glaring, seizes and devours! 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Thyestes and his children! Strange enough 
 For any maiden from abroad to know, 
 Or, knowing — 
 
 CASSANDRA 
 
 And look! in the chamber below 
 The terrible Woman, listening, watching, 
 Under a mask, preparing the blow 
 In the fold of her robe — 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Nay, but again at fault: 
 For in the tragic story of this House —
 
 ^SCHYLUS 199 
 
 Unless, indeed the fatal Helen — 
 No woman — 
 
 CASSANDRA 
 
 No Woman — Tisiphone! Daughter 
 Of Tartarus — love-grinning Woman above, 
 Dragon-tailed under — honey-tongued. Harpy-clawed, 
 Into the glittering meshes of slaughter 
 
 She wheedles, entices him into the poisonous 
 Fold of the serpent — 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Peace, mad woman, peace! 
 Whose stony lips once open vomit out 
 Such uncouth horrors. 
 
 CASSANDRA 
 
 I tell you the lioness 
 Slaughters the Lion asleep; and lifting 
 Her blood-dripping fangs buried deep in his mane. 
 Glaring about her insatiable, bellowing. 
 Bounds hither — Phoebus Apollo, Apollo, Apollo! 
 Whither have you led me, under night alive with fire, 
 Through the trampled ashes of the city of my sire. 
 From my slaughtered kinsmen, fallen throne, insulted shrine, 
 Slave-like to be butchered, the daughter of a royal line! 
 
 From Edward Fitzgerald's Version of the < Agamemnon.* 
 
 THE LAMENT OF THE OLD NURSE 
 
 NURSE 
 
 OUR mistress bids me with all speed to call 
 ^gisthus to the strangers, that he come 
 And hear more clearly, as a man from man, 
 This newly brought report. Before her slaves, 
 Under set eyes of melancholy cast, 
 She hid her inner chuckle at the events 
 That have been brought to pass — too well for her. 
 But for this house and hearth most miserably, — 
 As in the tale the strangers clearly told. 
 He, when he hears and learns the story's gist. 
 Will joy, I trow, in heart. Ah, wretched me! 
 How those old troubles, of all sorts made up, 
 Most hard to bear, in Atreus's palace-halls
 
 200 
 
 ^SCHYLUS 
 
 Have made my heart full heavy in my breast! 
 
 But never have I known a woe like this. 
 
 For other ills I bore full patiently, 
 
 But as for dear Orestes, my sweet charge, 
 
 "Whom from his mother I received and nursed . . , 
 
 And then the shrill cries rousing me o' nights. 
 
 And many and unprofitable toils 
 
 For me who bore them. For one needs must rear 
 
 The heedless infant like an animal, 
 
 (How can it else be ?) as his humor serve 
 
 For while a child is yet in swaddling clothes, 
 
 It speaketh not, if either hunger comes, 
 
 Or passing thirst, or lower calls of need; 
 
 And children's stomach works its own content. 
 
 And I, though I foresaw this, call to mind. 
 
 How I was cheated, washing swaddling clothes, 
 
 And nurse and laundress did the selfsame work. 
 
 I then with these my double handicrafts. 
 
 Brought up Orestes for his father dear; 
 
 And now, woe's me! I learn that he is dead. 
 
 And go to fetch the man that mars this house; 
 
 And gladly will he hear these words of mine. 
 
 From Plumptre's Translation of <The Libation-Pourers.> 
 
 THE DECREE OF ATHENA 
 
 HEAR ye my statute, men of Attica — 
 Ye who- of bloodshed judge this primal cause; 
 Yea, and in future age shall ^geus's host 
 Revere this court of jurors. This the hill 
 Of Ares, seat of Amazons, their tent, 
 What time 'gainst Theseus, breathing hate, they came. 
 Waging fierce battle, and their towers upreared, 
 A counter-fortress to Acropolis; — 
 To Ares they did sacrifice, and hence 
 This rock is titled Areopagus. 
 Here then shall sacred Awe, to Fear allied. 
 By day and night my lieges hold from wrong, 
 Save if themselves do innovate my laws. 
 If thou with mud, or influx base, bedim 
 The sparkling water, nought thou'lt find to drink. 
 Nor Anarchy, nor Tyrant's lawless rule 
 Commend I to my people's reverence; — 
 Nor let them banish from their city Fear;
 
 ^SOP 
 
 20I 
 
 For who 'mong men, uncurbed by fear, is just? 
 
 Thus holding Awe in seemly reverence, 
 
 A bulwark for your State shall ye possess, 
 
 A safeguard to protect your city walls, 
 
 Such as no mortals otherwhere can boast, 
 
 Neither in Scythia, nor in Pelops's realm. 
 
 Behold ! This court august, untouched by bribes, 
 
 Sharp to avenge, wakeful for those who sleep. 
 
 Establish I, a bulwark to this land. 
 
 This charge, extending to all future time, 
 
 I give my lieges. Meet it as ye rise. 
 
 Assume the pebbles, and decide the cause. 
 
 Your oath revering. All hath now been said. 
 
 From Miss Swanwick's Translation of <The Eumenides.> 
 
 JESO? 
 
 (Seventh Century B. C.) 
 BY HARRY THURSTON PECK 
 
 [ike Homer, the greatest of the world's epic poets, ^sop 
 (^sopus), the most famous of the world's fabulists, has 
 been regarded by certain scholars as a wholly mythical 
 personage. The many improbable stories that are told about him 
 gain some credence for this theory, which is set forth in detail by 
 the Italian scholar Vico, who says: — *^^JEsop, re- 
 garded philosophically, will be found not to have 
 been an actually existing man, but rather an 
 abstraction representing a class, ^^ — in other words, 
 merely a convenient invention of the later Greeks, 
 who ascribed to him all the fables of which they 
 could find no certain author. 
 
 The only narrative upon which the ancient 
 writers are in the main agreed represents uS)sop 
 as living in the seventh century before Christ. As 
 with Homer, so with ^sop, several cities of Asia 
 Minor claimed the honor of having been his birth- 
 place. Born a slave and hideously ugly, his keen 
 wit led his admiring master to set him free; after which he trav- 
 eled, visiting Athens, where he is said to have told his fable of 
 King Log and King Stork to the citizens who were complaining of 
 the rule of Pisistratus. Still later, having won the favor of King 
 
 ^SOP
 
 202 ^SOP 
 
 Croesus of Lydia, he was sent by him to Delphi with a gift of 
 money for the citizens of that place; but in the course of a dispute 
 as to its distribution, he was slain by the Delphians, who threw him 
 over a precipice. 
 
 The fables that bore his name seem not to have been committed 
 by him to writing, but for a long time were handed down from gen- 
 eration to generation by oral tradition; so that the same fables are 
 sometimes found quoted in slightly different forms, and we hear of 
 men learning them in conversation rather than from books. They 
 were, however, universally popular. Socrates while in prison amused 
 himself by turning some of them into verse. Aristophanes cites 
 them in his plays; and he tells how certain suitors once tried to win 
 favor of a judge by repeating to him some of the amusing stories of 
 .(Esop. The Athenians even erected a statue in his honor. At a 
 later period, the fables were gathered together and published by the 
 Athenian statesman and orator, Demetrius Phalereus, in B. C. 320, 
 and were versified by Babrius (of uncertain date), whose collection is 
 the only one in Greek of which any substantial portion still sur- 
 vives. They were often translated by the Romans, and the Latin 
 version by Phaedrus, the freedman of Augustus Caesar, is still pre- 
 served and still used as a school-book. Forty-two of them are like- 
 wise found in a Latin work by one Avianus, dating from the fifth 
 century after Christ. During the Middle Ages, when much of the 
 classical literature had been lost or forgotten, uEsop, who was called 
 by the mediasvals "Isopet,'' was still read in various forms; and in 
 modern times he has served as a model for a great number of imita- 
 tions, of which the most successful are those in French by Lafon- 
 taine and those in English by John Gay. 
 
 Whether or not such a person as ^sop ever lived, and whether 
 or not he actually narrated the fables that are ascribed to him, it is 
 certain that he did not himself invent them, but merely gave them 
 currency in Greece ; for they can be shown to have existed long 
 before his time, and in fact to antedate even the beginnings of Hel- 
 lenic civilization. With some changes of form they are found in the 
 oldest literature of the Chinese; similar stories are preserved on the 
 inscribed Babylonian bricks; and an Egyptian papyrus of about the 
 year 1200 B.C. gives the fable of ^The Lion and the Mouse' in its 
 finished form. Other ^sopic apologues are essentially identical with 
 the Jatakas or Buddhist stories of India, and occur also in the great 
 Sanskrit story-book, the < Panchatantra,' which is the very oldest 
 monument of Hindu literature. 
 
 The so-called ^sopic Fables are in fact only a part of the primi- 
 tive folk-lore, that springs up in prehistoric times, and passes from 
 country to country and from race to race by the process of popular
 
 ^SOP 203 
 
 story-telling. They reached Greece, undoubtedly through Egypt and 
 Persia, and even in their present form they still retain certain Ori- 
 ental, or at any rate non-Hellenic elements, such as the introduction 
 of Eastern animals, — the panther, the peacock, and the ape. They 
 represent the beginnings of conscious literary effort, when man first 
 tried to enforce some maxim of practical wisdom and to teach some 
 useful truth through the fascinating medium of a story. The Fable 
 embodies a half-unconscious desire to give concrete form to an 
 abstract principle, and a childish love for the picturesque and strik- 
 ing, which endows rocks and stones and trees with life, and gives 
 the power of speech to animals. 
 
 That beasts with the attributes of human beings should figure in 
 these tales involves, from the standpoint of primeval man, only a 
 very slight divergence from probability. In nothing, perhaps, has 
 civilization so changed us as in our mental attitude toward animals. 
 It has fixed a great gulf between us and them — a gulf far greater 
 than that which divided them from our first ancestors. In the early 
 ages of the world, w^hen men lived by the chase, and gnawed the 
 raw flesh of their prey, and slept in lairs amid the jungle, the purely 
 animal virtues were the only ones they knew and exercised. They 
 adored courage and strength, and swiftness and endurance. They 
 respected keenness of scent and vision, and admired cunning. The 
 possession of these qualities was the very condition of existence, and 
 they valued them accordingly; but in each one of them they found 
 their equals, and in fact their superiors, among the brutes. A lion 
 was stronger than the strongest man. The hare was swifter. The 
 eagle was more keen-sighted. The fox was more cunning. Hence, 
 so far from looking down upon the animals from the remotely supe- 
 rior height that a hundred centuries of civilization have erected for 
 us, the primitive savage looked up to the beast, studied his ways, 
 copied him, and went to school to him. The man, then, was not in 
 those days the lord of creation, and the beast was not his servant; 
 but they were almost brothers in the subtle sympathy between them, 
 like that which united Mowgli, the wolf-nursed shikarri, and his hairy 
 brethren, in that most weirdly wonderful of all Mr. Kipling's inven- 
 tions — the one that carries us back, not as his other stories do, to 
 the India of the cities and the bazaars, of the supercilious tourist and 
 the sleek Babu, but to the older India of unbroken jungle, darkling 
 at noonday through its green mist of tangled leaves, and haunted by 
 memories of the world's long infancy when man and brute crouched 
 close together on the earthy breast of the great mother. 
 
 The ^sopic Fables, then, are the oldest representative that we 
 have of the literary art of primitive man. The charm that they have 
 always possessed springs in part from their utter simplicity, their
 
 204 ^SOP 
 
 naivete, and their directness; and in part from the fact that their 
 teachings are the teachings of universal experience, and therefore 
 appeal irresistibly to the consciousness of every one who hears them, 
 whetner he be savage or scholar, child or sage. They are the liter- 
 ary antipodes of the last great effort of genius and art working upon 
 the same material, and found in Mr. Kipling's Jungle Books. The 
 Fables show only the first stirrings of the literary instinct, the Jungle 
 Stories bring to bear the full development of the Active art, — creative 
 imagination, psychological insight, brilliantly picturesque description, 
 and the touch of one who is a daring master of vivid language; so 
 that no better theme can be given to a student of literary history 
 than the critical comparison of these two allied forms of composition, 
 representing as they do the two extremes of actual development. 
 
 The best general account in English of the origin of the Greek 
 Fable is that of Rutherford in the introduction to his <Babrius> 
 (London, 1883). An excellent special study of the history of the 
 tEsopic Fables is that by Joseph Jacobs in the first volume of his 
 <^sop> (London, 1889). The various ancient accounts of uEsop's life 
 are collected by Simrock in <^sops Leben > (1864). The best sci- 
 entific edition of the two hundred and ten fables is that of Halm 
 (Leipzig, 1887). Good disquisitions on their history during the Mid- 
 dle Ages are those of Du Meril in French (Paris, 1854) and Bruno 
 in German (Bamberg, 1892). See also the articles in the present 
 work under the titles <Babrius,> <Gay,> < Indian Literature,* <La Fon- 
 taine,* <Max Miiller,* <Pilpay.* 
 
 ii.:r. ^ 
 
 sLcyfC 
 
 THE FOX AND THE LION 
 
 THE first time the Fox saw the Lion, he fell down at his feet, 
 and was ready to die of fear. The second time, he took 
 courage and could even bear to look upon him. The third 
 time, he had the impudence to come up to him, to salute him, 
 and to enter into familiar conversation with him. 
 
 THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN 
 
 AN Ass, finding the skin of a Lion, put it on; and, going into 
 the woods and pastures, threw all the flocks and herds into 
 a terrible consternation. At last, meeting his owner, he 
 would have frightened him also; but the good man, seeing his
 
 long ears stick out, presently knew him, and with a good cudgel 
 made him sensible that, notwithstanding his being dressed in a 
 Lion's skin, he was really no more than an Ass. 
 
 THE ASS EATING THISTLES 
 
 AN Ass was loaded with good provisions of several sorts, which, 
 in time of harvest, he was carrying into the field for his 
 master and the reapers to dine upon. On the way he 
 met with a fine large thistle, and being very hungry, began to 
 mumble it; which while he was doing, he entered into this 
 reflection : — " How many greedy epicures would think themselves 
 happy, amidst such a variety of delicate viands as I now carry! 
 But to me this bitter, prickly thistle is more savory and relishing 
 than the most exquisite and sumptuous banquet.^* 
 
 THE WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING 
 
 A Wolf, clothing himself in the skin of a sheep, and getting 
 in among the flock, by this means took the opportunity to 
 devour many of them. At last the shepherd discovered 
 him, and cunningly fastening a rope about his neck, tied him up 
 to a tree which stood hard by. Some other shepherds happening 
 to pass that way, and observing what he was about, drew near, 
 and expressed their admiration at it. " What ! ** says one of them, 
 ^* brother, do you make hanging of a sheep ?*^ *No,'* replied the 
 other, ^^but I make hanging of a Wolf whenever I catch him, 
 though in the habit and garb of a sheep. ^* Then he showed 
 them their mistake, and they applauded the justice of the exe- 
 cution. 
 
 THE COUNTRYMAN AND THE SNAKE 
 
 A Villager, in a frosty, snowy winter, found a Snake under a 
 hedge, almost dead with cold. He could not help having 
 a compassion for the poor creature, so brought it home, 
 and laid it upon the hearth, near the fire; but it had not lain 
 there long, before (being revived with the heat) it began to erect 
 itself, and fly at his wife and children, filling the whole cottage 
 with dreadful hissings. The Countryman heard an outcry, and 
 perceiving what the matter was, catched up a mattock and soon
 
 2o6 ^SOP 
 
 dispatched him; upbraiding him at the same time in these 
 words: — ^^ Is this, vile wretch, the reward you make to him that 
 saved your Hfe ? Die as you deserve ; but a single death is too 
 good for you.^^ 
 
 THE BELLY AND THE MEMBERS 
 
 IN FORMER days, when the Belly and the other parts of the body 
 enjoyed the faculty of speech, and had separate views and 
 designs of their own, each part, it seems, in particular for 
 himself, and in the name of the whole, took exception to the 
 conduct of the Belly, and were resolved to grant him supplies no 
 longer. They said they thought it very hard that he should lead 
 an idle, good-for-nothing life, spending and squandering away, 
 upon his own ungodly guts, all the fruits of their labor; and 
 that, in short, they were resolved, for the future, to strike off his 
 allowance, and let him shift for himself as well as he could. The 
 Hands protested they would not lift up a finger to keep him from 
 starving; and the Mouth wished he might never speak again if 
 he took in the least bit of nourishment for him as long as he 
 lived; and, said the Teeth, may we be rotten if ever we chew a 
 morsel for him for the future. This solemn league and covenant 
 was kept as long as anything of that kind can be kept, which 
 was until each of the rebel members pined away to skin and 
 bone, and could hold out no longer. Then they found there was 
 no doing without the Belly, and that, idle and insignificant as he 
 seemed, he contributed as much to the maintenance and welfare 
 of all the other parts as they did to his. 
 
 THE SATYR AND THE TRAVELER 
 
 A Satyr, as he was ranging the forest in an exceeding cold, 
 snowy season, met with a Traveler half-starved with the 
 extremity of the weather. He took compassion on him, 
 and kindly invited him home to a warm, comfortable cave he had 
 in the hollow of a rock. As soon as they had entered and sat 
 down, notwithstanding there was a good fire in the place, the 
 chilly Traveler could not forbear blowing his fingers' ends. Upon 
 the Satyr's asking why he did so, he answered, that he did it to 
 warm his hands. The honest sylvan having seen little of the 
 world, admired a man who was master of so valuable a quality as
 
 ^SOP 207 
 
 that of blowing heat, and therefore was resolved to entertain him 
 in the best manner he could. He spread the table before him 
 with dried fruits of several sorts; and produced a remnant of 
 cold wine, which as the rigor of the season made very proper, he 
 mulled with some warm spices, infused over the fire, and pre- 
 sented to his shivering guest. But this the Traveler thought fit 
 to blow likewise; and upon the Satyr's demanding a reason why 
 he blowed again, he replied, to cool his dish. This second an- 
 swer provoked the Satyr's indignation as much as the first had 
 kindled his surprise: so, taking the man by the shoulder, he 
 thrust him out of doors, saying he would have nothing to do 
 with a wretch who had so vile a quality as to blow hot and cold 
 with the same mouth. 
 
 THE LION AND THE OTHER BEASTS 
 
 THE Lion and several other beasts entered into an alliance, 
 offensive and defensive, and were to live very sociably to- 
 gether in the forest. One day, having made a sort of an 
 excursion by way of hunting, they took a very fine, large, fat 
 deer, which was divided into four parts; there happening to be 
 then present his Majesty the Lion, and only three others. After 
 the division was made, and the parts were set out, his Majesty, 
 advancing forward some steps and pointing to one of the shares, 
 was pleased to declare himself after the tollowdng manner: — 
 ^^ This I seize and take possession of as my right, which devolves 
 to me, as I am descended by a true, lineal, hereditary succession 
 from the royal family of Lion. That [pointing to the second] I 
 claim by, I think, no unreasonable demand ; considering that all the 
 engagements you have with the enemy turn chiefly upon my 
 courage and conduct, and you very well know that wars are too 
 expensive to be carried on without proper supplies. Then [ nod- 
 ding his head toward the third] that I shall take by virtue of my 
 prerogative; to which, I make no question but so dutiful and 
 loyal a people will pay all the deference and regard that I can 
 desire. Now, as for the remaining part, the necessity of our 
 present affairs is so very urgent, our stock so low, and our credit 
 so impaired and weakened, that I must insist upon your granting 
 that, without any hesitation or demur; and hereof fail not at 
 your peril.'*
 
 >o8 ^sop 
 
 THE ASS AND THE LITTLE DOG 
 
 THE Ass. observing how great a favorite the Httle Dog was 
 with his Master, how much caressed and fondled, and fed 
 with good bits at every meal; and for no other reason, as 
 he could perceive, but for skipping and frisking about, wagging 
 his tail, and leaping up into his Master's lap: he was resolved to 
 imitate the same, and see whether such a behavior would not 
 procure him the same favors. Accordingly, the Master was no 
 sooner come home from walking about his fields and gardens, 
 and was seated in his easy-chair, but the Ass, who observed him, 
 came gamboling and braying towards him, in a very awkward 
 manner. The Master could not help laughing aloud at the odd 
 sight. But his jest was soon turned into earnest, when he felt 
 the rough salute of the Ass's fore-feet, who, raising himself upon 
 his hinder legs, pawed against his breast with a most loving air, 
 and would fain have jumped into his lap. The good man, terri- 
 fied at this outrageous behavior, and unable to endure the weight 
 of so heavy a beast, cried out; upon which, one of his servants 
 running in with a good stick, and laying on heartily upon the 
 bones of the poor Ass, soon convinced him that every one who 
 desires it is not qualified to be a favorite. 
 
 THE COUNTRY MOUSE AND THE CITY MOUSE 
 
 AN HONEST, plain, sensible Cotmtry Mouse is said to have 
 entertained at his hole one day a fine Mouse of the Town. 
 Having formerly been playfellows together, they were old 
 acquaintances, which served as an apology for the visit. How- 
 ever, as master of the house, he thought himself obliged to do 
 the honors of it in all respects, and to make as great a stranger 
 of his guest as he possibly could. In order to do this he set 
 before him a reserve of delicate gray pease and bacon, a dish of 
 fine oatmeal, some parings of new cheese, and, to crown all with 
 a dessert, a remnant of a charming mellow apple. In good man- 
 ners, he forbore to eat any himself, lest the stranger should not 
 have enough; but that he might seem to bear the other company, 
 sat and nibbled a piece of a wheaten straw very busily. At last, 
 says the spark of the town : — ^* Old crony, give me leave to be a 
 little free with you: how can you bear to live in this nasty,
 
 ^SOP 209 
 
 dirty, melancholy hole here, with nothing but woods, and mead- 
 ows, and mountains, and rivulets about you ? Do not you prefer 
 the conversation of the world to the chirping of birds, and 
 the splendor of a court to the rude aspect of an uncultivated 
 desert ? Come, take my word for it, you will find it a change 
 for the better. Never stand considering, but away this moment. 
 Remember, we are not immortal, and therefore have no time to 
 lose. Make sure of to-day, and spend it as agreeably as you can: 
 you know not what may happen to-morrow." In short, these 
 and such like arguments prevailed, and his Country Acquaintance 
 was resolved to go to town that night. So they both set out 
 upon their journey together, proposing to sneak in after the close 
 of the evening. They did so; and about midnight made their 
 entry into a certain great house, where there had been an extra- 
 ordinary entertainment the day before, and several tit-bits, which 
 some of the servants had purloined, were hid under the seat of 
 a window. The Country Guest was immediately placed in the 
 midst of a rich Persian carpet: and now it was the Courtier's 
 turn to entertain; who indeed acquitted himself in that capacity 
 with the utmost readiness and address, changing the courses as 
 elegantly, and tasting everything first as judiciously, as any 
 clerk of the kitchen. The other sat and enjoyed himself like a 
 delighted epicure, tickled to the last degree with this new turn 
 of his affairs; when on a sudden, a noise of somebody opening 
 the door made them start from their seats, and scuttle in con- 
 fusion about the dining-room. Our Country Friend, in particular, 
 was ready to die with fear at the barking of a huge mastiff or 
 two, which opened their throats just about the same time, and 
 made the whole house echo. At last, recovering himself: — 
 **Well," says he, ** if this be your town-life, much good may you 
 do with it: give me my poor, quiet hole again, with my homely 
 but comfortable gray pease. * 
 
 THE DOG AND THE WOLF 
 
 A LEAN, hungry, half-starved Wolf happened, one moonshiny 
 night, to meet with a jolly, plump, well-fed Mastiff; and 
 after the first compliments were passed, says the Wolf: — 
 " You look extremely well. I protest, I think I never saw a 
 more graceful, comely person; but how comes it about, I beseech 
 
 you, that you should live so much better th^.n I ? I may say^ 
 I— 14
 
 2IO ^SOP 
 
 without vanity, that I venture fifty times more than you do; 
 and yet I am almost ready to perish with hunger. >^ The Dog- 
 answered very bluntly, *^Why, you may live as well, if you will 
 do the same for it that I do. '^ — ** Indeed ? what is that ? '^ says 
 he. — "Why,'* says the Dog, "only to guard the house a-nights, 
 and keep it from thieves.'* — "With all my heart,'* replies the 
 Wolf, "for at present I have but a sorry time of it; and I 
 think to change my hard lodging in the woods, where I endure 
 rain, frost, and snow, for a warm roof over my head, and a 
 bellyful of good victuals, will be no bad bargain." — "True,** 
 says the Dog; "therefore you have nothing more to do but to 
 follow me.** Now, as they were jogging on together, the Wolf 
 spied a crease in the Dog's neck, and having a strange curiosity, 
 could not forbear asking him what it meant. " Pooh ! nothing, ** 
 says the Dog. — "Nay, but pray — ** says the Wolf. — "Why,** 
 says the Dog, "if you must know, I am tied up in the daytime, 
 because I am a little fierce, for fear I should bite people, and 
 am only let loose a-nights. But this is done with design to make 
 me sleep a-days, more than anything else, and that I may watch 
 the better in the night-time; for as soon as ever the twilight 
 appears, out I am turned, and may go where I please. Then 
 my master brings me plates of bones from the table with his 
 own hands, and whatever scraps are left by any of the family, 
 all fall to my share; for you must know I am a favorite with 
 everybody. So you see how you are to live. Come, come along: 
 what is the matter with you ? ** — " No, ** replied the Wolf, " I 
 beg your pardon: keep your happiness all to yourself. Liberty 
 is the word with me; and I would not be a king upon the terms 
 you mention.**
 
 211 
 
 JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 
 
 (1807-1873) 
 
 jT FIRST, when a mere boy, twelve years of age,^^ writes the 
 great Swiss naturalist, << I did what most beginners do. I 
 picked tip whatever I could lay my hands on, and tried, by 
 such books and authorities as I had at my command, to find the 
 names of these objects. My highest ambition at that time, was to 
 be able to designate the plants and animals of my native country 
 correctly by a Latin name, and to extend gradually a similar knowl- 
 edge in its application to the productions of other countries. This 
 seemed to me, in those days, the legitimate aim and proper work of 
 a naturalist. I still possess manuscript volumes in which I entered 
 the names of all the animals and plants with which I became ac- 
 quainted, and I well remember that I then ardently hoped to acquire 
 the same superficial familiarity with the whole creation. I did not 
 then know how much more important it is to the naturalist to under- 
 stand the structure of a few animals than to command the whole field 
 of scientific nomenclature. Since I have become a teacher, and have 
 watched the progress of students, I have seen that they all begin in 
 the same way. But how many have grown old in the pursuit, with- 
 out ever rising to any higher conception of the study of nature, 
 spending their life in the determination of species, and in extending 
 scientific terminology! Long before I went to the university, and 
 before I began to study natural history under the guidance of men 
 who were masters in the science during the early part of this cen- 
 tury, I perceived that though nomenclature and classification, as then 
 understood, formed an important part of the study, being, in fact, its 
 technical language, the study of living beings in their natural ele- 
 ment was of infinitely greater value. At that age — namely, about 
 fifteen — I spent most of the time I could spare from classical and 
 mathematical studies in hunting the neighboring woods and meadows 
 for birds, insects, and land and fresh-water shells. My room became 
 a little menagerie, while the stone basin under the fountain in our 
 yard was my reservoir for all the fishes I could catch. Indeed, col- 
 lecting, fishing, and raising caterpillars, from which I reared fresh, 
 beautiful butterflies, were then my chief pastimes. What I know 
 of the habits of the fresh-water fishes of Central Europe I mostly 
 learned at that time; and I may add, that when afterward I obtained 
 access to a large library and could consult the works of Bloch and 
 Lacepede, the only extensive works on fishes then in existence, I
 
 4ji JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 
 
 wondered that they contained so little about their habits, natural 
 attitudes, and mode of action, with which I was so familiar. >> 
 
 It is this way of looking at things that gives to Agassiz's writings 
 their literary and popular interest. He was born in Mortier, Canton 
 Fribourg, May 28th, 1807, the son of a clergyman, who sent his gifted 
 son to the Universities of Ziirich, Heidelberg, and Munich, where he 
 acquired reputation for his brilliant powers, and entered into the 
 enthusiastic, intellectual, and merry student-life, taking his place in 
 the formal duels, and becoming known as a champion fencer. Agas- 
 siz was an influence in every centre that he touched; and in Munich, 
 his room and his laboratory, thick with clouds of smoke from the 
 long-stemmed German pipes, was a gathering-place for the young 
 scientific aspirants, who affectionately called it <*The Little Academy. >> 
 At the age of twenty-two, he had published his ^Fishes of Brazil, > a 
 folio that brought him into immediate recognition. Cuvier, the great- 
 est ichthyologist of his time, to whom the first volume was dedicated, 
 received him as a pupil, and gave to him all the material that he 
 had been collecting during fifteen years for a contemplated work on 
 Fossil Fishes. In Paris Agassiz also won the friendship of Humboldt, 
 who learning that he stood in need of money, presented him with so 
 generous a sum as to enable the ambitious young naturalist to work 
 with a free and buoyant spirit. 
 
 His practical career began in 1832, when he was installed at Neuf- 
 chatel, from which point he easily studied the Alps. Two years later, 
 after the <Poissons fossiles* (Fossil Fishes) appeared, he visited Eng- 
 land to lecture. Then returning to his picturesque home, he applied 
 himself to original investigation, and through his lectures and publi- 
 cations won honors and degrees. His daring opinions, however, 
 sometimes provoked ardent discussion and angry comment. 
 
 Agassiz's passion for investigation frequently led him into dangers 
 that imperiled both life and limb. In the summer of 1841, for exam- 
 ple, he was lowered into a deep crevasse bristling with huge stalac- 
 tites of ice, to reach the heart of a glacier moving at the rate of 
 forty feet a day. While he was observing the blue bands on the 
 glittering ice, he suddenly touched a well of water, and only after 
 great difficulty made his companions understand his signal for rescue. 
 Interesting particulars of these glacial studies (< Etudes des Glaciers *) 
 were soon issued, and Agassiz received many gifts from lovers of 
 science, among whom was numbered the King of Prussia. His zoo- 
 logical and geological investigations were continued, and important 
 works on < Fossil Mollusks,' < Tertiary Shells,* and < Living and Fossil 
 Echinoderms* date from this period. 
 
 He had long desired to visit America, when he realized this wish 
 in 1846 by an arrangement with the Lowell Institute of Boston,
 
 JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 213 
 
 where he gave a series of lectures, afterwards repeated in various 
 cities. So attractive did he find the fauna and flora of America, and 
 so vast a field did he perceive here for his individual studies and 
 instruction, that he returned the following year. In 1848 the Prussian 
 government, which had borne the expenses of his scientific mission, 
 — a cruise along our Atlantic coast to study its marine life, — released 
 him from further obligation that he might accept the chair of geol- 
 ogy in the Lawrence Scientific School of Harvard University. His 
 cruises, his explorations, and his methods, combined with his attractive 
 personality, gave him unique power as a teacher; and many of 
 his biographers think that of all his gifts, the ability to instruct was 
 the most conspicuous. He needed no text-books, for he went directly 
 to Nature, and did not believe in those technical, dry-as-dust terms 
 which lead to nothing and which are swept away by the next gener- 
 ation. Many noted American men of science remember the awaken- 
 ing influence of his laboratories in Charleston and Cambridge, his 
 museum at Harvard, and his summer school at Penikese Island in 
 Buzzard's Bay, Massachusetts, where natural history was studied 
 under ideal conditions. It was here that he said to his class: — "A 
 laboratory of natural history is a sanctuary where nothing profane 
 should be tolerated. >^ Whittier has left a poem called <^ The Prayer 
 of Agassiz,'* describing 
 
 «The isle of Penikese 
 Ranged about by sapphire seas.>> 
 
 Just as he was realizing two of his ambitions, the establishment 
 of a gfreat museum and a practical school of zoology, he died, Decem- 
 ber 14th, 1873, at his home in Cambridge, and was buried at Mount 
 Auburn beneath pine-trees sent from Switzerland, while a bowlder 
 from the glacier of the Aar was selected to mark his resting-place. 
 
 Agassiz was greatly beloved by his pupils and associates, and was 
 identified with the brilliant group — Emerson, Longfellow. Holmes, and 
 Lowell, — each of whom has written of him. Lowell considered his 
 * Elegy on Agassiz,^ written in Florence in 1874, among his best 
 verses ; Longfellow wrote a poem for < The Fiftieth Birthday of 
 Agassiz,* and Holmes ^A Farewell to Agassiz > on his departure for 
 the Andes, whose affectionate and humorous strain thus closes: — 
 
 *Till their glorious raid is o'er. 
 And they touch our ransomed shore! 
 Then the welcome of a nation, 
 With its shout of exultation. 
 Shall awake the dumb creation, 
 And the shapes of buried aeons 
 Join the living creatures' pseans. 
 While the mighty megalosaunis 
 Leads the palaeozoic chorus,—
 
 JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 
 
 God bless the great Professor, 
 And the land its proud possessor, — 
 Bless them now and evermore !*> 
 
 Numerous biographies and monographs of Agassiz exist in many- 
 languages, a complete list of which is given in the last published 
 <Life of Agassiz, > by Jules Marcou (New York and London, 1896), 
 and also in the < Lif e of Agassiz, > by Charles F. Holder (New York, 
 1893). Complete lists of Agassiz's works are also given in these bio- 
 graphies, and these titles show how versatile was his taste and how 
 deep and wide his research. His principal contributions to science 
 are ^.n French and Latin, but his most popular books appeared in 
 English. These include <The Structure of Animal Life,> < Methods of 
 Study, > < Geological Sketches, > and < Journey in Brazil, > the latter 
 written with Mrs. Agassiz. His *■ Contributions to the Natural History 
 of the United States,* planned to be in ten large books, only reached 
 four volumes. 
 
 In his < Researches concerning Fossil Fishes,* Agassiz expressed 
 the views that made him a lifelong opponent of the Darwinian 
 theories, although he was a warm friend of Darwin. Considering 
 the demands upon his time as teacher, lecturer, and investigator, 
 the excellence not less than the amount of the great naturalist's 
 work is remarkable, and won such admiration that he was made a 
 member of nearly every scientific society in the world. One of his 
 favorite pastimes was deep-sea dredging, which embraced the excite- 
 ment of finding strange specimens and studying their singular habits. 
 
 Of his love and gift for instructing, Mrs. Agassiz says in her 
 <Life> (Boston, 1885): — 
 
 « Teaching was a passion with him, and his power over his pupils might 
 be measured by his own enthusiasm. He was, intellectually as well as socially, 
 a democrat in the best sense. He delighted to scatter broadcast the highest 
 results of thought and research, and to adapt them even to the youngest and 
 most uninformed minds. In his later American travels he would talk of gla- 
 cial phenomena to the driver of a country stage-coach among the mountains, 
 or to some workman splitting rock at the roadside, with as much earnestness 
 as if he had been discussing problems with a brother geologist; he would 
 take the common fisherman into his scientific confidence, telling him the inti- 
 mate secrets of fish-culture or fish-embryology, till the man in his turn grew 
 enthusiastic and began to pour out information from the stores of his own 
 rough and untaught habits of observation. Agassiz's general faith in the 
 susceptibility of the popular intelligence, however untaught, to the highest 
 truths of nature, was contagious, and he created or developed that in which 
 he believed. » 
 
 The following citations exhibit his powers of observation, and that 
 happy method of stating scientific facts which interests the specialist 
 and general reader alike.
 
 JEAN LOUIS RODOIPHE AGASSIZ 215 
 
 THE SILURIAN BEACH 
 From < Geological Sketches * 
 
 WITH what interest do we look upon any relic of early 
 human history! The monument that tells of a civiliza- 
 tion whose hieroglyphic records we cannot even decipher, 
 the slightest trace of a nation that vanished and left no sign of 
 its life except the rough tools and utensils buried in the old site 
 of its towns or villages, arouses our imagination and excites our 
 curiosity. Men gaze with awe at the inscription on an ancient 
 Egyptian or Assyrian stone; they hold with reverential touch the 
 yellow parchment-roll whose dim, defaced characters record the 
 meagre learning of a buried nationality; and the announcement 
 that for centuries the tropical forests of Central America have 
 hidden within their tangled growth the ruined homes and tem- 
 ples of a past race, stirs the civilized world with a strange, deep 
 wonder. 
 
 To me it seems, that to look on the first land that was ever 
 lifted above the wasted waters, to follow the shore where the 
 earliest animals and plants were created when the thought of God 
 first expressed itself in organic forms, to hold in one's hand a bit 
 of stone from an old sea-beach, hardened into rock thousands of 
 centuries ago, and studded with the beings that once crept upon 
 its surface or were stranded there by some retreating wave, is 
 even of deeper interest to men than the relics of their own race, 
 for these things tell more directly of the thoughts and creative 
 acts of God. . . . 
 
 The statement that different sets of animals and plants have 
 characterized the successive epochs is often understood as indi- 
 cating a difference of another kind than that which distinguishes 
 animals now living in different parts of the world. This is a mis- 
 take. They are so-called representative types all over the globe, 
 united to each other by structural relations and separated by 
 specific differences of the same kind as those that unite and sep- 
 arate animals of different geological periods. Take, for instance, 
 mud-flats or sandy shores in the same latitudes of Europe and 
 America: we find living on each, animals of the same structural 
 character and of the same general appearance, but with certain 
 specific differences, as of color, size, external appendages, etc. 
 They represent each other on the two continents. The American 
 wolves, foxes, bears, rabbits, are not the same as the European,
 
 2j5 jean LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 
 
 but those of one continent are as true to their respective types as 
 those of the other; under a somewhat different aspect they repre- 
 sent the same groups of animals. In certain latitudes, or under 
 conditions of nearer proximity, these differences may be less 
 marked. It is well known that there is a great monotony of 
 type, not only among animals and plants but in the human races 
 also, throughout the Arctic regions; and some animals character- 
 istic of the high North reappear under such identical forms in 
 the neighborhood of the snow-fields in lofty mountains, that to 
 trace the difference between the ptarmigans, rabbits, and other 
 gnawing animals of the Alps, for instance, and those of the 
 Arctics, is among the most difficult problems of modern science. 
 
 And so is it also with the animated world of past ages: in 
 similar deposits of sand, mud, or lime, in adjoining regions of 
 the same geological age, identical remains of animals and plants 
 may be found; while at greater distances, but under similar cir- 
 cumstances, representative species may occur. In very remote 
 regions, however, whether the circumstances be similar or dis- 
 similar, the general aspect of the organic world differs greatly, 
 remoteness in space being thus in some measure an indication of 
 the degree of affinity between different faunge. In deposits of 
 different geological periods immediately following each other, we 
 sometimes find remains of animals and plants so closely allied to 
 those of earlier or later periods that at first sight the specific dif- 
 ferences are hardly discernible. The difficulty of solving these 
 questions, and of appreciating correctly the differences and simi- 
 larities between such closely allied organisms, explains the antago- 
 nistic views of many naturalists respecting the range of existence 
 of animals, during longer or shorter geological periods; and the 
 superficial way in which discussions concerning the transition of 
 species are carried on, is mainly owing to an ignorance of the 
 conditions above alluded to. My own personal observation and 
 experience in these matters have led me to the conviction that 
 every geological period has had its own representatives, and that 
 no single species has been repeated in successive ages. 
 
 The laws regulating the geographical distribution of animals, 
 and their combination into distinct zoological provinces called fau- 
 nae, with definite limits, are very imperfectly understood as yet; 
 but so closely are all things linked together from the beginning 
 till to-day, that I am convinced we shall never find the clew 
 to their meaning till we carry on our investigations in the
 
 JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 217 
 
 past and v"he present simultaneously. The same principle accord- 
 ing to which animal and vegetable life is distributed over the 
 surface of the earth now, prevailed in the earliest geological 
 periods. The geological deposits of all times have had their 
 characteristic faunae under various zones, their zoological prov- 
 inces presenting special combinations of animal and vegetable 
 life over certain regions, and their representative types repro- 
 ducing in different countries, but under similar latitudes, the 
 same groups with specific differences. 
 
 Of course, the nearer we approach the beginning of organic 
 life, the less marked do we find the differences to be; and for a 
 very obvious reason. The inequalities of the earth's surface, her 
 mountain-barriers protecting whole continents from the Arctic 
 winds, her open plains exposing others to the full force of the 
 polar blasts, her snug valleys and her lofty heights, her table- 
 lands and rolling prairies, her river-systems and her dry deserts, 
 her cold ocean-currents pouring down from the high North on 
 some of her shores, while warm ones from tropical seas carry 
 their softer influence to others, — in short, all the contrasts in the 
 external configuration of the globe, with the physical conditions 
 attendant upon them, are naturally accompanied by a correspond- 
 ing variety in animal and vegetable life. 
 
 But in the Silurian age, when there were no elevations higher 
 than the Canadian hills, when water covered the face of the 
 earth with the exception of a few isolated portions lifted above 
 the almost universal ocean, how monotonous must have been the 
 conditions of life! And what should we expect to find on those 
 first shores ? If we are walking on a sea-beach to-day, we do not 
 look for animals that haunt the forests or roam over the open 
 plains, or for those that live in sheltered valleys or in inland 
 regions or on mountain-heights. We look for Shells, for Mussels 
 and Barnacles, for Crabs, for Shrim.ps, for Marine Worms, for 
 Star-Fishes and Sea-Urchins, and we may find here and there a 
 fish stranded on the sand or strangled in the sea-weed. Let us 
 remember, then, that in the Silurian period the world, so far as 
 it was raised above the ocean, was a beach ; and let us seek 
 there for such creatures as God has made to live on seashores, 
 and not belittle the Creative work, or say that He first scattered 
 the seeds of life in meagre or stinted measure, because we do 
 not find air-breathing animals when there was no fitting atmo- 
 sphere to feed their lungs, insects with no terrestrial plants tQ
 
 2jg JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 
 
 live upon, reptiles without marshes, birds without trees, cattle 
 without grass, — all things, in short, without the essential con- 
 ditions for their existence. . . . 
 
 I have spoken of the Silurian beach as if there were but one, 
 not only because I wished to limit my sketch, and to attempt 
 at least to give it the vividness of a special locality, but also 
 because a single such shore will give us as good an idea of the 
 characteristic fauna of the time as if we drew our material from 
 a wider range. There are, however, a great number of parallel 
 ridges belonging to the Silurian and Devonian periods, running 
 from east to west, not only through the State of New York, but 
 far beyond, through the States of Michigan and Wisconsin into 
 Minnesota; one may follow nine or ten such successive shores in 
 unbroken lines, from the neighborhood of Lake Champlain to the 
 Far West. They have all the irre^gnlarities of modem seashores, 
 running up to form little bays here, and jutting out in promonto- 
 ries there. . . 
 
 Although the early geological periods are more legible in 
 North America, because they are exposed over such extensive 
 tracts of land, yet they have been studied in many other parts 
 of the globe. In Norway, in Germany, in France, in Russia, in 
 Siberia, in Kamchatka, in parts of South America, — in short, 
 wherever the civilization of the white race has extended, Silurian 
 deposits have been observed, and everywhere they bear the same 
 testimony to a profuse and varied creation. The earth was 
 teeming then with life as now; and in whatever corner of its 
 surface the geologist finds the old strata, they hold a dead fauna 
 as numerous as that which lives and moves above it. Nor do we 
 find that there was any gradual increase or decrease of any 
 organic forms at the beginning and close of the successive 
 periods. On the contrary, the opening scenes of every chapter 
 in the world's history have been crowded with life, and its last 
 leaves as full and varied as its first. 
 
 VOICES 
 From < Methods of Study in Natural History > 
 
 THERE is a chapter in the Natural History of animals that has 
 hardly been touched upon as yet, and that will be especially 
 interesting with reference to families. The voices of ani- 
 mals have a family character not to be mistaken. All the
 
 JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 21 9 
 
 CanidcB bark and howl! — the fox, the wolf, the dog, have the 
 same kind of utterance, though on a somewhat different pitch. 
 All the bears growl, from the white bear of the Arctic snows to 
 the small black bear of the Andes. All the cats meow, from our 
 quiet fireside companion to the lions and tigers and panthers of 
 the forests and jungle. This last may seem a strange assertion ; 
 but to any one who has listened critically to their sounds and 
 analyzed their voices, the roar of the lion is but a gigantic meow, 
 bearing about the same proportion to that of a cat as its stately 
 and majestic form does to the smaller, softer, more peaceful 
 aspect of the cat. Yet notwithstanding the difference in their 
 size, who can look at the lion, whether in his more sleepy mood, 
 as he lies curled up in the corner of his cage, or in his fiercer 
 moments of hunger or of rage, without being reminded of a 
 cat ? And this is not merely the resemblance of one carnivorous 
 animal to another; for no one was ever reminded of a dog or 
 wolf by a lion. 
 
 Again, all the horses and donkeys neigh; for the bray of a 
 donkey is only a harsher neigh, pitched on a different key, it is 
 true, but a sound of the same character — as the donkey himself 
 is but a clumsy and dwarfish horse. All the cows low, from the 
 buffalo roaming the prairie, the musk-ox of the Arctic ice-fields, 
 or the yak of Asia, to the cattle feeding in our pastures. 
 
 Among the birds, this similarity of voice in families is still 
 more marked. We need only recall the harsh and noisy parrots, 
 so similar in their peculiar utterance. Or, take as an example 
 the web-footed family: Do not all the geese and the innumerable 
 host of ducks quack ? Does not every member of the crow fam- 
 ily caw, whether it be the jackdaw, the jay, or the magpie, the 
 rook in some green rookery of the Old World, or the crow of 
 our woods, with its long, melancholy caw that seems to make the 
 silence and solitude deeper ? Compare all the sweet warblers of 
 the songster family — the nightingales, the thrushes, the mocking- 
 birds, the robins; they differ in the greater or less perfection of 
 their note, but the same kind of voice runs through the whole 
 group. 
 
 These affinities of the vocal systems among the animals form 
 a subject well worthy of the deepest study, not only as another 
 character by which to classify the animal kingdom correctly, but 
 as bearing indirectly also on the question of the origin of ani- 
 mals. Can we suppose that characteristics like these have been
 
 220 JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 
 
 communicated from one animal to another ? When we find that 
 all the members of one zoological family, however widely scat- 
 tered over the surface of the earth, inhabiting different continents 
 and even different hemispheres, speak with one voice, must we 
 not believe that they have originated in the places where they 
 now occur, with all their distinctive peculiarities ? Who taught 
 the American thrush to sing like his European relative ? He 
 surely did not learn it from his cousin over the waters. Those 
 who would have us believe that all animals originated from com- 
 mon centres and single pairs, and have been thence distributed 
 over the world, will find it difficult to explain the tenacity of 
 such characters, and their recurrence and repetition under circum- 
 stances that seem to preclude the possibility of any communication, 
 on any other supposition than that of their creation in the differ- 
 ent regions where they are now found. We have much yet to 
 learn, from investigations of this kind, with reference not only to 
 families among animals, but to nationalities among men also. , . . 
 The similarity of motion in families is another subject well 
 worth the consideration of the naturalist: the soaring of the birds 
 of prey, — the heavy flapping of the wings in the gallinaceous 
 birds, — the floating of the swallows, with their short cuts and an- 
 gular turns, — the hopping of the sparrows, — the deliberate walk of 
 the hens and the strut of the cocks, — the waddle of the ducks and 
 geese, — the slow, heavy creeping of the land-turtle, — the graceful 
 flight of the sea-turtle under the water, — the leaping and swim- 
 ming of the frog, — the swift run of the lizard, like a flash of 
 green or red light in the sunshine, — the lateral undulation of the 
 serpent, — the dart of the pickerel, — the leap of the trout, — the 
 rush of the hawk-moth through the air, — the fluttering flight of 
 the butterfly, — the quivering poise of the humming-bird, — the 
 arrow-like shooting of the squid through the water, — the slow 
 crawling of the snail on the land, — the sideway movement of 
 the sand-crab, — the backward walk of the crawfish, — the almost 
 imperceptible gliding of the sea-anemone over the rock, — the 
 graceful, rapid motion of the Pleurobrachia^ with its endless 
 change of curve and spiral. In short, every family of animals 
 has its characteristic action and its peculiar voice; and yet so lit- 
 tle is this endless variety of rhythm and cadence both of motion 
 and sound in the organic world understood, that we lack words to 
 express one-half its richness and beauty.
 
 JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 221 
 
 FORMATION OF CORAL REEFS 
 From < Methods of Study in Natural History > 
 
 FOR a long time it was supposed that the reef-builders inhabited 
 very deep waters; for they were sometimes brought up upon 
 sounding-lines from a depth of many hundreds or even 
 thousands of feet, and it was taken for granted that they must 
 have had their home where they were found: but the facts 
 recently ascertained respecting the subsidence of ocean-bottoms 
 have shown that the foundation of a coral -wall may have sunk 
 far below the place where it was laid. And it is now proved, 
 beyond a doubt, that no reef -building coral can thrive at a depth 
 of more than fifteen fathoms, though corals of other kinds occur 
 far lower, and that the dead reef-corals, sometimes brought to 
 the surface from much greater depths, are only broken fragments 
 of some reef that has subsided with the bottom on which it was 
 growing. But though fifteen fathoms is the maximum depth at 
 which any reef-builder can prosper, there are many which will 
 not sustain even that degree of pressure; and this fact has, as 
 we shall see, an important influence on the structure of the reef. 
 
 Imagine now a sloping shore on some tropical coast descending 
 gradually below the surface of the sea. Upon that slope, at a 
 depth of from ten to twelve or fifteen fathoms, and two or three 
 or more miles from the mainland, according to the shelving ot 
 the shore, we will suppose that one of those little coral animals, 
 to whom a home in such deep waters is congenial, has established 
 itself. How it happens that such a being, which we know is 
 immovably attached to the ground, and forms the foundation of 
 a solid wall, was ever able to swim freely about in the water till 
 it found a suitable resting-place, I shall explain hereafter, when 
 I say something of the mode of reproduction of these animals. 
 Accept, for the moment, my unsustained assertion, and plant our 
 little coral on this sloping shore, some twelve or fifteen fathoms 
 below the surface of the sea. 
 
 The internal structure of such a coral corresponds to that of 
 the sea-anemone. The body is divided by vertical partitions from 
 top to bottom, leaving open chainbers between; while in the 
 centre hangs the digestive cavity, connected by an opening in the 
 bottom with all these chambers. At the top is an aperture serv- 
 ing as a mouth, surrounded by a wreath of hollow tentacles, each
 
 22 2 JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 
 
 one of which connects at its base with one of the chambers, so 
 that all parts of the animal communicate freely with each other. 
 But though the structure of the coral is identical in all its parts 
 with the sea-anemone, it nevertheless presents one important 
 difference. The body of the sea-anemone is soft, while that of 
 the coral is hard. 
 
 It is well known that all animals and plants have the power 
 of appropriating to themselves and assimilating the materials they 
 need, each selecting from the surrounding elements whatever 
 contributes to its well-being. Now, corals possess in an extraor- 
 dinary degree, the power of assimilating to themselves the lime 
 contained in the salt water around them; and as soon as our little 
 coral is established on a firm foundation, a lime deposit begins to 
 form in all the walls of its body, so that its base, its partitions, 
 and its outer wall, which in the sea-anemone remain always soft, 
 become perfectly solid in the polyp coral, and form a frame as 
 hard as bone. 
 
 It may naturally be asked where the lime comes from in the 
 sea which the corals absorb in such quantities. As far as the 
 living corals are concerned the answer is easy, for an immense 
 deal of lime is brought down to the ocean by rivers that wear 
 away the lime deposits through which they pass. The Mississippi, 
 whose course lies through extensive lime regions, brings down 
 yearly lime enough to supply all the animals living in the Gulf of 
 Mexico. But behind this lies a question, not so easily settled, as 
 to the origin of the extensive deposits of limestone found at the 
 very beginning of life upon earth. This problem brings us to the 
 threshold of astronomy; for the base of limestone is metallic in 
 character, susceptible therefore of fusion, and may have formed a 
 part of the materials of our earth, even in an incandescent state, 
 when the worlds were forming. But though this investigation as 
 to the origin of lime does not belong either to the naturalist or the 
 geologist, its suggestion reminds us that the time has come when 
 all the sciences and their results- are so intimately connected that 
 no one can be carried on independently of the others. Since the 
 study of the rocks has revealed a crowded life whose records are 
 hoarded within them, the work of the geologist and the naturalist 
 has become one and the same; and at that border-land where the 
 first crust of the earth was condensed out of the igneous mass of 
 materials which formed its earliest condition, their investigation 
 mingles with that of the astronomer, and we cannot trace the
 
 JEAN LOUIS RODOLPHE AGASSIZ 
 
 223 
 
 limestone in a little coral without going back to the creation of 
 our solar system, when the worlds that compose it were thrown 
 off from a central mass in a gaseous condition. 
 
 When the coral has become in this way permeated with lime, 
 all parts of the body are rigid, with the exception of the upper 
 margin, the stomach, and the tentacles. The tentacles are soft 
 and waving, projected or drawn in at will; they retain their flex- 
 ible character through life, and decompose when the animal dies. 
 For this reason the dried specimens of corals preserved in 
 museums do not give us the least idea of the living corals, in 
 which every one of the millions of beings composing such a com- 
 munity is crowned by a waving wreath of white or green or 
 rose-colored tentacles. 
 
 As soon as the little coral is fairly established and solidly 
 attached to the ground, it begins to bud. This may take place 
 in a variety of ways, dividing at the top or budding from the 
 base or from the sides, till the primitive animal is surrounded by 
 a number of individuals like itself, of which it forms the nucleus, 
 and which now begin to bud in their turn, each one surrounding 
 itself with a numerous progeny, all remaining, however, attached 
 to the parent. Such a community increases till its individuals are 
 numbered by millions, and I have myself counted no less than 
 fourteen millions of individuals in a coral mass of Porites meas- 
 uring not more than twelve feet in diameter. The so-called coral 
 heads, which make the foundation of a coral wall, and seem by 
 their massive character and regular form especially adapted to 
 give a strong, solid base to the whole structure, are known in 
 our classification as the Astrcsans, so named on account of the 
 little [star-shaped] pits crowded upon their surface, each one of 
 which marks the place of a single more or less isolated individual 
 in such a community. 
 
 Selections used by permission of Houghton, Mifilin & Company, Publishers.
 
 224 
 
 AGATHIAS 
 
 (536-581) 
 
 Jgathias tells us, in his < Prooemmm, > that he was born at 
 Myrina, Asia Minor, that his father's name was Memnonius, 
 and his own profession the law of the Romans and practice 
 in courts of justice. He was born about A. D. 536, and was educated 
 at Alexandria. In Constantinople he studied and practiced his pro- 
 fession, and won his surname of <^ Scholasticus, '^ a title then given to a 
 lawyer. He died, it is believed, at the age of forty-four or forty-five. 
 He was a Christian, as he testifies in his epigrams. In the sketch 
 of his life prefixed to his works, Niebuhr collates the friendships he 
 himself mentions, with his fellow-poet Paulus Silentiarius, with Theo- 
 dorus the decemvir, and Macedonius the ex-consul. To these men 
 he dedicated some of his writings. 
 
 Of his works, he says in his ^ Prooemium ' that he wrote in his 
 youth the ^ Daphniaca, ^ a volume of short poems in hexameters, set 
 off with love-tales. His < Anthology,^ or <Cyclus, * was a collection of 
 poems of early writers, and also compositions of his friend Paulus 
 Silentiarius and others of his time. A number of his epigrams, pre- 
 served because they were written before or after his publication of 
 the <Cyclus,^ have come down to us and are contained in the <An- 
 thologia Grasca. ^ His principal work is his ^Historia,' which is an 
 account of the conquest of Italy by Narses, of the first war between 
 the Greeks and Franks, of the great earthquakes and plagues, of the 
 war between the Greeks and Persians, and the deeds of Belisarius in 
 his contest with the Huns, — of all that was happening in the world 
 Agathias knew between 553 and 558 A. D., while he was a young 
 man. He tells, for instance, of the rebuilding of the great Church of 
 St. Sophia by Justinian, and he adds: — ^^ If any one who happens to 
 live in some place remote from the city wishes to get a clear notion 
 of every part, as though he were there, let him read what Paulus 
 [Silentiarius] has composed in hexameter verse.'' 
 
 The history of Agathias is valuable as a chronicle. It shows that 
 the writer had little knowledge of geography, and was not enough of 
 a philosopher to look behind events and trace the causes from which 
 they proceeded. He is merely a simple and honest writer, and his 
 history is a business-like entry of facts. He dwells upon himself and 
 his wishes with a minuteness that might seem self-conscious, but is 
 really naif; and goes so far in his outspokenness as to say that if 
 for the sake of a livelihood he took up another profession, his taste 
 Wotild have led him to devote himself to the Muses and Graces.
 
 GRACE AGUILAR 
 
 225 
 
 He wrote in the Ionic dialect of his time. The best edition of his 
 <Historia* is that of Niebuhr (1828). Those of his epigrams pre- 
 served in the Greek anthology have not infrequently been turned 
 into English; the happiest translation of all is that of Dryden, in his 
 <Life of Plutarch.' 
 
 ON PLUTARCH 
 
 CHERONEAN Plutarch, to thy deathless praise 
 Does martial Rome this grateful statue raise; 
 Because both Greece and she thy fame have shar'd 
 (Their heroes written, and their lives compar'd); 
 But thou thyself could'st never write thy own: 
 Their lives have parallels, but thine has none. 
 
 GRACE AGUILAR 
 
 (1816-1847) 
 
 ^iFTY years ago a Jewish writer of English fiction was a new 
 and interesting figure in English literature. Disraeli, indeed, 
 had flashed into the literary world with ^Coningsby,^ that 
 
 eloquent vindication of the Jewish race. His grandoise ^Tancred* 
 
 had revealed to an astonished public the strange life of the Desert, 
 
 of the mysterious vastness whence swept forth the tribes who became 
 
 the Moors of Spain and the Jews of Palestine. Disraeli, however, 
 
 s-tood in no category, and established no precedent. But when Miss 
 
 Aguilar's stories began to appear, they were 
 
 eagerly welcomed by a public with whom 
 
 she had already won reputation and favor 
 
 as the defender and interpreter of her faith. 
 The youngest child of a rich and refined 
 
 household, Grace Aguilar was born in 18 16 
 
 at Hackney, near London, of that historic 
 
 strain of Spanish-Jewish blood which for 
 
 generations had produced not only beauty 
 
 and artistic sensibility, but intellect. Her 
 
 ancestors were refugees from persecution, 
 
 and in her burned that ardor of faith which 
 
 persecution kindles. Fragile and sensitive, 
 
 she was educated at home, by her cultivated 
 
 father and mother, under whose solicitous training she developed an 
 
 alarming precocity. At the age of twelve she had written a heroic 
 I— 15 
 
 Grace Aguilar
 
 2 26 GRACE AGUILAR 
 
 drama on her favorite hero, Gustavus Vasa. At fourteen she had 
 published a volume of poems. At twenty-four she accomplished her 
 chief work on the Jewish religion, <The Spirit of Judaism, > a book 
 republished in America with preface and notes by a well-known 
 rabbi. Dr. Isaac Leeser of Philadelphia. Although the orthodox priest 
 found much in the book to criticize, he was forced to commend its 
 ability. It insists on the importance of the spiritual and moral 
 aspects of the faith delivered to Abraham, and deprecates a super- 
 stitious reverence for the mere letter of the law. It presents Judaism 
 as a religion of love, and the Old Testament as the inspiration of the 
 teachings of Jesus. Written more than half a century ago, the book 
 is widely read to-day by students of the Jewish religion. 
 
 Four years later Miss Aguilar published * The Jewish Faith : Its 
 Spiritual Consolation, Moral Guidance, and Immortal Hope,* and <The 
 Women of Israel,* a series of essays on Biblical history, which was 
 followed by * Essays and Miscellanies. * So great was the influence of 
 her writings that the Jewesses of London gave her a public testi- 
 monial, and addressed her as <Hhe first woman who had stood forth 
 as the public advocate of the faith of Israel.** While on her way to 
 visit a brother then residing at Schwalbach, Germany, she was taken 
 ill at Frankfurt, and died there, at the early age of thirty-one. 
 
 The earliest and the best known of Miss Aguilar's novels is 
 ^Home Influence,* which rapidly passed through thirty editions, and 
 is still a favorite book with young girls. There is little incident in 
 the story, which is the history of the development of character in a 
 household of six or seven young persons of very different endow- 
 ments and tendencies. It was the fashion of the day to be didactic, 
 and Mrs. Hamilton, from whom the <^home influence** radiates, seems 
 to the modern reader somewhat inclined to preach, in season and out 
 of season. But the story is interesting, and the characters are dis- 
 tinctly individualized, while at least one episode is dramatically 
 treated. 
 
 * The Mother's Recompense* is a sequel to < Hom.e Influence,* 
 wherein the further fortunes of the Hamilton family are so set forth 
 that the wordly-minded reader is driven to the inference that the 
 brilliant marriages of her children are a sensible part of Mrs. Hamil- 
 ton's "recompense.** The story is vividly and agreeably told. 
 
 Of a different order is ^ The Days of Bruce,* a historic romance of 
 the late thirteenth century, which is less historic than romantic, and 
 in whose mirror the rugged chieftain would hardly recognize his 
 angularities. 
 
 * The Vale of Cedars * is a historic tale of the persecution of the 
 Jews in Spain under the Inquisition. It is told with intense feeling, 
 with much imagination, and with a strong- love of local color. It is
 
 GRACE AGUILAR 227 
 
 said that family traditions are woven into fhe story. This book, as 
 well as <Home Inflttence,^ had a wide popularity in a German version. 
 
 In reading Grace Aguilar it is not easy to believe her the contem- 
 porary of Currer Bell and George Eliot. Both her manner and her 
 method are earlier. Her lengthy and artificial periods, the rounded 
 and decorative sentences that she puts into the mouths of her charac- 
 ters under the extremest pressure of emotion or suffering, the italics, 
 the sentimentalities, are of another age than the sinewy English and 
 hard sense of ^Jane Eyre > or <Adam Bede.> Doubtless her peculiar, 
 sheltered training, her delicate health, and a luxuriant imagination 
 that had seldom been measured against the realities of life, account 
 for the old-fashioned air of her work. But however antiquated their 
 form may become, the substance of all her tales is sweet and sound, 
 their charm for young girls is abiding, their atmosphere is pure, and 
 the spirit that inspires them is touched only to fine issues. 
 
 The citation from < The Days of Bruce * illustrates her narrative 
 style ; that from < Woman's Friendship > her habit of disquisition ; and 
 the passage from * Home Influence * her rendering of conversation. 
 
 THE GREATNESS OF FRIENDSHIP 
 
 From < Woman's Friendship > 
 
 IT IS the fashion to deride .woman's influence over woman, to 
 laugh at female friendship, to look with scorn on all those 
 who profess it; but perhaps the world at large little knows 
 the effect of this influence, — how often the unformed character of 
 a young, timid, and gentle girl may be influenced for good or evil 
 by the power of an intimate female friend. There is always to 
 me a doubt of the warmth, the strength, and purity of her feel- 
 ings, when a young girl merges into womanhood, passing over 
 the threshold of actual life, seeking only the admiration of the 
 other sex; watching, pining, for a husband, or lovers, perhaps, 
 and looking down on all female friendship as romance and folly. 
 No young spirit was ever yet satisfied with the love of nature. 
 Friendship, or love, gratifies self-love; for it tacitly acknowl- 
 edges that we must possess some good qualities to attract beyond 
 the mere love of nature. Coleridge justly observes, "that it is 
 well ordered that the amiable and estimable should have a fainter 
 perception of their own qualities than their friends have, other- 
 wise they would love themselves.*' Now, friendship, or love, per- 
 mits their doing this unconsciously: mutual affection is a tacit
 
 228 GRACE AGUILAR 
 
 avowal and appreciation of mutual good qualities, — perhaps 
 friendship yet more than love, for the latter is far more an aspi- 
 ration, a passion, than the former, and influences the permanent 
 character much less. Under the magic of love a girl is generally 
 in a feverish state of excitement, often in a wrong position, 
 deeming herself the goddess, her lover the adorer; whereas it 
 is her will that must bend to his, herself be abnegated for him. 
 Friendship neither permits the former nor demands the latter. It 
 influences silently, often unconsciously; perhaps its power is never 
 known till years afterwards. A girl who stands alone, without 
 acting or feeling friendship, is generally a cold unamiable being, 
 so wrapt in self as to have no room for any person else, except 
 perhaps a lover, whom she only seeks and values as offering 
 his devotion to that same idol, self. Female friendship may be 
 abused, may be but a name for gossip, letter-writing, romance, 
 nay worse, for absolute evil: but that Shakespeare, the mighty 
 wizard of human hearts, thought highly and beautifully of female 
 friendship, we have his exquisite portraits of Rosalind and Celia, 
 Helen and the Countess, undeniably to prove; and if he, who 
 could portray every human passion, every subtle feeling of 
 humanity, from the whelming tempest of love to the fiendish 
 influences of envy and jealousy and hate; from the incompre- 
 hensible mystery of Hamlet's wondrous spirit, to the simplicity 
 of the gentle Miranda, the dove-like innocence of Ophelia, who 
 could be crushed by her weight of love, but not reveal it; — if 
 Shakespeare scorned not to picture the sweet influences of female 
 friendship, shall women pass by it as a theme too tame, too idle 
 for their pens ? 
 
 THE ORDER OF KNIGHTHOOD 
 From <The Days of Bruce > 
 
 ARIGHT noble and glorious scene did the great hall of the pal- 
 ace present the morning which followed this eventful night. 
 The king, surrounded by his highest prelates and nobles, 
 mingling indiscriminately with the high-born dames and maidens 
 of his court, all splendidly attired, occupied the upper part of the 
 hall, the rest of which was crowded by both his military fol- 
 lowers and many of the good citizens of Scone, who flocked in 
 great numbers to behold the august ceremony of the day. Two 
 immense oaken doors at the south side of the hall were flung
 
 GRACE AGUILAR 2 20 
 
 open, and through them was discerned the large space forming 
 the palace yard, prepared as a tilting-ground, where the new- 
 made knights were to prove their skill. The storm had given 
 place to a soft, breezy morning, the cool freshness of which 
 appeared peculiarly grateful from the oppressiveness of the night; 
 light downy clouds sailed over the blue expanse of heaven, tem- 
 pering without clouding the brilliant rays of the sun. Every 
 face was clothed with smiles, and the loud shouts which hailed 
 the youthful candidates for knighthood, as they severally entered, 
 told well the feeling with which the patriots of Scotland were 
 regarded. 
 
 Some twenty youths received the envied honor at the hand 
 of their sovereign this day; but our limits forbid a minute 
 scrutiny of the bearing of any, however well deserving, save of 
 the two whose vigils have already detained us so long. A yet 
 longer and louder shout proclaimed the appearance of the 
 youngest scion of the house of Bruce and his companion. The 
 daring patriotism of Isabella of Buchan had enshrined her in 
 every heart, and so disposed all men towards her children that 
 the name of their traitorous father was forgotten. 
 
 Led by their godfathers, Nigel by his brother-in-law Sir 
 Christopher Seaton, and Alan by the Earl of Lennox, their 
 swords, which had been blessed by the abbot at the altar, slung 
 round their necks, they advanced up the hall. There was a 
 glow on the cheek of the young Alan, in which pride and 
 modesty were mingled; his step at first was unsteady and his 
 lip was seen to quiver from very bashfulness, as he first glanced 
 round the hall and felt that every eye was turned toward him; 
 but when that glance met his mother's fixed on him, and breath- 
 ing that might of love that filled her heart, all boyish tremors 
 fled, the calm, staid resolve of manhood took the place of the 
 varying glow upon his cheek, the quivering lip became com- 
 pressed and firm, and his step faltered not again. 
 
 The cheek of Nigel Bruce was pale, but there was firmness 
 in the glance of his bright eye, and a smile unclouded in its 
 joyance on his lip. The frivolous lightness of the courtier, the 
 mad bravado of knight-errantr}^, which was not uncommon to 
 the times, indeed, were not there. It was the quiet courage of 
 the resolved warrior, the calm of a spirit at peace with itself, 
 shedding its own high feeling and poetic glory over all around 
 him.
 
 230 GRACE AGUILAR 
 
 On reaching- the foot of King Robert's throne, both youths 
 knelt and laid their sheathed swords at his feet. Their armor- 
 bearers then approached, and the ceremony of clothing the can- 
 didates in steel commenced; the golden spur was fastened on the 
 left foot of each by his respective godfather, while Athol, Hay, 
 and other nobles advanced to do honor to the youths, by aiding 
 in the ceremony. Nor was it warriors alone. 
 
 ^* Is this permitted, lady ? '^ demanded the king, smiling, as 
 the Countess of Buchan approached the martial group, and, 
 aided by Lennox, fastened the polished cuirass on the form of 
 her son. " Is it permitted for a matron to arm a youthful 
 knight ? Is there no maiden to do such inspiring office ? " 
 
 " Yes, when the knight is one like this, my liege, '^ she 
 answered, in the same tone. " Let a matron arm him, good my 
 liege," she added, sadly: ^Met a mother's hand enwrap his boyish 
 limbs in steel, a mother's blessing mark him thine and Scot- 
 land's, that those who watch his bearing in the battle-field may 
 know who sent him there, may thrill his heart with memories 
 of her who stands alone of her ancestral line, that though he 
 bears the name of Comyn, the blood of Fife flows reddest in his 
 veins ! " 
 
 "Arm him and welcome, noble lady,'^ answered the king, and 
 a buzz of approbation ran through the hall ; " and may thy noble 
 spirit and dauntless loyalty inspire him: we shall not need a 
 trusty follower while such as he are around us. Yet, in very 
 deed, my youthful knight must have a lady fair for whom he 
 tilts to-day. Come hither, Isoline, thou lookest verily inclined 
 to envy thy sweet friend her office, and nothing loth to have a 
 loyal knight thyself. Come, come, my pretty one, no blushing 
 now. Lennox, guide those tiny hands aright." 
 
 Laughing and blushing, Isoline, the daughter of Lady Camp- 
 bell, a sister of the Bruce, a graceful child of some thirteen 
 summers, advanced nothing loth, to obey her royal uncle's sum- 
 mons; and an arch smile of real enjoyment irresistibly stole over 
 t-he countenance of Alan, dispersing the emotion his mother's 
 words produced. 
 
 " Nay, tremble not, sweet one, " the king continued, in a 
 lower and yet kinder tone, as he turned from the one youth to 
 the other, and observed that Agnes, overpowered by emotion, 
 had scarcely power to perform her part, despite the whispered 
 words of encouraging affection Nigel murmured in her ear. One
 
 GRACE AGUILAR 231 
 
 T)y one the cuirass and shoulder-pieces, the greaves and gaunt- 
 lets, the gorget and brassards, the joints of which were so beau- 
 tifully burnished that they shone as mirrors, and so flexible that 
 every limb had its free use, enveloped those manly forms. Their 
 swords once again girt to their sides, and once more kneeling, 
 the king descended from his throne, alternately dubbing them 
 knight in the name of God, St. Michael, and St. George. 
 
 THE CULPRIT AND THE JUDGE 
 From <Home Influence > 
 
 MRS. Hamilton was seated at one of the tables on the dais 
 nearest the oriel window, the light from which fell on her, 
 giving her figure — though she was seated naturally enough 
 in one of the large maroon- velvet oaken chairs — an unusual 
 efifect of dignity and command, and impressing the terrified 
 beholder with such a sensation of awe that had her life depended 
 on it, she could not for that one minute have gone forward; and 
 even when desired to do so by the words *^ I desired your pres- 
 ence, Ellen, because I wished to speak to you: come here with- 
 out any more delay, *^ — how she walked the whole length of that 
 interminable room, and stood facing her aunt, she never knew. 
 
 Mrs. Hamilton for a full minute did not speak, but she fixed 
 that searching look, to which we have once before alluded, upon 
 Ellen's face; and then said, in a tone which, though very low 
 and calm, expressed as much as that earnest look: — 
 
 '* Ellen! is it necessary for me to tell you why you are here — > 
 necessary to produce the proof that my words are right, and that 
 you have been influenced by the fearful effects of some uncon- 
 fessed and most heinous sin ? Little did I dream its nature. ** 
 
 For a moment Ellen stood as turned to stone, as white and 
 rigid — the next she had sunk down with a wild, bitter cry, at 
 Mrs. Hamilton's feet, and buried her face in her hands. 
 
 "Is it true — can it be true — that you, offspring of my own 
 sister; dear to me, cherished by me as my own child — you have 
 been the guilty one to appropriate, and conceal the appropriation 
 of money, which has been a source of distress by its loss, and 
 the suspicion thence proceeding, for the last seven weeks? — that 
 you could listen to your uncle's words, absolving his whole 
 household as incapable of a deed which was actual theft, and 
 yet, by neither word nor sign, betray remorse or guilt? — could
 
 232 GRACE AGUILAR 
 
 behold the innocent suffering, the fearful misery of suspicion, 
 loss of character, without the power of clearing himself, and 
 stand calmly, heedlessly by — only proving by your hardened 
 and rebellious temper that all was not right within — Ellen, can 
 this be true ? ** 
 
 « Yes ! *^ was the reply, but with such a fearful effort that her 
 slight frame shook as with an ague : " thank God that it is known ! 
 I dared not bring down the punishment on myself; but I can bear 
 it.» 
 
 *^ This is mere mockery, Ellen : how dare I believe even this 
 poor evidence of repentance, with the recollection of your past 
 conduct ? What were the notes you found ? ^^ 
 
 Ellen named them. 
 
 ** Where are they ? — This is but one, and the smallest. " 
 
 Ellen's answer was scarcely audible. 
 
 * Used them — and for what ? ^* 
 
 There was no answer; neither then nor when Mrs. Hamilton 
 sternly reiterated the question. She then demanded: — 
 
 " How long have they been in your possession ? '^ 
 
 ** Five or six weeks ; '* but the reply was so tremulous it car- 
 ried no conviction with it. 
 
 " Since Robert told his story to your uncle, or before ? '* 
 
 « Before. » 
 
 *' Then your last answer was a falsehood, Ellen : it is full seven 
 weeks since my husband addressed the household on the subject. 
 You could not have so miscounted time, with such a deed to date 
 by. Where did you find them ? *^ 
 
 Ellen described the spot. 
 
 ** And what business had you there ? You know that neither 
 you nor your cousins are ever allowed to go that way to Mrs. 
 Langford's cottage, and more especially alone. If you wanted to 
 see her, why did you not go the usual way ? And when was 
 this? — you must remember the exact day. Your memory is not 
 in general so treacherous.^* 
 
 Again Ellen was silent. 
 
 * Have you forgotten it ? * 
 
 She crouched lower at her aunt's feet, but the answer was 
 audible — « No. » 
 
 ^'Then answer me, Ellen, this moment, and distinctly: for 
 what purpose were you seeking Mrs. Langford's cottage by that 
 forbidden path, and when ? '* '
 
 GRACE AGUILAR 
 
 233 
 
 ^* I wanted money, and I went to ask her to take my trinkets 
 — my watch, if it must be — and dispose of them as I had read of 
 others doing, as miserable as I was; and the wind blew the notes 
 to my very hand, and I used them, I was mad then; I have 
 been mad since, I believe: but I would have returned the whole 
 amount to Robert if I could have but parted with my trinkets 
 in time.** 
 
 To describe the tone of utter despair, the recklessness as to 
 the effect her words would produce, is impossible. Every word 
 increased Mrs. Hamilton's bewilderment and misery. To suppose 
 that Ellen did not feel was folly. It was the very depth of 
 wretchedness which was criishingf her to earth, but every answered 
 and unanswered question but deepened the mystery, and rendered 
 her judge's task more difficult, 
 
 ** And when was this, Ellen ? I will have no more evasion — 
 tell me the exact day,* 
 
 But she asked in vain. Ellen remained moveless and silent as 
 the dead. 
 
 After several minutes Mrs. Hamilton removed her hands from 
 her face, and compelling her to lift up her head, gazed search- 
 ingly on her death-like countenance for some moments in utter 
 silence, and then said, in a tone that Ellen never in her life 
 forgot : — 
 
 *You cannot imagine, Ellen, that this half confession will 
 either satisfy me, or in the smallest degree redeem your sin. 
 One, and one only path is open to you; for all that you have 
 said and left unsaid but deepens your apparent guilt, and so 
 blackens your conduct, that I can scarcely believe I am address- 
 ing the child I so loved — and could still so love, if but one real 
 sign be given of remorse and penitence — one hope of returning 
 truth. But that sign, that hope, can only be a full confession. 
 Terrible as is the guilt of appropriating so large a sum, granted 
 it came by the merest chance into your hand; dark as is the addi- 
 tional sin of concealment when an innocent person was suffer- 
 ing — something still darker, more terrible, must be concealed 
 behind it, or you would not, could not, continue thus obdurately 
 silent. I can believe that under some hea\'y pressure of misery, 
 some strong excitement, the sum might have been used without 
 thought, and that fear might have prevented the confession of 
 anything so dreadful; but what was this heavy necessity for 
 money, this strong excitement ? What fearful and mysterious
 
 234 GRACE AGUILAR 
 
 difficulties have you been led into to call for either ? Tell me 
 the truth, Ellen, the whole truth; let me have some hope of sav- 
 ing you and myself the misery of publicly declaring you the 
 guilty one, and so proving Robert's innocence. Tell me what 
 difficulty, what misery so maddened you, as to demand the dis- 
 posal of your trinkets. If there be the least excuse, the smallest 
 possibility of your obtaining in time forgiveness, I will grant it. 
 I will not believe you so utterly fallen. I will do all I can to 
 remove error, and yet to prevent suffering; but to win this, I 
 must have a full confession — every question that I put to you 
 must be clearly and satisfactorily answered, and so bring back the 
 only comfort to yourself, and hope to me. Will you do this, 
 Ellen ? » 
 
 ^* Oh that I could ! '^ was the reply in such bitter anguish, Mrs. 
 Hamilton actually shuddered. "But I cannot — must not — dare 
 not. Aunt Emmeline, hate me; condemn me to the severest, 
 sharpest suffering; I wish for it, pine for it: you cannot loathe 
 me more than I do myself, but do not — do not speak to me in 
 these kind tones — I cannot bear them. It was because I knew 
 what a wretch I am, that I have so shunned you. I was not 
 worthy to be with you; oh, sentence me at once! I dare not 
 answer as you wish.*^ 
 
 ^^ Dare not ! '^ repeated Mrs. Hamilton, more and more bewil- 
 dered; and to conceal the emotion Ellen's wild words and ago- 
 nized manner had produced, adopting a greater sternness. 
 
 " You dare commit a sin, from which the lowest of my house- 
 hold would shrink in horror, and yet tell me you dare not make 
 the only atonement, give me the only proof of real penitence I 
 demand. This is a weak and wicked subterfuge, Ellen, and will 
 not pass with me. There can be no reason for this fearful obdu- 
 racy, not even the consciousness of greater guilt, for I promise 
 forgiveness, if it be possible, on the sole condition of a full confess- 
 ion. Once more, will you speak ? Your hardihood will be utterly 
 useless, for you cannot hope to conquer me; and if you permit 
 me to leave you with your conduct still clothed in this impene- 
 trable mystery, you will compel me to adopt measures to subdue 
 that defying spirit, which will expose you and myself to intense 
 suffering, but which must force submission at last.*^ 
 
 *^You cannot inflict more than I have endured the last seven 
 weeks," murmured Ellen, almost inarticulately. "I have borne 
 that; I can bear the rest.**
 
 GRACE AGUILAR 
 
 235 
 
 ** Then you will not answer ? You are resolved not to tell me 
 the day on which you found that money, the use to which it was 
 applied, the reason of your choosing that forbidden path, permit- 
 ting me to believe you guilty of heavier sins than may be the 
 case in reality. Listen to me, Ellen; it is more than time this 
 interview should cease; but I will give you one chance more. It 
 is now half -past seven, ^* — she took the watch from her neck, and 
 laid it on the table — *^ I will remain here one-half hour longer: 
 by that time this sinful temper may have passed away, and you 
 will consent to give me the confession I demand. I cannot 
 believe you so altered in two months as to choose obduracy and 
 misery, when pardon, and in time confidence and love, are 
 offered in their stead. Get up from that crouching posture; it 
 can be but mock humility, and so only aggravates your sin.'^ 
 
 Ellen rose slowly and painfully, and seating herself at the 
 table some distance from her aunt, leaned her arms upon it, and 
 buried her face within them. Never before arid never after did 
 half an hour appear so interminable to either Mrs. Hamilton or 
 Ellen. It was well for the firmness of the former, perhaps, that 
 she could not read the heart of that young girl, even if the cause 
 of its anguish had been still concealed. Again and again did the 
 wild longing, turning her actually faint and sick with its agony, 
 come over her to reveal the whole, to ask but rest and mercy 
 for herself, pardon and security for Edward: but then, clear as if 
 held before her in letters of fire, she read every word of her 
 brother's desperate letter, particularly " Breathe it to my uncle or 
 aunt — for if she knows it he will — and you will never see me 
 more.'' Her mother, pallid as death, seemed to stand before 
 her, freezing confession on her heart and lips, looking at her 
 threateningly, as she had so often seen her, as if the very 
 thought were guilt. The rapidly advancing twilight, the large 
 and lonely room, all added to that fearful illusion; and if Ellen 
 did succeed in praying it was with desperate fervor for strength 
 not to betray her brother. If ever there were a martyr spirit, 
 it was enshrined in that young, frail form. 
 
 "Aunt Emmeline, Aunt Emmeline, speak to me but one 
 word — only one word of kindness before you go. I do not 
 ask for mercy — there can be none for such a wretch as I am; 
 I will bear without one complaint, one murmur, all you may 
 inflict — you cannot be too severe. Nothing can be such agony as 
 the utter loss of your affection; I thought, the last two months,
 
 '.^6 
 
 GRACE AGUILAR 
 
 that I feared you so much that it was all fear, no love: but now, 
 now that you know my sin, it has all, all come back to make me 
 still more wretched.*^ And before Mrs. Hamilton could prevent, 
 or was in the least aware of her intention, Ellen had obtained 
 possession of one of her hands, and was covering it with kisses, 
 while her whole fraine shook with those convulsed, but completely 
 tearless sobs. > 
 
 ^'Will you confess, Ellen, if I stay? Will you give me the 
 proof that it is such agony to lose my affection, that you do love 
 me as you profess, and that it is only one sin which has so 
 changed you ? One word, and, tardy as it is, I will listen, and if 
 I can, forgive." 
 
 Ellen made no answer, and Mrs. Hamilton's newly raised hopes 
 vanished; she waited full two or three minutes, then gently dis- 
 engaged her hand and dress from Ellen's still convulsive grasp; 
 the door closed, with a sullen, seemingly unwilling sound, and 
 Ellen was alone. She remained in the same posture, the same 
 spot, till a vague, cold terror so took possession of her, that the 
 room seemed filled with ghostly shapes, and all the articles of fur- 
 niture suddenly transformed to things of life; and springing up, 
 with the wild, fleet step of fear, she paused not till she found 
 herself in her own room, where, flinging herself on her bed, she 
 buried her face on her pillow, to shut out every object — oh, liow 
 she longed to shut out thought!
 
 237 
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 
 
 (1805-1882) 
 
 [n the year 1881, at a commemorative dinner given to her 
 native novelist by the city of Manchester, it was announced 
 that the public library contained two hundred and fifty 
 volumes of his works, which passed through seven thousand six 
 hundred and sixty hands annually, so that his stories were read at 
 the rate of twenty volumes a day throughout the year. This ex- 
 ceptional prophet, who was thus not without honor in his own country, 
 was the son of a prosperous attorney, and was himself destined to 
 the bar. But he detested the law and he 
 loved letters, and before he was twenty 
 he had helped to edit a paper, had written 
 essays, a story, and a play, — none of which, 
 fortunately for him, survive, — and had 
 gone to London, ostensibly to read in a 
 lawyer's office, and really to spin his web 
 of fiction whenever opportunity offered. 
 Chance connected the fortunes of young 
 Ainsworth with periodical literature, where 
 most of his early work appeared. His first 
 important tale was ^Rookwood,* published 
 in 1834. This describes the fortunes of a 
 family of Yorkshire gentry in the last cen- w. Harrison Ainsworth 
 tury ; but its real interest lies in an episode 
 
 which includes certain experiences of the notorious highwayman, Dick 
 Turpin, and his furious ride to outrun the hue and cry. Sporting 
 England was enraptured with the dash and breathlessness of this 
 adventtire, and the novelist's fame was established. 
 
 His second romance, ^Crichton,^ appeared in 1836. The hero of 
 this tale is the brilliant Scottish gentleman whose handsome person, 
 extraordinary scholarship, great accomplishments, courage, eloquence, 
 subtlety, and achievement gained him the sobriquet of «The Admira- 
 ble. >' The chief scenes are laid in Paris at the time of Catherine de' 
 Medici's rule and Henry III.'s reign, when the air was full of intrigue 
 and conspiracy, and when religious quarrels were not more bitter and 
 dangerous than political wrangles. The inscrutable king, the devout 
 Queen Louise of Lorraine, the scheming queen-mother, and Marguerite 
 of Valois, half saint, half profligate, a pearl of beauty and grace; 
 
 |>^~"'i^
 
 238 
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 
 
 Henry of Navarre, ready to buy his Paris with sword or mass; well- 
 known great nobles, priests, astrologers, learned doctors, foreign 
 potentates, ambassadors, pilgrims, and poisoners, — pass before the 
 reader's eye. The pictures of student life, at a time when all the 
 world swarmed to the great schools of Paris, serve to explain the 
 hero and the period. 
 
 When, in 1839, Dickens resigned the editorship of Bentley's Mis- 
 cellany, Ainsworth succeeded him. "The new whip,>> wrote the old 
 one afterward, "having mounted the box, drove straight to Newgate. 
 He there took in Jack Sheppard, and Cruikshank the artist; and 
 aided by that very vulgar but very wonderful draughtsman, he made 
 an effective story of the burglar's and housebreaker's life.'* Every- 
 body read the story, and most persons cried out against so ignoble a 
 hero, so mean a history, and so misdirected a literary energy. The 
 author himself seems not to have been proud of the success which 
 sold thousands of copies of an unworthy book, and placed a dramatic 
 version of its vulgar adventures on the stage of eight theatres at 
 once. He turned his back on this profitable field to produce, in rapid 
 succession, ^ Guy Fawkes, * a tale of the famous Gunpowder Plot ; 
 *The Tower of London,* a story of the Princess Elizabeth, the reign 
 of Queen Mary, and the melancholy episode of Lady Jane Grey's 
 brief glory; < Old Saint Paul,* a story of the time of Charles IL, 
 which contains the history of the Plague and of the Great Fire; 
 <The Miser's Daughter*; < Windsor Castle,* whose chief characters 
 are Katharine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn, Cardinal Wolsey, and Henry 
 the Eighth; < St. James,* a tale of the court of Queen Anne; *The 
 Lancashire Witches*; ^ The Star-Chamber, * a historical story of the 
 time of Charles I.; <The Constable of the Tower*; <The Lord May^r 
 of London'; ^Cardinal Pole,* which deals with the coiirt and times of 
 Philip and Mary; <John Law,* a story of the great Mississippi Bub- 
 ble; ^ Tower Hill,* whose heroine is the luckless Catharine Howard; 
 
 * The Spanish Match, * a story of the romantic pilgrimage of Prince 
 Charles and " Steenie ** Buckingham to Spain for the fruitless wooing 
 of the Spanish Princess; and at least ten other romances, many of 
 them in three volumes, all appearing between 1840 and 1873. Two 
 of these were published simultaneously, in serial form ; and no year 
 passed without its book, to the end of the novelist's long life. 
 
 Whatever the twentieth century may say to Ainsworth's historic 
 romances, many of them have found high favor in the past. Con- 
 cerning ^Crichton,* so good a critic as "Father Prout** wrote: — 
 
 * Indeed, I scarcely know any of the so-called historical novels of this 
 frivolous generation which has altogether so graphically reproduced 
 the spirit and character of the time as this daring and dashing por- 
 traiture of the young Scot and his contemporaries.** The author of
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 239 
 
 *Waverley* praised more than one of the romances, saying that they 
 were written in his own vein. Even Maginn, the satirical, thought 
 that the novelist was doing excellent service to history in making 
 Englishmen understand how full of comedy and tragedy were the old 
 streets and the old buildings of London. And if Ainsworth the 
 writer received some buffetings, Ainsworth the man seems to have 
 been universally loved and approved. All the literary men of his 
 time were his cordial friends. Scott wrote for him *■ The Bonnets 
 of Bonnie Dundee,* and objected to being paid. Dickens was eager 
 to serve him. Talfourd, Barham, Hood, Howitt, James, Jerrold, 
 delighted in his society. At dinner-parties and in country-houses he 
 was a favorite guest. Thus, easy in circumstances, surrounded by 
 affection, happy in the labor of his choice, passed the long life of 
 the upright and kindly English gentleman who spent fifty industrious 
 years in recording the annals of tragedy, wretchedness, and crime. 
 
 THE STUDENTS OF PARIS 
 From <Crichton> 
 
 TOWARD the close of Wednesday, the 4th of February, 1579, a 
 vast assemblage of scholars was collected before the Gothic 
 gateway of the ancient College of Navarre. So numerous 
 was this concourse, that it not merely blocked up the area in 
 front of the renowned seminary in question, but extended far 
 down the Rue de la Montagne Sainte-Genevieve, in which it is 
 situated. Never had such a disorderly rout been brought together 
 since the days of the uproar in 1557, when the predecessors of 
 these turbulent students took up arms, marched in a body to the 
 Pre-aux-Clercs, set fire to three houses in the vicinity, and slew 
 a sergeant of the guard, who vainly endeavored to restrain their 
 fury. Their last election of a rector, Messire Adrien d'Amboise, 
 — pater eruditionum, as he is described in his epitaph, when the 
 same body congregated within the cloisters of the Mathurins, and 
 thence proceeded, in tumultuous array, to the church of Saint 
 Louis, in the isle of the same name, — had been nothing to it. 
 Every scholastic hive sent forth its drones. Sorbonne, and IMon- 
 taigu, Cluny, Harcourt, the Four Nations, and a host of minor 
 establishments — in all, amounting to forty-two — each added its 
 swarms; and a pretty buzzing they created! The fair of Saint- 
 Germain had only commenced the day before; but though its
 
 240 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 
 
 festivities were to continue until Palm Sunday, and though it was 
 the constant resort of the scholars, who committed, during their 
 days of carnival, ten thousand excesses, it was now absolutely 
 deserted. 
 
 The Pomme-de-Pin, the Castel, the Magdaleine, and the Mule, 
 those "capital caverns,^' celebrated in Pantagruel's conference with 
 the Limosin student, which has conferred upon them an immor- 
 tality like that of our own hostel, the Mermaid, were wholly 
 neglected; the dice-box was laid aside for the nonce; and the 
 well-used cards were thrust into the doublets of these thirsty 
 tipplers of the schools. 
 
 But not alone did the crowd consist of the brawler, the 
 gambler, the bully, and the debauchee, though these, it must be 
 confessed, predominated. It was a grand medley of all sects and 
 classes. The modest demeanor of the retiring, pale-browed stu- 
 dent was contrasted with the ferocious aspect and reckless bearing 
 of his immediate neighbor, whose appearance was little better 
 than that of a bravo. The grave theologian and embryo ecclesi- 
 astic were placed in juxtaposition with the scoffing and licentious 
 acolyte; while the lawyer in posse, and the law-breaker in esse, 
 were numbered among a group whose pursuits were those of vio- 
 lence and fraud. 
 
 Various as were the characters that composed it, not less 
 diversified were the costumes of this heterogeneous assemblage. 
 Subject to no particular regulations as to dress, or rather openly 
 infracting them, if any such were attempted to be enforced — 
 each scholar, to whatever college he belonged, attired himself in 
 such garments as best suited his taste or his finances. Taking it 
 altogether, the mob was neither remarkable for the fashion, nor 
 the cleanliness of the apparel of its members. 
 
 From Rabelais we learn that the passion of play was so 
 strongly implanted in the students of his day, that they would 
 frequently stake the points of their doublets at tric-trac or troii- 
 madaine; and but little improvement had taken place in their 
 morals or manners some half-century afterward. The buckle at 
 their girdle — the mantle on their shoulders — the shirt to their 
 back — often stood the hazard of the die; and hence it not unfre- 
 quently happened, that a rusty pourpoint and ragged chaussc^s 
 were all the covering which the luckless dicers could enumerate, 
 owing, no doubt, " to the extreme rarity and penury of money in 
 their pouches.**
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 24 1 
 
 Round or square caps, hoods and cloaks of black, gray, or 
 other sombre hue, were, however, the prevalent garb of the mem- 
 bers of the university; but here and there might be seen some 
 gayer specimen of the tribe, whose broad-brimmed, high-crowned 
 felt hat and flaunting feather; whose puifed-out sleeves and exag- 
 gerated ruff — with starched plaits of such amplitude that they 
 had been not inappropriately na-med p/ats de Saint Jean-Baptiste, 
 from the resemblance which the wearer's head bore to that of the 
 saint, when deposited in the charger of the daughter of Herodias 
 — were intended to ape the leading mode of the elegant court of 
 their sovereign, Henri Trois. . . . 
 
 Notwithstanding its shabby appearance in detail, the general 
 effect of this scholastic rabble was striking and picturesque. The 
 thick mustaches and pointed beards with which the lips and 
 chins of most of them were decorated, gave to their physiogno- 
 mies a manly and determined air, fully borne out by their unre- 
 strained carriage and deportment. To a man, almost all were 
 armed with a tough vine-wood bludgeon, called in their language 
 an estoc volant, tipped and shod with steel — a weapon fully 
 understood by them, and rendered, by their dexterity in the use 
 of it, formidable to their adversaries. Not a few carried at 
 their girdles the short rapier, so celebrated in their duels and 
 brawls, or concealed within their bosom a poniard or a two- 
 edged knife. 
 
 The scholars of Paris have ever been a turbulent and ungov- 
 ernable race; and at the period of which this history treats, and 
 indeed long before, were little better than a licensed horde of 
 robbers, consisting of a pack of idle and wayward youths drafted 
 from all parts of Europe, as well as from the remoter provinces 
 of their own nation. There was little in common between the 
 mass of students and their brethren, excepting the fellowship 
 resulting from the universal license in which all indulged. Hence 
 their thousand combats among themselves — combats almost inva- 
 riably attended with fatal consequences — and which the heads of 
 the university found it impossible to check. 
 
 Their own scanty resources, eked out by what little they could 
 derive from beggary or robbery, formed their chief subsistence; 
 for many of them were positive mendicants, and were so denom- 
 inated: and being possessed of a sanctuary within their own 
 quarters, to which they could at convenience retire, they sub- 
 mitted to the constraint of no laws except those enforced within 
 I— 16
 
 242 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 
 
 the jurisdiction of the university, and hesitated at no means of 
 enriching themselves at the expense of their neighbors. Hence 
 the frequent warfare waged between them and the brethren of 
 Saint-Germain des Pres, whose monastic domains adjoined their 
 territories, and whose meadows were the constant battleground of 
 their skirmishes; according to Dulaure — ^^presque toujour s un 
 thMtre de tuntiilte, de galanterie^ de combats^ de duels, de debauches 
 et de sedition.'''* Hence their sanguinary conflicts with the good 
 citizens of Paris, to whom they were wholly obnoxious, and who 
 occasionally repaid their aggressions with interest. In 1407 two 
 of their number, convicted of assassination and robbery, were con- 
 demned to the gibbet, and the sentence was carried into execution; 
 but so great was the uproar occasioned in the university by this 
 violation of its immunities that the Provost of Paris, Guillaume de 
 Tignonville, was compelled to take down their bodies from Mont- 
 faucon and see them honorably and ceremoniously interred. This 
 recognition of their rights only served to make matters worse, and 
 for a series of years the nuisance continued unabated. 
 
 It is not our purpose to record all the excesses of the uni- 
 versity, nor the means taken for their suppression. Vainly were 
 the civil authorities arrayed against them. Vainly were bulls 
 thundered from the Vatican. No amendment was effected. The 
 weed might be cut down, but was never entirely extirpated. 
 Their feuds were transmitted from generation to generation, and 
 their old bone of contention with the abbot of Saint-Germain (the 
 Pr6-aux-Clercs) was, after an uninterrupted strife for thirty years, 
 submitted to the arbitration of the Pope, who very equitably 
 refused to pronounce judgment in favor of either party. 
 
 Such were the scholars of Paris in the sixteenth century — 
 such the character of the clamorous crew who besieged the por- 
 tals of the College of Navarre. 
 
 The object that summoned together this unruly multitude 
 was, it appears, a desire on the part of the scholars to be pres- 
 ent at a public controversy or learned disputation, then occur- 
 ring within the great hall of the college before which they were 
 congregated; and the disappointment caused by their finding the 
 gates closed, and all entrance denied to them, occasioned their 
 present disposition to riot. 
 
 It was in vain they were assured by the halberdiers stationed 
 at the gates, and who, with crossed pikes, strove to resist the 
 onward pressure of the mob, that the hall and court were already
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 243 
 
 crammed to overflowing, that there was not room even for the 
 sole of a foot of a doctor of the faculties, and that their orders 
 were positive and imperative that none beneath the degree of a 
 bachelor or licentiate should be admitted, and that a troop of mar- 
 tinets and new-comers could have no possible claim to admission. 
 
 In vain they were told this was no ordinary disputation, no 
 common controversy, where all were alike entitled to license of 
 ingress; that the disputant was no undistinguished scholar, whose 
 renown did not extend beyond his own trifling sphere, and 
 whose opinions, therefore, few would care to hear and still 
 fewer to oppugn, but a foreigner of high rank, in high favor and 
 fashion, and not more remarkable for his extraordinary intel- 
 lectual endowments than for his brilliant personal accomplish- 
 ments. 
 
 In vain the trembling officials sought to clinch their arguments 
 by stating, that not alone did the conclave consist of the chief 
 members of the university, the senior doctors of theology, med- 
 icine, and law, the professors of the humanities, rhetoric, and phi- 
 losophy, and all the various other dignitaries; but that the debate 
 was honored by the presence of Monsieur Christophe de Thou, 
 first president of Parliament; by that of the learned Jacques 
 Augustin, of the same name; by one of the secretaries of state 
 and Governor of Paris, M. Rene de Villequier; by the ambassa- 
 dors of Elizabeth, Queen of England, and of Philip the Second, 
 King of Spain, and several of their suite ; by Abbe de Brantome ; 
 by M. Miron, the court physician; by Cosmo Ruggieri, the 
 Queen Moth'.r's astrologer; by the renowned poets and masque 
 writers, Maitres Ronsard, Ba'if, and Philippe Desportes; by the 
 well-known advocate of Parliament, Messire Etienne Pasquier: 
 but also (and here came the gravamen of the objection to their 
 admission) by the two especial favorites of his Majesty and lead- 
 ers of affairs, the seigneurs of Joyeuse and D'Epemon. 
 
 It was in vain the students were informed that for the pres- 
 ervation of strict decorum, they had been commanded by the rector 
 to make fast the gates. No excuses would avail them. The 
 scholars were cogent reasoners, and a show of staves soon 
 brought their opponents to a nonplus. In this line of argument 
 they were perfectly aware of their ability to prove a major. 
 
 " To the wall with them — to the wall ! " cried a hundred infu- 
 riated voices. ^* Down with the halberdiers — down with the gates 
 — down with the disputants — down with the rector himself! —
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 
 244 
 
 Deny our privileges! To the wall with old Adrien d'Amboise — 
 exclude the disciples of the university from their own halls! — 
 curry favor with the court minions! — hold a pubHc controversy 
 in private! — down with him! We will issue a mandamus for a 
 new election on the spot ! *^ 
 
 Whereupon a deep groan resounded throughout the crowd. 
 It was succeeded by a volley of fresh execrations against the 
 rector, and an angry demonstration of bludgeons, accompanied by 
 a brisk shower of peas from the sarbacanes. 
 
 The officials turned pale, and calculated the chance of a broken 
 neck in reversion, with that of a broken crown in immediate 
 possession. The former being at least contingent, appeared the 
 milder alternative, and they might have been inclined to adopt 
 it had not a further obstacle stood in their way. The gate was 
 barred withinside, and the vergers and bedels who had the cus- 
 tody of the door, though alarmed at the tumult without, positively 
 refused to unfasten it. 
 
 Again the threats of the scholars were renewed, and further 
 intimations of violence were exhibited. Again the peas rattled 
 upon the hands and faces of the halberdiers, till their ears tingled 
 with pain. ^* Prate to us of the king's favorites,*^ cried one of the 
 foremost of the scholars, a youth decorated with a paper collar: 
 <Hhey may rule within the precincts of the Louvre, but not 
 within the walls of the imi versify. Maugre-bleu! We hold them 
 cheap enough. We heed not the idle bark of these full-fed court 
 lapdogs. What to us is the bearer of a cup and ball ? By the 
 four Evangelists, we will have none of them here! Let the Gas- 
 con cadet, D'Epemon, reflect on the fate of Quelus and Maugiron, 
 and let our gay Joyeuse beware of the dog's death of Saint- 
 M6grin. Place for better men — place for the schools — away with 
 frills and sarbacanes. ^^ 
 
 ^* What to us is a president of Parliament, or a governor of the 
 city ? '^ shouted another of the same gentry. " We care nothing 
 for their ministration. We recognize them not, save in their own 
 courts. All their authority fell to the ground at the gate of the 
 Rue Saint Jacques, when they entered our dominions. We care 
 for no parties. We are trimmers, and steer a middle course. We 
 hold the Guisards as cheap as the Huguenots, and the brethren 
 of the League weigh as little with us as the followers of Calvin. 
 Our only sovereign is Gregory the Thirteenth, Pontiff of Rome. 
 Away with the Guise and the Bearnaise ! *
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 245 
 
 "Away with Henri of Navarre, if you please/^ cried a scholar 
 of Harcourt; "or Henri of Valois, if you hst: but by all the 
 saints, not with Henri of Lorraine; he is the fast friend of the 
 true faith. No! — No! — live the Guise — live the Holy Union !*^ 
 
 *Away with Elizabeth of England,'* cried a scholar of Cluny: 
 " what doth her representative here ? Seeks he a spouse for her 
 among our schools ? She will have no great bargain, I own, if 
 she bestows her royal hand upon our Due d'Anjou.** 
 
 " If you value your buff jerkin, I counsel you to say nothing 
 slighting of the Queen of England in my hearing,'* returned a 
 bluff, broad-shouldered fellow, raising his bludgeon after a men- 
 acing fashion. He was an Englishman belonging to the Four 
 Nations, and had a huge bull-dog at his heels. 
 
 " Away with Philip of Spain and his ambassador, '* cried a 
 Bemardin. 
 
 "By the eyes of my mistress!'* cried a Spaniard belonging to 
 the College of Narbonne, with huge mustaches curled half-way 
 up his bronzed and insolent visage, and a slouched hat pulled 
 over his brow. "This may not pass muster. The representative 
 of the King of Spain must be respected even by the Academics 
 of Lutetia. Which of you shall gainsay me? — ha!" 
 
 "What business has he here with his suite, on occasions like 
 to the present?" returned the Bernardin. " Tcte-Dieu! this dispu- 
 tation is one that little concerns the interest of your politic king; 
 and methinks Don Philip, or his representative, has regard for 
 little else than whatsoever advances his own interest. Your 
 ambassador hath, I doubt not, some latent motive for his present 
 attendance in our schools." 
 
 "Perchance," returned the Spaniard. "We will discuss that 
 point anon." 
 
 "And what doth the pander of the Sybarite within the dusty 
 halls of learning?" ejaculated a scholar of Lemoine. "What 
 doth the jealous-pated slayer of his wife and unborn child within 
 the reach of free-spoken voices, and mayhap of well-directed 
 blades? Methinks it were more prudent to tarry within the 
 bowers of his harem, than to hazard his perfumed person among 
 
 us." 
 
 "Well said," rejoined the scholar of Cluny — "down with 
 Ren€ de Villequier, though he be Governor of Paris." 
 
 "What title hath the Abb6 de Brantome to a seat among 
 us?" said the scion of Harcourt: "faith, he hath a reputation for
 
 2 .g WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 
 
 wit, and scholarship, and gallantry. But what is that to us? 
 His place might now be filled by worthier men.** 
 
 <*And what, in the devil's name, brings Cosmo Ruggieri 
 hither ? * asked the Bernardin. " What doth the wrinkled old 
 dealer in the black art hope to leam from us ? We are not 
 given to alchemy, and the occult sciences; we practice no hidden 
 mysteries; we brew no philtres; we compound no slow poisons; 
 we vend no waxen images. What doth he here, I say! 'Tis a 
 scandal in the rector to permit his presence. And what if he 
 came under the safeguard, and by the authority of his mistress, 
 Catherine de' Medicis ! Shall we regard her passport ? Down 
 with the heathen abb^, his abominations have been endured too 
 long; they smell rank in our nostrils. Think how he ensnared 
 La Mole — think on his numberless victims. Who mixed the 
 infernal potion of Charles the Ninth ? Let him answer that. 
 Down with the infidel — the Jew — the sorcerer! The stake were 
 too good for him. Down with Ruggieri, I say.** 
 
 **Aye, down with the accursed astrologer,** echoed the whole 
 crew. " He has done abundant mischief in his time. A day of 
 reckoning has arrived. Hath he cast his own horoscope ? Did 
 he foresee his own fate ? Ha ! ha ! ** 
 
 "And then the poets,** cried another member of the Four 
 Nations — "a plague on all three. Would they were elsewhere. 
 In what does this disputation concern them ? Pierre Ronsard, 
 being an offshoot of this same College of Navarre, hath indubi- 
 tably a claim upon our consideration. But he is old, and I 
 marvel that his gout permitted him to hobble so far. Oh, the 
 mercenary old scribbler! His late verses halt like himself, yet 
 he lowereth not the price of his masques. Besides which, he is 
 grown moral, and unsays all his former good things. Mort 
 Dieu ! your superannuated bards ever recant the indiscretions 
 of their nonage. Clement Marot took to psalm-writing in his 
 old age. As to Baif, his name will scarce outlast the scenery 
 of his ballets, his plays are out of fashion since the Gelosi 
 arrived. He deserves no place among us. And Philip Desportes 
 owes all his present preferment to the Vicomte de Joyeuse. 
 However, he is not altogether devoid of merit — let him wear 
 his bays, so he trouble us not with his company. Room for the 
 sophisters of Narbonne, I say. To the dogs with poetry ! ** 
 
 '-'•Morbleu ! ** exclaimed another. " What are the sophisters 
 of Narbonne to the decretists of the Sorbonne, who will discuss
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 247 
 
 you a position of Cornelius a Lapide, or a sentence of Peter 
 Lombard, as readily as you would a flask of hippocras, or a slice 
 of botargo. Aye, and cry transeat to a thesis of Aristotle, 
 though it be against rule. What sayst thou, Cap6te ? " continued 
 he, addressing his neighbor, a scholar of Montaigu, whose 
 modest gray capuchin procured him this appellation: "are we the 
 men to be thus scurvily entreated ? ^* 
 
 " I see not that your merits are greater than ours, * returned 
 he of the capuch, " though our boasting be less. The followers 
 of the lowly John Standoncht are as well able to maintain their 
 tenets in controversy as those of Robert of Sorbon; and I see no 
 reason why entrance should be denied us. The honor of the 
 university is at stake, and all its strength should be mustered to 
 assert it.^^ 
 
 " Rightly spoken, '^ returned the Bernardin ; " and it were a 
 lasting disgrace to our schools were this arrogant Scot to carry 
 off their laurels when so many who might have been found 
 to lower his crest are allowed no share in their defense. The 
 contest is one that concerns us all alike. We at least can arbi- 
 trate in case of need.^* 
 
 "I care not for the honors of the university, ^^ rejoined one 
 of the Ecossais, or Scotch College, then existing in the Rue des 
 Amandiers, "but I care much for the glory of my countryman, 
 and I would gladly have witnessed the triumph of the disciples of 
 Rutherford and of the classic Buchanan. But if the arbitrament 
 to which you would resort is to be that of voices merely, I am 
 glad the rector in his wisdom has thought fit to keep you with- 
 out, even though I myself be personally inconvenienced by it.® 
 
 " Name o' God ! what fine talking is this ? *^ retorted the Span- 
 iard. "There is little chance of the triumph you predicate for 
 your countryman. Trust me, we shall have to greet his departure 
 from the debate with many hisses and few cheers; and if we 
 could penetrate through the plates of yon iron door, and gaze 
 into the court it conceals from our view, we should find that the 
 loftiness of his pretensions has been already humbled, and his 
 arguments graveled. Por la Litania de los Santos! to think of 
 comparing an obscure student of the pitiful College of Saint 
 Andrew with the erudite doctors of the most erudite university 
 in the world, always excepting those of Valencia and Salamanca. 
 It needs all thy country's assurance to keep the blush of shame 
 from mantling in thy cheeks.*^
 
 248 
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 
 
 *The seminary you revile, ^^ replied the Scot, haughtily, **has 
 been the nursery of our Scottish kings. Nay, the youthful James 
 Stuart pursued his studies under the same roof, beneath the same 
 wise instruction, and at the self-same time as our noble and gifted 
 James Crichton, whom you have falsely denominated an advent- 
 urer, but whose lineage is not less distinguished than his learn- 
 ing. His renown has preceded him hither, and he was not 
 unknown to your doctors when he affixed his programme to these 
 college walls. Hark ! '^ continued the speaker, exultingly, ^' and 
 listen to yon evidence of his triumph. ^^ 
 
 And as he spoke, a loud and continued clapping of hands pro- 
 ceeding from within was distinctly heard above the roar of the 
 students. 
 
 **That may be at his defeat,*^ muttered the Spaniard, between 
 his teeth. 
 
 ^*No such thing, '^ replied the Scot. "I heard the name of 
 Crichton mingled with the plaudits.^* 
 
 ^^And who may be this Phoenix — this Gargantua of intel- 
 lect — who is to vanquish us all, as Panurge did Thaumast, the 
 Englishman ? ^* asked the Sorbonist of the Scot. ^* Who is he that 
 is more philosophic than Pythagoras ? — ha ! '* 
 
 " Who is more studious than Carneades ! ^* said the Bemardin. 
 
 ^* More versatile than Alcibiades ! ^^ said Montaigu. 
 
 ** More subtle than Averroes ! '* cried Harcourt. 
 
 *^ More mystical than Plotinus ! ^^ said one of the Four Nations. 
 
 ** More visionary than Artemidorus ! '^ said Cluny. 
 
 " More infallible than the Pope ! '^ added Lemoine. 
 
 *^And who pretends to dispute de ovini scibili,^^ shouted the 
 Spaniard. 
 
 ^* Et quolibet ente ! * added the Sorbonist. 
 
 " Mine ears are stunned with your vociferations, ** replied the 
 Scot. " You ask me who James Crichton is, and yourselves give 
 the response. You have mockingly said he is a rara avis; a 
 prodigy of wit and learning : and you have unintentionally spoken 
 the truth. He is so. But I will tell you that of him of which 
 you are wholly ignorant, or which you have designedly over- 
 looked. His condition is that of a Scottish gentleman of high 
 rank. Like your Spanish grandee, he need not doff his cap to 
 kings. On either side hath he the best of blood in his veins. 
 His mother was a Stuart directly descended from that regal line. 
 His father, who owneth the fair domains of Eliock and Cluny,
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 249 
 
 was Lord Advocate to our bonny and luckless Mary (whom 
 Heaven assoilzie!) and still holds his high office. Methinks the 
 Lairds of Crichton might have been heard of here. How- 
 beit, they are well known to me, who being an Ogilvy of 
 Balfour, have often heard tell of a certain contract or obliga- 
 tion, whereby — ^* 
 
 *< Basta ! >^ interrupted the Spaniard, « heed not thine own 
 affairs, worthy Scot. Tell us of this Crichton — ha!'^ 
 
 * I have told you already more than I ought to have told, " 
 replied Ogilvy, sullenly. "And if you lack further information 
 respecting James Crichton 's favor at the Louvre, his feats of 
 arms, and the esteem in which he is held by all the dames of 
 honor in attendance upon your Queen Mother, Catherine de' 
 Medicis — and moreover,^* he added, with somewhat of sarcasm, 
 "with her fair daughter. Marguerite de Valois — you will do well 
 to address yourself to the king's buffoon, Maitre Chicot, whom I 
 see not far off. Few there are, methinks, who could in such 
 short space have won so much favor, or acquired such bright 
 renown. '^ 
 
 * Humph ! '^ muttered the Englishman, " your Scotsmen stick 
 by each other all the world over. This James Crichton may or 
 may not be the hero he is vaunted, but I shall mistrust his 
 praises from that quarter, till I find their truth confirmed. ^^ 
 
 "He has, to be sure, acquired the character of a stout swords- 
 man,'^ said the Bemardin, "to give the poor devil his due.'* 
 
 " He has not met with his match at the salle-d'annes, though 
 he has crossed blades with the first in France,'' replied Ogilvy. 
 
 "I have seen him at the Manage," said the Sorbonist, "go 
 through his course of equitation, and being a not altogether 
 tmskillful horseman myself, I can report favorably of his per- 
 formance. " 
 
 "There is none among your youth can sit a steed like him," 
 returned Ogilvy, "nor can any of the jousters carry off the ring 
 with more certainty at the lists. I would fain hold my tongue, 
 but you enforce me to speak in his praise." 
 
 " Body of Bacchus ! " exclaimed the Spaniard, half unsheathing 
 the lengthy weapon that hung by his side. " I will hold you a 
 wager of ten rose-nobles to as many silver reals of Spain, that 
 with this stanch Toledo I will overcome your vaunted Crichton 
 in close fight in any manner or practice of fence or digladiation 
 which he may appoint — sword and dagger, or sword only —
 
 2 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 
 
 Stripped to the girdle or armed to the teeth. By our Saint 
 Trinidad! I will have satisfaction for the contumelious affront 
 he hath put upon the very learned gymnasium to which I 
 belong; and it would gladden me to clip the wings of this loud- 
 erowing cock, or any of his dunghill crew,'* added he, with a 
 scornful gesture at the Scotsman. 
 
 ^ If that be all you seek, you shall not need to go far in your 
 quest,** returned Ogilvy. << Tarry till this controversy be ended, 
 and if I match not your Spanish blade with a Scottish broad- 
 sword, and approve you as recreant at heart as you are boastful 
 and injurious of speech, may Saint Andrew forever after with- 
 hold from me his protection.** 
 
 <* The Devil ! ** exclaimed the Spaniard. *^ Thy Scottish saint 
 will little avail thee, since thou hast incurred my indignation. 
 Betake thee, therefore, to thy paternosters, if thou has grace 
 withal to mutter them; for within the hour thou art assuredly 
 food for the kites of the Pre-aux-Clercs — sa-ha!'* 
 
 ** Look to thyself, vile braggart!** rejoined Ogilvy, scornfully: 
 "I promise thee thou shalt need other intercession than thine 
 own to purchase safety at my hands.** 
 
 *' Courage, Master Ogilvy,** said the Englishman, ^Hhou wilt 
 do well to slit the ears of this Spanish swashbuckler. I war- 
 rant me he hides a craven spirit beneath that slashed pourpoint. 
 Thou art in the right, man, to make him eat his words. Be 
 this Crichton what he may, he is at least thy countryman, and 
 in part mine own.** 
 
 ^*And as such I will uphold him,** said Ogilvy, ^* against any 
 odds.** 
 
 *' Bravo ! my valorous Don Diego Caravaja, ** said the Sorbon- 
 ist, slapping the Spaniard on the shoulder, and speaking in his 
 ear. ^* Shall these scurvy Scots carry all before them ? — I war- 
 rant me, no. We will make common cause against the whole 
 beggarly nation; and in the meanwhile we intrust thee with this 
 particular quarrel. See thou acquit thyself in it as beseemeth a 
 descendant of the Cid. ** 
 
 ** Account him already abased, ** returned Caravaja. * By Pe- 
 layo, I would the other were at his back, that both might be 
 transfixed at a blow — ha!** 
 
 ^^ To return to the subject of difference,** said the Sorbonist, 
 who was too much delighted with the prospect of a duel to allow 
 the quarrel a chance of subsiding, while it was in his power to
 
 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 
 
 251 
 
 /an the flame; *Uo return to the difference,** said he, aloud, 
 glancing at Ogilvy : " it must be conceded that as a wassailer this 
 Crichton is without a peer. None of us may presume to cope 
 with him in the matter of the flask and the flagon, though we 
 number among us some jolly topers. Friar John, with the 
 Priestess of Bacbuc, was a washy bibber compared with him.** 
 
 " He worships at the shrines of other priestesses besides hers 
 of Bacbuc, if I be not wrongly informed,** added Montaigu, who 
 understood the drift of his companion. 
 
 ^* Else, wherefore our rejoinder to his cartels ? ** returned the 
 Sorbonist. ^^ Do you not call to mind that beneath his arrogant 
 defiance of our learned body, afiix^d to the walls of the Sor- 
 bonne, it was written, * That he who would behold this miracle 
 of learning must hie to the tavern or bordel ? * Was it not so, 
 my hidalgo ? ** 
 
 *^ I have myself seen him at the temulentive tavern of the 
 Falcon,** returned Caravaja, "and at the lupanarian haunts in the 
 Champ Gaillard and the Val-d'Amour. You understand me — ha!** 
 
 ^* Ha ! ha ! ha ! ** chorused the scholars. " James Crichton is 
 no stoic. He is a disciple of Epicurus. Vel in puellam impingit, 
 vel in poculuni — ha! ha! ** 
 
 «'Tis said that he hath dealings with the Evil One,** observed 
 the man of Harcourt, with a mysterious air; <<and that, like 
 Jeanne d'Arc, he hath surrendered his soul for his temporal wel- 
 fare. Hence his wondrous lore; hence his supernatural beauty 
 and accomplishments; hence his power of fascinating the fair sex; 
 hence his constant run of luck with the dice; hence, also, his 
 invulnerableness to the sword.** 
 
 « 'Tis said, also, that he has a familiar spirit, who attends him 
 in the semblance of a black dog,** said Montaigu. 
 
 «Or in that of a dwarf, like the sooty imp of Cosmo Rug- 
 gieri,** said Harcourt. "Is it not so?** he asked, turning to the 
 Scot. 
 
 «He lies in his throat who says so,** cried Ogilvy, losing all 
 patience. " To one and all of you I breathe defiance ; and there 
 is not a brother in the college to which I belong who will not 
 maintain my quarrel.** 
 
 A loud laugh of derision followed this sally; and, ashamed of 
 having justly exposed himself to ridicule by his idle and unworthy 
 display of passion, the Scotsman held his peace and endeavored 
 to turn a deaf ear to their taimts.
 
 2^2 WILLIAM HARRISON AINSWORTH 
 
 The gates of the College of Navarre were suddenly thrown 
 open, and a long-continued thunder of applause bursting from 
 within, announced the conclusion of the debate. That it had 
 terminated in favor of Crichton could no longer be doubted, as 
 his name formed the burden of all the plaudits with which the 
 courts were ringing. All was excitement: there was a general 
 movement. Ogilvy could no longer restrain himself. Pushing 
 forward by prodigious efforts, he secured himself a position at 
 the portal. 
 
 The first person who presented himself to his inquiring eyes 
 was a gallant figure in a glittering steel corselet crossed by a 
 silken sash, who bore at his side a long sword with a magnificent 
 handle, and upon his shoulder a lance of some six feet in length, 
 headed with a long scarlet tassel, and brass half-moon pendant 
 ^* Is not Crichton victorious ? ** asked Ogilvy of Captain Larchant, 
 for he it was. 
 
 * He hath acquitted himself to admiration, ^^ replied the guards- 
 man, who, contrary to the custom of such gentry (for captains of 
 the guard have been fine gentlemen in all ages), did not appear 
 to be displeased at this appeal to his courtesy, " and the rector 
 hath adjudged him all the honors that can be bestowed by the 
 university. ** 
 
 " Hurrah for old Scotland, " shouted Ogilvy, throwing his 
 bonnet in the air ; ^* I was sure it would be so ; this is a day 
 worth living for. Hcec oliin vteminisse juvahit. ** 
 
 ^^Thou at least shalt have reason to remember it,^^ muttered 
 Caravaja, who, being opposite to him, heard the exclamation — 
 *and he too, perchance,'* he added, frowning gloomily, and draw- 
 ing his cloak over his shoulder. 
 
 ' ^^ If the noble Crichton be compatriot of yours, you are in 
 the right to be proud of him,** replied Captain Larchant, ^^for 
 the memory of his deeds of this day will live as long as learn- 
 ing shall be held in reverence. Never before hath such a mar- 
 velous display of universal erudition been heard within these 
 schools. By my faith, I am absolutely wonder-stricken, and not 
 I alone, but all. In proof of which I need only tell you, that 
 coupling his matchless scholarship with his extraordinary accom- 
 plishments, the professors in their address to him at the close 
 of the controversy have bestowed upon him the epithet of 
 * Admirable * — an appellation by which he will ever after be dis- 
 tinguished. *
 
 MARK AKENSIDE 
 
 253 
 
 <<The Admirable Crichton!^^ echoed Ogilvy — **hear you that! 
 — a title adjudged to him by the whole conclave of the univer- 
 sity — hurrah! The Admirable Crichton! 'Tis a name will find 
 an echo in the heart of every true Scot. By Saint Andrew! this 
 is a proud day for us.** 
 
 <*In the mean time,** said Larchant, smiling- at Ogilvy's ex- 
 ultations, and describing a circle with the point of his lance, " I 
 must trouble you to stand back, Messieurs Scholars, and leave 
 free passage for the rector and his train — Archers advance, and 
 make clear the way, and let the companies of the Baron D'Eper- 
 non and of the Vicomte de Joyeuse be summoned, as well as the 
 guard of his excellency. Seigneur Ren^ de Villequier. Patience, 
 messieurs, you will hear all particulars anon.** 
 
 So saying, he retired, and the men-at-arms, less complaisant 
 than their leaders, soon succeeded in forcing back the crowd. 
 
 MARK AKENSIDE 
 
 (1721-1770) 
 
 Jark Akenside is of less importance in genuine poetic rank 
 than in literary history. He was technically a real poet; 
 but he had not a great, a spontaneous, nor a fertile poeti- 
 cal mind. Nevertheless, a writer who gave pleasure to a generation 
 cannot be set aside. The fact that the mid-eighteenth century ranked 
 him among its foremost poets is interest- 
 ing and still significant. It determines the 
 poetic standard and product of that age; 
 and the fact that, judged thus, Akenside 
 was fairly entitled to his fame. 
 
 He was the son of a butcher, born No- 
 vember 9th, 1 72 1, in Newcastle-on-Tyne, 
 whence Eldon and Stowell also sprang. 
 He attracted great attention by an early 
 poem, <The Virtuoso.* The citizens of that 
 commercial town have always appreciated 
 their great men and valued intellectual dis- 
 tinction, and its Dissenters sent him at 
 their own expense to Edinburgh to study 
 for the Presbyterian ministry. A year later 
 he gave up theology for medicine — honorably repaying the money 
 
 Mark Akenside
 
 MARK AKENSIDE 
 254 
 
 advanced for his divinity studies, if obviously out of some one's else 
 pocket. 
 
 After some struggle in provincial towns, his immense literary 
 reputation — for at twenty-four he was a star of the first magnitude 
 in Great Britain — and the generosity of a friend enabled him to ac- 
 quire a fashionable London practice. He wrote medical treatises 
 which at the time made him a leader in his profession, secured a 
 rich clientage, and prospered greatly. In 1759 he was made physi- 
 cian to Christ's Hospital, where, however valued professionally, he is 
 charged with being brutal and oifensive to the poor; with indulging 
 his fastidiousness, temper, and pomposity, and with forgetting that 
 he owed anything to mere duty or humanity. 
 
 Unfortunately, too, Akenside availed himself of that mixture of 
 complaisance and arrogance by which almost alone a man of no birth 
 can rise in a society graded by birth. He concealed his origin and 
 was ashamed of his pedigree. But the blame for his flunkeyism 
 belongs, perhaps, less to him than to the insolent caste feeling of 
 society, which forced it on him as a measure of self-defense and of 
 advancement. He wanted money, loved place and selfish comfort, 
 and his nature did not balk at the means of getting them, — includ- 
 ing living on a friend when he did not need such help. To become 
 physician to the Queen, he turned his coat from Whig to Tory; but 
 no one familiar with the politics of the time will regard this as an 
 unusual offense. It must also be remembered that Akenside pos- 
 sessed a delicate constitution, keen senses, and irritable nerves; and 
 that he was a parvenu, lacking the power of self-control even among 
 strangers. These traits explain, though they do not exciise, his bad 
 temper to the unclean and disagreeable patients of the hospital, and 
 they m.itigate the fact that his industry was paralyzed by material 
 prosperity, and his self-culture interfered with by conceit. His early 
 and sweeping success injured him as many a greater man has been 
 thus injured. 
 
 Moreover, his temper was probably soured by secret bitternesses. 
 His health, his nerves, an entire absence of the sense of humor, and 
 his lack of repartee, made him shun like Pope and Horace Walpole 
 the bibulous and gluttonous element of eighteenth-century British 
 society. For its brutal horseplay and uncivil practical joking which 
 passed for wit, Akenside had no tolerance, yet he felt unwilling to 
 go where he would be outshone by inferior men. His strutty arro- 
 gance of manner, like excessive prudery in a woman, may have been 
 a fortification to a garrison too weak to fight in the open field. And 
 it must be admitted that, as so often happens, Akenside's outward 
 ensemble was eminently what the vulgar world terms "guyable.^^ He 
 was not a little of a fop. He was plain-featured and yet assuming
 
 MARK AKENSIDE 
 
 255 
 
 in manner. He hobbled in walking from lameness of tell-tale origin, 
 — a cleaver falling on his foot in childhood, compelling him to wear 
 an artificial heel — and he was morbidly sensitive over it. His prim 
 formality of manner, his sword and stiff-curled wig, his small and 
 sickly face trying to maintain an expression impressively dignified, 
 made him a ludicrous figure, which his contemporaries never tired 
 of ridiculing and caricaturing. Henderson, the actor, said that <<Aken- 
 side, when he walked the streets, looked for all the world like one 
 of his own Alexandrines set upright. >> Smollett even used him as 
 a model for the pedantic doctor in ^Peregrine Pickle,* who gives a 
 dinner in the fashion of the ancients, and dresses each dish according 
 to humorous literary recipes. 
 
 But there were those who seem to have known an inner and supe- 
 rior personality beneath the brusqueness, conceit, and policy, beyond 
 the nerves and fears; and they valued it greatly, at least on the 
 intellectual side. A wealthy and amiable young Londoner, Jeremiah 
 Dyson, remained a friend so enduring and admiring as to give the 
 poet a house in Bloomsbury Square, with ;i^3oo a year and a chariot, 
 and personally to extend his medical practice. We cannot suppose 
 this to be a case of patron and parasite. Other men of judgment 
 showed like esteem. And in congenial society, Akenside was his best 
 and therefore truest self. He was an easy and even brilliant talker, 
 displaying learning and immense memory, taste, and philosophic re- 
 flection; and as a volunteer critic he has the unique distinction of a 
 man who had what books he liked given him by the publishers for 
 the sake of his oral comments! 
 
 The standard edition of Akenside's poems is that edited by Alex- 
 ander Dyce (London, 1835). Few of them require notice here. His 
 early effort, ^The Virtuoso,* was merely an acknowledged and servile 
 imitation of Spenser. The claim made by the poet's biographers 
 that he preceded Thomson in reintroducing the Spenserian stanza is 
 groundless. Pope preceded him, and Thomson renewed its popu- 
 larity by being the first to use it in a poem of real merit, <The 
 Castle of Indolence.* Mr. Gosse calls the <Hymn to the Naiads > 
 « beautiful,** — «of transcendent merit,** — « perhaps the most elegant 
 of his productions.'* The < Epistle to Curio,* however, must be held 
 his best poem, — doubtless because it is the only one which came 
 from his heart; and even its merit is much more in rhetorical energy 
 than in art or beauty. As to its allusion and object, the real and 
 classic Curio of Roman social history was a protege of Cicero's, a rich 
 young Senator, who began as a champion of liberty and then sold 
 himself to Caesar to pay his debts. In Akenside's poem. Curio repre- 
 sents William Pulteney, Walpole's antagonist, the hope of that younger 
 generation who hated Walpole's system of parliamentary corruption
 
 256 
 
 MARK AKENSIDE 
 
 and official jobbing. This party had looked to Pulteney for a clean 
 and public-spirited administration. Their hero was carried to a brief 
 triumph on the wave of their enthusiasm. But Pulteney disappointed 
 them bitterly: he took a peerage, and sunk into utter and perma- 
 nent political damnation, with no choice but Walpole's methods and 
 tools, no policy save Walpole's to redeem the withdrawal of so much 
 lofty promise, and no aims but personal advancement. From Aken- 
 side's address to him, the famous < Epistle to Curio, ^ a citation is 
 made below. Akenside's fame, however, rests on the < Pleasures of 
 the Imagination.* He began it at seventeen; though in the case of 
 works begun in childhood, it is safer to accept the date of finishing 
 as the year of the real composition. He published it six years later, 
 in 1744, on the advice and with the warm admiration of Pope, a man 
 never wasteful of encomiums on the poetry of his contemporaries. It 
 raised its author to immediate fame. It secures him a place among 
 the accepted English classics still. Yet neither its thought nor its 
 style makes the omission to read it any irreparable loss. It is culti- 
 vated rhetoric rather than true poetry. Its chief merit and highest 
 usefulness are that it suggested two far superior poems, Campbell's 
 * Pleasures of Hope * and Rogers's < Pleasures of Memory. * It is the 
 relationship to these that really keeps Akenside's alive. 
 
 In scope, the poem consists of two thousand lines of blank verse. 
 It is distributed in three books. The first defines the sources, meth- 
 ods, and results of imagination ; the second its distinction from phi- 
 losophy and its enchantment by the passions; the third sets forth 
 the power of imagination to give pleasure, and illustrates its mental 
 operation. The author remodeled the poem in 1757, but it is gener- 
 ally agreed that he injured it. Macaulay says he spoiled it, and 
 another critic delightfully observes that he <' stuffed it with intel- 
 lectual horsehair.** 
 
 The year of Akenside's death (1770) gave birth to Wordsworth. 
 The freer and nobler natural school of poetry came to supplant the 
 artificial one, belonging to an epoch of wigs and false calves, and to 
 open toward the far greater one of the romanticism of Scott and 
 Byron.
 
 MARK AKENSIDE 
 
 FROM THE EPISTLE TO CURIO 
 
 257 
 
 [With this earlier and finer form of Akenside's address to the tmstable 
 Pulteney (see biographical sketch above) must not be confused its later 
 embodiment among his odes; of which it is <IX: to Curio.> Much of its 
 thought and diction were transferred to the Ode named; but the latter by no 
 means happily compares with the original < Epistle.* Both versions, however, 
 are of the same year, 1744.] 
 
 THRICE has the spring beheld thy faded fame. 
 And the fourth winter rises on thy shame. 
 Since I exulting grasped the votive shell, 
 In sounds of triumph all thy praise to tell; 
 Blest could my skill through ages make thee shine, 
 And proud to mix my memory with thine. 
 But now the cause that waked my song before, 
 With praise, with triumph, crowns the toil no more. 
 If to the glorious man whose faithful cares. 
 Nor quelled by malice, nor relaxed by years. 
 Had awed Ambition's wild audacious hate. 
 And dragged at length Corruption to her fate; 
 If every tongue its large applauses owed, 
 And well-earned laurels every muse bestowed; 
 If public Justice urged the high reward, 
 And Freedom smiled on the devoted bard: 
 Say then, — to him whose levity or lust 
 Laid all a people's generous hopes in dust, 
 Who taught Ambition firmer heights of power 
 And saved Corruption at her hopeless hour. 
 Does not each tongue its execrations owe ? 
 Shall not each Muse a wreath of shame bestow? 
 And public Justice sanctify the award? 
 And Freedom's hand protect the impartial bard? 
 
 There are who say they viewed without amaze 
 The sad reverse of all thy former praise; 
 That through the pageants of a patriot's name. 
 They pierced the foulness of thy secret aim; 
 Or deemed thy arm exalted but to throw 
 The public thunder on a private foe. 
 But I, whose soul consented to thy cause. 
 Who felt thy genius stamp its own applause, 
 Who saw the spirits of each glorious age 
 Move in thy bosom, and direct thy rage, — 
 I— 17
 
 258 
 
 MARK AKENSIDE 
 
 I scorned the ungenerous gloss of slavish minds, 
 
 The owl-eyed race, whom Virtue's lustre blinds. 
 
 Spite of the learned in the ways of vice. 
 
 And all who prove that each man has his price, 
 
 I still believed thy end was just and free; 
 
 And yet, even yet believe it — spite of thee. 
 
 Even though thy mouth impure has dared disclaim. 
 
 Urged by the wretched impotence of shame, 
 
 Whatever filial cares thy zeal had paid 
 
 To laws infirm, and liberty decayed; 
 
 Has begged Ambition to forgive the show; 
 
 Has told Corruption thou wert ne'er her foe; 
 
 Has boasted in thy country's awful ear. 
 
 Her gross delusion when she held thee dear; 
 
 How tame she followed thy tempestuous call. 
 
 And heard thy pompous tales, and trusted all — 
 
 Rise from your sad abodes, ye curst of old 
 
 For laws subverted, and for cities sold! 
 
 Paint all the noblest trophies of your guilt. 
 
 The oaths you perjured, and the blood you spilt; 
 
 Yet must you one untempted vileness own. 
 
 One dreadful palm reserved for him alone : 
 
 With studied arts his country's praise to spurn, 
 
 To beg the infamy he did not earn, 
 
 To challenge hate when honor was his due. 
 
 And plead his crimes where all his virtue knew. 
 
 When they who, loud for liberty and laws. 
 In doubtful times had fought their country's cause. 
 When now of conquest and dominion sure. 
 They sought alone to hold their fruit secure; 
 When taught by these, Oppression hid the face. 
 To leave Corruption stronger in her place, 
 By silent spells to work the public fate. 
 And taint the vitals of the passive state. 
 Till healing Wisdom should avail no more. 
 And Freedom loath to tread the poisoned shore: 
 Then, like some guardian god that flies to save 
 The weary pilgrim from an instant grave. 
 Whom, sleeping and secure, the guileful snake 
 Steals near and nearer thro' the peaceful brake,— 
 Then Curio rose to ward the public woe. 
 To wake the heedless and incite the slow.
 
 MARK AKENSIDE 259 
 
 Against Corruption Liberty to arm, 
 And quell the enchantress by a mightier charm. 
 
 • 
 
 Lo! the deciding hour at last appears; 
 The hour of every freeman's hopes and fears! 
 
 See Freedom mounting her eternal throne, 
 The sword submitted, and the laws her own! 
 See! public Power, chastised, beneath her stands, 
 With eyes intent, and uncorrupted hands! 
 See private life by wisest arts reclaimed! 
 See ardent youth to noblest manners framed! 
 See us acquire whate'er was sought by you, 
 If Curio, only Curio will be true. 
 
 'Twas then — O shame! O trust how ill repaid! 
 O Latium, oft by faithless sons betrayed! — 
 'Twas then — What frenzy on thy reason stole? 
 What spells unsinewed thy determined soul? — 
 Is this the man in Freedom's cause approved? 
 The man so great, so honored, so beloved? 
 This patient slave by tinsel chains allured? 
 This wretched suitor for a boon abjured? 
 This Curio, hated and despised by all ? 
 Who fell himself to work his country's fall? 
 
 O lost, alike to action and repose! 
 Unknown, unpitied in the worst of woes! 
 With all that conscious, undissembled pride. 
 Sold to the insults of a foe defied! 
 With all that habit of familiar fame. 
 Doomed to exhaust the dregs of life in shame! 
 The sole sad refuge of thy baffled art 
 To act a stateman's dull, exploded part. 
 Renounce the praise no longer in thy power. 
 Display thy virtue, though without a dower. 
 Contemn the giddy crowd, the vulgar wind. 
 And shut thy eyes that others may be blind. 
 
 O long revered, and late resigned to shame! 
 If this uncourtly page thy notice claim 
 When the loud cares of business are withdrawn. 
 Nor well-drest beggars round thy footsteps fawn;
 
 260 MARK AKENSIDE 
 
 In that still, thoughtful, solitary hour. 
 
 When Truth exerts her unresisted power, 
 
 Breaks the false optics tinged with fortune's glare. 
 
 Unlocks the breast, and lays the passions bare : 
 
 Then turn thy eyes on that important scene. 
 
 And ask thyself — if all be well within. 
 
 Where is the heart-felt worth and weight of soul. 
 
 Which labor could not stop, nor fear control? 
 
 Where the known dignity, the stamp of awe. 
 
 Which, half abashed, the proud and venal saw? 
 
 Where the calm triumphs of an honest cause ? 
 
 Where the delightful taste of just applause ? 
 
 Where the strong reason, the commanding tongue. 
 
 On which the Senate fired or trembling hung! 
 
 All vanished, all are sold — and in their room, 
 
 Couched in thy bosom's deep, distracted gloom, 
 
 See the pale form of barbarous Grandeur dwell, 
 
 Like some grim idol in a sorcerer's cell! 
 
 To her in chains thy dignity was led; 
 
 At her polluted shrine thy honour bled; 
 
 With blasted weeds thy awful brow she crowned, 
 
 Thy powerful tongue with poisoned philters bound. 
 
 That baffled Reason straight indignant flew. 
 
 And fair Persuasion from her seat withdrew: 
 
 For now no longer Truth supports thy cause; 
 
 No longer Glory prompts thee to applause; 
 
 No longer Virtue breathing in thy breast. 
 
 With all her conscious majesty confest, 
 
 Still bright and brighter wakes the almighty flame, 
 
 To rouse the feeble, and the willful tame. 
 
 And where she sees the catching glimpses roll. 
 
 Spreads the strong blaze, and all involves the soul; 
 
 But cold restraints thy conscious fancy chill. 
 
 And formal passions mock thy struggling will; 
 
 Or, if thy Genius e'er forget his chain. 
 
 And reach impatient at a nobler strain. 
 
 Soon the sad bodings of contemptuous mirth 
 
 Shoot through thy breast, and stab the generous birth. 
 
 Till, blind with smart, from truth to frenzy tost, 
 
 And all the tenor of thy reason lost. 
 
 Perhaps thy anguish drains a real tear; 
 
 While some with pity, some with laughter hear.
 
 MARK AKENSIDE 26 1 
 
 Ye mighty foes of liberty and rest, 
 Give way, do homage to a mightier guest! 
 Ye daring spirits of the Roman race, 
 See Curio's toil your proudest claims efface! — 
 Awed at the name, fierce Appius rising bends, 
 And hardy Cinna from his throne attends: 
 <* He comes, '^ they cry, *<to whom the fates assigned 
 With surer arts to work what we designed. 
 From year to year the stubborn herd to sway, 
 Mouth all their wrongs, and all their rage obey; 
 Till owned their guide, and trusted with their power. 
 He mocked their hopes in one decisive hour; 
 Then, tired and yielding, led them to the chain, 
 And quenched the spirit we provoked in vain.* 
 But thou. Supreme, by whose eternal hands 
 Fair Liberty's heroic empire stands; 
 Whose thunders the rebellious deep control, 
 And quell the triumphs of the traitor's soul, 
 O turn this dreadful omen far away! 
 On Freedom's foes their own attempts repay; 
 Relume her sacred fire so near suppressed, 
 And fix her shrine in every Roman breast: 
 Though bold corruption boast around the land, 
 " Let virtue, if she can, my baits withstand ! '* 
 Though bolder now she urge the accursed claim. 
 Gay with her trophies raised on Curio's shame; 
 Yet some there are who scorn her impious mirth. 
 Who know what conscience and a heart are worth. 
 
 ASPIRATIONS AFTER THE INFINITE 
 From < Pleasures of the Imagination > 
 
 WHO that, from Alpine heights, his laboring eye 
 Shoots round the wide horizon, to survey 
 Nilus or Ganges rolling his bright wave 
 Thro' mountains, plains, thro' empires black with shade, 
 And continents of sand, will turn his gaze 
 To mark the windings of a scanty rill 
 That murmurs at his feet ? The high-born soul 
 Disdains to rest her heaven-aspiring wing 
 Beneath its native quarry. Tired of earth 
 And this diurnal scene, she springs aloft 
 Through fields of air; pursues the flying storm;
 
 262 
 
 MARK AKENSIDE 
 
 Rides on the volleyed lightning through the heavens; 
 
 Or, yoked with whirlwinds and the northern blast, 
 
 Sweeps the long tract of day. Then high she soars 
 
 The blue profound, and, hovering round the sun, 
 
 Beholds him pouring the redundant stream 
 
 Of light; beholds his unrelenting sway 
 
 Bend the reluctant planets to absolve 
 
 The fated rounds of Time. Thence, far effused, 
 
 She darts her swiftness up the long career 
 
 Of devious comets; through its burning signs 
 
 Exulting measures the perennial wheel 
 
 Of Nature, and looks back on all the stars, 
 
 Whose blended light, as with a milky zone. 
 
 Invests the orient. Now, amazed she views 
 
 The empyreal waste, where happy spirits hold 
 
 Beyond this concave heaven, their calm abode; 
 
 And fields of radiance, whose unfading light 
 
 Has traveled the profound six thousand years, 
 
 Nor yet arrived in sight of mortal things. 
 
 Even on the barriers of the world, untired 
 
 She meditates the eternal depth below; 
 
 Till half-recoiling, down the headlong steep 
 
 She plunges; soon o'erwhelmed and swallowed up 
 
 In that immense of being. There her hopes 
 
 Rest at the fated goal. For from the birth 
 
 Of mortal man, the sovereign Maker said. 
 
 That not in humble nor in brief delight, 
 
 Nor in the fading echoes of Renown, 
 
 Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap, 
 
 The soul should find enjoyment: but from these 
 
 Turning disdainful to an equal good. 
 
 Through all the ascent of things enlarge her vieWt 
 
 Till every bound at length should disappear. 
 
 And infinite perfection close the scene. 
 
 ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY 
 
 COME then, tell me, sage divine, 
 Is it an oflfense to own 
 That our bosoms e'er incline 
 Toward immortal Glory's throne ? 
 For with me nor pomp nor pleasure, 
 Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,
 
 FIDRO ANTONIO DE ALARCON 263 
 
 So can Fancy's dream rejoice, 
 So conciliate Reason's choice, 
 As one approving word of her impartial voice. 
 
 If to spurn at noble praise 
 
 Be the passport to thy heaven, 
 Follow thou those gloomy ways: 
 
 No such law to me was given, 
 Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me 
 Faring like my friends before me; 
 
 Nor an holier place desire 
 
 Than Timoleon's arms acquire, 
 And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre. 
 
 PEDRO ANTONIO DE ALARCON 
 
 (1833-1891) 
 
 Ihis novelist, poet, and politician was born at Guadix, in Spain, 
 near Granada, March loth, 1833, and received his early train- 
 ing in the seminary of his native city. His family destined 
 him for the Church; but he was averse to that profession, subse- 
 quently studied law and modern languages at the University of 
 Granada, and took pains to cultivate his natural love for literature 
 and poetry. In 1853 he established at Cadiz the literary review Eco 
 del Occidente (Echo of the West). Greatly interested in politics, he 
 joined a democratic club with headquarters at Madrid. During the 
 revolution of 1854 he published El Latigo (The Whip), a pamphlet in 
 which he satirized the government. The spirit of adventure being 
 always strong in him, he joined the African campaign under O'Don- 
 nell in 1859. 
 
 His next occupation was the editorship of the journals La Epoca 
 and La Politica. Condemned to a brief period of exile as one of the 
 signers of a protest of Unionist deputies, he passed this time in 
 Paris. Shortly after his return he became involved in the revolution 
 of 1868, but without incurring personal disaster. After Alfonso XII. 
 came to the throne in 1875, he was appointed Councilor of State, 
 
 It was in the domain of letters, however, and more especially as a 
 novelist, that he won his most enduring laurels. In 1855 he produced 
 <E1 Final de Norma* (The End of Norma), which was his first 
 romance of importance. Four years later he began to publish that 
 series of notable novels which brought him fame, both at home and 
 abroad. The list includes ^ El Sombrero de Tres Picos * (The Three-
 
 264 
 
 PEDRO ANTONIO DE ALARC6N 
 
 Cornered Hat), a charming genre sketch famous for its pungent wit 
 and humor, and its clever portraiture of provincial life in Spain at 
 the beginning of this century; < La Alpujarra^; <E1 Escandalo' (The 
 Scandal), a story which at once created a profound sensation because 
 of its ultramontane cast and opposition to prevalent scientific opinion; 
 <E1 Nino de la Bola> (The Child of the Ball), thought by many to be 
 his masterpiece ; < El Capitan Veneno ^ (Captain Veneno) ; *■ Novelas 
 Cortas ' (Short Stories), 3 vols. ; and *• La Prodiga ' (The Prodigal). 
 Alarcon is also favorably known as poet, dramatic critic, and an 
 incisive and effective writer of general prose. 
 
 His other publications comprise: — < Diario de un Testigo de la 
 Guerra de Africa* (Journal of a Witness of the African War), a work 
 which is said to have netted the publishers a profit of three million 
 pesetas ($600,000); <De Madrid a Napoles* (from Madrid to Naples); 
 <Poesias Serias y Humoristicas * (Serious and Humorous Poems); 
 <Judicios Literarios y Artisticos* (Literary and Artistic Critiques); 
 ^Viages por Espaila* (Travels through Spain); < El Hijo Prodigo' 
 (The Prodigal Son), a drama for children ; and < Ultimos Escritos * 
 (Last Writings). Alarcon was elected a member of the Spanish 
 Academy December 15th, 1875. Many of his novels have been trans- 
 lated into English and French. He died July 20th, 1891. 
 
 A WOMAN VIEWED FROM WITHOUT 
 From <The Three-Cornered Hat> 
 
 THE last and perhaps the most powerful reason which the 
 quality of the city — clergy as well as laymen, beginningf 
 with the bishop and the corregidor — had for visiting the 
 mill so often in the afternoon, was to admire there at leisure one 
 of the most beautiful, graceful, and admirable works that ever 
 left the hands of the Creator: called Sena [Mrs.] Frasquita. Let 
 us begin by assuring you that Seiia Frasquita was the lawful 
 spouse of Uncle Luke, and an honest woman; of which fact all 
 the illustrious visitors of the mill were well aware. Indeed, none 
 of them ever seemed to gaze on her with sinful eyes or doubtful 
 purpose. They all admired her, indeed, and sometimes paid her 
 compliments, — the friars as well as the cavaliers, the prebend- 
 aries as well as the magistrate, — as a prodigy of beauty, an 
 honor to her Creator, and as a coquettish and mischievous sprite, 
 who innocently enlivened the most melancholy of spirits. * She 
 is a handsome creature,** the most virtuous prelate used to say. 
 «She looks like an ancient Greek statue." remarked a learned
 
 PEDRO ANTONIO DE ALARCON 265 
 
 advocate, who was an Academician and corresponding member on 
 history. ^^ She is the very image of Eve/^ broke forth the prior 
 of the Franciscans. ** She is a fine woman, ** exclaimed the colonel 
 of militia. " She is a serpent, a witch, a siren, an imp, *^ added the 
 corregidor, ** But she is a good woman, an angel, a lovely creat- 
 ure, and as innocent as a child four years old," all agreed in 
 saying on leaving the mill, crammed with grapes or nuts, on their 
 way to their dull and methodical homes. 
 
 This four-year-old child, that is to say, Frasquita, was nearly 
 thirty years old, and almost six feet high, strongly built in pro- 
 portion, and even a little stouter than exactly corresponded to her 
 majestic figure. She looked like a gigantic Niobe, though she 
 never had any children; she seemed like a female Hercules, or 
 like a Roman matron, the sort of whom there are still copies to 
 be seen in the Rioni Trastevere. But the most striking feature 
 was her mobility, her agility, her animation, and the grace of her 
 rather large person. 
 
 For resemblance to a statue, to which the Academician com- 
 pared her, she lacked statuesque repose. She bent her body like 
 a reed, or spun around like a weather-vane, or danced like a top. 
 Her features possessed even greater mobility, and in consequence 
 were even less statuesque. They were lighted up beautifully by 
 five dimples: two on one cheek, one on the other, another very 
 small one near the left side of her roguish lips, and the last — 
 and a very big one — in the cleft of her rounded chin. Add to 
 these charms her sly or roguish glances, her pretty pouts, and the 
 various attitudes of her head, with which she emphasized her 
 talk, and you will have some idea of that face full of vivacity 
 and beauty, and always radiant with health and happiness. 
 
 Neither Uncle Luke nor Sena Frasquita was Andalusian by 
 birth: she came from Navarre, and he from Murcia. He went 
 
 to the city of when he was but fifteen years old, as half 
 
 page, half servant of the bishop, the predecessor of the present 
 incumbent of that diocese. He was brought up for the Church 
 by his patron, who, perhaps on that account, so that he might 
 not lack competent maintenance, bequeathed him the mill in his 
 will. But Uncle Luke, who had received only the lesser orders 
 when the bishop died, cast off his ecclesiastical garb at once and 
 enlisted as a soldier; for he felt more anxious to see the world 
 and to lead a life of adventure than to say mass or grind corn. 
 He went through the campaign of the Western Provinces in 
 1793, as the orderly of the brave General Ventura Care; he was
 
 266 PEDRO ANTONIO DE ALARCCN 
 
 present at the siege of the Castle of Pinon, and remained a longf 
 time in the Northern Provinces, when he finally quitted the serv- 
 ice. In Estella he became acquainted with Seiia Frasquita, who 
 was then simply called Frasquita; made love to her, married 
 her, and carried her to Andalusia to take possession of the mill, 
 where they were to live so peaceful and happy during the rest 
 of their pilgrimage through this vale of tears. 
 
 When Frasquita was taken from Navarre to that lonely place 
 she had not yet acquired any Andalusian ways, and was very 
 different from the countrywomen in that vicinity. She dressed 
 with greater simplicity, greater freedom, grace, and elegance 
 than they did. She bathed herself oftener; and allowed the sun 
 and air to caress her bare arms and uncovered neck. To a cer- 
 tain extent she wore the style of dress worn by the gentlewomen 
 of that period; like that of the women in Goya's pictures, and 
 somewhat of the fashion worn by Queen Maria Louisa: if not 
 exactly so scant, yet so short that it showed her small feet, and 
 the commencement of her superb limbs; her bodice was low, 
 and round in the neck, according to the style in Madrid, where 
 she spent two months with her Luke on their way from Navarre 
 to Andalusia. She dressed her hair high on the top of her head, 
 displaying thus both the graceful curve of her snowy neck and 
 the shape of her pretty head. She wore earrings in her small 
 ears, and the taper fingers of her rough but clean hands were 
 covered with rings. Lastly, Frasquita's voice was as sweet as a 
 flute, and her laugh was so merry and so silvery it seemed like 
 the ringing of bells on Saturday of Glory or Easter Eve. 
 
 HOW THE ORPHAN MANUEL GAINED HIS SOBRIQUET 
 From <The Child of the Ball> 
 
 THE unfortunate boy seemed to have turned to ice from the 
 cruel and unexpected blows of fate; he contracted a death- 
 like pallor, which he never again lost. No one paid any 
 attention to the unhappy child in the first moments of his 
 anguish, or noticed that he neither groaned, sighed, nor wept. 
 When at last they went to him they found him convulsed and 
 rigid, like a petrifaction of grief; although he walked about, 
 heard and saw, and covered his wounded and dying father with 
 kisses. But he shed not a single tear, either during the death
 
 PEDRO ANTONIO DE ALARCON 267 
 
 agony of that beloved being, when he kissed the cold face after 
 it was dead, or when he saw them carry the body away forever; 
 nor when he left the house in which he had been born, and 
 found himself sheltered by charity in the house of a stranger. 
 Some praised his courage, others criticized his callousness. 
 Mothers pitied him profoundly, instinctively divining the cruel 
 tragedy that was being enacted in the orphan's heart for want 
 of some tender and compassionate being to make him weep by 
 weeping with him. 
 
 Nor did Manuel utter a single word from the moment he 
 saw his beloved father brought in dying. He made no answer 
 to the affectionate questions asked him by Don Trinidad after the 
 latter had taken him home ; and the sound of his voice was never 
 heard during the first three years which he spent in the holy 
 company of the priest. Everybody thought by this time that 
 he would remain dumb forever, when one day, in the church of 
 which his protector was the priest, the sacristan observed him 
 standing before a beautiful image of the ** Child of the Ball,*^ 
 and heard him saying in melancholy accents: — 
 
 " Child Jesus, why do you not speak either ? " 
 
 Manuel was saved. The drowning boy had raised his head 
 above the engulfing waters of his grief. His life was no longer 
 in danger. So at least it was believed in the parish. . . . 
 
 Toward strangers — from whom, whenever they came in con- 
 tact with him, he always received demonstrations of pity and 
 kindness — the orphan continued to maintain the same glacial 
 reserve as before, rebufiing them with the phrase, stereotyped on 
 his disdainful lips, " Let me alone, now ; '* having said which, in 
 tones of moving entreaty, he would go on his way, not with- 
 out awakening superstitious feelings in the minds of the persons 
 whom he thus shunned. 
 
 Still less did he lay aside, at this saving crisis, the profound 
 sadness and precocious austerity of his character, or the obstinate 
 persistence with which he clung to certain habits. These were 
 limited, thus far, to accompanying the priest to the church; 
 gathering flowers or aromatic herbs to adorn the image of the 
 * Child of the Ball,** before which he would spend hour after 
 hour, plunged in a species of ecstasy; and climbing the neighbor- 
 ing mountain in search of those herbs and flowers, when, owing 
 to the severity of the heat or cold, they were not to be found in 
 the fields.
 
 268 
 
 PEDRO ANTONIO DE ALARCON 
 
 This adoration, wliile in consonance with the religious prin- 
 ciples instilled into him from the cradle by his father, greatly 
 exceeded what is usual even in the most devout. It was a 
 fraternal and submissive love, like that which he had entertained 
 for his father; it was a confused mixture of familiarity, pro- 
 tection, and idolatry, very similar to the feeling which the 
 mothers of men of genius entertain for their illustrious sons; it 
 was the respectful and protecting tenderness which the strong 
 warrior bestows on the youthful prince; it was an identification 
 of himself with the image; it was pride; it was elation as for a 
 personal good. It seemed as if this image symbolized for him 
 his tragic fate, his noble origin, his early orphanhood, his poverty, 
 his cares, the injustice of men, his solitary state in the world, 
 and perhaps too some presentiment of his future sufferings. 
 
 Probably nothing of all this was clear at the time to the mind 
 of the hapless boy, but something resembling it must have been 
 the tumult of confused thoughts that palpitated in the depths of 
 that childlike, unwavering, absolute, and exclusive devotion. For 
 him there was neither God nor the Virgin, neither saints nor 
 angels ; there was only the ^' Child of the Ball, '^ not with relation 
 to any profound mystery, but in himself, in his present form, 
 with his artistic figure, his dress of gold tissue, his crown of 
 false stones, his blonde head, his charming countenance, and the 
 blue-painted globe which he held in his hand, and which was 
 surmounted by a little silver-gilt cross, in sign of the redemption 
 of the world. 
 
 And this was the cause and reason why the acolytes of Santa, 
 Maria de la Cabeza first, all the boys of the town afterward, and 
 finally the more respectable and sedate persons, bestowed on 
 Manuel the extraordinary name of " The Child of the Ball *^ : we 
 know not whether by way of applause of such vehement idolatry, 
 and to commit him, as it were, to the protection of the Christ- 
 Child himself; or as a sarcastic antiphrasis, — seeing that this 
 appellation is sometimes used in the place as a term of compar- 
 ison for the happiness of the very fortunate; or as a prophecy 
 of the valor for which the son of Venegas was to be one day 
 celebrated, and the terror he was to inspire, — since the most 
 hyperbolical expression that can be employed in that district, to 
 extol the bravery and pow^er of any one, is to say that ^*he does 
 not fear even the < Child of the Ball.*" 
 
 Selections used by permission of Cassell Publishing Company
 
 269 
 
 ^•;*i>'- 
 
 Alc^eus 
 
 ALC/EUS 
 
 (Sixth Century B. C.) 
 
 jLC^us, a contemporary of the more famous poet whom he 
 addressed as <Wiolet-crowned, pure, sweetly-smiling Sappho," 
 was a native of Mitylene in Lesbos. His period of work 
 fell probably between 610 and 580 B. C. At this time his native 
 town was disturbed by an unceasing contention for power between 
 the aristocracy and the people ; and Al- 
 cseus, through the vehemence of his zeal 
 and his ambition, was among the leaders 
 of the warring faction. By the accidents 
 of birth and education he was an aristo- 
 crat, and in politics he was what is now 
 called a High Tory. With his brothers, 
 Cicis and Antimenidas, two influential 
 young nobles as arrogant and haughty 
 as himself, he resented and opposed the 
 slightest concession to democracy. He 
 was a stout soldier, but he threw away 
 his arms at Ligetum when he saw that 
 his side was beaten, and afterward wrote 
 
 a poem on this performance, apparently not in the least mortified by 
 the recollection. Horace speaks of the matter, and laughingly con- 
 fesses his own like misadventure. 
 
 When the kindly Pittacus was chosen dictator, he was compelled 
 to banish the swashbuckling brothers for their abuse of him. But 
 when Alcaeus chanced to be taken prisoner, Pittacus set him free, 
 remarking that « forgiveness is better than revenge." The irrecon- 
 cilable poet spent his exile in Egypt, and there he may have seen 
 the Greek oligarch who lent his sword to Nebuchadnezzar, and whom 
 he greeted in a poem, a surviving fragment of which is thus para- 
 phrased by John Addington Symonds: — 
 
 From the ends of the earth thou art come 
 
 Back to thy home; 
 
 The ivory hilt of thy blade 
 
 With gold is embossed and inlaid; 
 
 Since for Babylon's host a great deed 
 
 Thou didst work in their need, 
 
 Slaying a warrior, an athlete of might. 
 
 Royal, whose height 
 
 Lacked of five cubits one span — 
 
 A terrible man.
 
 2^0 ALC^US 
 
 Alcaeus is reputed to have been in love with Sappho, the glorious, 
 but only a line or two survives to confirm the tale. Most of his 
 lyrics, like those of his fellow-poets, seem to have been drinking 
 songs, combined, says Symonds, with reflections upon life, and 
 appropriate descriptions of the different seasons. "No time was 
 amiss for drinking, to his mind : the heat of summer, the cold of 
 winter, the blazing dog-star and the driving tempest, twilight with 
 its cheerful gleam of lamps, mid-day with its sunshine — all suggest 
 reasons for indulging in the cup. Not that we are justified in 
 fancying Alcaeus a mere vulgar toper: he retained ^olian sumptu- 
 ousness in his pleasures, and raised the art of drinking to an aesthetic 
 attitude. » 
 
 Alcffius composed in the ^olic dialect; for the reason, it is said, 
 that it was more familiar to his hearers. After his death his poems 
 were collected and divided into ten books. Bergk has included the 
 fragments — and one of his compositions has come down to us entire 
 — in his * Poetae Lyrici Grceci.' 
 
 His love of political strife and military glory led him to the 
 composition of a class of poems which the ancients called ^Stasiotica* 
 (Songs of Sedition). To this class belong his descriptions of the 
 furnishing of his palace, and many of the fragments preserved to us. 
 Besides those martial poems, he composed hymns to the gods, and 
 love and convivial songs. 
 
 His verses are subjective and impassioned. They are outbursts of 
 the poet's own feeling, his own peculiar expression toward the world 
 in which he lived; and it is this quality that gave them their 
 strength and their celebrity. His metres were lively, and the care 
 which he expended upon his strophes has led to the naming of one 
 metre the < Alcaic* Horace testifies (Odes ii. 13, ii. 26, etc.), to the 
 power of his master. 
 
 The first selection following is a fragment from his * Stasiotica.' 
 It is a description of the splendor of his palace before <Uhe work 
 of war began.* 
 
 THE PALACE 
 
 FROM roof to roof the spacious palace halls 
 Glitter with war's array; 
 With burnished metal clad, the lofty walls 
 Beam like the bright noonday. 
 There white-plumed helmets hang from many a nail* 
 
 Above, in threatening row; 
 Steel-garnished tunics and broad coats of mail 
 Spread o'er the space below.
 
 ALC^US 271 
 
 Chalcidian blades enow, and belts are here. 
 
 Greaves and emblazoned shields; 
 Well-tried protectors from the hostile spear. 
 
 On other battlefields. 
 With these good helps our work of war's begun, 
 With these our victory must be won. 
 
 Translation of Colonel Mure. 
 
 A BANQUET SONG 
 
 THE rain of Zeus descends, and from high heaven 
 A storm is driven: 
 And on the running water-brooks the cold 
 
 Lays icy hold; 
 Then up: beat down the winter; make the fire 
 
 Blaze high and higher; 
 Mix wine as sweet as honey of the bee 
 
 Abundantly ; 
 Then drink with comfortable wool around 
 
 Your temples bound. 
 We must not yield our hearts to woe, or wear 
 
 With wasting care; 
 For grief will profit us no whit, my friend. 
 
 Nor nothing mend; 
 But this is our best medicine, with wine fraught 
 
 To cast out thought. 
 
 Translation of J. A. Symonds. 
 
 AN INVITATION 
 
 WHY wait we for the torches* lights? 
 Now let us drink while day invites. 
 In mighty flagons hither bring 
 The deep-red blood of many a vine. 
 That we may largely quaff, and sing 
 The praises of the god of wine, 
 The son of Jove and Semele, 
 Who gave the jocund grape to be 
 A sweet oblivion to our woes. 
 
 Fill, fill the goblet — one and two: 
 Let every brimmer, as it flows, 
 
 In sportive chase, the last pursue. 
 
 Translation of Sir William Jones.
 
 272 
 
 ALC^US 
 
 THE STORM 
 
 Now here, now there, the wild waves sweep, 
 Whilst we, betwixt them o'er the deep, 
 In shatter'd tempest-beaten bark, 
 With laboring ropes are onward driven, 
 
 The billows dashing o'er our dark 
 Upheaved deck — in tatters riven 
 
 Our sails — whose yawning rents between 
 The raging sea and sky are seen. 
 
 Loose from their hold our anchors burst, 
 
 And then the third, the fatal wave 
 Comes rolling onward like the first, 
 
 And doubles all our toil to save. 
 
 Translation of Sir William Jones. 
 
 THE POOR FISHERMAN 
 
 THE fisher Diotimus had, at sea 
 And shore, the same abode of poverty — 
 His trusty boat; — and when his days were spent. 
 Therein self-rowed to ruthless Dis he went; 
 For that, which did through life his woes beguile, 
 Supplied the old man with a funeral pile. 
 
 Translation of Sir William Jones. 
 
 THE STATE 
 
 WHAT constitutes a State ? 
 Not high-raised battlement, or labored mound. 
 Thick wall or moated gate; 
 Not cities fair, with spires and turrets crown'd; 
 
 No: — Men, high-minded men. 
 With powers as far above dull brutes endued 
 
 In forest, brake or den. 
 As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude: — 
 
 Men who their duties know. 
 But know their rights, and knowing, dare maintain; 
 
 Prevent the long-aimed blow. 
 And crush the tyrant, while they rend the chain. 
 
 Translation of Sir William Jones.
 
 BALTAZAR DE ALCAZAR 
 
 POVERTY 
 
 273 
 
 THE worst of ills, and hardest to endure, 
 Past hope, past cure, 
 Is Penury, who, with her sister-mate 
 Disorder, soon brings down the loftiest state, 
 And makes it desolate. 
 This truth the sage of Sparta told, 
 
 Aristodemus old, — 
 * Wealth makes the man.>> On him that's poor, 
 Proud worth looks down, and honor shuts the door. 
 
 Translation of Sir William Jones. 
 
 BALTAZAR DE ALCAZAR 
 
 (1530?-! 606) 
 
 Jlthough little may be realized now of Alcazar's shadowy per- 
 sonality, there is no doubt that in his own century he was 
 widely read. Born of a very respectable family in Seville, 
 either in 1530 or 1531, he first appears as entering the Spanish navy, 
 and participating in several battles on the war galleys of the Mar- 
 quis of Santa Cruz. It is known that for about twenty years he 
 was alcalde or mayor at the Molares on the outskirts of Utrera, — 
 an important local functionary, a practical man interested in public 
 affairs. 
 
 But, on the whole, his seems to have been a strongly artistic 
 nature; for he was a musician of repute, skillful too at painting, and 
 above all a poet. As master and model in metrical composition he 
 chose Martial, and in his epigrammatic turn he is akin to the great 
 Latin poet. He was fond of experimenting in Latin lyrical forms, 
 and wrote many madrigals and sonnets. They are full of vigorous 
 thought and bright satire, of playful malice and epicurean joy in life, 
 and have always won the admiration of his fellow-poets. As has 
 been said, they show a fine taste, quite in advance of the age. 
 Cervantes, his greater contemporary, acknowledged his power with 
 cordial praise in the Canto de Caliope. 
 
 The "witty Andalusian >* did not write voluminously. Some of his 
 poems still remain in manuscript only. Of the rest, comprised in one 
 small volume, perhaps the best known are * The Jovial Supper,* 
 'The Echo,^ and the 'Counsel to a Widow.* 
 I— 18
 
 2 74v BALTAZAR de alcAzar 
 
 b) 
 
 SLEEP 
 
 ^LEEP is no servant of the will, 
 It has caprices of its own: 
 When most pursued,— 'tis swiftly gone; 
 When courted least, it lingers still. 
 With its vagaries long perplext, 
 
 I turned and turned my restless sconce. 
 Till one bright night, I thought at once 
 I'd master it; so hear my text! 
 
 When sleep will tarry, I begin 
 
 My long and my accustomed prayer; 
 
 And in a twinkling sleep is there. 
 Through my bed-curtains peeping in. 
 When sleep hangs heavy on my eyes, 
 
 I think of debts I fain would pay; 
 
 And then, as flies night's shade from day. 
 Sleep from my heavy eyelids flies. 
 
 And thus controlled the winged one bends 
 
 Ev'n his fantastic will to me; 
 
 And, strange, yet true, both I and he 
 Are friends, — the very best of friends. 
 We are a happy wedded pair. 
 
 And I the lord and she the dame; 
 
 Our bed — our board — our hours the same. 
 And we're united everywhere. 
 
 I'll tell you where I learnt to school 
 
 This wayward sleep: — a whispered word 
 From a church-going hag I heard, 
 
 And tried it — for I was no fool. 
 
 So from that very hour I knew 
 
 That having ready prayers to pray, 
 And having many debts to pay. 
 
 Will serve for sleep and waking too. 
 
 From Longfellow's < Poets of Europe >: by permission of Houghton, Mifflin and 
 
 Company 
 
 THE JOVIAL SUPPER 
 
 IN Jaen, where I reside. 
 Lives Don Lopez de Sosa; 
 And I will tell thee, Isabel, a thing 
 • The most daring that thou hast heard of him.
 
 baltAzar de alcazar 275 
 
 This gentleman had 
 
 A Portuguese serving man . . . 
 
 However, if it appears well to you, Isabel, 
 
 Let us first take supper. 
 
 We have the table ready laid, 
 
 As we have to sup together; 
 
 The wine-cups at their stations 
 
 Are only wanting to begin the feast. 
 
 Let us commence with new, light wine, 
 
 And cast upon it benediction; 
 
 I consider it a matter of devotion 
 
 To sign with cross that which I drink. 
 
 Be it or not a modern invention, 
 
 By the living God I do not know; 
 
 But most exquisite was 
 
 The invention of the tavern. 
 
 Because, I arrive thirsty there, 
 
 I ask for new-made wine, 
 
 They mix it, give it to me, I drink, 
 
 I pay for it, and depart contented. 
 
 That, Isabel, is praise of itself. 
 
 It is not necessary to laud it. 
 
 I have only one fault to find with it, 
 
 That is — it is finished with too much haste. 
 
 • ••••• 
 
 But say, dost thou not adore and prize 
 
 The illustrious and rich black pudding? 
 
 How the rogue tickles! 
 
 It must contain spices. 
 
 How it is stuffed with pine nuts! 
 
 But listen to a subtle hint. 
 
 You did not put a lamp there ? 
 
 How is it that I appear to see two? 
 
 But these are foolish questions, 
 
 Already know I what it must be: 
 
 It is by this black draught 
 
 That the number of lamps accumulates. 
 
 [The several courses are ended, and the jovial diner resolves to finish his 
 story.] 
 
 And now, Isabel, as we have supped 
 So well, and with so much enjoyment.
 
 27S 
 
 ALCIPHRON 
 
 It appears to be but right 
 To return to the promised tale. 
 But thou must know, Sister Isabel, 
 That the Portuguese fell sick . . . 
 Eleven o'clock strikes, I go to sleep. 
 Wait for the morrow. 
 
 ALCIPHRON 
 
 (Second Century A. D.) 
 BY HARRY THURSTON PECK 
 
 [n the history of Greek prose fiction the possibilities of the 
 epistolary form were first developed by the Athenian teacher 
 of rhetoric, Alciphron, of whose life and personality noth- 
 ing is known except that he lived in the second century A. D., — a 
 contemporary of the great satirical genius Lucian. Of his writings 
 we now possess only a collection of imaginary letters, one hundred 
 and eighteen in number, arranged in three books. Their value 
 depends partly upon the curious and interesting pictures given in 
 them of the life of the post-Alexandrine period, especially of the 
 low life, and partly upon the fact that they are the first successful 
 attempts at character-drawing to be found in the history of Greek 
 prose fiction. They form a connecting link between the novel of 
 pure incident and adventure, and the more fully developed novel 
 which combines incident and adventure with the delineation of char- 
 acter and the study of motive. The use of the epistolary form in 
 fictitious composition did not, to be sure, originate with Alciphron; 
 for we find earlier instances in the imaginary love-letters composed 
 in verse by the Roman poet, Ovid, under the names of famous 
 women of early legend, such as those of CEnone to Paris (which 
 suggested a beautiful poem of Tennyson's), Medea to Jason, and 
 many others. In these one finds keen insight into character, espe- 
 cially feminine character, together with much that is exquisite in 
 fancy and tender in expression. But it is to Alciphron that we owe 
 the adaptation of this form of composition to prose fiction, and its 
 employment in a far wider range of psychological and social obser- 
 vation. 
 
 The life whose details are given us by Alciphron is the life of 
 contemporary Athens in the persons of its easy-going population. 
 The writers whose letters we are supposed to read in reading 
 Alciphron are peasants, fishermen, parasites, men-about-town, and
 
 ALCIPKRON 277 
 
 courtesans. The language of the letters is neat, pointed, and appro- 
 priate to the person who in each case is supposed to be the writer; 
 and the details are managed with considerable art. Alciphron effaces 
 all impression of his own personality, and is lost in the characters 
 who for the time being occupy his pages. One reads the letters as 
 he would read a genuine correspondence. The illusion is perfect, 
 and we feel that we are for the moment in the Athens of the third 
 century before Christ; that we are strolling in its streets, visiting its 
 shops, its courts, and its temples, and that we are getting a whiff of 
 the -^gean, mingled with the less savory odors of the markets and 
 of the wine-shops. We stroll about the city elbowing our way 
 through the throng of boatmen, merchants, and hucksters. Here a 
 barber stands outside his shop and solicits custom; there an old 
 usurer with pimply face sits bending over his accounts in a dingy 
 little office; at the corner of the street a crowd encircles some Cheap 
 Jack who is showing off his juggling tricks at a small three-legged 
 table, making sea-shells vanish out of sight and then taking them 
 from his mouth. Drunken soldiers pass and repass, talking bois- 
 terously of their bouts and brawls, of their drills and punishments, 
 and the latest news of their barracks, and forming a striking contrast 
 to the philosopher, who, in coarse robes, moves with supercilious 
 look and an affectation of deep thought, in silence am.id the crowd 
 that jostles him. The scene is vivid, striking, realistic. 
 
 Many of the letters are from women ; and in these, especially, 
 Alciphron reveals the daily life of the Athenians. We see the demi- 
 monde at their toilet, with their mirrors, their powders, their 
 enamels and rouge-pots, their brushes and pincers, and all the 
 thousand and one accessories. Acquaintances come in to make a 
 morning call, and we hear their chatter, — Thais and Megara and 
 Bacchis, Hermione and Myrrha. They nibble cakes, drink sweet 
 wine, gossip about their respective lovers, hum the latest songs, 
 and enjoy themselves with perfect abandon. Again we see them 
 at their evening rendezvous, at the banquets where philosophers, 
 poets, sophists, painters, artists of every sort, — in fact, the whole 
 Bohemia of Athens, — gather round them. We get hints of all the 
 stages of the revel, from the sparkling wit and the jolly good- 
 fellowship of the early evening, to the sodden disgust that comes 
 with daybreak when the lamps are poisoning the fetid air and the 
 remnants of the feast are stale. 
 
 We are not to look upon the letters of Alciphron as embodying a 
 literary unity. He did not attempt to write one single symmetrical 
 epistolary romance; but the individual letters are usually slight 
 sketches of character carelessly gathered together, and deriving 
 their greatest charm from their apparent spontaneity and artlessness.
 
 278 ALCIPHRON 
 
 Many of them are, to be sure, unpleasantly cynical, and depict the 
 baser side of human nature; others, in their realism, are essentially 
 commonplace ; but some are very prettily expressed, and show a 
 brighter side to the picture of contemporary life. Those especially 
 which are supposed to pass between Menander, the famous comic 
 poet, and his mistress Glycera, form a pleasing contrast to the greed 
 and cynicism of much that one finds in the first book of the epistles; 
 they are true love-letters, and are untainted by the slightest sug- 
 gestion of the mercenary spirit or the veiled coarseness that makes 
 so many of the others unpleasant reading. One letter (i. 6) is 
 interesting as containing the first allusion found in literature to the 
 familiar story of Phryne before the judges, which is more fully told 
 in Athenaeus. 
 
 The imaginary letter was destined to play an important part in 
 the subsequent history of literature. Alciphron was copied by 
 Aristaenetus, who lived in the fifth century of our era, and whose 
 letters have been often imitated in modern times, and by Theophy- 
 lactus, who lived in the seventh century. In modern English fiction 
 the epistolary form has been most successfully employed by Rich- 
 ardson, Fanny Burney, and, in another genre, by Wilkie Collins. 
 
 The standard editions of Alciphron are those of Seller (Leipzig, 
 1856) and of Hercher (Paris, 1873), the latter containing the Greek 
 text with a parallel version in Latin. The letters have not yet been 
 translated into English. The reader may refer to the chapter on 
 Alciphron in the recently published work of Salverte, * Le Roman 
 dans la Grece Ancienne ^ ( The Novel in Ancient Greece : Paris, 
 1893). The following selections are translated by the present writer. 
 
 ^. C^. ^ 
 
 iZ.o/C 
 
 FROM A MERCENARY GIRL 
 
 PETALA TO SIMALION 
 
 WELL, if a girl could live on tears, what a wealthy girl I 
 should be; for you are generous enough with theni^ any- 
 how! Unfortunately, however, that isn't quite enough 
 for me. I need money; I must have jewels, clothes, servants, 
 and all that sort of thing. Nobody has left me a fortune, I 
 should like you to know, or any mining stock; and so I am 
 obliged to depend on the little presents that gentlemen happen 
 to make me. Now that I've known you a year, how much better
 
 ALCIPHRON 279 
 
 off am I for it, I should like to ask ? My head looks like a 
 fright because I haven't had anything to rig it out with, all that 
 time; and as to clothes, — why, the only dress I've got in the 
 worid is in rags that make me ashamed to be seen with my 
 friends: and yet you imagine that I can go on in this way with- 
 out having any other means of living! Oh, yes, of course, you 
 cry; but you'll stop presently. I'm really surprised at the num- 
 ber of your tears; but really, unless somebody gives me some- 
 thing pretty soon I shall die of starvation. Of course, you 
 pretend you're just crazy for me, and that you can't live without 
 me. Well, then, isn't there any family silver in your house ? 
 Hasn't your mother any jewelry that you can get hold of ? 
 Hasn't your father any valuables ? Other girls are luckier than 
 I am; for I have a mourner rather than a lover. He sends me 
 crowns, and he sends me garlands and roses, as if I were dead 
 and buried before my time, and he says that he cries all night. 
 Now, if you can manage to scrape up something for me, you can 
 come here without having to cry your eyes out; but if you can't, 
 why, keep your tears to yourself, and don't bother me! 
 
 From the <Epistolae,> i. 36. 
 
 THE PLEASURES OF ATHENS 
 
 EUTHYDICUS TO EPIPHANIO 
 
 By ALL the gods and demons, I beg you, dear mother, to leave 
 your rocks and fields in the country, and before you die, 
 discover what beautiful things there are in town. Just think 
 what you are losing, — the Haloan Festival and the Apaturian 
 Festival, and the Great Festival of Bacchus, and especially the 
 Thesmophorian Festival, which is now going on. If you would 
 only hurry up, and get here to-morrow morning before it is day- 
 light, you would be able to take part in the affair with the other 
 Athenian women. Do come, and don't put it off, if you have 
 any regard for my happiness and my brothers'; for it's an awful 
 thing to die without having any knowledge of the city. That's 
 the life of an ox; and one that is altogether unreasonable. Please 
 excuse me, mother, for speaking so freely for your own good. 
 After all, one ought to speak plainly with everybody, and espe- 
 cially with those who are themselves plain speakers. 
 
 From the <Epistolae,> iii. 39.
 
 2 So ALCIPHRON '"^ 
 
 FROM AN ANXIOUS MOTHER 
 
 PHYLLIS TO THRASONIDES 
 
 IF YOU only would put up with the country and be sensible, 
 and do as the rest of us do, my dear Thrasonides, you would 
 offer ivy and laurel and myrtle and flowers to the gods at 
 the proper time; and to us, your parents, you would give wheat 
 and wine and a milk-pail full of the new goat's-milk. But as 
 things are, you despise the country and farming, and are fond 
 only of the helmet-plumes and the shield, just as if you were an 
 Acarnanian or a Malian soldier. Don't keep on in this way, my 
 son; but come back to us and take up this peaceful life of ours 
 again (for farming is perfectly safe and free from any danger, 
 and doesn't require bands of soldiers and strategy and squad- 
 rons), and be the stay of our old age, preferring a safe life to a 
 
 risky one. 
 
 From the <Epistolae,> iii. i6. 
 
 FROM A CURIOUS YOUTH 
 
 PHILOCOMUS TO THESTYLUS 
 
 SINCE I have never yet been to town, and really don't know at 
 all what the thing is that they call a city, I am awfully anx- 
 ious to see this strange sight, — men living all in one place, — 
 and to learn about the other points in which a city differs from 
 the country. Consequently, if you have any reason for going to 
 town, do come and take me with you. As a matter of fact, I am 
 sure there are lots of things I ought to know, now that my beard 
 is beginning to sprout; and who is so able to show me the city 
 as yourself, who are all the time going back and forth to the 
 
 town ? 
 
 From the <Epistolae,> iii. 31. 
 
 FROM A PROFESSIONAL DINER-OUT 
 
 CAPNOSPHRANTES TO ARISTOMACHUS 
 
 I SHOULD like to ask my evil geniiis, w^ho drew me by lot as his 
 own particular charge, why he is so malignant and so cruel 
 as to keep me in everlasting povert}^; for if no one happens 
 to invite me to dinner I have to live on greens, and to eat acorns 
 and to fill my stomach with water from the hydrant. Now, as
 
 ALCIPHRON 281 
 
 long as my body was able to put up with this sort of thing, and 
 my time of life was such as made it proper for me to bear it, I 
 could get along with them fairly well; but now that my hair is 
 growing gray, and the only outlook I have is in the direction of 
 old age, what on earth am I going to do ? I shall really have to 
 get a rope and hang myself unless my luck changes. However, 
 even if fortune remains as it is, I shan't string myself up before 
 I have at least one square meal; for before very long, the wed- 
 ding of Charitus and Leocritis, which is going to be a famous 
 affair, will come off, to which there isn't a doubt that I shall be 
 invited, — either to the wedding itself or to the banquet after- 
 ward. It's lucky that weddings need the jokes of brisk fellows 
 like myself, and that without us they would be as dull as gather- 
 ings of pigs rather than of human beings! 
 
 From the <Epistol9e,> iii. 49. 
 
 P 
 
 UNLUCKY LUCK 
 
 CHYTROLICTES TO PATELLOCHARON 
 
 ERHAPS you would like to know why I am complaining so, 
 
 and how I got my head broken, and why I'm going around 
 with my clothes in tatters. The fact is I swept the board at 
 gambling: but I wish I hadn't; for what's the sense in a feeble 
 fellow like me running up against a lot of stout young men ? 
 You see, after I scooped in all the money they put up, and they 
 hadn't a cent left, they all jumped on my neck, and some of 
 them punched me, and some of them stoned me, and some of 
 them tore my clothes off my back. All the same, I hung on to 
 the money as hard as I could, because I would rather die than 
 give up anything of theirs I had got hold of; and so I held out 
 bravely for quite a while, not giving in when they struck me, or 
 even when they bent my fingers back. In fact, I was like some 
 Spartan who lets himself be whipped as a test of his endurance: 
 but unfortunately it wasn't at Sparta that I was doing this thing, 
 but at Athens, and with the toughest sort of an Athenian gam- 
 bling crowd; and so at last, when actually fainting, I had to let 
 the ruffians rob me. They went through my pockets, and after 
 they had taken everything they could find, they skipped. After 
 all, I've come to the conclusion that it's better to live without 
 money than to die with a pocket full of it. 
 
 From the <Epistolae,> iii, 54.
 
 282 
 
 ALCMAN 
 
 ( Seventh Century B. C. ) 
 
 ACCORDING to legend, this illustrious Grecian lyric poet was 
 born in Lydia, and taken to Sparta as a slave when very 
 young, but emancipated by his master on the discovery of 
 his poetic genius. He flourished probably between 670 and 630, dur- 
 ing the peace following the Second Messenian War. It was that 
 remarkable period in which the Spartans were gathering poets and 
 musicians from the outer world of liberal accomplishment to educate 
 their children; for the Dorians thought it beneath the dignity of a 
 Dorian citizen to practice these things themselves. 
 
 His poetic remains indicate a social freedom at this period hardly 
 in keeping with the Spartan rigor alleged to have been practiced 
 without break from the ancient time of Lycurgus; perhaps this com- 
 munal asceticism was really a later growth, when the camp of mili- 
 tant slave-holders saw their fibre weakening under the art and luxury 
 they had introduced. He boasts of his epicurean appetite; with 
 evident truthfulness, as a considerable number of his extant frag- 
 ments are descriptions of dishes. He would have echoed Sydney 
 
 Smith's — 
 
 «Fate cannot harm me — I have dined to-day. » 
 
 In a poem descriptive of spring, he laments that the season affords 
 but a scanty stock of his favorite viands. 
 
 The Alexandrian grammarians put Alcman at the head of the 
 lyric canon; perhaps partly because they thought him the most 
 ancient, but he was certainly much esteemed in classic times, ^lian 
 says his songs were sung at the first performance of the gymnopasdia 
 at Sparta in 665 B. C, and often afterward. Much of his poetry was 
 erotic; but he wrote also hymns to the gods, and ethical and philo- 
 sophic pieces. His <Parthenia,> which form a distinct division of 
 his writings, were songs sung at public festivals by, and in honor of, 
 the performing chorus of virgins. The subjects were either religious 
 or erotic. His proverbial wisdom, and the forms of verse which he 
 often chose, are reputed to have been like Pindar's. He said of him- 
 self that he sang like the birds, — that is, was self-taught. 
 
 He wrote in the broad Spartan dialect with a mixture of the 
 -^olic, and in various metres. One form of hexameter which he 
 invented was called Alcmanic after him. His poems were compre- 
 hended in six books. The scanty fragments which have survived are 
 included in Bergk's <Poetae Lyrici Grasci> (1878). The longest was 
 found in 1855 by M. Mariette, in a tomb near the second pyramid.
 
 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT 
 
 283 
 
 It is a papyrus fragment of three pages, containing a part of his 
 hymn to the Dioscuri, much mutilated and difficult to decipher. 
 
 His descriptive passages are believed to have been his best. The 
 best known and most admired of his fragments is his beautiful 
 description of night, which has been often imitated and paraphrased. 
 
 NIGHT 
 
 OVER the drowsy earth still night prevails: 
 Calm sleep the mountain tops and shady vales, 
 The rugged cliffs and hollow glens; 
 The cattle on the hill. Deep in the sea. 
 
 The countless finny race and monster brood 
 Tranquil repose. Even the busy bee 
 
 Forgets her daily toil. The silent wood 
 No more with noisy hum of insect rings; 
 And all the feathered tribes, by gentle sleep subdued. 
 Roost in the glade, and hang their drooping wings. 
 
 Translation by Colonel Mure. 
 
 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT 
 
 (1832-1888) 
 
 fouiSA May Alcott, daughter of Amos Bronson and Abigail 
 (May) Alcott, and the second of the four sisters whom she 
 was afterward to make famous in < Little Women, > was 
 
 born in Germantown, Pennsylvania, November 29th, 1832, her father's 
 
 thirty-third birthday. On his side, she 
 
 was descended from good Connecticut 
 
 stock; and on her mother's, from the Mays 
 
 and Quincys of Massachusetts, and from 
 
 Judge Samuel Sewall, who has left in his 
 
 diary as graphic a picture of the New 
 
 England home-life of two hundred years 
 
 ago, as his granddaughter of the fifth 
 
 generation did of that of her own time. 
 At the time of Louisa Alcott's birth 
 
 her father had charge of a school in Ger- 
 mantown; but within two years he moved 
 
 to Boston with his family, and put into 
 
 practice methods of teaching so far in 
 
 advance of his time that they were unsuccessful. From 1840, the 
 
 home of the Alcott family was in Concord, Massachusetts, with the 
 
 Louisa M. Alcott.
 
 284 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT 
 
 exception of a short time spent in a community on a farm in a 
 neighboring town, and the years from 1848 to 1857 in Boston. At 
 seventeen, Louisa's struggle with life began. She wrote a play, con- 
 tributed sensational stories to weekly papers, tried teaching, sewing. 
 — even going out to service, — and would have become an actress 
 but for an accident. What she wrote of her mother is as true of 
 herself, ^* She always did what came to her in the way of duty or 
 charity, and let pride, taste, and comfort suffer for love's sake.^^ Her 
 first book, < Flower Fables,^ a collection of fairy tales which she had 
 written at sixteen for the children of Ralph Waldo Emerson, some 
 other little friends, and her younger sisters, was printed in 1855 and 
 was well received. From this time until 1863 she wrote many 
 stories, but few that she afterward thought worthy of being re- 
 printed. Her best work from i860 to 1863 is in the Atlantic Monthly, 
 indexed under her name; and the most carefully finished of her few 
 poems, * Thoreau's Flute, ^ appeared in that magazine in September, 
 1863. After six weeks' experience in the winter of 1862-63 as a 
 hospital nurse in Washington, she wrote for the Commonwealth, a 
 Boston weekly paper, a series of letters which soon appeared in book 
 form as ^Hospital Sketches.* Miss Alcott says of them, *^The 
 *■ Sketches * never made much money, but showed me < my style. ' '* 
 In 1864 she published a novel, < Moods'; and in 1866, after a year 
 abroad as companion to an invalid, she became editor of Merry's 
 Museum, a magazine for children. 
 
 Her ^Little Women,* founded on her own family life, was written 
 in 1867-68, in answer to a request from the publishing house of 
 Roberts Brothers for a story for girls, and its success was so great 
 that she soon finished a second part. The two volumes were trans- 
 lated into French, German, and Dutch, and became favorite books in 
 England. While editing Merry's Museum, she had written the first 
 part of ^ The Old-Fashioned Girl * as a serial for the magazine. After 
 the success of < Little Women,* she carried the * Old-Fashioned Girl* 
 and her friends forward several years, and ended the story with two 
 happy marriages. In 1870 she went abroad a second time, and from 
 her return the next year until her death in Boston from overwork on 
 March 6th, 1888, the day of her father's funeral, she published twenty 
 volumes, including two novels: one anonymous, ^A Modern Mephisto- 
 pheles,* in the ^No Name* series; the other, <Work,* largely a record 
 of her own experience. She rewrote < Moods,* and changed the sad 
 ending of the first version to a more cheerful one; followed the for- 
 tunes of her ^ Little Women * and their children in < Little Men * and 
 *Jo's Boys,* and published ten volumes of short stories, many of 
 them reprinted pieces. She wrote also 'Eight Cousins,* its sequel 
 * Rose in Bloom,* 'Under the Lilacs,* and 'Jack and Jill.*
 
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 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT ,,^, 
 
 The charm of her books lies in their freshness, naturalness, and 
 sympathy with the feeHngs and pursuits of boys and girls. She says 
 of herself, ^* I was born with a boy's spirit under my bib and tucker,'* 
 and she never lost it. Her style is often careless, never elegant, for 
 she wrote hurriedly, and never revised or even read over her manu- 
 script; yet her books are full of humor and pathos, and preach the 
 gospel of work and simple, wholesome living. She has been a help 
 and inspiration to many young girls, who have learned from her Jo 
 in < Little Women, > or Polly in the < Old-Fashioned Girl,* or Christie 
 in < Work,* that a woman can support herself and her family without 
 losing caste or self-respect. Her stories of the comradeship of New 
 England boys and girls in school or play have made her a popular 
 author in countries where even brothers and sisters see little of each 
 other. The haste and lack of care in her books are the result of 
 writing under pressure for money to support the family, to whom 
 she gave the best years of her life. As a little girl once said of her 
 in a school essay, "I like all Miss Alcott's books; but what I like best 
 in them is the author herself.** 
 
 The reader is referred to ^Louisa May Alcott: Her Life, Letters, 
 and Journals,* edited by Ednah D. Cheney, published in 1889. 
 
 THE NIGHT WARD 
 
 From < Hospital Sketches* 
 
 BEING fond of the night side of nature, I was soon promoted 
 to the post of night nurse, with every facility for indulging 
 in my favorite pastime of ^^owling.** My colleague, a 
 black-eyed widow, relieved me at dawn, we two taking care of 
 the ward between us, like regular nurses, turn and turn about. 
 I usually found my boys in the jolliest state of mind their con- 
 dition allowed; for it was a known fact that Nurse Periwinkle 
 objected to blue devils, and entertained a belief that he who 
 laughed most was surest of recovery. At the beginning of my 
 reign, dumps and dismals prevailed; the nurses looked anxious 
 and tired, the men gloomy or sad ; and a general " Hark-f rom- 
 the-tombs-a-doleful-sound ** style of conversation seemed to be 
 the fashion: a state of things which caused one coming from a 
 merry, social New England town, to feel as if she had got into 
 an exhausted receiver; and the instinct of self-preservation, to 
 say nothing of a philanthropic desire to serve the race, caused a 
 speedy change in Ward No. i.
 
 286 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT 
 
 More flattering than the most gracefully turned compliment, 
 more grateful than the most admiring glance, was the sight of 
 those rows of faces, all strange to me a little while ago, now 
 lighting up with smiles of welcome as I came among them, 
 enjoying that moment heartily, with a womanly pride in their 
 regard, a motherly affection for them all. The evenings were 
 spent in reading aloud, writing letters, waiting on and amusing 
 
 the men, going the rounds with Dr. P as he made his second 
 
 daily survey, dressing my dozen wounds afresh, giving last doses, 
 and making them cozy for the long hours to come, till the nine 
 o'clock bell rang, the gas was turned down, the day nurses went 
 off duty, the night watch came on, and my nocturnal adventures 
 began. 
 
 My ward was now divided into three rooms; and under favor 
 of the matron, I had managed to sort out the patients in such a 
 way that I had what I called my «duty room,'^ my « pleasure 
 room,*^ and my "pathetic room,^* and worked for each in a 
 different way. One I visited armed with a dressing-tray full of 
 rollers, plasters, and pins; another, with books, flowers, games, 
 and gossip; a third, with teapots, lullabies, consolation, and some- 
 times a shroud. 
 
 Wherever the sickest or most helpless man chanced to be, 
 there I held my watch, often visiting the other rooms to see that 
 the general watchman of the ward did his duty by the fires and 
 the wounds, the latter needing constant wetting. Not only on 
 this account did I meander, but also to get fresher air than the 
 close rooms afforded; for owing to the stupidity of that myste- 
 rious " somebody *^ who does all the damage in the world, the 
 windows had been carefully nailed down above, and the lower 
 sashes could only be raised in the mildest weather, for the men 
 lay just below. I had suggested a summary smashing of a few 
 panes here and there, when frequent appeals to headquarters had 
 proved unavailing and daily orders to lazy attendants had come 
 to nothing. No one seconded the motion, however, and the nails 
 were far beyond my reach; for though belonging to the sister- 
 hood of "ministering angels,'^ I had no wings, and might as well 
 have asked for a suspension bridge as a pair of steps in that 
 charitable chaos. 
 
 One of the harmless ghosts who bore me company during the 
 haunted hours was Dan, the watchman, whom I regarded with a 
 certain awe; for though so much together, I never fairly saw his
 
 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT 287 
 
 face, and but for his legs should never have recognized him, as 
 we seldom met by day. These legs were remarkable, as was his 
 whole figure: for his body was short, rotund, and done up in a 
 big jacket and muffler; his beard hid the lower part of his face, 
 his hat-brim the upper, and all I ever discovered was a pair of 
 sleepy eyes and a very mild voice. But the legs! — very long, 
 very thin, very crooked and feeble, looking like gray sausages in 
 their tight coverings, and finished off with a pair of expansive 
 green cloth shoes, very like Chinese junks with the sails down. 
 This figure, gliding noiselessly about the dimly lighted rooms, 
 was strongly suggestive of the spirit of a beer-barrel mounted on 
 corkscrews, haunting the old hotel in search of its lost mates, 
 emptied and staved in long ago. 
 
 Another goblin who frequently appeared to me was the attend- 
 ant of ^Hhe pathetic room,'^ who, being a faithful soul, was often 
 up to tend two or three men, weak and wandering as babies, 
 after the fever had gone. The amiable creature beguiled the 
 watches of the night by brewing jorums of a fearful beverage 
 which he called coffee, and insisted on sharing with me; coming 
 in with a great bowl of something like mud soup, scalding hot, 
 guiltless of cream, rich in an all-pervading flavor of molasses, 
 scorch, and tin pot. 
 
 Even my constitutionals in the chilly halls possessed a certain 
 charm, for the house was never still. Sentinels tramped round 
 it all night long, their muskets glittering in the wintry moon- 
 light as they walked, or stood before the doors straight and 
 silent as figures of stone, causing one to conjure up romantic 
 visions of guarded forts, sudden surprises, and daring deeds; for 
 in these war times the humdrum life of Yankeedom has vanished, 
 and the most prosaic feel some thrill of that excitement which 
 stirs the Nation's heart, and makes its capital a camp of hospi- 
 tals. Wandering up and down these lower halls I often heard 
 cries from above, steps hurrying to and fro, saw surgeons passing 
 up, or men coming down carrying a stretcher, where lay a long 
 white figure whose face was shrouded, and whose fight was done. 
 Sometimes I stopped to watch the passers in the street, the 
 moonlight shining on the spire opposite, or the gleam of some 
 vessel floating, like a white-winged sea-gull, down the broad Po- 
 tomac, whose fullest flow can never wash away the red stain of 
 the land.
 
 2^8 LOUISA MAV ALCOTT 
 
 AMY'S VALLEY OF HUMILIATION 
 From < Little Women > 
 
 "rr-^HAT boy is a perfect Cyclops, isn't he?** said Amy one day, 
 _! as Laurie clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of 
 his whip as he passed. 
 
 "How dare you say so, when he's got both his eyes? and very 
 handsome ones they are, too,** cried Jo, who resented any slight- 
 ing remarks about her friend. 
 
 "J didn't say anything about his eyes; and I don't see why 
 you need fire up when I admire his riding.** 
 
 " Oh, my goodness ! that little goose means a centaur, and she 
 called him a Cyclops,** exclaimed Jo, with a burst of laughter. 
 
 "You needn't be so rude; it's only a Hapse of lingy,* as Mr. 
 Davis says,** retorted Amy, finishing Jo with her Latin. "I just 
 wish I had a little of the money Laurie spends on that horse,** 
 she added, as if to herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear. 
 
 " Why ? ** asked Meg, kindly, for Jo had gone off in another 
 laugh at Amy's second blunder. 
 
 " I need it so much : I'm dreadfully in debt, and it won't be 
 my turn to have the rag-money for a month.** 
 
 "In debt. Amy: what do you mean?** and Meg looked sober. 
 
 "Why, I owe at least a dozen pickled limes; and I can't pay 
 them, you know, till I have money, for Marmee forbids my hav- 
 ing anything charged at the shop.** 
 
 " Tell me all about it. Are limes the fashion nov/ ? It used 
 to be pricking bits of rubber to make balls;** and Meg tried to 
 keep her countenance. Amy looked so grave and important. 
 
 "Why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless 
 you want to be thought mean, you must do it too. It's nothing 
 but limes now, for every one is sucking them in their desks in 
 school-time, and trading them off for pencils, bead-rings, paper 
 dolls, or something else, at recess. If one girl likes another, she 
 gives her a lime; if she's mad with her, she eats one before her 
 face, and don't offer even a suck. They treat by turns; and 
 I've had ever so many, but haven't returned them, and I ought, 
 for they are debts of honor, you know.** 
 
 " How much will pay them off, and restore your credit ? ** 
 asked Meg, taking out her purse. 
 
 "A quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents 
 over for a treat for you. Don't you like limes 7 **
 
 LOtJISA MAY- ALCOTt 2§9 
 
 '*Not much; you may have my share. Here's the money: 
 make it last as long as you can, for it isn't very plenty, you 
 know. " 
 
 "Oh, thank you! it must be so nice to have pocket-money. 
 I'll have a grand feast, for I haven't tasted a lime this week. I 
 felt delicate about taking any, as I couldn't return them, and 
 I'm actually suffering for one. *^ 
 
 Next day Amy was rather late at school; but could not resist 
 the temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist 
 brown-paper parcel before she consigned it to the inmost recesses 
 of her desk. During the next few minutes the rumor that Amy 
 March had got twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the 
 way), and was going to treat, circulated through her "set/^ and 
 the attentions of her friends became quite overwhelming. Katy 
 Brown invited her to her next party on the spot; Mary Kingsley 
 insisted on lending her her watch till recess; and Jenny Snow, 
 a satirical young lady who had basely twitted Amy upon her 
 limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet, and offered to furnish 
 answers to certain appalling sums. But Amy had not forgotten 
 Miss Snow's cutting remarks about " some persons whose noses 
 were not too flat to smell other people's limes, and stuck-up 
 people who were not too proud to ask for them ^^ ; and she 
 instantly crushed "that Snow girl's'^ hopes by the withering tele- 
 gram, "You needn't be so polite all of a sudden, for you won't 
 get any.^* 
 
 A distinguished personage happened to visit the school that 
 morning, and Amy's beautifully drawn maps received praise; 
 which honor to her foe rankled in the soul of Miss Snow, and 
 caused Miss March to assume the airs of a studious young 
 peacock. But, alas, alas! pride goes before a fall, and the 
 revengeful Snow turned the tables with disastrous success. No 
 sooner had the guest paid the usual stale compliments, and bowed 
 himself out, than Jenny, under pretence of asking an important 
 question, informed Mr. Davis, the teacher, that Amy March had 
 pickled limes in her desk. 
 
 Now, Mr. Davis had declared limes a contraband article, and 
 solemnly vowed to publicly ferule the first person who was found 
 breaking the law. This much-enduring man had succeeded in 
 banishing gum after a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire 
 of the confiscated novels and newspapers, had suppressed a 
 private post-office, had forbidden distortions of the face, nick- 
 1-19
 
 290 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT 
 
 names, and caricatures, and done all that one man could do to 
 keep half a hundred rebellious girls in order. Boys are trying 
 enough to human patience, goodness knows! but girls are 
 infinitely more so, especially to nervous gentlemen with tyran- 
 nical tempers, and no more talent for teaching than ^^ Dr. Blim- 
 ber.^' Mr. Davis knew any quantity of Greek, Latin, algebra, 
 and ologies of all sorts, so he was called a fine teacher; and 
 manners, morals, feelings, and examples were not considered of 
 any particular importance. It was a most unfortunate moment 
 for denouncing Amy, and Jenny knew it. Mr. Davis had evi- 
 dently taken his coffee too strong that morning; there was an 
 east wind, which always affected his neuralgia, and his pupils 
 had not done him the credit which he felt he deserved; therefore, 
 to use the expressive if not elegant language of a school-girl, 
 ^'he was as nervous as a witch, and as cross as a bear.*^ The 
 word "limes** was like fire to powder: his yellow face flushed, 
 and he rapped on his desk with an energy which made Jenny 
 skip to her seat with unusual rapidity. 
 
 " Young ladies, attention, if you please ! ** 
 
 At the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, 
 black, gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his 
 awful countenance. 
 
 * Miss March, come to the desk.'* 
 
 Amy rose to comply with outward composure; but a secret 
 fear oppressed her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience. 
 
 " Bring with you the limes you have in your desk, " was the 
 unexpected command which arrested her before she got out of 
 her seat. 
 
 "Don't take all,** whispered her neighbor, a young lady of 
 great presence of mind. 
 
 Amy hastily shook out half a dozen, and laid the rest down 
 before Mr. Davis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart 
 would relent when that delicious perfume met his nose. Unfor- 
 tunately, Mr. Davis particularly detested the odor of the fashion- 
 able pickle, and disgust added to his wrath. 
 
 « Is that all ? ** 
 
 * Not quite, ** stammered Amy. 
 ** Bring the rest, immediately. ** 
 
 With a despairing glance at her set she obeyed. 
 
 * You are sure there are no more ? ** 
 ** I never lie. sir. **
 
 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT 291 
 
 **So I see. Now take these disgusting things, two by two, 
 and throw them out of the window.^* 
 
 There was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little 
 gust as the last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their 
 longing lips. Scarlet with shame and anger. Amy went to and 
 fro twelve mortal times; and as each doomed couple, looking, oh, 
 so plump and juicy! fell from her reluctant hands, a shout from 
 the street completed the anguish of the girls, for it told them 
 that their feast was being exulted over by the little Irish chil- 
 dren, who were their sworn foes. This — this was too much; all 
 flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexorable Davis, 
 and one passionate lime-lover burst into tears. 
 
 As Amy returned from her last trip, Mr. Davis gave a por- 
 tentous "hem,'* and said, in his most impressive manner: — • 
 
 "Young ladies, you remember what I said to you a week 
 ago. I ain sorry this has happened; but I never allow my rules 
 to be infringed, and I never break my word. Miss March, hold 
 out your hand. '* 
 
 Amy started, and put both hands behind her, turning on him 
 an imploring look, which pleaded for her better than the words 
 she could not utter. She was rather a favorite with "old Davis,* 
 as of course he was called, and it's my private belief that he 
 would have broken his word if the indignation of one irrepressible 
 young lady had not found vent in a hiss. That hiss, faint as it 
 was, irritated the irascible gentleman, and sealed the culprit's fate, 
 
 " Your hand, Miss March ! '* was the only answer her mute 
 appeal received; and, too proud to cry or beseech. Amy set her 
 teeth, threw back her head defiantly, and bore without flinching 
 several tingling blows on her little palm. They were neither 
 many nor heavy, but that made no difference to her. For the 
 first time in her life she had been struck; and the disgrace, in 
 her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her down. 
 
 "You will now stand on the platform till recess," said Mr. 
 Davis, resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begim. 
 
 That was dreadful. It would have been bad enough to go to 
 her seat and see the pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied 
 ones of her few enemies; but to face the whole school with that 
 shame fresh upon her seemed impossible, and for a second she 
 felt as if she could only drop down where she stood, and break 
 her heart with crying. A bitter sense of wrong, and the thought 
 of Jenny Snow, helped her to bear it; and taking the ignominious
 
 2^2 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT 
 
 place, she fixed her eyes on the stove-funnel above what now 
 seemed a sea of faces, and stood there so motionless and white, 
 that the girls found it very hard to study, with that pathetic 
 little figure before them. 
 
 During the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensi- 
 tive little girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot. 
 To others it might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her 
 it was a hard experience; for during the twelve years of her life 
 she had been governed by love alone, and a blow of that sort 
 had never touched her before. The smart of her hand, and the 
 ache of her heart, were forgotten in the sting of the thought, — 
 *^ I shall have to tell at home, and they will be so disappointed 
 in me ! ^^ 
 
 The fifteen minutes seemed an hour; but they came to an end 
 at last, and the word ^* Recess I " had never seemed so welcome to 
 her before. 
 
 "You can go, Miss March, ^^ said Mr. Davis, looking, as he 
 felt, uncomfortable. 
 
 He did not soon forget the reproachful look Amy gave him, as 
 she went, without a word to any one, straight into the ante -room, 
 snatched her things, and left the place " forever, ^^ as she passion- 
 ately declared to herself. She was in a sad state when she got 
 home; and when the older girls arrived, some time later, an in- 
 dignation meeting was held at once. Mrs. March did not say 
 much, but looked disturbed, and comforted her afflicted little 
 daughter in her tenderest manner. Meg bathed the insulted 
 hand with glycerine, and tears; Beth felt that even her beloved 
 kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like this, and Jo wrath- 
 fully proposed that Mr. Davis be arrested without delay; while 
 Hannah shook her fist at the "villain,'^ and pounded potatoes for 
 dinner as if she had him under her pestle. 
 
 No notice was taken of Amy's flight, except by her mates; 
 but the sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that Mr. Davis was 
 quite benignant in the afternoon, and also unusually nervous. 
 Just before school closed Jo appeared, wearing a grim expression 
 as she stalked up to the desk and delivered a letter from her 
 mother; then collected Amy's property and departed, carefully 
 scraping the mud from her boots on the door-mat, as if she 
 shook the dust of the place off her feet. 
 
 " Yes, you can have a vacation from school, but I want you 
 to study a little every day with Beth,'^ said Mrs. March that
 
 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT 2^3' 
 
 evening. «I don't approve of corporal punishment, especially for 
 girls. I dislike Mr. Davis's manner of teaching, and don't think 
 the girls you associate with are doing you any good, so I shall 
 ask your father's advice before I send you anywhere else." 
 
 ^^ That's good! I wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his 
 old school. It's perfectly maddening to think of those lovely 
 limes," sighed Amy with the air of a martyr. 
 
 " I am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and 
 deserved some punishment for disobedience," was the severe 
 reply, which rather disappointed the young lady, who expected 
 nothing but sympathy. 
 
 ^^ Do you mean you are glad I was disgraced before the whole 
 school ? " cried Amy. 
 
 "I should not have chosen that way of mending a fault,* 
 replied her mother; "but I'm not sure that it won't do you more 
 good than a milder method. You are getting to be altogether 
 too conceited and important, my dear, and it is about time you 
 set about correcting it. You have a good many little gifts and 
 virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit spoils 
 the finest genius. There is not much danger that real talent or 
 goodness will be overlooked long; even if it is, the consciousness 
 of possessing and using it well should satisfy one, and the great 
 charm of all power is modesty." 
 
 "So it is," cried Laurie, who was playing chess in a corner 
 with Jo. " I knew a girl once who had a really remarkable 
 talent for music, and she didn't know it; never guessed what 
 sweet little things she composed when she was alone, and 
 wouldn't have believed it if any one had told her." 
 
 "I wish I'd known that nice girl; maybe she would have 
 helped me, I'm so stupid," said Beth, who stood beside him 
 listening eagerly. 
 
 "You do know her, and she helps you better than any one 
 else could," answered Laurie, looking at her with such mis- 
 chievous meaning in his merry eyes, that Beth suddenly turned 
 very red, and hid her face in the sofa-cushion, quite overcome by 
 such an unexpected discovery. 
 
 Jo let Laurie wnn the game, to pay for that praise of her 
 Beth, who could not be prevailed upon to play for them after 
 her compliment. So Laurie did his best and sung delightfully, 
 being in a particularly lively humor, for to the Marches he 
 seldom showed the moody side of his character. When he was
 
 2 94 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT 
 
 gone, Amy, who had been pensive all the evening, said suddenly, 
 as if busy over some new idea : — 
 
 *^ Is Laurie an accomplished boy ? ^* 
 
 *^ Yes ; he has had an excellent education, and has much talent ; 
 he will make a fine man, if not spoilt by petting, ^^ replied her 
 mother. 
 
 * And he isn't conceited, is he ? ^^ asked Amy. 
 
 " Not in the least ; that is why he is so charming, and we all 
 like him so much." 
 
 ^^ I see: it's nice to have accomplishments, and be elegant, but 
 not to show off, or get perked up,** said Amy thoughtfully. 
 
 "These things are always seen and felt in a person's manner 
 and conversation, if modestly used; but it is not necessary to 
 display them,** said Mrs. March. 
 
 " Any more than it's proper to wear all your bonnets, and 
 gowns and ribbons, at once, that folks may know you've got 
 'em,** added Jo; and the lecture ended in a laugh. 
 
 THOREAU'S FLUTE 
 From the Atlantic Monthly, September, 1863 
 
 WE, SIGHING, said, "Our Pan is dead; 
 His pipe hangs mute beside the river; 
 Around it wistful sunbeams quiver, 
 But Music's airy voice is fled. 
 Spring mourns as for untimely frost; 
 The bluebird chants a requiem; 
 The willow-blossom waits for him; — 
 The Genius of the wood is lost.** 
 
 Then from the flute, untouched by hands, 
 There came a low, harmonious breath: 
 " For such as he there is no death ; 
 
 His life the eternal life commands; 
 
 Above man's aims his nature rose: 
 The wisdom of a just content 
 Made one small spot a continent, 
 
 And turned to poetry Life's prose. 
 
 "Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild. 
 Swallow and aster, lake and pine. 
 To him grew human or divine, — 
 
 Fit mates for this large-hearted child.
 
 LOUISA MAY ALCOTT gg^ 
 
 Such homage Nature ne'er forgets, 
 
 And yearly on the coverlid 
 
 'Neath which her darling lieth hid 
 Will write his name in violets. 
 
 «To him no vain regrets belong, 
 
 Whose soul, that finer instrument. 
 
 Gave to the world no poor lament. 
 But wood-notes ever sweet and strong. 
 O lonely friend! he still will be 
 
 A potent presence, though unseen, — 
 
 Steadfast, sagacious, and serene : 
 Seek not for him, — he is with thee." 
 
 A SONG FROM THE SUDS 
 From < Little Women > 
 
 QUEEN of my tub, I merrily sing. 
 While the white foam rises high; 
 And sturdily wash, and rinse, and wring. 
 And fasten the clothes to dry; 
 Then out in the free fresh air they swing. 
 Under the sunny sky. 
 
 I wish we could wash from our hearts and souls 
 
 The stains of the week away, 
 And let water and air by their magic make 
 
 Ourselves as pure as they; 
 Then on the earth there would be indeed 
 
 A glorious washing-day! 
 
 Along the path of a useful life. 
 
 Will heart's-ease ever bloom; 
 The busy mind has no time to think 
 
 Of sorrow, or care, or gloom; 
 And anxious thoughts may be swept away, 
 
 As we busily wield a broom. 
 
 I am glad a task to me is given. 
 
 To labor at day by day; 
 For it brings me health, and strength, and hope, 
 
 And I cheerfully learn to say, — 
 "Head you may think, Heart you may feel. 
 
 But Hand you shall work alway!'' 
 
 Selections used by permission of Roberts Brothers, Publishers, and John S. P. 
 
 Alcott
 
 2g6 
 
 ALCUIN 
 
 (735?-8o4) 
 BY WILLIAM H. CARPENTER 
 
 jLCuiN, -^-ually called Alcuin of York, came of a patrician 
 famt^y ^f Northumberland. Neither the date nor the place 
 of his birth is known with definiteness, but he was born 
 about 735 at o. near York. As a child he entered the cathedral 
 school recently founded by Egbert, Archbishop of York, and ulti- 
 mately became its most eminent pupil. He was subsequently as- 
 sistant master to -<^lbert, its head; and when Albert succeeded to 
 the archbishopric, on the death of Egbert in 766, Alcuin became 
 scholasticus or master of the school. On the death of Albert in 780, 
 Alcuin was placed in charge of the cathedral library, the most 
 famous in Western Europe. In his longest poem, < Versus de 
 Eboracensi Ecclesia^ (Poem on the Saints of the Church at York), 
 he has left an important record of his connection with York. This 
 poem, written before he left England, is, like most of his verse, in 
 dactylic hexameters. To a certain extent it follows Virgil as a 
 model, and is partly based on the writings of Bede, partly on his 
 own personal experience. It is not only valuable for its historical 
 bearings, but for its disclosure of the manner and matter of instruc- 
 tion in the schools of the time, and the contents of the great library. 
 As master of the cathedral school, Alcuin acquired name and fame 
 at home and abroad, and was soon the most celebrated teacher in 
 Britain. Before 766, in company with Albert, he made his first 
 journey to Germany, and may have visited Rome. Earlier than 780 
 he was again abroad, and at Pavia came under the notice of 
 Charlemagne, who was on his way back from Italy. In 781 Eanbald, 
 the new Archbishop of York, sent Alcuin to Rome to bring back the 
 Archbishop's pallium. At Parma he again met Charlemagne, who 
 invited him to take up his abode at the Prankish court. With the 
 consent of his king and his archbishop he resigned his position at 
 York, and with a few pupils departed for the court at Aachen, in 782. 
 
 Alcuin's arrival in Germany was the beginning of a new intel- 
 lectual epoch among the Franks. Learning was at this time in a 
 deplorable state. The older monastic and cathedral schools had 
 been broken up, and the monasteries themselves often tmworthily 
 bestowed upon royal favorites. There had been a palace school for 
 rudimentary instruction, but it was wholly inefficient and unimportant. 
 
 During the years immediately following his arrival, Alcuin zeal- 
 ously labored at his projects of educational reform. First reorganizing
 
 ALCUIN 297 
 
 the palace school, he afterward undertook a reform of the monasteries 
 and their system of instruction, and the establishment of new schools 
 throughout the kingdom of Charlemagne. At the court school the 
 great king himself, as well as Liutgard the queen, became his 
 pupil. Gisela, Abbess of Chelles, the sister of Charlemagne, came 
 also to him for instruction, as did the Princes Charles, Pepin, and 
 Louis, and the Princesses Rotrud and Gisela. On himself and the 
 others, in accordance with the fashion of the time, Alcuin bestowed 
 fanciful names. He was Flaccus or Albinus, Charlemagne was 
 David, the queen was Ava, and Pepin was Julius. The subjects of 
 instruction in this school, the centre of culture of the kingdom, were 
 first of all, grammar; then arithmetic, astronomy, rhetoric, and 
 dialectic. The king himself studied poetry, astronomy, arithmetic, 
 the writings of the Fathers, and theology proper. It was under the 
 influence of Alcuin that Charlemagne issued in 787 the capitulary 
 that has been called <^ the first general charter of education for the 
 Middle Ages.^^ It reproves the abbots for their illiteracy, and exhorts 
 them to the study of letters; and although its effect was less than 
 its purpose, it served, with subsequent decrees of the king, to stimu- 
 late learning and literature throughout all Germany. 
 
 Alcuin's system included, besides the palace school, and the 
 monastic and cathedral schools, which in some instances gave both 
 elementary and superior instruction, all the parish or village ele- 
 mentary schools, whose head was the parish priest. 
 
 In 790, seeing his plans well established, Alcuin returned to York 
 bearing letters of reconciliation to Offa, King of Mercia, between 
 whom and Charlemagne dissension had arisen. Having accomplished 
 his errand, he went back to the German court in 792. Here his first 
 act was to take a vigorous part in the furious controversy respect- 
 ing the doctrine of Adoptionism. Alcuin not only wrote against 
 the heresy, but brought about its condemnation by the Council of 
 Frankfort, in 794. 
 
 Two years later, at his own request, he was made Abbot of the 
 Benedictine monastery of St. Martin, at Tours. Not contented with 
 reforming the lax monastic life, he resolved to make Tours a seat of 
 learning. Under his management, it presently became the most 
 renowned school in the kingdom. Especially in the copying of man- 
 uscripts did the brethren excel. Alcuin kept up a vast correspond- 
 ence with Britain as well as with different parts of the Frankish 
 kingdom; and of the two hundred and thirty letters preserved, the 
 greater part belonged to this time. In 799, at Aachen, he held a 
 public disputation on Adoptionism with Felix, Bishop of Urgel, who 
 was wholly vanquished. When the king, in 800, was preparing for 
 that visit to the Papal court which was to end with his coronation as
 
 298 
 
 ALCUIN 
 
 Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, he invited Alcuin to accompany 
 him. But the old man, wearied with many burdens, could not make 
 the journey. By the beginning of 804 he had become much enfeebled. 
 It was his desire, often expressed, to die on the day of Pentecost. 
 His wish was fulfilled, for he died at dawn on the 19th of May. He 
 was buried in the Cloister Church of St. Martin, near the monastery. 
 Alcuin's literary activity was exerted in various directions. Two- 
 thirds of all that he wrote was theological in character. These works 
 are exegetical, like the * Commentary on the Gospel of St. John * ; 
 dogmatic, like the < Writings against Felix of Urgel and Elipandus 
 of Toledo,^ his best work of this class; or liturgical and moral, like 
 the < Lives of the Saints.^ The other third is made up of the epis- 
 tles, already mentioned; of poems on a great variety of subjects, the 
 principal one being the * Poem on the Saints of the Church at York > ; 
 and of those didactic works which form his principal claim to atten- 
 tion at the present day. His educational treatises are the following: 
 <On Grammar, > ^ On Orthography,* < On Rhetoric and the Virtues,* 
 <On Dialectics,* * Disputation between the Royal and Most Noble 
 Youth Pepin, and Albinus the Scholastic,* and ^On the Calculation 
 of Easter.* The most important of all these writings is his < Gram- 
 mar,* which consists of two parts: the first a dialogue between a 
 teacher and his pupils on philosophy and studies in general; the 
 other a dialogue between a teacher, a young Frank, and a young 
 Saxon, on grammar. These latter, in Alcuin's language, have <<but 
 lately rushed upon the thorny thickets of grammatical density.** 
 Grammar begins with the consideration of the letters, the vowels 
 and consonants, the former of which <^are, as it were, the souls, and 
 the consonants the bodies of words.** Grammar itself is defined 
 to be ^* the science of written sounds, the guardian of correct speak- 
 ing and writing. It is founded on nature, reason, authority, and 
 custom.** He enumerates no less than twenty-six parts of grammar, 
 which he then defines. Many of his definitions and particularly his 
 etymologies, are remarkable. He tells us that feet in poetry are so 
 called " because the metres walk on them ** ; littera is derived from 
 legitera, ^^ since the littera serve to prepare the way for readers ** 
 {legere, iter). In his < Orthography, ' a pendant to the * Grammar,* 
 Calebs, a bachelor, is **one who is on his way ad coehan^^ (to heaven). 
 Alcuin's ^ Grammar * is based principally on Donatus. In this, as in 
 all his works, he compiles and adapts, but is only rarely original. 
 * On Rhetoric and the Virtues * is a dialogue between Charlemagne 
 and Albinus (Alcuin). The < Disputation between Pepin and Albi- 
 nus,* the beginning of which is here given, shows both the manner 
 and the subject-matter of his instruction. Alcuin, with all the lim- 
 itations which his environment imposed upon him, stamped himself
 
 ALCUIN 299 
 
 indelibly upon his day and generation, and left behind him, in his 
 scholars, an enduring influence. Men like Rabanus, the famous 
 Bishop of Mayence, gloried in having been his pupils, and down to 
 the wars and devastations of the tenth century his influence upon 
 education was paramount throughout all Western Europe. There is 
 an excellent account of Alcuin in Professor West's *Alcuin* (* Great 
 Educators* Series), published in 1893. 
 
 1V::^4'^''^^^<C. 
 
 ON THE SAINTS OF THE CHURCH AT YORK 
 
 THERE the Eboric scholars felt the rule 
 Of Master .Albert, teaching in the school. 
 Their thirsty hearts to gladden well he knew 
 With doctrine's stream and learning's heavenly dew. 
 
 To some he made the grammar understood. 
 And poured on others rhetoric's copious flood. 
 The rules of jurisprudence these rehearse. 
 While those recite in high Eonian verse. 
 Or play Castalia's flutes in cadence sweet 
 And mount Parnassus on swift lyric feet. 
 
 Anon the master turns their gaze on high 
 To view the travailing sun and moon, the sky 
 In order turning with its planets seven. 
 And starry hosts that keep the law of heaven. 
 
 The storms at sea, the earthquake's shock, the race 
 Of men and beasts and flying fowl they trace; 
 Or to the laws of numbers bend their mind. 
 And search till Easter's annual day they find. 
 
 Then, last and best, he opened up to view 
 
 The depths of Holy Scripture, Old and New. 
 
 Was any youth in studies well approved, 
 
 Then him the master cherished, taught, and loved; 
 
 And thus the double knowledge he conferred 
 
 Of liberal studies and the Holy Word. 
 
 From West's < Alcuin, and the Rise of the Christian Schools >: by permission of 
 
 Charles Scribner's Sons
 
 ^oo ALCUIN 
 
 DISPUTATION BETWEEN PEPIN, THE MOST NOBLE AND ROYAL 
 YOUTH, AND ALBINUS THE SCHOLASTIC 
 
 PEPIN — What is writing? 
 Albinus — The treasury of history. 
 Pepin — What is language? 
 
 AlbiniLs — The herald of the soul, 
 
 Pepin — What generates language? 
 
 Albinus — The tongue. 
 
 Pepin — What is the tongue? 
 
 AlbiniLs — A whip of the air. 
 
 Pepin — What is the air? 
 
 Albinus — A maintainer of life. 
 
 Pepin — What is life? 
 
 Albinus — The joy of the happy; the torment of the suffering; 
 a waiting for death. 
 
 Pepin — What is death? 
 
 Albinus — An inevitable ending; a journey into uncertainty; a 
 source of tears for the living; the probation of wills; a waylayer 
 of men. 
 
 Pepin — What is man? 
 
 Albinus — A booty of death; a passing traveler; a stranger on 
 earth. 
 
 Pepin — What is man like? 
 
 Albinus — The fruit of a tree, 
 
 Pepin — What are the heavens? 
 
 Albinus — A rolling ball; an immeasurable vault. 
 
 Pepin — What is light? 
 
 Albinus — The sight of all things, 
 
 Pepin — What is day? 
 
 Albinus — The admonisher to labor. 
 
 Pepin — What is the sun? 
 
 Albinus — The glory and splendor of the heavens; the attract- 
 ive in nature; the measure of hours; the adornment of day. 
 
 Pepin — What is the moon? 
 
 Albinus — The eye of night; the dispenser of dew; the pre- 
 sager of storms. 
 
 Pepin — What are the stars? 
 
 Albinus — A picture on the vault of heaven; the steersmen of 
 ships; the ornament of night.
 
 ALCUIN 301 
 
 Pepin — What is rain? 
 
 Albinus — The fertilizer of the earth; the producer of crops. 
 
 Pepin — What is fog? 
 
 Albi?ius — Night in day; the annoyance of eyes. 
 
 Pepi7t — What is wind? 
 
 Albimis — The mover of air; the agitation of water; the dryer 
 of the earth. 
 
 Pepin — What is the earth? 
 
 Albinus — The mother of growth; the nourisher of the living; 
 the storehouse of life; the effacer of all. 
 
 Pepin — What is the sea? 
 
 Albinus — The path • of adventure; the bounds of the earth; 
 the division of lands; the harbor of rivers; the source of rains; 
 a refuge in danger; a pleasure in enjoyment. 
 
 Pepin — What are rivers? 
 
 Albinus — A ceaseless motion; a refreshment to the sun; the 
 waters of the earth. 
 
 Pepin — What is water ? 
 
 Albinus — The supporter of life; the cleanser of filth. 
 
 Pepin — What is fire ? 
 
 Albinus — An excessive heat; the nurse of growing things; the 
 ripener of crops. 
 
 Pepin — What is cold? 
 
 Albinus — The trembling of our members. 
 
 Pepin — What is frost? 
 
 Albinus — An assailer of plants; the destruction of leaves; a 
 fetter to the earth; a bridger of streams. 
 
 Pepin — What is snow? 
 
 Albittus — Dry water. 
 
 Pepin — What is winter? 
 
 Albinus — An exile of summer. 
 
 Pepin — What is spring? 
 
 Albinus — A painter of the earth. 
 
 Pepin — What is summer ? 
 
 Albinus — That which brings to the earth a new garment, and 
 ripens the fruit. 
 
 Pepin — What is autumn? 
 
 Albinus — The barn of the year.
 
 302 ALCUIN 
 
 A LETTER FROM ALCUIN TO CHARLEMAGNE 
 (Written in the year 796) 
 
 I YOUR Flaccus, in accordance with your entreaty and your 
 gracious kindness, am busied under the shelter of St. Mar- 
 tin's, in bestowing upon many of my pupils the honey of 
 the Holy Scriptures. I am eager that others should drink deep 
 of the old wine of ancient learning; I shall presently begin to 
 nourish still others with the fruits of grammatical ingenuity; and 
 some of them I am eager to enlighten with a knowledge of the 
 order of the stars, that seem painted, as it were, on the dome 
 of some mighty palace. I have become all things to all men 
 (i Cor. i. 22) so that I may train up many to the profession of 
 God's Holy Church and to the glory of your imperial realm, lest 
 the grace of Almighty God in me should be fruitless (i Cor. xv. 
 10) and your munificent bounty of no avail. But your servant 
 lacks the rarer books of scholastic learning, which in my own 
 country I used to have (thanks to the generous and most devoted 
 care of my teacher and to my own humble endeavors), and I 
 mention it to your Majesty so that, perchance, it may please you 
 who are eagerly concerned about the whole body of learning, to 
 have me dispatch some of our young men to procure for us cer- 
 tain necessary works, and bring with them to France the flowers 
 of England; so that a graceful garden may not exist in York 
 alone, but so that at Tours as well there may be found the blos- 
 soming of Paradise with its abundant fruits; that the south wind, 
 when it comes, may cause the gardens along the River Loire to 
 burst into bloom, and their perfumed airs to stream forth, and 
 finally, that which follows in the Canticle, whence I have drawn 
 this simile, may be brought to pass. . . . (Canticle v. i, 2). 
 Or even this exhortation of the prophet Isaiah, which urges us to 
 acquire wisdom: — *^A11 ye who thirst, come to the waters; and 
 you who have not money, hasten, buy and eat: come, without 
 money and without price, and buy wine and milk" (Isaiah iv. i.) 
 And this is a thing which your gracious zeal will not over- 
 look: how upon every page of the Holy Scriptures we are urged 
 to the acquisition of wisdom; how nothing is more honorable for 
 insuring a happy life, nothing more pleasing in the observance, 
 nothing more efficient against sin, nothing more praiseworthy in 
 any lofty station, than that men live according to the teachings of
 
 ALCUIN 303 
 
 the philosophers. Moreover, nothing is more essential to the gov- 
 ernment of the people, nothing better for the guidance of life 
 into the paths of honorable character, than the grace which wis- 
 dom gives, and the glory of training and the power of learning. 
 Therefore it is that in its praise, Solomon, the wisest of all men, 
 exclaims, * Better is wisdom than all precious things, and more 
 to be desired ^^ (Prov. viii. 11 seq). To secure this with every pos- 
 sible effort and to get possession of it by daily endeavor, do you, 
 my lord King, exhort the young men who are in your Majesty's 
 palace, that they strive for this in the flower of their youth, so 
 that they may be deemed worthy to live through an old age of 
 honor, and that by its means they may be able to attain to ever- 
 lasting happiness. I, myself, according to my disposition, shall 
 not be slothful in sowing the seeds of wisdom among your serv- 
 ants in this land, being mindful of the injunction, <*Sow thy 
 seed in the morning, and at eventide let not thy hand cease; 
 since thou knowest not what will spring up, whether these or 
 those, and if both together, still better is it'^ (Eccles. xi. 6). In 
 the morning of my life and in the fruitful period of my studies I 
 sowed seed in Britain, and now that my blood has grown cool in 
 the evening of life, I still cease not; but sow the seed in France, 
 desiring that both may spring up by the grace of God. And now 
 that my body has grown weak, I find consolation in the saying of 
 St. Jerome, who declares in his letter to Nepotianus, " Almost all 
 the powers of the body are altered in old men, and wisdom alone 
 will increase while the rest decay.'* And a little further he says, 
 * The old age of those who have adorned their youth with noble 
 accomplishments and have meditated on the law of the Lord both 
 day and night becomes more and more deeply accomplished with 
 its years, more polished from experience, more wise by the lapse 
 of time; and it reaps the sweetest fruit of ancient learning.'* In 
 this letter in praise of wisdom, one who wishes can read many 
 things of the scientific pursuits of the ancients, and can under- 
 stand how eager were these ancients to abound in the grace of 
 wisdom. I have noted that your zeal, which is pleasing to God 
 and praiseworthy, is always advancing toward this wisdom and 
 takes pleasure in it, and that you are adorning the magnificence 
 of your worldly rule with still greater intellectual splendor. In 
 this may our Lord Jesus Christ, who is himself the supreme type 
 of divine wisdom, guard you and exalt you, and cause you to 
 attain to the glory of His own blessed and everlasting vision.
 
 HENRY M. ALDEN 
 
 (1836-) 
 
 Jenry Mills Alden, since 1864 the editor of Harper's Maga- 
 zine, was born in Mount Tabor, Vermont, November nth 
 1836, the eighth in descent from Captain John Alden, the 
 Pilgrim. He graduated at Williams College, and studied theology 
 at Andover Seminary, but was never ordained a minister, having 
 almost immediately turned his attention to literature. His first work 
 that attracted attention was an essay on the Eleusinian Mysteries, 
 published in the Atlantic Monthly. The scholarship and subtle 
 method revealed in this and similar works led to his engagement to 
 deliver a course of twelve Lowell Institute lectures at Boston, in 
 1863 and 1864, and he took for his subject ^ The Structure of Pagan- 
 ism.* Before this he had removed to New York, had engaged in 
 general editorial work, and formed his lasting connection with the 
 house of Harper and Brothers. 
 
 As an editor Mr. Alden is the most practical of men, but he is in 
 reality a poet, and in another age he might have been a mystic. 
 He has the secret of preserving his life to himself, while paying the 
 keenest attention to his daily duties. In his office he is immersed in 
 affairs which require the exercise of vigilant common-sense, and 
 knowledge of life and literature. At his home he is a serene and 
 optimistic philosopher, contemplating the forces that make for our 
 civilization, and musing over the deep problems of man's occupa- 
 tion of this earth. In 1893 appeared anonymously a volume entitled 
 * God in His World,* which attracted instantly wide attention in this 
 country and in England for its subtlety of thought, its boldness of 
 treatment, its winning sweetness of temper, and its exquisite style. 
 It was by Mr. Alden, and in 1895 it was followed by <A Study of 
 Death,* continuing the great theme of the first, — the unity of crea- 
 tion, the certainty that there is in no sense a war between the 
 Creator and his creation. In this view the Universe is not divided 
 into the Natural and the Supernatural : all is Natural. But we can 
 speak here only of their literary quality. The author is seen to be a 
 poet in his conceptions, but in form his. writing is entirely within 
 the limits of prose; yet it is a prose most harmonious, most melodi- 
 ous, and it exhibits the capacity of our English tongue in the hand of 
 a master. The thought is sometimes so subtle as to elude the care- 
 less reader, but the charm of the melody never fails to entrance. 
 The study of life and civilization is profound, but the grace of treat- 
 ment seems to relieve the problems of half their difficulty. 
 
 His wife did not live to read the exquisite dedication given below.
 
 HENRY M. ALDEN 305 
 
 From <A Study of Death, > copyright 1895, by Harper and Brothers 
 
 A DEDICATION 
 
 TO MY BELOVED WIFE 
 
 MY EARLIEST Written expression of intimate thought or cher- 
 ished fancy was for your eyes only; it was my first 
 approach to your maidenly heart, a mystical wooing, which 
 neglected no resource, near or remote, for the enhancement of 
 its charm, and so involved all other mystery in its own. 
 
 In you, childhood has been inviolate, never losing its power 
 of leading me by an unspoken invocation to a green field, ever 
 kept fresh by a living fountain, where the Shepherd tends his 
 flock. Now, through a body racked with pain, and sadly broken, 
 still shines this unbroken childhood, teaching me Love's deepest 
 mystery. 
 
 It is fitting, then, that I should dedicate to you this book 
 touching that mystery. It has been written in the shadow, but 
 illumined by the brightness of an angel's face seen in the dark- 
 ness, so that it has seemed easy and natural for me to find at 
 the thorn's heart a secret and everlasting sweetness far surpass- 
 ing that of the rose itself, which ceases in its own perfection. 
 
 Whether that angel we have seen shall, for my need and 
 comfort, and for your own longing, hold back his greatest gift, 
 and leave you mine in the earthly ways we know and love, or 
 shall hasten to make the heavenly surprise, the issue in either 
 event will be a home-coming: if here, yet already the deeper 
 secret will have been in part disclosed; and if beyond, that 
 secret, fully known, will not betray the fondest hope of loving 
 hearts. Love never denied Death, and Death will not deny 
 Love. 
 
 From <A Study of Death, > copyright 1895, by Harper and Brothers 
 THE DOVE AND THE SERPENT 
 
 THE Dove flies, and the Serpent creeps. Yet is the Dove 
 fond, while the Serpent is the emblem of wisdom. Both 
 were in Eden: the cooing, fluttering, winged spirit, loving 
 to descend, companion -like, brooding, following; and the creep- 
 ing thing which had glided into the sunshine of Paradise from 
 the cold bosoms of those nurses of an older world — Pain, and 
 I — 20
 
 3o6 
 
 HENRY M. ALDEN 
 
 Darkness, and Death — himself forgetting these in the warmth 
 and green life of the Garden. And our first parents knew 
 naught of these as yet unutterable mysteries, any more than 
 they knew that their roses bloomed over a tomb: so that when 
 all animate creatures came to Adam to be named, the meaning 
 of this living allegory which passed before him was in great 
 part hidden, and he saw no sharp line dividing the firmament 
 below from the firmament above; rather he leaned toward the 
 ground, as one does in a garden, seeing how quickly it was 
 fashioned into the climbing trees, into the clean flowers, and 
 into his own shapely frame. It was upon the ground he lay 
 when that deep sleep fell upon him from which he woke to find 
 his mate, lithe as the serpent, yet with the fluttering heart of 
 the dove. 
 
 As the Dove, though winged for flight, ever descended, so the 
 Serpent, though unable wholly to leave the ground, tried ever to 
 lift himself therefrom, as if to escape some ancient bond. The 
 cool nights revived and nourished his memories of an older time, 
 wherein lay his subtile wisdom, but day by day his aspiring crest 
 grew brighter. The life of Eden became for him oblivion, the 
 light of the sun obscuring and confounding his reminiscence, even 
 as for Adam and Eve this life was Illusion, the visible disguising 
 the invisible, and pleasure veiling pain. 
 
 In Adam the culture of the ground maintained humility. He 
 was held, moreover, in lowly content by the charm of the 
 woman, who was to him like the earth grown human; and since 
 she was the daughter of Sleep, her love seemed to him restful 
 as the night. Her raven locks were like the mantle of darkness, 
 and her voice had the laughter of streams that lapsed into 
 unseen depths. 
 
 But Eve had something of the Serpent's unrest, as if she too 
 had come from the Under-world, which she would fain forget, 
 seeking liberation, urged by desire as deep as the abyss she had 
 left behind her, and nourished from roots unfathomably hidden — 
 the roots of the Tree of Life. She thus came to have conversa- 
 tion with the Serpent. 
 
 In the lengthening days of Eden's one Summer these two 
 were more and more completely enfolded in the Illusion of Light. 
 It was under this spell that, dwelling upon the enticement of 
 fruit good to look at, and pleasant to the taste, the Serpent 
 denied Death, and thought of Good as separate from Evil. " Ye 
 shall not surely die, but shall be as the gods, knowing good and
 
 HENRY M. ALDEN 307 
 
 evil.'^ So far, in his aspiring day-dream, had the Serpent fared 
 from his old familiar haunts — so far from his old-world wisdom ! 
 
 A surer omen would have come to Eve had she listened to 
 the plaintive notes of the bewildered Dove that in his downward 
 flutterings had begun to divine what the Serpent had come to 
 forget, and to confess what he had come to deny. 
 
 For already was beginning to be felt " the season's difference, " 
 and the grave mystery, without which Paradise itself could not 
 have been, was about to be unveiled, — the background of the 
 picture becoming its foreground. The fond hands plucking the 
 rose had found the thorn. Evil was known as something by 
 itself, apart from Good, and Eden was left behind, as one steps 
 out of infancy. 
 
 From that hour have the eyes of the children of men been 
 turned from the accursed earth, looking into the blue above, 
 straining their vision for a glimpse of white-robed angels. 
 
 Yet it was the Serpent that was lifted up in the wilderness; 
 and when He who ^* became sin for us*^ was being bruised in the 
 heel by the old enemy, the Dove descended upon Him at His 
 baptism. He united the wisdom of the Serpent with the harm- 
 lessness of the Dove. Thus in Him were bound together and 
 reconciled the elements which in human thought had been put 
 asunder. In Him, Evil is overcome of Good, as, in Him, Death 
 is swallowed up of Life; and with His eyes we see that the robes 
 of angels are white, because they have been washed in blood. 
 
 From <A Study of Deatli,> copyright 1895, by Harper and Brothers 
 
 DEATH AND SLEEP 
 
 THE Angel of Death is the invisible Angel of Life. While the 
 organism is alive as a human embodiment, death is present, 
 having the same human distinction as the life, from which 
 it is inseparable, being, indeed, the better half of living,— its 
 winged half, its rest and inspiration, its secret spring of elasticity, 
 and quickness. Life came upon the wings of Death, and so 
 departs. 
 
 If we think of life apart from death our thought is partial, as 
 if we would give flight to the arrow without bending the bow. 
 No living movement either begins or is completed save through 
 death. If the shuttle return not there is no web; and the text- 
 ure of life is woven through this tropic movement.
 
 2o8 HENRY M. ALDEN 
 
 It is a commonly accepted scientific truth that the continu- 
 ance of life in any living thing depends upon death. But there 
 are two ways of expressing this truth: one, regarding merely 
 the outward fact, as when we say that animal or vegetable tissue 
 is renewed through decay; the other, regarding the action and 
 reaction proper to life itself, whereby it forever springs freshly 
 from its source. The latter form of expression is mystical, in 
 the true meaning of that term. We close our eyes to the out- 
 ward appearance, in order that we may directly confront a mys- 
 tery which is already past before there is any visible indication 
 thereof. Though the imagination engaged in this mystical appre- 
 hension borrows its symbols or analogues from observation and 
 experience, yet these symbols are spiritually regarded by looking 
 at life on its living side, and abstracted as far as possible from 
 outward embodiment. We especially affect physiological ana- 
 logues because, being derived from our experience, we may the 
 more readily have the inward regard of them; and by passing 
 from one physiological analogue to another, and from all these to 
 those furnished by the processes of nature outside of our bodies, 
 we come to an apprehension of the action and reaction proper to 
 life itself as an idea independent of all its physical representa- 
 tions. 
 
 Thus we trace the rhythmic beating of the pulse to the systole 
 and diastole of the heart, and we note a similar alternation in 
 the contraction and relaxation of all our muscles. Breathing is 
 alternately inspiration and expiration. Sensation itself is by beats, 
 and falls into rhythm. There is no uninterrupted strain of either 
 action or sensibility; a current or a contact is renewed, having 
 been broken. In psychical operation there is the same alternate 
 lapse and resurgence. Memory rises from the grave of oblivion. 
 No holding can be maintained save through alternate release. 
 Pulsation establishes circulation, and vital motions proceed through 
 cycles, each one of which, however minute, has its tropic of Can- 
 cer and of Capricorn. Then there are the larger physiological 
 cycles, like that wherein sleep is the alternation of waking. Pass- 
 ing from the field of our direct experience to that of observation, 
 we note similar alternations, as of day and night, summer and 
 winter, flood and ebb tide; and science discloses them at every 
 turn. . . . 
 
 In considering the action and reaction proper to life itself, we 
 here dismiss from view all measured cycles, whose beginning and 
 end are appreciably separate; our regard is confined to living
 
 HENRY M. ALDEN -og 
 
 moments, so fleet that their beginning and ending meet as in one 
 point, which is seen to be at once the point of departure and of 
 return. Thus we may speak of a man's life as included between 
 his birth and his death, and with reference to this physiological 
 term, think of him as living, and then as dead; but we may also 
 consider him while living as yet every moment dying, and in this 
 view death is clearly seen to be the inseparable companion of 
 life, — the way of return, and so of continuance. This pulsation, 
 forever a vanishing and a resurgence, so incalculably swift as to 
 escape observation, is proper to life as life, does not begin with 
 what we call birth nor end with what we call death (considering 
 birth and death as terms applicable to an individual existence) ; it 
 is forever beginning and forever ending. Thus to all manifest 
 existence we apply the term Nature {natura), which means ^* for- 
 ever being born ** ; and on its vanishing side it is moritura, or 
 * forever dying.'* Resurrection is thus a natural and perpetual 
 miracle. The idea of life as transcending any individual embodi- 
 ment is as germane to science as it is to faith. 
 
 Death, thus seen as essential, is lifted above its temporary 
 and visible accidents. It is no longer associated with corruption, 
 but rather with the sweet and wholesome freshness of life, being 
 the way of its renewal. Sweeter than the honey which Samson 
 found in the lion's carcass is this everlasting sweetness of Death; 
 and it is a mystery deeper than the strong man's riddle. 
 
 So is Death pure and clean, as is the dew that comes with the 
 cool night when the sun has set; clean and white as the snow- 
 flakes that betoken the absolution which Winter gives, shriving 
 the earth of all her Summer wantonness and excess, when only 
 the trees that yield balsam and aromatic fragrance remain green, 
 breaking the box of precious ointment for burial. 
 
 In this view also is restored the kinship of Death with Sleep. 
 
 The state of the infant seems to be one of chronic mysticism, 
 since during the greater part of its days its eyes are closed to 
 the outer world. Its larger familiarity is still with the invisible, 
 and it seems as if the Mothers of Darkness were still withholding 
 it as their nursling, accomplishing for it some mighty work 
 in their proper realm, some such fiery baptism of infants as is 
 frequently instanced in Greek mythology, tempering them for 
 earthly trials. The infant must needs sleep while this work is 
 being done for it; it has been sleeping since the work began, 
 from the foundation of the world, and the old habit still clings 
 about it and is not easily laid aside,
 
 Q HENRY M. ALDEN 
 
 Sleep is a special relaxation, relieving a special strain. As 
 daily we build with effort and design an elaborate superstructure 
 above the living foundation, so must this edifice nightly be laid 
 in ruins. Sleep is thus a disembarrassment, the unloading of a 
 burden wherewith we have weighted ourselves. Here again we 
 are brought into a kind of repentance, and receive absolution. 
 Sleep is forgiveness. 
 
 From <A Study of Deatli,> copyright 1895, by Harper and Brothers 
 THE PARABLE OF THE PRODIGAL 
 
 STANDING at the gate of Birth, it would seem as if it were the 
 vital destination of all things to fly from their source, as if 
 it were the dominant desire of life to enter into limitations. 
 We might mentally represent to ourselves an essence simple and 
 indivisible that denies itself in diversified manifold existence. To 
 us, this side the veil, nay, immeshed in innumerable veils that 
 hide from us the Father's face, this insistence appears to have 
 the stress of urgency, as if the effort of all being, its unceasing 
 travail, were like the beating of the infinite ocean upon the 
 shores of Time; and as if, within the continent of Time, all 
 existence were forever knocking at new gates, seeking, through 
 some as yet untried path of progression, greater complexity, a 
 deeper involvement. All the children seem to be beseeching the 
 Father to divide unto them His living, none willingly abiding in 
 that Father's house. But in reality their will is His will — they 
 fly, and they are driven, like fledglings from the mother-nest. 
 
 II 
 
 The story of a solar system, or of any synthesis in time, 
 repeats the parable of the Prodigal Son, in its essential features. 
 It is a cosmic parable. 
 
 The planet is a wanderer {planes), and the individual planet- 
 ary destiny can be accomplished only through flight from its 
 source. After all its prodigality it shall sicken and return. 
 
 Attributing to the Earth, thus apparently separated from the 
 Sun, some macrocosmic sentience, what must have been her won- 
 dering dream, finding herself at once thrust away and securely
 
 HENRY M. ALDEN 31 T 
 
 held, poised between her flight and her bond, and so swinging 
 into a regular orbit about the Sun, while at the same time, in 
 her rotation, turning to him and away from him — into the light, 
 and into the darkness, forever denying and confessing her lord! 
 Her emotion must have been one of delight, however mingled 
 with a feeling of timorous awe, since her desire could not have 
 been other than one with her destination. Despite the distance 
 and the growing coolness she could feel the kinship still; her 
 pulse, though modulated, was still in rhythm with that of the 
 solar heart, and in her bosom were hidden consubstantial fires. 
 But it was the sense of otherness, of her own distinct individua- 
 tion, that was mainly being nourished, this sense, moreover, 
 being proper to her destiny; therefore, the signs of her likeness 
 to the Sun were more and more being buried from her view; 
 her fires were veiled by a hardening crust, and her opaqueness 
 stood out against his light. She had no regret for all she was 
 surrendering, thinking only of her gain, of being clothed upon 
 with a garment showing ever some new fold of surprising beauty 
 and wonder. If she had remained in the Father's house — 
 like the elder brother in the Parable — then would all that He 
 had have been hers, in nebulous simplicity. But now, holding 
 her revels apart, she seems to sing her own song, and to dream 
 her own beautiful dream, wandering, with a motion wholly her 
 own, among the gardens of cosmic order and loveliness. She 
 glories in her many veils, which, though they hide from her both 
 her source and her very self, are the media through which the 
 invisible light is broken into multiform illusions that enrich her 
 dream. She beholds the Sun as a far-off, insphered being existing 
 for her, her ministrant bridegroom; and when her face is turned 
 away from him into the night, she beholds innumerable suns, a 
 myriad of archangels, all witnesses of some infinitely remote and 
 central flame — the Spirit of all life. Yet, in the midst of these 
 visible images, she is absorbed in her individual dream, wherein 
 she appears to herself to be the mother of all living. It is proper 
 to her destiny that she should be thus enwrapped in her own 
 distinct action and passion, and refer to herself the appearances 
 of a universe. While all that is not she is what she really is, — 
 necessary, that is, to her full definition, — she, on the other hand, 
 from herself interprets all else. This is the inevitable terrestrial 
 idealism, peculiar to every individuation in time — the individual 
 thus balancing the universe.
 
 212 HENRY M. ALDEN 
 
 III 
 
 In reality, the Earth has never left the Sun; apart from him 
 she has no life, any more than has the branch severed from the 
 vine. More truly it may be said that the Sun has never left the 
 Earth. 
 
 No prodigal can really leave the Father's house, any more than 
 he can leave himself; coming to himself, he feels the Father's 
 arms about him — they have always been there — he is newly 
 appareled, and wears the signet ring of native prestige; he hears 
 the sound of familiar music and dancing, and it may be that the 
 young and beautiful forms mingling with him in this festival are 
 the riotous youths and maidens of his far-country revels, also 
 come to themselves and home, of whom also the Father saith: 
 These were dead and are alive again, they were lost and are 
 found. The starvation and sense of exile had been parts of a 
 troubled dream — a dream which had also had its ecstasy, but 
 had come into a consuming fever, with delirious imaginings of 
 fresh fountains, of shapes drawn from the memory of childhood, 
 and of the cool touch of kindred hands upon the brow. So near 
 is exile to home, misery to divine commiseration — so near are 
 pain and death, desolation and divestiture, to <<a new creature," 
 and to the kinship involved in all creation and re-creation. 
 
 Distance in the cosmic order is a standing-apart, which is only 
 another expression of the expansion and abundance of creative 
 life; but at every remove its reflex is nearness, a bond of at- 
 traction, insphering and curving, making orb and orbit. While 
 in space this attraction is diminished — being inversely as the 
 square of the distance — and so there is maintained and empha- 
 sized the appearance of suspension and isolation, yet in time it 
 gains preponderance, contracting sphere and orbit, aging planets 
 and suns, and accumulating destruction, which at the point of 
 annihilation becomes a new creation. This Grand Cycle, which is 
 but a pulsation or breath of the Eternal life, illustrates a truth 
 which is repeated in its least and most minutely divided mo- 
 ment — that birth lies next to death, as water crystallizes at the 
 freezing-point, and the plant blossoms at points most remote from 
 the source of nutrition.
 
 3^-3 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 (1837-) 
 
 POET in verse often becomes a poet in prose also, in com- 
 posing novels; although the novelist may not, and in gen- 
 eral does not, possess the faculty of writing poems. The 
 poet-novelist is apt to put into his prose a good deal of the same 
 charm and the same picturesque choice of phrase and image that 
 characterize his verse; while it does not follow that the novelist who 
 at times writes verse — like George Eliot, for example — succeeds in 
 giving a distinctly poetic quality to prose, or even wishes to do 
 so. Among authors who have displayed 
 peculiar power and won fame in the dual 
 capacity of poet and of prose romancer or 
 novelist. Sir Walter Scott and Victor Hugo 
 no doubt stand pre-eminent; and in Amer- 
 ican literature, Edgar Allan Poe and Oliver 
 Wendell Holmes very strikingly combine 
 these two functions. Another American 
 author who has gained a distinguished 
 position both as a poet and as a writer of 
 prose fiction and essays is Thomas Bailey 
 Aldrich. 
 
 It is upon his work in the form of 
 verse, perhaps, that Aldrich's chief renown 
 
 is based; but some of his short stories in especial have contributed 
 much to his popularity, no less than to his repute as a delicate and 
 polished artificer in words. A New Englander, he has infused into 
 some of his poems the true atmosphere of New England, and has 
 given the same light and color of home to his prose, while impart- 
 ing to his productions in both kinds a delightful tinge of the foreign 
 and remote. In addition to his capacities as a poet and a romancer, 
 he is a wit and humorist of sparkling quality. In reading his books 
 one seems also to inhale the perfumes of Arabia and the farther 
 East, blended with the salt sea-breeze and the pine-scented air of 
 his native State, New Hampshire. 
 
 He was born in the old seaside town of Portsmouth, New Hamp- 
 shire, November nth, 1837; but moved to New York City in 1854, at 
 the age of seventeen. There he remained until 1866; beginning his 
 
 Thomas B. Aldrich
 
 314 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 work quite early; formin?^ his literary character by reading and ob- 
 servation, by the writing of poems, and by practice and experience 
 of writing prose sketches and articles for journals and periodicals. 
 During this period he entered into associations with the poets Sted- 
 man, Stoddard, and Bayard Taylor, and was more or less in touch 
 with the group that included "Walt Whitman, Fitz-James O'Brien, 
 and William Winter. Removing to Boston in January, 1866, he be- 
 came the editor of Every Saturday, and remained in that post until 
 1874, when he resigned. In 1875 he made a long tour in Europe, 
 plucking the first fruits of foreign travel, which were succeeded by 
 many rich and dainty gatherings from the same source in later 
 years. In the intervals of these wanderings he lived in Boston and 
 Cambridge; occupying for a time James Russell Lowell's historic 
 house of Elmwood, in the semi-rural university city; and then estab- 
 lished a pretty country house at Ponkapog, a few miles west of 
 Boston. This last suggested the title for a charming book of travel 
 papers, ^From Ponkapog to Pesth.^ In 1881 he was appointed editor of 
 the Atlantic Monthly, and continued to direct that famous magazine 
 for nine years, frequently making short trips to Europe, extending 
 his tours as far as the heart of Russia, and gathering fresh materials 
 for essay or song. Much of his time since giving up the Atlantic 
 editorship has been passed in voyaging, and in 1894-5 he made a 
 journey around the world. 
 
 From the beginning he struck with quiet certainty the vein that 
 was his by nature in poetry; and this has broadened almost contin- 
 ually, yielding richer results, which have been worked out with an 
 increasing refinement of skill. His predilection is for the picturesque; 
 for romance combined with simplicity, purity, and tenderness of 
 feeling, touched by fancy and by occasional lights of humor so 
 reserved and dainty that they never disturb the pictorial harmony. 
 The capacity for unaffected utterance of feeling on matters common 
 to humanity reached a climax in the poem of ^ Baby Bell,* which 
 by its sympathetic and delicate description of a child's advent and 
 death gave the author a claim to the affections of a wide circle; and 
 this remained for a long time probably the best known among his 
 poems. *■ Friar Jerome's Beautiful Book * is another of the earlier 
 favorites. * Spring in New England ' has since come to hold high 
 rank both for its vivid and graceful description of the season, for its 
 tender fervor of patriotism, and for its sentiment of reconciliation 
 between North and South. The lines on *■ Piscataqua River > remain 
 one of the best illustrations of boyhood memories, and have some- 
 thing of Whittier's homely truth. In his longer narrative pieces, 
 * Judith* and < Wyndham Towers,* cast in the mold of blank- verse 
 idyls, Mr. Aldrich does not seem so much himself as in many of his
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ^jr 
 
 briefer flights. An instinctive dramatic tendency finds outlet in 
 
 < Pauline Paulovna^ and < Mercedes^ — the latter of which, a two-act 
 piece in prose, has found representation in the theatre; yet in these, 
 also, he is less eminently successful than in his lyrics and society 
 verse. 
 
 No American poet has wrought his stanzas with greater faithful- 
 ness to an exacting standard of craftsmanship than Mr. Aldrich, or 
 has known better when to leave a line loosely cast, and when to rein- 
 force it with correction or with a syllable that might seem, to an ear 
 less true, redundant. This gives to his most carefully chiseled pro- 
 ductions an air of spontaneous ease, and has made him eminent as a 
 sonneteer. His sonnet on < Sleep ' is one of the finest in the lan- 
 guage. The conciseness and concentrated aptness of his expression 
 also — together with a faculty of bringing into conjunction subtly 
 contrasted thoughts, images, or feelings — has issued happily in short, 
 concentrated pieces like ^ An Untimely Thought,' ^ Destiny, > and 
 * Identity,' and in a number of pointed and effective quatrains. With- 
 out overmastering purpose outside of art itself, his is the poetry of 
 luxury rather than of deep passion or conviction; yet, with the fresh- 
 ness of bud and tint in springtime, it still always relates itself effect- 
 ively to human experience. The author's specially American quality, 
 also, though not dominant, comes out clearly in ^Unguarded Gates,' 
 and with a differing tone in the plaintive Indian legend of ^Mianto- 
 wona.' 
 
 If we perceive in his verse a kinship with the dainty ideals of 
 Theophile Gautier and Alfred de Musset, this does not obscure his 
 originality or his individual charm; and the same thing may be said 
 with regard to his prose. The first of his short fictions that made a 
 decided mark was ^Marjorie Daw.' The fame which it gained, in 
 its separate field, was as swift and widespread as that of Hawthorne's 
 <The Gentle Boy' or Bret Harte's < Luck of Roaring Camp.' It is a 
 bright and half-pathetic little parody on human life and affection; or 
 perhaps we should call it a parable symbolizing the power which 
 imagination wields over real life, even in supposedly tmimaginative 
 people. The covert smile which it involves, at the importance of 
 human emotions, may be traced to a certain extent in some of Mr. 
 Aldrich's longer and more serious works of fiction: his three novels, 
 
 < Prudence Palfrey,' < The Queen of Sheba.' and <The Stillwater 
 Tragedy.' <The Story of a Bad Boy,' frankly but quietly humorous 
 in its record of the pranks and vicissitudes of a healthy average lad 
 (with the scene of the story localized at old Portsmouth, under the 
 name of Rivermouth), a less ambitious work, still holds a secure 
 place in the affections of many mature as well as younger readers. 
 Besides these books, Mr. Aldrich has published a collection of short
 
 3i6 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 descriptive, reminiscent, and half-historic papers on Portsmouth, — 
 *An Old Town by the Sea*; with a second volume of short stories 
 entitled *Two Bites at a Cherry.* The character-drawing in his 
 fiction is clear-cut and effective, often sympathetic, and nearly always 
 suffused with an agreeable coloring of humor. There are notes of 
 pathos, too, in some of his tales; and it is the blending of these 
 qualities, through the medium of a lucid and delightful style, that 
 defines his pleasing quality in prose. 
 
 T 
 
 DESTINY 
 
 HREE roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down 
 Each with its loveliness as with a crown. 
 Drooped in a florist's window in a town. 
 
 The first a lover bought. It lay at rest. 
 
 Like flower on flower, that night, on Beauty's breast. 
 
 The second rose, as virginal and fair. 
 Shrunk in the tangles of a harlot's hair. 
 
 The third, a widow, with new grief made wild, 
 Shut in the icy palm of her dead child. 
 
 s 
 
 IDENTITY 
 
 OMEWHERE — in dcsolatc wind-swept space - 
 In Twilight-land — in No-man's land — 
 Two hurrying Shapes met face to face, 
 And bade each other stand. 
 
 <* And who are you ? ** cried one, agape. 
 
 Shuddering in the gloaming light. 
 <^I know not,>* said the second Shape, 
 "I only died last night!**
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 317 
 
 PRESCIENCE 
 
 THE new moon hung in the sky, the sun was low in the west, 
 And my betrothed and I in the churchyard paused to rest — 
 Happy maiden and lover, dreaming the old dream over: 
 The light winds wandered by, and robins chirped from the nest. 
 
 And lo! in the meadow-sweet was the grave of a little child. 
 With a crumbling stone at the feet and the ivy running wild — 
 
 Tangled ivy and clover folding it over and over: 
 Close to my sweetheart's feet was the little mound up-piled. 
 
 Stricken with nameless fears, she shrank and clung to me, 
 And her eyes were filled with tears for a sorrow I did not see: 
 
 Lightly the winds were blowing, softly her tears were flowing - 
 Tears for the unknown years and a sorrow that was to be! 
 
 ALEC YEATON'S SON 
 
 GLOUCESTER, AUGUST, 172O 
 
 T 
 
 HE wind it wailed, the wind it moaned, 
 And the white caps flecked the sea; 
 «An' I would to God,» the skipper groaned, 
 
 «I had not my boy with me!'> 
 
 Snug in the stern-sheets, little John 
 Laughed as the scud swept by; 
 
 But the skipper's sunburnt cheek grew wan 
 As he watched the wicked sky. 
 
 « Would he were at his mother's side!® 
 And the skipper's eyes were dim. 
 
 «Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide. 
 What would become of him! 
 
 «For me — my muscles are as steel. 
 
 For me let hap what may; 
 I might make shift upon the keel 
 Until the break o' day. 
 
 ^'But he, he is so weak and small. 
 
 So young, scarce learned to stand— 
 
 O pitying Father of us all, 
 I trust him in thy hand!
 
 ^l8 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 ®For thou who markest from on high 
 A sparrow's fall — each one! — 
 
 Surely, O Lord, thou'lt have an eye 
 On Alec Yeaton's son!'' 
 
 Then, helm hard-port; right straight he sailed 
 
 Towards the headland light: 
 The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed, 
 
 And black, black fell the night. 
 
 Then burst a storm to make one quail, 
 
 Though housed from winds and waves — 
 
 They who could tell about that gale 
 Must rise from watery graves! 
 
 Sudden it came, as sudden went; 
 
 Ere half the night was sped. 
 The winds were hushed, the waves were spent 
 
 And the stars shone overhead. 
 
 Now, as the morning mist grew thin, 
 The folk on Gloucester shore 
 
 Saw a little figure floating in 
 Secure, on a broken oar! 
 
 Up rose the cry, ^^A wreck! a wreck! 
 
 Pull mates, and waste no breath!'' — 
 I'hey knew it, though 'twas but a speck 
 
 Upon the edge of death! 
 
 Long did they marvel in the town 
 
 At God his strange decree. 
 That let the stalwart skipper drown 
 
 And the little child go free! 
 
 MEMORY 
 
 My mind lets go a thousand things. 
 Like dates of wars and deaths of kings. 
 And yet recalls the very hour — 
 'T was noon by yonder village tower. 
 And on the last blue noon in May — 
 The wind came briskly up this way. 
 Crisping the brook beside the road; 
 Then, pausing here, set down its load 
 Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly 
 Two petals from that wild-rose tree.
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 319 
 
 TENNYSON (1890) 
 I 
 
 SHAKESPEARE and Milton — what third blazoned name 
 Shall lips of after ages link to these ? 
 His who, beside the wild encircling seas, 
 Was England's voice, her voice with one acclaim. 
 
 For threescore years; whose word of praise was fame. 
 Whose scorn gave pause to man's iniquities. 
 
 II 
 
 What strain was his in that Crimean war? 
 A bugle-call in battle ; a low breath, 
 Plaintive and sweet, above the fields of death! 
 
 So year by year the music rolled afar. 
 
 From Euxine wastes to flowery Kandahar, 
 Bearing the laurel or the cypress wreath. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Others shall have their little space of time. 
 
 Their proper niche and bust, then fade away 
 Into the darkness, poets of a day; 
 But thou, O builder of enduring rhyme. 
 Thou shalt not pass! Thy fame in every clime 
 
 On earth shall live where Saxon speech has sway. 
 
 IV 
 
 Waft me this verse across the winter sea. 
 
 Through light and dark, through mist and blinding 
 
 sleet, 
 O winter winds, and lay it at his feet; 
 
 Though the poor gift betray my poverty, 
 
 At his feet lay it; it may chance that he 
 
 Will find no gift, where reverence is, unmeet. 
 
 SWEETHEART, SIGH NO MORE 
 
 I 
 
 T WAS with doubt and trembling 
 I whispered in her ear. 
 Go, take her answer, bird-on-bough, 
 That all the world may hear — 
 Sweetheart, sigh no tnore! 
 
 Sing it, sing it, tawny throat, 
 Upon the wayside tree,
 
 320 
 
 I 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 How fair she is, how true she is. 
 How dear she is to me — 
 Sweetheart, sigh no more! 
 
 Sing it, sing it, and through the summer long 
 
 The winds among the clover-tops, 
 And brooks, for all their silvery stops, 
 
 Shall envy you the song — 
 Sweetheart, sigh no more! 
 
 BROKEN MUSIC 
 
 « A note 
 
 All out of tune in this world's instrument. » 
 
 Amy Levy. 
 
 KNOW not in what fashion she was made, 
 
 Nor what her voice was, when she used to speak, 
 
 Nor if the silken lashes threw a shade 
 
 On wan or rosy cheek. 
 
 I picture her with sorrowful vague eyes. 
 
 Illumed with such strange gleams of inner light 
 As linger in the drift of London skies 
 Ere twilight turns to night. 
 
 I know not; I conjecture. 'Twas a girl 
 
 That with her own most gentle desperate hand 
 From out God's mystic setting plucked life's pearl - 
 'Tis hard to understand. 
 
 So precious life is! Even to the old 
 
 The hours are as a miser's coins, and she — 
 Within her hands lay youth's unminted gold 
 And all felicity. 
 
 The winged impetuous spirit, the white flame 
 
 That was her soul once, whither has it flown? 
 Above her brow gray lichens blot her name 
 Upon the carven stone. 
 
 This is her Book of Verses — wren-like notes, 
 
 Shy franknesses, blind gropings, haunting fears; 
 At times across the chords abruptly floats 
 A mist of passionate tears. 
 
 A fragile lyre too tensely keyed and strung, 
 
 A broken music, weirdly incomplete : 
 Here a proud mind, self-baffled and self-stung. 
 Lies coiled in dark defeat
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 ELMWOOD 
 In Memory of James Russell Lowell 
 
 HERE, in the twilight, at the well-known gate 
 I linger, with no heart to enter more. 
 Among the elm-tops the autumnal air 
 Murmurs, and spectral in the fading light 
 A solitary heron wings its way 
 Southward — save this no sound or touch of life. 
 Dark is the window where the scholar's lamp 
 Was used to catch a pallor from the dawn. 
 
 Yet I must needs a little linger here. 
 Each shrub and tree is eloquent of him, 
 For tongueless things and silence have their speech. 
 This is the path familiar to his foot 
 From infancy to manhood and old age; 
 For in a chamber of that ancient house 
 His eyes first opened on the mystery 
 Of life, and all the splendor of the world. 
 Here, as a child, in loving, curious way. 
 He watched the bluebird's coming; learned the date 
 Of hyacinth and goldenrod, and made 
 Friends of those little redmen of the elms, 
 And slyly added to their winter store 
 Of hazel-nuts: no harmless thing that breathed, 
 Footed or winged, but knew him for a friend. 
 The gilded butterfly was not afraid 
 To trust its gold to that so gentle hand. 
 The bluebird fled not from the pendent spray. 
 Ah, happy childhood, ringed with fortunate stars! 
 What dreams were his in this enchanted sphere, 
 What intuitions of high destiny! 
 The honey-bees of Hybla touched his lips 
 In that old New- World garden, unawares. 
 
 So in her arms did Mother Nature fold 
 Her poet, whispering what of wild and sweet 
 Into his ear — the state-affairs of birds, 
 The lore of dawn and sunset, what the wind 
 Said in the tree-tops — fine, unfathomed things 
 Henceforth to turn to music in his brain: 
 A various music, now like notes of flutes. 
 And now like blasts of trumpets blown in wars. 
 I— ax 
 
 321
 
 322 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 Later he paced this leafy academe 
 
 A student, drinking from Greek chalices 
 
 The ripened vintage of the antique world. 
 
 And here to him came love, and love's dear loss; 
 
 Here honors came, the deep applause of men 
 
 Touched to the heart by some swift-winged word 
 
 That from his own full heart took eager flight — 
 
 Some strain of piercing sweetness or rebuke, 
 
 For underneath his gentle nature flamed 
 
 A noble scorn for all ignoble deed, 
 
 Himself a bondman till all men were free. 
 
 Thus passed his manhood; then to other lands 
 He strayed, a stainless figure among courts 
 Beside the Manzanares and the Thames. 
 Whence, after too long exile, he returned 
 With fresher laurel, but sedater step 
 And eye more serious, fain to breathe the air 
 Where through the Cambridge marshes the blue Charles 
 Uncoils its length and stretches to the sea: 
 Stream dear to him, at every curve a shrine 
 For pilgrim Memory. Again he watched 
 His loved syringa whitening by the door. 
 And knew the catbird's welcome; in his walks 
 Smiled on his tawny kinsmen of the elms 
 Stealing his nuts; and in the ruined year 
 Sat at his widowed hearthside with bent brows 
 Leonine, frosty with the breath of time, 
 And listened to the crooning of the wind 
 In the wide Elmwood chimneys, as of old. 
 And then — and then ... 
 
 The after-glow has faded from the elms, 
 And in the denser darkness of the boughs 
 From time to time the firefly's tiny lamp 
 Sparkles. How often in still summer dusks 
 He paused to note that transient phantom spark 
 Flash on the air — a light that outlasts him! 
 
 The night grows chill, as if it felt a breath 
 Blown from that frozen city where he lies. 
 All things turn strange. The leaf that rustles here 
 Has more than autumn's mournfulness. The place 
 Is heavy with his absence. Like fixed eyes 
 Whence the dear light of sense and thought has fled
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 323 
 
 The vacant windows stare across the lawn. 
 The wise sweet spirit that informed it all 
 Is otherwhere. The house itself is dead. 
 
 O autumn wind among the sombre pines, 
 Breathe you his dirge, but be it sweet and low. 
 "With deep refrains and murmurs of the sea. 
 Like to his verse — the art is yours alone. 
 His once — you taught him. Now no voice but yours! 
 Tender and low, O wind among the pines. 
 I would, were mine a lyre of richer strings, 
 In soft Sicilian accents wrap his name. 
 
 SEA LONGINGS 
 
 THE first world-sound that fell upon my ear 
 "Was that of the great winds along the coast 
 Crushing the deep-sea beryl on the rocks — 
 The distant breakers' sullen cannonade. 
 Against the spires and gables of the town 
 The white fog drifted, catching here and there 
 At overleaning cornice or peaked roof. 
 And hung — weird gonfalons. The garden walks 
 "Were choked with leaves, and on their ragged biers 
 Lay dead the sweets of summer — damask rose. 
 Clove-pink, old-fashioned, loved New England flowers 
 Only keen salt-sea odors filled the air. 
 Sea-sounds, sea-odors — these were all my world. 
 Hence is it that life languishes with me 
 Inland; the valleys stifle me with gloom 
 And pent-up prospect; in their narrow bound 
 Imagination flutters futile wings. 
 Vainly I seek the sloping pearl-white sand 
 And the mirage's phantom citadels 
 Miraculous, a moment seen, then gone. 
 Among the mountains I am ill at ease. 
 Missing the stretched horizon's level line 
 And the illimitable restless blue. 
 The crag-torn sky is not the sky I love. 
 But one unbroken sapphire spanning all; 
 And nobler than the branches of a pine 
 Aslant upon a precipice's edge 
 Are the strained spars of some great battle-ship 
 Plowing across the sunset. No bird's lilt
 
 324 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 So takes me as the whistling of the gale 
 
 Among the shrouds. My cradle-song was this, 
 
 Strange inarticulate sorrows of the sea, 
 
 Blithe rhythms upgathered from the Sirens* caves. 
 
 Perchance of earthly voices the last voice 
 
 That shall an instant my freed spirit stay 
 
 On this world's verge, will be some message blown 
 
 Over the dim salt lands that fringe the coast 
 
 At dusk, or when the tranced midnight droops 
 
 With weight of stars, or haply just as dawn, 
 
 Illumining the sullen purple wave. 
 
 Turns the gray pools and willow-stems to gold. 
 
 A SHADOW OF THE NIGHT 
 
 CLOSE on the edge of a midsummer dawn 
 In troubled dreams I went from land to land, 
 Each seven-colored like the rainbow's arc. 
 Regions where never fancy's foot had trod 
 Till then; yet all the strangeness seemed not strange. 
 At which I wondered, reasoning in my dream 
 With twofold sense, well knowing that I slept. 
 At last I came to this our cloud-hung earth. 
 And somewhere by the seashore was a grave, 
 A woman's grave, new-made, and heaped with flowers; 
 And near it stood an ancient holy man 
 That fain would comfort me, who sorrowed not 
 For this unknown dead woman at my feet. 
 But I, because his sacred office held 
 My reverence, listened; and 'twas thus he spake:— 
 «When next thou comest thou shalt find her still 
 In all the rare perfection that she was. 
 Thou shalt have gentle greeting of thy love! 
 Her eyelids will have turned to violets. 
 Her bosom to white lilies, and her breath 
 To roses. What is lovely never dies, 
 But passes into other loveliness. 
 Star-dust, or sea-foam, flower, or winged air. 
 If this befalls our poor unworthy flesh. 
 Think thee what destiny awaits the soul! 
 What glorious vesture it shall wear at last!» 
 While yet he spoke, seashore and grave and priest 
 Vanished, and faintly from a neighboring spire 
 Fell five slow solemn strokes upon my ear.
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 325 
 
 Then I awoke with a keen pain at heart, 
 
 A sense of swift unutterable loss, 
 
 And through the darkness reached my hand to touch 
 
 Her cheek, soft-pillowed on one restful palm — 
 
 To be quite sure! 
 
 OUTWARD BOUND 
 
 I LEAVE behind me the elm-shadowed square 
 And carven portals of the silent street, 
 And wander on with listless, vagrant feet 
 Through seaward-leading alleys, till the air 
 Smells of the sea, and straightway then the care 
 Slips from my heart, and life once more is sweet. 
 At the lane's ending lie the white-winged fleet. 
 O restless Fancy, whither wouldst thou fare ? 
 Here are brave pinions that shall take thee far — 
 Gaunt hulks of Norway; ships of red Ceylon; 
 Slim-masted lovers of the blue Azores! 
 'Tis but an instant hence to Zanzibar, 
 Or to the regions of the Midnight Sun: 
 
 Ionian isles are thine, and all the fairy shores! 
 
 REMINISCENCE 
 
 THOUGH I am native to this frozen zone 
 That half the twelvemonth torpid lies, or dead; 
 Though the cold azure arching overhead 
 And the Atlantic's never-ending moan 
 Are mine by heritage, I must have known 
 Life otherwhere in epochs long since fled; 
 For in my veins some Orient blood is red. 
 And through my thought are lotus blossoms blown. 
 I do remember ... it was just at dusk. 
 Near a walled garden at the river's turn, 
 
 (A thousand summers seem but yesterday!) 
 A Nubian girl, more sweet than Khoorja musk, 
 Came to the water-tank to fill her urn, 
 
 And with the urn she bore my heart away!
 
 326 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 PERE ANTOINE'S DATE-PALM 
 
 NEAR the Lev^e, and not far from the old French Cathedral in 
 the Place d'Armes, at New Orleans, stands a fine date- 
 palm, thirty feet in height, spreading its broad leaves in 
 the alien air as hardily as if its sinuous roots were sucking 
 strength from their native earth. 
 
 Sir Charles Lyell, in his ^ Second Visit to the United States,* 
 mentions this exotic: — "The tree is seventy or eighty years old; 
 for P^re Antoine, a Roman Catholic priest, who died about 
 twenty years ago, told Mr. Bringier that he planted it himself, 
 when he was young. In his will he provided that they who suc- 
 ceeded to this lot of ground should forfeit it if they cut down 
 the palm.'^ 
 
 Wishing to learn something of P^re Antoine's history, Sir 
 Charles Lyell made inquiries among the ancient Creole inhabitants 
 of the faubourg. That the old priest, in his last days, became 
 very much emaciated, that he walked about the streets like a 
 mummy, that he gradually dried up, and finally blew away, was 
 the meagre and unsatisfactory result of the tourist's investiga- 
 tions. This is all that is generally told of P^re Antoine. 
 
 In the summer of 1861, while New Orleans was yet occupied 
 by the Confederate forces, I met at Alexandria, in Virginia, a 
 lady from Louisiana — Miss Blondeau by name — who gave me 
 the substance of the following legend touching Pere Antoine and 
 his wonderful date-palm. If it should appear tame to the reader, 
 it will be because I am not habited in a black ribbed-silk dress, 
 with a strip of point-lace around my throat, like Miss Blondeau; 
 it will be because I lack her eyes and lips and Southern music 
 to tell it with. 
 
 When Pere Antoine was a very young man, he had a friend 
 whom he loved as he loved his life. Emile Jardin returned his 
 passion, and the two, on account of their friendship, became the 
 marvel of the city where they dwelt. One was never seen with- 
 out the other; for they studied, walked, ate, and slept together. 
 
 Thus began Miss Blondeau, with the air of Fiammetta telling 
 her prettiest story to the Florentines in the garden of Boccaccio. 
 
 Antoine and Emile were preparing to enter the Church; in- 
 deed, they had taken the preliminary steps, when a circumstance 
 occurred which changed the color of their lives. A foreign
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH -^y 
 
 lady, from some nameless island in the Pacific, had a few 
 months before moved into their neighborhood. The lady died 
 suddenly, leaving a girl of sixteen or seventeen, entirely friend- 
 less and unprovided for. The young men had been kind to the 
 woman during her illness, and at her death — melting with pity 
 at the forlorn situation of Anglice, the daughter — swore between 
 themselves to love and watch over her as if she were their sister. 
 
 Now Anglice had a wild, strange beauty that made other 
 women seem tame beside her; and in the course of time the 
 young men found themselves regarding their ward not so much 
 like brothers as at first. In brief, they found themselves in 
 love with her. 
 
 They struggled with their hopeless passion month after month, 
 neither betraying his secret to the other; for the austere orders 
 which they were about to assume precluded the idea of love and 
 marriage. Until then they had dwelt in the calm air of religious 
 meditations, unmoved except by that pious fervor which in other 
 ages taught men to brave the tortures of the rack and to smile 
 amid the flames. But a blonde girl, with great eyes and a voice 
 like the soft notes of a vesper hymn, had come in between them 
 and their ascetic dreams of heaven. The ties that had bound 
 the young men together snapped silently one by one. At last 
 each read in the pale face of the other the story of his own 
 despair. 
 
 And she ? If Anglice shared their trouble, her face told no 
 story. It was like the face of a saint on a cathedral window. 
 Once, however, as she came suddenly upon the two men and 
 overheard words that seemed to burn like fire on the lip of the 
 speaker, her eyes grew luminous for an instant. Then she passed 
 on, her face as immobile as before in its setting of wavy gold 
 hair. 
 
 *Entre or et roux Dieu fit ses longs cheveux.** 
 
 One night Emile and Anglice were missing. They had flown 
 — but whither, nobody knew, and nobody save Antoine cared. 
 It was a heavy blow to Antoine — for he had himself half re- 
 solved to confess his love to Anglice and urge her to fly with him. 
 
 A strip of paper slipped from a volume on Antoine's prie- 
 dieu, and fluttered to his feet. 
 
 «Z>^ not be a^tgry,'^'* said the bit of paper, piteously; *^ forgive 
 us, for we love. '^ ( " Pardonnez-nous, car nous aimons. " )
 
 328 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 Three years went by wearily enough. Antoine had entered 
 the Church, and was already looked upon as a rising man; but 
 his face was pale and his heart leaden, for there was no sweet- 
 ness in life for him. 
 
 Four years had elapsed, when a letter, covered with out- 
 landish postmarks, was brought to the young priest — a letter 
 from Anglice. She was dying; — would he forgive her? Emile, 
 the year previous, had fallen a victim to the fever that raged on 
 the island; and their child, Anglice, was likely to follow him. 
 In pitiful terms she begged Antoine to take charge of the child 
 until she was old enough to enter the convent of the Sacr6- 
 Coeur. The epistle was finished hastily by another hand, inform- 
 ing Antoine of Madame Jardin's death; it also told him that 
 Anglice had been placed on board a vessel shortly to leave the 
 island for some Western port. 
 
 The letter, delayed by storm and shipwreck, was hardly read 
 and wept over when little Anglice arrived. 
 
 On beholding her, Antoine uttered a cry of joy and surprise 
 • — she was so like the woman he had worshiped. 
 
 The passion that had been crowded down in his heart broke 
 out and lavished its richness on this child, who was to him 
 not only the Anglice of years ago, but his friend Emile Jardin 
 also. 
 
 Anglice possessed the wild, strange beauty of her mother — 
 the bending, willowy form, the rich tint of skin, the large trop- 
 ical eyes, that had almost made Antoine's sacred robes a mockery 
 to him. 
 
 For a month or two Anglice was wildly unhappy in her new 
 home. She talked continually of the bright country where she 
 was bom, the fruits and flowers and blue skies, the tall, fan-like 
 trees, and the streams that went murmuring through them to 
 the sea. Antoine could not pacify her. 
 
 By and by she ceased to weep, and went about the cottage in 
 a weary, disconsolate way that cut Antoine to the heart. A 
 long-tailed paroquet, which she had brought with her in the ship, 
 walked solemnly behind her from room to room, mutely pining, 
 it seemed, for those heavy orient airs that used to ruffle its brill- 
 iant plumage. 
 
 Before the year ended, he noticed that the ruddy tinge had 
 faded from her cheek, that her eyes had grown languid, and her 
 slight figure more willowy than ever,
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH -20 
 
 A physician was consulted. He could discover nothing wrong 
 with the child, except this fading and drooping. He failed to 
 account for that. It was some vague disease of the mind, he 
 said, beyond his skill. 
 
 So Anglice faded day after day. She seldom left the room 
 now. At last Antoine could not shut out the fact that the child 
 was passing away. He had learned to love her so! 
 
 " Dear heart, '^ he said once, <^ What is 't ails thee ? ^^ 
 
 *' Nothing, mon p^re, '* for so she called him. 
 
 The winter passed, the balmy spring had come with its mag- 
 nolia blooms and orange blossoms, and Anglice seemed to revive. 
 In her small bamboo chair, on the porch, she swayed to and fro 
 in the fragrant breeze, with a peculiar undulating motion, like a 
 graceful tree. 
 
 At times something seemed to weigh upon her mind. Antoine 
 observed it, and waited. Finally she spoke. 
 
 " Near our house, '* said little Anglice — " near our house, on 
 the island, the palm-trees are waving under the blue sky. Oh, 
 how beautiful! I seem to lie beneath them all day long. I am 
 very, very happy. I yearned for them so much that I grew ill 
 — don't you think it was so, mon pere ? ^^ 
 
 " H^las, yes ! ^* exclaimed Antoine, suddenly. ** Let us hasten 
 to those pleasant islands where the palms are waving.'* 
 
 Anglice smiled. ^* I am going there, mon pere.*' 
 
 A week from that evening the wax candles burned at her 
 feet and forehead, lighting her on the journey. 
 
 All was over. Now was Antoine's heart empty. Death, like 
 another Emile, had stolen his new Anglice. He had nothing to 
 do but to lay the blighted flower away. 
 
 P^re Antoine made a shallow grave in his garden, and heaped 
 the fresh brown mold over his idol. 
 
 In the tranquil spring evenings, the priest was seen sitting 
 by the mound, his finger closed in the unread breviary. 
 
 The summer broke on that sunny land; and in the cool morn- 
 ing twilight, and after nightfall, Antoine lingered by the grave. 
 He could never be with it enough. 
 
 One morning he observed a delicate stem, with two curiously 
 shaped emerald leaves, springing up from the centre of the 
 mound. At first he merely noticed it casually; but presently 
 the plant grew so tall, and was so strangely unlike anything he 
 had ever seen before, that he examined it with care.
 
 -,Q THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 How Straight and graceful and exquisite it was! When it 
 swung to and fro with the summer wind, in the twilight, it 
 seemed to Antoine as if little Anglice were standing there in the 
 garden. 
 
 The days stole by, and Antoine tended the fragile shoot, 
 wondering what manner of blossom it would unfold, white, or 
 scarlet, or golden. One Sunday, a stranger, with a bronzed, 
 weather-beaten face like a sailor's, leaned over the garden rail, and 
 said to him, ^* What a fine young date-palm you have there, sir ! '^ 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! ^* cried Pere Antoine starting, ^^ and is it a palm ? '' 
 
 <*Yes, indeed, ^^ returned the man. ^* I didn't reckon the tree 
 would flourish in this latitude.'* 
 
 "Ah, mon Dieu!'* was all the priest could say aloud; but he 
 murmured to himself, "Bon Dieu, vous m'avez donne cela!'* 
 
 If Pere Antoine loved the tree before, he worshiped it now. 
 He watered it, and nurtured it, and could have clasped it in his 
 arms. Here were Emile and Anglice and the child, all in one! 
 
 The years glided away, and the date-palm and the priest 
 grew together — only one became vigorous and the other feeble. 
 Pere Antoine had long passed the meridian of life. The tree 
 was in its youth. It no longer stood in an isolated garden; for 
 pretentious brick and stucco houses had clustered about Antoine 's 
 cottage. They looked down scowling on the humble thatched 
 roof. The city was edging up, trying to crowd him off his land. 
 But he clung to it like lichen and refused to sell. 
 
 Speculators piled gold on his doorsteps, and he laughed at 
 them. Sometimes he was hungry, and cold, and thinly clad; but 
 he laughed none the less. 
 
 " Get thee behind me, Satan ! '* said the old priest's smile. 
 
 Pere Antoine was very old now, scarcely able to walk; but 
 he could sit under the pliant, caressing leaves of his palm, lov- 
 ing it like an Arab; and there he sat till the grimmest of specu- 
 lators came to him. But even in death Pere Antoine was 
 faithful to his trust: the owner of that land loses it if he harm 
 the date-tree. 
 
 And there it stands in the narrow, dingy street, a beautiful, 
 dreamy stranger, an exquisite foreign lady whose grace is a joy 
 to the eye, the incense of whose breath makes the air enamored. 
 May the hand wither that touches her ungently! 
 
 ^''Because it grew from the heart of little Anglice,^'* said Miss 
 Blondeau tenderly.
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 o3i 
 
 MISS MEHETABEL'S SON 
 I 
 
 THE OLD TAVERN AT BAYLEY's FOUR-CORNERS 
 
 YOU will not find Greenton, or Bayley's Four-Corners as it is 
 more usually designated, on any map of New England that 
 I know of. It is not a town; it is not even a village: it is 
 merely an absurd hotel. The almost indescribable place called 
 Greenton is at the intersection of four roads, in the heart of New 
 Hampshire, twenty miles from the nearest settlement of note, and 
 ten miles from any railway station. A good location for a hotel, 
 you will say. Precisely; but there has always been a hotel 
 there, and for the last dozen years it has been pretty well 
 patronized — by one boarder. Not to trifle with an intelligent 
 public, I will state at once that, in the early part of this century, 
 Greenton was a point at which the mail-coach on the Great 
 Northern Route stopped to change horses and allow the passen- 
 gers to dine. People in the county, wishing to take the earl 3^ 
 mail Portsmouth-ward, put up over night at the old tavern, 
 famous for its irreproachable larder and soft feather-beds. The 
 tavern at that time was kept by Jonathan Bayley, who rivaled 
 his wallet in growing corpulent, and in due time passed away. 
 At his death the establishment, which included a farm, fell into 
 the hands of a son-in-law. Now, though Bayley left his son-in- 
 law a hotel — which sounds handsome — he left him no guests; 
 for at about the period of the old man's death the old stage- 
 coach died also. Apoplexy carried off one, and steam the other. 
 Thus, by a sudden swerve in the tide of progress, the tavern at 
 the Corners found itself high and dry, like a wreck on a sand- 
 bank. Shortly after this event, or maybe contemporaneously, 
 there was some attempt to build a town at Greenton; but it 
 apparently failed, if eleven cellars choked up with debris and 
 overgrown with burdocks are any indication of failure. The 
 farm, however, was a good farm, as things go in New Hamp- 
 shire, and Tobias Sewell, the son-in-law, could aiford to snap 
 his fingers at the traveling public if they came near enough — 
 which they never did. 
 
 The hotel remains to-day pretty much the same as when 
 Jonathan Bayley handed in his accounts in 1840, except that
 
 332 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 Sewell has from time to time sold the furniture of some of the 
 upper chambers to bridal couples in the neighborhood. The bar 
 is still open, and the parlor door says Parlour in tall black 
 letters. Now and then a passing drover looks in at that lonely 
 bar-room, where a high-shouldered bottle of Santa Cruz rum 
 ogles with a peculiarly knowing air a shriveled lemon on a 
 shelf; now and then a farmer rides across country to talk crops 
 and stock and take a friendly glass with Tobias; and now and 
 then a circus caravan with speckled ponies, or a menagerie with 
 a soggy elephant, halts under the swinging sign, on which there 
 is a dim mail-coach with four phantomish horses driven by a 
 portly gentleman whose head has been washed off by the rain. 
 Other customers there are none, except that one regular boarder 
 whom I have mentioned. 
 
 If misery makes a man acquainted with strange bed-fellows, 
 it is equally certain that the profession of surveyor and civil 
 engineer often takes one into undreamed-of localities. I had 
 never heard of Greenton until my duties sent me there, and kept 
 me there two weeks in the dreariest season of the year. I do 
 not think I would, of my own volition, have selected Greenton 
 for a fortnight's sojourn at any time; but now the business is 
 over, I shall never regret the circumstances that made me the 
 guest of Tobias Sewell, and brought me into intimate relations 
 with Miss Mehetabel's Son. 
 
 It was a black October night in the year of grace 1872, that 
 discovered me standing in front of the old tavern at the Corners. 
 
 Though the ten miles' ride from K had been depressing, 
 
 especially the last five miles, on account of the cold autumnal 
 rain that had set in, I felt a pang of regret on hearing the 
 rickety open wagon turn round in the road and roll off in the 
 darkness. There were no lights visible anywhere, and only for 
 the big, shapeless mass of something in front of me, which the 
 driver had said was the hotel, I should have fancied that I had 
 been set down by the roadside. I was wet to the skin and in 
 no amiable humor; and not being able to find bell-pull or 
 knocker, or even a door, I belabored the side of the house with 
 my heavy walking-stick. In a minute or two I saw a light 
 flickering somewhere aloft, then I heard the sound of a window 
 opening, followed by an exclamation of disgust as a blast of 
 wind extinguished the candle which had given me an instant- 
 aneous picture en silhouette of a man leaning out of a casement.
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 333 
 
 " I say, what do you want, down there ? '^ inquired an unpre- 
 possessing voice. 
 
 ^' I want to come in ; I want a supper, and a bed, and num- 
 berless things.*^ 
 
 *^This isn't no time of night to go rousing honest folks out 
 of their sleep. Who are you, anyway ? ^^ 
 
 The question, superficially considered, was a very simple one, 
 and I, of all people in the world, ought to have been able to 
 answer it off-hand; but it staggered me. Strangely enough, there 
 came drifting across my memory the lettering on the back of a 
 metaphysical work which I had seen years before on a shelf in 
 the Astor Library. Owing to an unpremeditatedly funny collo- 
 cation of title and author, the lettering read as follows: — *^Who 
 am I ? Jones. ** Evidently it had puzzled Jones to know who 
 he was, or he wouldn't have written a book about it, and come 
 to so lame and impotent a conclusion. It certainly puzzled me 
 at that instant to define my identity. ^* Thirty years ago," I 
 reflected, ** I was nothing ; fifty years hence I shall be nothing 
 again, humanly speaking. In the mean time, who am I, sure 
 enough ? " It had never before occurred to me what an indefinite 
 article I was. I wish it had not occurred to me then. Standing 
 there in the rain and darkness, I wrestled vainly with the prob- 
 lem, and was constrained to fall back upon a Yankee expedient. 
 
 « Isn't this a hotel ? » I asked finally. 
 
 ^^Well, it is a sort of hotel,** said the voice, doubtfully. My 
 hesitation and prevarication had apparently not inspired my inter- 
 locutor with confidence in me. 
 
 "Then let me in. I have just driven over from K in 
 
 this infernal rain. I am wet through and through.** 
 
 " But what do you want here, at the Comers ? What's your 
 business ? People don't come here, leastways in the middle of 
 the night.** 
 
 «It isn't in the middle of the night,** I returned, incensed. 
 << I come on business connected with the new road. I'm the 
 superintendent of the works.** 
 
 « Oh ! ** 
 
 "And if you don't open the door at once, I'll raise the whole 
 neighborhood — and then go to the other hotel.** 
 
 When I said that, I supposed Greenton was a village with a 
 population of at least three or four thousand, and was wonder- 
 ing vaguely at the absence of lights and other signs of human
 
 334 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 habitation. Surely, I thought, all the people cannot be abed and 
 asleep at half past ten o'clock: perhaps I am in the business 
 section of the town, among the shops. 
 
 ** You jest wait, '^ said the voice above. 
 
 This request was not devoid of a certain accent of menace, 
 and I braced myself for a sortie on the part of the besieged, if 
 he had any such hostile intent. Presently a door opened at the 
 very place where I least expected a door, at the farther end of 
 the building, in fact, and a man in his shirt-sleeves, shielding a 
 candle with his left hand, appeared on the threshold. I passed 
 quickly into the house, with Mr. Tobias Sewell (for this was 
 Mr. Sewell) at my heels, and found myself in a long, low- 
 studded bar-room. 
 
 There were two chairs drawn up before the hearth, on which 
 a huge hemlock back-log was still smoldering, and on the un- 
 painted deal counter contiguous stood two cloudy glasses with 
 bits of lemon-peel in the bottom, hinting at recent libations. 
 Against the discolored wall over the bar hung a yellowed hand- 
 bill, in a warped frame, announcing that " the Next Annual 
 N. H. Agricultural Fair^' would take place on the loth of Sep- 
 tember, 1 84 1. There was no other furniture or decoration in 
 this dismal apartment, except the cobwebs which festooned the 
 ceiling, hanging down here and there like stalactites. 
 
 Mr. Sewell set the candlestick on the mantel-shelf, and threw 
 some pine-knots on the fire, which immediately broke into a 
 blaze, and showed him to be a lank, narrow-chested man, past 
 sixty, with sparse, steel-gray hair, and small, deep-set eyes, per- 
 fectly round, like a fish's, and of no particular color. His chief 
 personal characteristics seemed to be too much feet and not 
 enough teeth. His sharply cut, but rather simple face, as he 
 turned it towards me, wore a look of interrogation. I replied to 
 his mute inquiry by taking out my pocket-book and handing him 
 my business-card, which he held up to the candle and perused 
 with great deliberation. 
 
 * You're a civil engineer, are you ? '^ he said, displaying his 
 gums, which gave his countenance an expression of almost infant- 
 ile innocence. He made no further audible remark, but mum- 
 bled between his thin lips something which an imaginative person 
 might have construed into, ^* If you're a civil engineer, I'll be 
 blessed if I wouldn't like to see an uncivil one ! *^ 
 
 Mr. S-.' well's growl, however, was worse than his bite, — owing 
 to his lack of teeth, probably — for he very good-naturedly set
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ,35 
 
 himself to work preparing supper for me. After a slice of cold 
 ham, and a warm punch, to which my chilled condition gave a 
 grateful flavor, I went to bed in a distant chamber in a most 
 amiable mood, feeling satisfied that Jones was a donkey to 
 bother himself about his identity. 
 
 When I awoke, the sun was several hours high. My bed 
 faced a window, and by raising myself on one elbow I could 
 look out on what I expected would be the main street. To my 
 astonishment I beheld a lonely country road winding up a sterile 
 hill and disappearing over the ridge. In a cornfield at the right 
 of the road was a small private graveyard, inclosed by a crum- 
 bling stone wall with a red gate. The only thing suggestive of 
 life was this little comer lot occupied by death. I got out of 
 bed and went to the other window. There I had an uninter- 
 rupted view of twelve miles of open landscape, with Mount 
 Agamenticus in the purple distance. Not a house or a spire in 
 sight. "Well,*^ I exclaimed, ^* Greenton doesn't appear to be a 
 very closely packed metropolis ! *^ That rival hotel with which I 
 had threatened Mr. Sewell overnight was not a deadly weapon, 
 looking at it by daylight. "By Jove!** I reflected, "maybe I'm 
 in the wrong place.** But there, tacked against a panel of the 
 bedroom door, was a' faded time-table dated Greenton, August 
 ist, 1839. 
 
 I smiled all the time I was dressing, and went smiling down- 
 stairs, where I found Mr. Sewell, assisted by one of the fair sex 
 in the first bloom of her eightieth year, serving breakfast for 
 me on a small table — in the bar-room! 
 
 " I overslept myself this morning, ** I remarked apologetically, 
 "and I see that I am putting you to some trouble. In future, 
 if you will have me called, I will take my meals at the usual 
 table d'hote?^ 
 
 «At the what?** said Mr. Sewell. 
 
 " I mean with the other boarders. ** 
 
 Mr. Sewell paused in the act of lifting a chop from the fire, 
 and, resting the point of his fork against the woodwork of the 
 mantel-piece, grinned from ear to ear. 
 
 "Bless you! there isn't any other boarders. There hasn't 
 been anybody put up here sence — let me see — sence father-in- 
 law died, and that was in the fall of '40. To be sure, there's 
 Silas; //^ *s a regular boarder: but I don't count him.** 
 
 Mr. Sewell then explained how the tavern had lost its custom 
 when the old stage line was broken up by the railroad. The
 
 336 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 introduction of steam was, in Mr. Sewell's estimation, a fatal 
 error. ^^Jest killed local business. Carried it off, I'm darned if 
 I know where. The whole country has been sort o' retrograding 
 ever sence steam was invented. ^^ 
 
 ^^ You spoke of having one boarder, '* I said. 
 
 "Silas? Yes; he come here the summer 'Tilda died — she 
 that was 'Tilda Bayley — and he's here yet, going on thirteen 
 year. He couldn't live any longer with the old man. Between 
 you and I, old Clem Jaffrey, Silas's father, was a hard nut. 
 Yes,^^ said Mr. Sewell, crooking his elbow in inimitable panto- 
 mime, * altogether too often. Found dead in the road hugging 
 a three-gallon demijohn. Habeas corpus in the barn,^^ added Mr. 
 Sewell, intending, I presume, to intimate that a post-mortem 
 examination had been deemed necessary. " Silas, '^ he resumed, 
 in that respectful tone which one should always adopt when speak- 
 ing of capital, "is a man of considerable property; lives on his 
 interest, and keeps a hoss and shay. He 's a great scholar, too, 
 Silas: takes all the pe-ri-odicals and the Police Gazette regular.'* 
 
 Mr. Sewell was turning over a third chop, when the door 
 opened and a stoutish, middle-aged little gentleman, clad in deep 
 black, stepped into the room. 
 
 "Silas Jaffrey,** said Mr. Sewell, with a comprehensive sweep 
 of his arm, picking up me and the new-comer on one fork, so to 
 speak. " Be acquainted ! ** 
 
 Mr. Jaffrey advanced briskly, and gave me his hand with 
 unlooked-for cordiality. He was a dapper little man, with a 
 head as round and nearly as bald as an orange, and not unlike 
 an orange in complexion, either; he had twinkling gray eyes and 
 a pronounced Roman nose, the numerous freckles upon which 
 were deepened by his funereal dress-coat and trousers. He 
 reminded me of Alfred de Musset's blackbird, which, with its 
 yellow beak and sombre plumage, looked like an undertaker 
 eating an omelet. 
 
 " Silas will take care of you, ** said Mr. Sewell, taking down 
 his hat from a peg behind the door. " I've got the cattle to look 
 after. Tell him if you want anything.** 
 
 While I ate my breakfast, Mr. Jaffrey hopped up and down 
 the narrow bar-room and chirped away as blithely as a bird on a 
 cherry-bough, occasionally ruffling with his fingers a slight fringe 
 of auburn hair which stood up pertly round his head and seemed 
 to possess a luminous quality of its own. /
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ^^y 
 
 « Don't I find it a little slow up here at the Comers? Not at 
 all, my dear sir. I am in the thick of life up here. So many- 
 interesting things going on all over the world — inventions, dis- 
 coveries, spirits, railroad disasters, mysterious homicides. Poets, 
 murderers, musicians, statesmen, distinguished travelers, prodi- 
 gies of all kinds turning up everywhere. Very few events or 
 persons escape me. I take six daily city papers, thirteen weekly 
 journals, all the monthly magazines, and two quarterlies. I 
 could not get along with less. I couldn't if you asked me. I 
 never feel lonely. How can I, being on intimate terms, as it 
 were, with thousands and thousands of people ? There's that 
 young woman out West. What an entertaining creature s/te 
 is! — now in Missouri, now in Indiana, and now in Minnesota, 
 always on the go, and all the time shedding needles from vari- 
 ous parts of her body as if she really enjoyed it ! Then there 's 
 that versatile patriarch who walks hundreds of miles and saws 
 thousands of feet of wood, before breakfast, and shows no signs 
 of giving out. Then there's that remarkable, one may say that 
 historical colored woman who knew Benjamin Franklin, and 
 fought at the battle of Bunk — no, it is the old negro man who 
 fought at Bunker Hill, a mere infant, of course, at that period. 
 Really, now, it is quite curious to observe how that venerable 
 female slave — formerly an African princess — is repeatedly dying 
 in her hundred and eleventh year, and coming to life again 
 punctually every six months in the small-type paragraphs. Are 
 you aware, sir, that within the last twelve years no fewer than 
 two hundred and eighty-seven of General Washington's colored 
 coachmen have died ? ** 
 
 For the soul of me I could not tell whether this quaint little 
 gentleman was chaffing me or not. I laid down my knife and 
 fork, and stared at him. 
 
 *^ Then there are the mathematicians ! * he cried vivaciously, 
 without waiting for a reply. " I take great interest in them. 
 Hear this ! ^^ and Mr. Jaffrey drew a newspaper from a pocket in 
 the tail of his coat, and read as follows: — "// /las been estimated 
 that if all the candles manufactured by this eminent firm ( Stear- 
 ine & Co.) rvere placed end to end, they would reach 2 and j-S 
 times around the globe. Of course,'^ continued Mr. Jaffrey, fold- 
 ing up the journal reflectively, ** abstruse calculations of this 
 kind are not, perhaps, of vital importance, but they indicate 
 the intellectual activity of the age. Seriously, now," he said, 
 I — 22
 
 338 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 halting in front of the table, "what with books and papers and 
 drives about the country, I do not find the days too long, 
 though I seldom see any one, except when I go over to 
 
 K for my mail. Existence may be very full to a man who 
 
 stands a little aside from the tumult and watches it with philo- 
 sophic eye. Possibly he may see more of the battle than those 
 who are in the midst of the action. Once I was struggling with 
 the crowd, as eager and undaunted as the best; perhaps I should 
 have been struggling still. Indeed, I know my life would have 
 been very different now if I had married Mehetabel — if I had 
 married Mehetabel.'^ 
 
 His vivacity was gone, a sudden cloud had come over his 
 bright face, his figure seemed to have collapsed, the light 
 seemed to have faded out of his hair. With a shuffling step, 
 the very antithesis of his brisk, elastic tread, he turned to the 
 door and passed into the road. 
 
 *^ Well, ^^ I said to myself, " if Greenton had forty thousand 
 inhabitants, it couldn't turn out a more astonishing old party 
 than that!" 
 
 11 
 
 THE CASE OF SILAS JAFFREY 
 
 A MAN with a passion for bric-a-brac is always stumbling over 
 antique bronzes, intaglios, mosaics, and daggers of the time of 
 Benvenuto Cellini; the bibliophile finds creamy vellum folios 
 and rare Alduses and Elzevirs waiting for him at unsuspected 
 bookstalls; the numismatist has but to stretch forth his palm 
 to have priceless coins drop into it. My own weakness is odd 
 people, and I am constantly encountering them. It was plain 
 that I had unearthed a couple of very queer specimens at 
 Bayley's Four-Corners. I saw that a fortnight afforded me too 
 brief an opportunity to develop the richness of both, and I 
 resolved to devote my spare time to Mr. Jaffrey alone, instinct' 
 ively recognizing in him an unfamiliar species. My professional 
 work in the vicinity of Greenton left my evenings and occas- 
 ionally an afternoon unoccupied; these intervals I purposed to 
 employ in studying and classifying my fellow-boarder. It was 
 necessary, as a preliminary step, to learn something of his 
 previous history, and to this end I addressed myself to Mr. 
 Sewell that same night.
 
 J'HOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 339 
 
 *I do not want to seem inquisitive, >^ I said to the landlord, 
 as he was fastening up the bar, which, by the way, was the 
 salle ci manger and general sitting-room — «I do not want to 
 seem inquisitive, but your friend Mr. Jaffrey dropped a remark 
 this morning at breakfast which — which was not altogether 
 clear to me.-** 
 
 "About Mehetabel?** asked Mr. Sewell, uneasily. 
 
 «Yes.» 
 
 «Well, I wish he wouldn't! » 
 
 <<He was friendly enough in the course of conversation to 
 hint to me that he had not married the young woman, and 
 seemed to regret it.** 
 
 "No, he didn't marry Mehetabel.** 
 
 "May I inquire why he didn't marry Mehetabel?** 
 
 "Never asked her. Might have married the girl forty times. 
 
 Old Elkins's- daughter, over at K . She 'd have had him 
 
 quick enough. Seven years, off and on, he kept company with 
 Mehetabel, and then she died.** 
 
 " And he never asked her ? ** 
 
 " He shilly-shallied. Perhaps he didn't think of it. When 
 she was dead and gone, then Silas was struck all of a heap — 
 and that 's all about it. ** 
 
 Obviously Mr. Sewell did not intend to tell me anything 
 more, and obviously there was more to tell. The topic was 
 plainly disagreeable to him for some reason or other, and that 
 unknown reason of course piqued my curiosity. 
 
 As I was absent from dinner and supper that day, I did not 
 meet Mr. Jaffrey again until the following morning at break- 
 fast. He had recovered his bird-like manner, and was full of 
 a mysterious assassination that had just taken place in New 
 York, all the thrilling details of which were at his fingers' ends. 
 It was at once comical and sad to see this harmless old gen- : 
 tleman, with his naive, benevolent countenance, and his thin " 
 hair flaming up in a semicircle, like the footlights at a theatre, 
 reveling in the intricacies of the unmentionable deed. 
 
 " You come up to my room to-night, ** he cried, with horrid 
 glee, "and I'll give you my theory of the murder. I'll make it 
 as clear as day to you that it was the detective himself who 
 fired the three pistol-shots.** 
 
 It was not so much the desire to have this point elucidated 
 as to make a closer study of Mr. Jaffrey that led me to accept
 
 340 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 his invitation. Mr. Jaffrey's bedroom was in an L of the 
 building, and was in no way noticeable except for the numer- 
 ous files of newspapers neatly arranged against the blank 
 spaces of the walls, and a huge pile of old magazines which 
 stood in one corner, reaching nearly up to the ceiling, and 
 threatening to topple over each instant, like the Leaning Tower 
 at Pisa. There were green paper shades at the windows, some 
 faded chintz valances about the bed, and two or three easy- 
 chairs covered with chintz On a black-walnut shelf between 
 the windows lay a choice collection of meerschaum and brier- 
 wood pipes. 
 
 Filling one of the chocolate-colored bowls for me and an- 
 other for himself, Mr. Jaffrey began prattling; but not about 
 the murder, which appeared to have flown out of his mind. In 
 fact, I do not remember that the topic was even touched upon, 
 either then or afterwards. 
 
 ^* Cozy nest this,'^ said Mr. Jaffrey, glancing complacently 
 over the apartment. "What is more cheerful, now, in the fall 
 of the year, than an open wood-fire ? Do you hear those little 
 chirps and twitters coming out of that piece of apple-wood ? 
 Those are the ghosts of the robins and bluebirds that sang 
 upon the bough when it was in blossom last spring. In sum- 
 mer whole flocks of them come fluttering about the fruit-trees 
 under the window: so I have singing birds all the year round. 
 I take it very easy here, I can tell you, summer and winter. 
 Not much society. Tobias is not, perhaps, what one would 
 term a great intellectual force, but he means well. He 's a 
 realist — believes in coming down to what he calls Hhe hardpan*; 
 but his heart is in the right place, and he's very kind to me. 
 The wisest thing I ever did in my life was to sell out my grain 
 
 business over at K , thirteen years ago, and settle down at 
 
 the Corners, When a man has made a competency, what does 
 he want more ? Besides, at that time an event occurred which 
 destroyed any ambition I may have had. Mehetabel died.* 
 
 " The lady you were engaged to ? * 
 
 "N-o, not precisely engaged. I think it was quite under- 
 stood between us, though nothing had been said on the subject. 
 Typhoid,* added Mr. Jaffrey, in a low voice. 
 
 For several minutes he smoked in silence, a vague, troubled 
 look playing over his countenance. Presently this passed away, 
 and he fixed his gray eyes speculatively upon my face.
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 341 
 
 *If I had married Mehetabel/^ said Mr. Jaffrey, slowly, and 
 then he hesitated. I blew a ring of smoke into the air, and, 
 resting my pipe on my knee, dropped into an attitude of 
 attention. ** If I had married Mehetabel, you know, we should 
 have had — ahem! — a family. ^^ 
 
 *Very likely," I assented, vastly amused at this unexpected 
 turn. 
 
 ** A Boy ! " exclaimed Mr. Jaffrey, explosively. 
 
 *' By all means, certainly, a son.** 
 
 " Great trouble about naming the boy. Mehetabel's family 
 want him named Elkanah Elkins, after her grandfather; I want 
 him named Andrew Jackson. We compromise by christening 
 him Elkanah Elkins Andrew Jackson Jaffrey. Rather a long 
 name for such a short little fellow," said Mr. Jaffrey, musingly. 
 
 **Andy isn't a bad nickname," I suggested. 
 
 ** Not at all. We call him Andy, in the family. Somewhat 
 fractious at first — colic and things. I suppose it is right, or it 
 wouldn't be so; but the usefulness of measles, mumps, croup, 
 whooping-cough, scarlatina, and fits is not clear to the parental 
 eye. I wish Andy would be a model infant, and dodge the 
 whole lot." 
 
 This saippositious child, born within the last few minutes, 
 was plainly assuming the proportions of a reality to Mr. Jaffrey, 
 I began to feel a little uncomfortable. I am, as I have said, a 
 civil engineer, and it is not strictly in my line to assist at the 
 births of infants, imaginary or otherwise. I pulled away vigor- 
 ously at the pipe, and said nothing. 
 
 "What large blue eyes he has," resumed Mr. Jaffrey, after 
 a pause; "just like Hetty's; and the fair hair, too, like hers. 
 How oddly certain distinctive features are handed down in 
 families! Sometimes a mouth, sometimes a turn of the eye- 
 brow. Wicked little boys over at K have now and then 
 
 derisively advised me to follow my nose. It would be an inter- 
 esting thing to do. I should find my nose flying about the 
 world, turning up unexpectedly here and there, dodging this 
 branch of the family and reappearing in that, now jumping 
 over one great-grandchild to fasten itself upon another, and 
 never losing its individuality. Look at Andy. There's Elkanah 
 Elkins's chin to the life. Andy's chin is probably older than 
 the Pyramids. Poor little thing," he cried, with sudden inde- 
 scribable tenderness, "to lose his mother so early!" And Mr,
 
 342 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 Jaffrey's head sunk upon his breast, and his shoulders slanted 
 forward, as if he were actually bending over the cradle of the 
 child. The whole gesture and attitude was so natural that it 
 startled me. The pipe slipped from my fingers and fell to the 
 floor. 
 
 **Hush!'* whispered Mr. Jaffrey, with a deprecating motion 
 of his hand, *^ Andy's asleep ! ^^ 
 
 He rose softly from the chair, and walking across the room 
 on tiptoe, drew down the shade at the window through which 
 the moonlight was streaming. Then he returned to his seat, 
 and remained gazing with half-closed eyes into the dropping 
 embers. 
 
 I refilled my pipe and smoked in profound silence, wonder- 
 ing what would come next. But nothing came next. Mr. 
 Jaffrey had fallen into so brown a study that, a quarter of an 
 hour afterwards, when I wished him good-night and withdrew, 
 I do not think he noticed my departure. 
 
 I am not what is called a man of imagination; it is my 
 habit to exclude most things not capable of mathematical 
 demonstration: but I am not without a certain psychological 
 insight, and I think I understood Mr. Jaffrey's case. I could 
 easily understand how a man with an unhealthy, sensitive 
 nature, overwhelmed by sudden calamity, might take refuge in 
 some forlorn place like this old tavern, and dream his life 
 away. To such a man — brooding forever on what might have 
 been, and dwelling wholly in the realm of his fancies — the 
 actual world might indeed become as a dream, and nothing 
 seem real but his illusions. I dare say that thirteen years of 
 Bayley's Four-Corners would have its effect upon me; though 
 instead of conjuring up golden-haired children of the Madonna, 
 I should probably see gnomes and kobolds, and goblins engaged 
 in hoisting false signals and misplacing switches for midnight 
 express trains. 
 
 *'No doubt,** I said to myself that night, as I lay in bed, 
 thinking over the matter, "this once possible but now impos- 
 sible child is a great comfort to the old gentleman, — a greater 
 comfort, perhaps, than a real son would be. Maybe Andy will 
 vanish with the shades and mists of night, he's such an unsub- 
 stantial infant; but if he doesn't, and Mr. Jaffrey finds pleasure 
 in talking to me about his son, I shall humor the old fellow. 
 It wouldn't be a Christian act to knock over his harmless fancy."
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ,43 
 
 I was very impatient to see if Mr. Jaffrey's illusion would 
 stand the test of daylight. It did. Elkanah Elkins Andrew 
 Jackson Jaffrey was, so to speak, alive and kicking the next 
 morning. On taking his seat at the breakfast-table, Mr. Jaffrey 
 whispered to me that Andy had had a comfortable night. 
 
 " Silas ! ^^ said Mr. Sewell, sharply, " what are you whispering 
 about ? ^> 
 
 Mr. Sewell was in an ill humor; perhaps he was jealous 
 because I had passed the evening in Mr. Jaffrey's room; but 
 surely Mr. Sewell could not expect his boarders to go to bed at 
 eight o'clock every night, as he did. From time to time during 
 the meal Mr. Sewell regarded me unkindly out of the corner of 
 his eye, and in helping me to the parsnips he poniarded them 
 with quite a suggestive air. All this, however, did not prevent 
 me from repairing to the door of Mr. Jaffrey's snuggery when 
 night came. 
 
 "Well, Mr. Jaffrey, how's Andy this evening?** 
 
 " Got a tooth ! ** cried Mr. Jaffrey, vivaciously. 
 
 «No!» 
 
 "Yes, he has! Just through. Give the nurse a silver dollar. 
 Standing reward for first tooth." 
 
 It was on the tip of my tongue to express surprise that an 
 infant a day old should cut a tooth, when I suddenly recollected 
 that Richard III. was bom with teeth. Feeling myself to be on 
 unfamiliar ground, I suppressed my criticism. It was well I 
 did so, for in the next breath I was advised that half a year 
 had elapsed since the previous evening. 
 
 "Andy's had a hard six months of it," said Mr. Jaffrey, with 
 the well-known narrative air of fathers. "We've brought him 
 up by hand. His grandfather, by the way, was brought up by 
 the bottle — " and brought down by it, too, I added mentally, 
 recalling Mr. Sewell's account of the old gentleman's tragic 
 end. 
 
 Mr. Jaffrey then went on to give me a history of Andy's 
 first six months, omitting no detail however insignificant or 
 irrelevant. This history I would in turn inflict upon the reader, 
 if I were only certain that he is one of those dreadful parents 
 who, under the aegis of friendship, bore you at a street-comer 
 with that remarkable thing which Freddy said the other day, 
 and insist on singing to you, at an evening party, the Iliad of 
 Tommy's woes.
 
 244 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 But to inflict this enfatitillage upon the unmarried reader 
 would be an act of wanton cruelty. So I pass over that part 
 of Andy's biography, and for the same reason make no record 
 of the next four or five interviews I had with Mr. Jaffrey. It 
 will be sufficient to state that Andy glided from extreme 
 infancy to early youth with astonishing celerity — at the rate 
 of one year per night, if I remember correctly; and — must I 
 confess it? — before the week came to an end, this invisible 
 hobgoblin of a boy was only little less of a reality to me than 
 to Mr. Jaffrey. 
 
 At first I had lent myself to the old dreamer's whim with a 
 keen perception of the humor of the thing; but by and by I 
 found that I was talking and thinking of Miss Mehetabel's son 
 as though he were a veritable personage. Mr. JafErey spoke of 
 the child with such an air of conviction ! — as if Andy were 
 playing among his toys in the next room, or making mud- 
 pies down in the yard. In these conversations, it should be 
 observed, the child was never supposed to be present, except 
 on that single occasion when Mr. Jaffrey leaned over the 
 cradle. After one of our seances I would lie awake until the 
 small hours, thinking of the boy, and then fall asleep only to 
 have indigestible dreams about him. Through the day, and 
 sometimes in the midst of complicated calculations, I would 
 catch myself wondering what Andy was up to now! There was 
 no shaking him off; he became an inseparable nightmare to me; 
 and I felt that if I remained much longer at Bayley's Four- 
 Corners I should turn into just such another bald-headed, mild- 
 eyed visionary as Silas Jaffrey. 
 
 Then the tavern was a grewsome old shell any Vv^ay, full of 
 unaccountable noises after dark — rustlings of garments along 
 unfrequented passages, and stealthy footfalls in unoccupied 
 chambers overhead. I never knew of an old house without 
 these mysterious noises. Next to my bedroom was a musty, 
 dismantled apartment, in one corner of which, leaning against 
 the wainscot, was a crippled mangle, with its iron crank tilted 
 in the air like the elbow of the late Mr. Clem Jaffrey. Some- 
 times, 
 
 ^^In the dead vast and middle of the night, *^ 
 
 I used to hear sounds as if some one were turning that rusty 
 prank on tli§ 3I7. Thi§ pccu.rr§{J pnl^ qr partig^ilarl/ cold
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH - .^ 
 
 nights, and I conceived the uncomfortable idea that it was the 
 thin family ghosts, from the neglected graveyard in the corn- 
 field, keeping themselves warm by running each other through 
 the mangle. There was a haunted air about the whole place 
 that made it easy for me to believe in the existence of a phan- 
 tasm like Miss Mehetabel's son, who, after all, was less un- 
 earthly than Mr. JafFrey himself, and seemed more properly an 
 inhabitant of this globe than the toothless ogre who kept the 
 inn, not to mention the silent Witch of Endor that cooked our 
 meals for us over the bar-room fire. 
 
 In spite of the scowls and winks bestowed upon me by Mr. 
 Sewell, who let slip no opportunity to testify his disapprobation 
 of the intimacy, Mr. Jaffrey and I spent all our evenings to- 
 gether — those long autumnal evenings, through the length of 
 which he talked about the boy, laying out his path in life and 
 hedging the path with roses. He should be sent to the High 
 School at Portsmouth, and then to college; he should be edu- 
 cated like a gentleman, Andy. 
 
 "When the old man dies,'^ remarked Mr. Jaffrey one night, 
 rubbing his hands gleefully, as if it were a great joke, " Andy 
 will find that the old man has left him a pretty plum." 
 
 " What do you think of having Andy enter West Point, when 
 he's old enough ? * said Mr. Jaffrey on another occasion. "He 
 needn't necessarily go into the army when he graduates; he can 
 become a civil engineer." 
 
 This was a stroke of flattery so delicate and indirect that 
 I could accept it without immodesty. 
 
 There had lately sprung up on the comer of Mr. Jaffrey's 
 bureau a small tin house, Gothic in architecture and pink in 
 color, with a slit in the roof, and the word Bank painted on 
 one fagade. Several times in the course of an evening Mr. 
 Jaffrey would rise from his chair without interrupting the con- 
 versation, and gravely drop a nickel into the scuttle of the 
 bank. It was pleasant to observe the solemnity of his counte- 
 nance as he approached the edifice, and the air of triumph with 
 which he resumed his seat by the fireplace. One night I missed 
 the tin bank. It had disappeared, deposits and all, like a real 
 bank. Evidently there had been a defalcation on rather a large 
 scale. I strongly suspected that Mr. Sewell was at the bottom 
 of it, but my suspicion was not shared by Mr. Jaffrey, who, 
 r^jijarking my glm^P at the bureau, became suddenly aepresse^.
 
 346 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 «rm afraid,'^ he said, <*that I have failed to instill into Andrew 
 those principles of integrity which — which — '^ and the old gen- 
 tleman quite broke down. 
 
 Andy was now eight or nine years old, and for some time 
 past, if the truth must be told, had given Mr. Jaffrey no incon- 
 siderable trouble; what with his impishness and his illnesses, the 
 boy led the pair of us a lively dance. I shall not soon forget 
 the anxiety of Mr. Jaffrey the night Andy had the scarlet-fever 
   — an anxiety which so infected me that I actually returned to 
 the tavern the following afternoon earlier than usual, dreading 
 to hear that the little spectre was dead, and greatly relieved on 
 meeting Mr. Jaffrey at the door-step with his face wreathed in 
 smiles. When I spoke to him of Andy, I was made aware that 
 I was inquiring into a case of scarlet-fever that had occurred 
 the year before! 
 
 It was at this time, towards the end of my second week at 
 Greenton, that I noticed what was probably not a new trait — • 
 Mr. Jaffrey's curious sensitiveness to atmospherical changes. He 
 was as sensitive as a barometer. The approach of a storm 
 sent his mercury down instantly. When the weather was fair 
 he was hopeful and sunny, and Andy's prospects were brilliant. 
 When the weather was overcast and threatening he grew rest- 
 less and despondent, and was afraid that the boy was not going 
 to turn out well. 
 
 On the Saturday previous to my departure, which had been 
 fixed for Monday, it rained heavily all the afternoon, and that 
 night Mr. Jaffrey was in an unusually excitable and unhappy 
 frame of mind. His mercury was very low indeed. 
 
 ^^That boy is going to the dogs just as fast as he can go,'* 
 said Mr. Jaffrey, with a woeful face. " I can't do anything with 
 him.» 
 
 ^^ He'll come out all right, Mr. Jaffrey. Boys will be boys. 
 I would not give a snap for a lad without animal spirits.'' 
 
 ^< But animal spirits," said Mr. Jaffrey sententiously, ^^ shouldn't 
 saw off the legs of the piano in Tobias's best parlor. I don't 
 know what Tobias will say when he finds it out." 
 
 " What ! has Andy sawed off the legs of the old spinet ? " I 
 returned, laughing. 
 
 « Worse than that." 
 
 ^^ Played upon it, then!" 
 
 "No, sir. He has lied to me!'*
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 347 
 
 *^I can't believe that of Andy.^^ 
 
 <*Lied to me, sir,^* repeated Mr. Jaffrey, severely. « He 
 pledged me his word of honor that he would give over his 
 climbing. The way that boy climbs sends a chill down my 
 spine. This morning, notwithstanding his solemn promise, he 
 shinned up the lightning-rod attached to the extension, and sat 
 astride the ridge-pole. I saw him, and he denied it! When a 
 boy you have caressed and indulged and lavished pocket-money 
 on lies to you and will climb, then there's nothing more to be 
 said. He's a lost child. ^^ 
 
 " You take too dark a view of it, Mr. Jaffrey. Training and 
 education are bound to tell in the end, and he has been well 
 brought up.^^ 
 
 *^ But I didn't bring him up on a lightning-rod, did I ? If 
 he is ever going to know how to behave, he ought to know 
 now. To-morrow he will be eleven years old.^^ 
 
 The reflection came to me that if Andy had not been 
 brought up by the rod, he had certainly been brought up by 
 the lightning. He was eleven years old in two weeks! 
 
 I essayed, with that perspicacious wisdom which seems to be 
 the peculiar property of bachelors and elderly maiden ladies, to 
 tranquillize Mr. Jaffrey's mind, and to give him some practical 
 hints on the management of youth. 
 
 " Spank him, '^ I suggested at last. 
 
 '■'• I will ! ^^ said the old gentleman. 
 
 *^And you'd better do it at once!*^ I added, as it flashed 
 upon me that in six months Andy would be a hundred and 
 forty-three years old!- — -an age at which parental discipline 
 would have to be relaxed. 
 
 The next morning, Sunday, the rain came down as if deter- 
 mined to drive the quicksilver entirely out of my poor friend. 
 Mr. Jaffrey sat bolt upright at the breakfast-table, looking as 
 woe-begone as a bust of Dante, and retired to his chamber the 
 moment the meal was finished. As the day advanced, the wind 
 veered round to the northeast, and settled itself down to work. 
 It was not pleasant to think, and I tried not to think, what 
 Mr. Jaffrey's condition would be if the weather did not mend 
 its manners by noon; but so far from clearing off at noon, the 
 storm increased in violence, and as night set in, the wind 
 whistled in a spiteful falsetto key, and the rain lashed the old 
 tavern as if it were a balky horse that refused to move on.
 
 348 
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 
 
 The windows rattled in the worm-eaten frames, and the doors 
 of remote rooms, where nobody ever went, slammed to in the 
 maddest way. Now and then the tornado, sweeping down the 
 side of Mount Agamenticus, bowled across the open country, and 
 struck the ancient hostelry point-blank. 
 
 Mr. Jaffrey did not appear at supper. I knew that he was 
 expecting me to come to his room as usual, and I turned over 
 in my mind a dozen plans to evade seeing him that night. The 
 landlord sat at the opposite side of the chimney-place, with his 
 eye upon me. I fancy he was aware of the effect of this storm 
 on his other boarder; for at intervals, as the wind hurled itself 
 against the exposed gable, threatening to burst in the windows, 
 Mr. Sewell tipped me an atrocious wink, and displayed his 
 gums in a way he had not done since the morning after my 
 arrival at Greenton. I wondered if he suspected anything about 
 Andy. There had been odd times during the past week when 
 I felt convinced that the existence of Miss Mehetabel's son was 
 no secret to Mr. Sewell. 
 
 In deference to the gale, the landlord sat up half an hour 
 later than was his custom. At half-past eight he went to 
 bed, remarking that he thought the old pile would stand till 
 morning. 
 
 He had been absent only a few minutes when I heard a 
 rustling at the door. I looked up, and beheld Mr. Jaffrey 
 standing on the threshold, with his dress in disorder, his scant 
 hair flying, and the wildest expression on his face. 
 
 "He's gone!^^ cried Mr. Jaffrey. 
 
 "Who? Sewell? Yes, he just went to bed.* 
 
 «No, not Tobias — the boy!» 
 
 * What, run away ? " 
 
 "No — he is dead! He has fallen from a step-ladder in the 
 red chamber and broken his neck ! * 
 
 Mr. Jaffrey threw up his hands with a gesture of despair, 
 and disappeared. I followed him through the hall, saw him go 
 into his own apartment, and heard the bolt of the door drawn 
 to. Then I returned to the bar-room, and sat for an hour or 
 two in the ruddy glow of the fire, brooding over the strange 
 experience of the last fortnight. 
 
 On my way to bed I paused at Mr. Jaffrey's door, and in 
 a lull of the storm, the measured respiration within told me 
 that the old gentleman was sleeping peacefully.
 
 THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH ^40 
 
 Slumber was coy with me that night. I lay listening to the 
 soughing of the wind, and thinking of Mr. Jaffrey's illusion. 
 It had amused me at first with its grotesqueness; but now the 
 poor little phantom was dead, I was conscious that there had 
 been something pathetic in it all along. Shortly after mid- 
 night the wind sunk down, coming and going fainter and 
 fainter, floating around the eaves of the tavern with an undulat- 
 ing, murmurous sound, as if it were turning itself into soft 
 wings to bear away the spirit of a little child. 
 
 Perhaps nothing that happened during my stay at Bayley's 
 Four-Corners took me so completely by surprise as Mr. Jaffrey's 
 radiant countenance the next morning. The morning itself was 
 not fresher or sunnier. His round face literally shone with 
 geniality and happiness. His eyes twinkled like diamonds, and 
 the magnetic light of his hair was turned on full. He came 
 into my room while I was packing my valise. He chirped, and 
 prattled, and caroled, and was sorry I was going away — but 
 never a word about Andy. However, the boy had probably 
 been dead several years then! 
 
 The open wagon that was to carry me to the station stood at 
 the door; Mr. Sewell was placing my case of instruments under 
 the seat, and Mr. Jaffrey had gone up to his room to get me a 
 certain newspaper containing an account of a remarkable ship- 
 wreck on the Auckland Islands. I took the opportunity to 
 thank Mr. Sewell for his courtesies to me, and to express my 
 regret at leaving him and Mr. Jaffrey. 
 
 «I have become very much attached to Mr. Jaffrey,** I said; 
 « he is a most interesting person; but that hypothetical boy of 
 his, that son of Miss Mehetabel's — ** 
 
 «Yes, I know!* interrupted Mr. Sewell, testily. *' Fell off a 
 step-ladder and broke his dratted neck. Eleven year old, wasn't 
 he? Always does, jest at that point. Next week Silas will 
 begin the whole thing over again, if he can get anybody to 
 
 listen to him.** 
 
 «I see. Our amiable friend is a little queer on that subject.** 
 Mr. Sewell glanced cautiously over his shoulder, and tapping 
 
 himself significantly on the forehead, said in a low voice,— 
 «Room To Let — Unfurnished!* 
 
 The foregoing selections are copyrighted, and are reprinted by permission of 
 the author, and Hovighton, Mifflin & Co., publishers
 
 35° 
 
 ALEARDO ALEARDl 
 
 (1812-1878) 
 
 |he Italian patriot and poet, Aleardo Aleardi, was born in the 
 village of San Giorgio, near Verona, on November 4tli, 18 12. 
 He passed his boyhood on his father's farm, amid the 
 grand scenery of the valley of the Adige, which deeply impressed 
 itself on his youthful imagination and left its traces in all his verse. 
 He went to school at Verona, where for his dullness he was nick- 
 named the «mole,'* and afterwards he passed on to the University of 
 Padua to study law, apparently to please his father, for in the 
 charming autobiography prefixed to his collected poems he quotes 
 his father as saying: — <^ My son, be not enamored of this coquette, 
 Poesy; for with all her airs of a great lady, she will play thee some 
 trick of a faithless grisette. Choose a good companion, as one might 
 say, for instance the law: and thou wilt found a family; wilt par- 
 take of God's bounties; wilt be content in life, and die quietly and 
 happily. ^^ In addition to satisfying his father, the young poet also 
 wrote at Padua his first political poems. And this brought him 
 into slight conflict with the authorities. He practiced law for a 
 short time at Verona, and wrote his first long poem, *■ Arnaldo, * pub- 
 lished in 1842, which was very favorably received. When six years 
 later the new Venetian republic came into being, Aleardi was sent 
 to represent its interests at Paris. The speedy overthrow of the new 
 State brought the young ambassador home again, and for the next 
 ten years he worked for Italian unity and freedom. He was twice 
 imprisoned, at Mantua in 1852, and again in 1859 at Verona, where 
 he died April 17th, 1878. 
 
 Like most of the Italian poets of this century, Aleardi found his 
 chief inspiration in the exciting events that marked the struggle of 
 Italy for independence, and his best work antedated the peace of 
 Villafranca. His first serious effort was *■ Le Prime Storie ^ (The Pri- 
 mal Histories), written in 1845. In this he traces the story of the 
 human race from the creation through the Scriptural, classical, and 
 feudal periods down to the present century, and closes with fore- 
 shadowings of a peaceful and happy future. It is picturesque, full of 
 lofty imagery and brilliant descriptive passages. 
 
 ^ Una Ora della mia Giovinezza^ (An Hour of My Youth: 1858) 
 recounts many of his youthful trials and disappointments as a patriot. 
 Like the < Primal Histories,^ this poem is largely contemplative and 
 philosophical, and shines by the same splendid diction and luxuri- 
 ous imagery; but it is less wide-reaching in its interests and more
 
 ALEARDO ALEARDI 
 
 351 
 
 Specific in its appeal to his own countrymen. And from this time 
 onward the patriotic qualities in Aleardi's poetry predominate, and 
 his themes become more and more exclusively Italian. The < Monte 
 Circello> sings the glories and events of the Italian land and history, 
 and successfully presents many facts of science in poetic form, while 
 the singer passionately laments the present condition of Italy. In 
 < Le Citta Italiane Marinore e Commercianti > (The Marine and Com- 
 mercial Cities of Italy) the story of the rise, flourishing, and fall of 
 Venice, Florence, Pisa, and Genoa is recounted. His other note- 
 worthy poems are < Rafaello e la Fornarina,> < Le Tre Fiume > (The 
 Three Rivers), ' Le Tre Fanciulle > (The Three Maidens: 1858), <I Sette 
 Soldati> (The Seven Soldiers: 1859), and < Canto Politico > (Political 
 Songs: 1862). 
 
 A slender volume of five hundred pages contains all that Aleardi 
 has written. Yet he is one of the chief minor Italian poets of this 
 century, because of his loftiness of purpose and felicity of expression, 
 his tenderness of feeling, and his deep sympathies with his struggling 
 country. 
 
 «He has,*^ observes Howells in his ^Modern Italian Poets, > "in 
 greater degree than any other Italian poet of this, or perhaps of any 
 age, those merits which our English taste of this time demands, — 
 quickness of feeling and brilliancy of expression. He lacks simplicity 
 of idea, and his style is an opal which takes all lights and hues, 
 rather than the crystal which lets the daylight colorlessly through. 
 He is distinguished no less by the themes he selects than by the 
 expression he gives them. In his poetry there is passion, but his 
 subjects are usually those to which love is accessory rather than 
 essential; and he cares better to sing of universal and national des- 
 tinies as they concern individuals, than the raptures and anguishes 
 of youthful individuals as they concern mankind. '^ He was original 
 in his way; his attitude toward both the classic and the romantic 
 schools is shown in the following passage from his autobiography, 
 which at the same time brings out his patriotism. He says: — 
 
 « It seemed to me strange, on the one hand, that people who, in their 
 serious moments and in the recesses of their hearts, invoked Christ, should 
 in the recesses of their minds, in the deep excitement of poetry, persist in 
 invoking Apollo and Pallas Minerva. It seemed to me strange, on the other 
 hand, that people born in Italy, with this sun, with these nights, with so 
 many glories, so many griefs, so many hopes at home, should have the mania 
 of singing the mists of Scandinavia, and the Sabbaths of witches, and 
 should go mad for a gloomy and dead feudalism, which had come from the 
 North, the highway of our misfortunes. It seemed to me, moreover, that 
 every Art of Poetry was marvelously useless, and that certain rules were 
 mummies embalmed by the hand of pedants. In fine, it seemed to me that 
 there were two kicds of Art: the one, serene vnth an OljTupic serenity, the
 
 352 ALEARDO ALEARDI 
 
 Art of all ages that belongs to no country; the other, more impassionecl, that 
 has its roots in one's native soil. . . . The first that of Homer, of Phidias, 
 of Virgil, of Tasso; the other that of the Prophets, of Dante, of Shakespeare, 
 of Byron. And I have tried to cling to this last, because I was pleased to 
 see how these great men take the clay of their own land and their own time, 
 and model from it a living statue, which resembles their contemporaries. » 
 
 In another interesting passage he explains that his old drawing- 
 master had in vain pleaded with the father to make his son a painter, 
 and he continues: — 
 
 «Not being allowed to use the pencil, I have used the pen. And pre- 
 cisely on this account my pen resembles too much a pencil ; precisely on this 
 account I am often too much of a naturalist, and am too fond of losing 
 myself in minute details. I am as one who in walking goes leisurely along, 
 and stops every minute to observe the dash of light that breaks through the 
 trees of the woods, the insect that alights on his hand, the leaf that falls on 
 his head, a cloud, a wave, a streak of smoke; in fine, the thousand accidents 
 that make creation so rich, so various, so poetical, and beyond which we ever- 
 more catch glimpses of that grand mysterious something, eternal, immense, 
 benignant, and never inhuman nor cruel, as some would have us believe, 
 which is called God.» 
 
 The selections are from Howells's < Modem Italian Poets,> copyright 1887, by 
 
 Harper and Brothers 
 
 COWARDS 
 
 IN THE deep circle of Siddim hast thou seen, 
 Under the shining skies of Palestine, 
 The sinister glitter of the Lake of Asphalt? 
 Those coasts, strewn thick with ashes of damnation. 
 Forever foe to every living thing. 
 Where rings the cry of the lost wandering bird 
 That on the shore of the perfidious sea 
 Athirsting dies, — that watery sepulchre 
 Of the five cities of iniquity, 
 
 Where even the tempest, when its clouds hang low. 
 Passes in silence, and the lightning dies, — 
 If thou hast seen them, bitterly hath been 
 Thy heart wrung with the misery and despair 
 Of that dread vision! 
 
 Yet there is on earth 
 A woe more desperate and miserable, — 
 A spectacle wherein the wrath of God 
 Avenges Him more terribly. It is 
 A vain, weak people of faint-heart old men, 
 That, for three hundred years of dull repose,
 
 ALEARDO ALEARDI 353 
 
 Has lain perpetual dreamer, folded in 
 The ragged purple of its ancestors, 
 Stretching its limbs wide in its country's sun, 
 To warm them; drinking the soft airs of autumn 
 Forgetful, on the fields where its forefathers 
 Like lions fought! From overflowing hands, 
 Strew we with hellebore and poppies thick 
 The way. 
 
 From <The Primal Historie8.> 
 
 THE HARVESTERS 
 
 WHAT time in summer, sad with so much light. 
 The sun beats ceaselessly upon the fields; 
 The harvesters, as famine urges them. 
 Draw hitherward in thousands, and they wear 
 The look of those that dolorously go 
 In exile, and already their brown eyes 
 Are heavy with the poison of the air. 
 Here never note of amorous bird consoles 
 Their drooping hearts; here never the gay songs 
 Of their Abruzzi sound to gladden these 
 Pathetic hands. But taciturn they toil. 
 Reaping the harvests for their unknown lords; 
 And when the weary labor is performed. 
 Taciturn they retire; and not till then 
 Their bagpipes crown the joys of the return. 
 Swelling the heart with their familiar strain. 
 Alas! not all return, for there is one 
 That dying in the furrow sits, and seeks 
 With his last look some faithful kinsman out. 
 To give his life's wage, that he carry it 
 Unto his trembling mother, with the last 
 Words of her son that comes no more. And dying, 
 Deserted and alone, far off he hears 
 His comrades going, with their pipes in time, 
 Joyfully measuring their homeward steps. 
 And when in after years an orphan comes 
 To reap the harvest here, and feels his blade 
 Go quivering through the swaths of falling grain, 
 He weeps and thinks — haply these heavy stalks 
 Ripened on his unburied father's bones. 
 
 From < Monte Circello.^ 
 
 y-23
 
 354 
 
 ALEARDO ALEARDI 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE YEAR 
 
 ERE yet upon the unhappy Arctic lands, 
 In dying autumn, Erebus descends 
 With the night's thousand hours, along the verge 
 Of the horizon, like a fugitive, 
 Through the long days wanders the weary sun; 
 And when at last under the wave is quenched 
 The last gleam of its golden countenance, 
 Interminable twilight land and sea 
 Discolors, and the north wind covers deep 
 All things in snow, as in their sepulchres 
 The dead are buried. In the distances 
 The shock of warring Cyclades of ice 
 Makes music as of wild and strange lament; 
 And up in heaven now tardily are lit 
 The solitary polar star and seven 
 Lamps of the bear. And now the warlike race 
 Of swans gather their hosts upon the breast 
 Of some far gulf, and, bidding their farewell 
 To the white cliffs and slender junipers. 
 And sea-weed bridal-beds, intone the song 
 Of parting, and a sad metallic clang 
 Send through the mists. Upon their southward way 
 They greet the beryl-tinted icebergs; greet 
 Flamy volcanoes and the seething founts 
 Of geysers, and the melancholy yellow 
 Of the Icelandic fields; and, wearying 
 Their lily wings amid the boreal lights, 
 Journey away unto the joyous shores 
 
 Of morning. 
 
 From <An Hour of My Youth.>
 
 355 
 
 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT 
 
 (1717-1783) 
 
 [ean LE RoND D'ALEMBERT, one of the most noted of the 
 "Encyclopedists,'^ a mathematician of the first order, and 
 an eminent man of letters, was born at Paris in 17 17. The 
 unacknowleged son of the Chevalier Destouches and of Mme. de Ten- 
 cin, he had been exposed on the steps of the chapel St. Jean-le-Rond, 
 near Notre-Dame. He was named after the place where he was 
 found; the surname of D'Alembert being added by himself in later 
 years. He was given into the care of the wife of a glazier, who 
 brought him up tenderly and whom he 
 never ceased to venerate as his true 
 mother. His anonymous father, however, 
 partly supported him by an annual in- 
 come of twelve hundred francs. He was 
 educated at the college Mazarin, and sur- 
 prised his Jansenist teachers by his brill- i^ 
 iance and precocity. They believed him 
 to be a second Pascal; and, doubtless to 
 complete the analogy, drew his attention 
 away from his theological studies to ge- 
 ometry. But they calculated without their 
 host; for the young student suddenly 
 found out his genius, and mathematics 
 and the exact sciences henceforth became 
 
 his absorbing interests. He studied successively law and medicine, 
 but finding no satisfaction in either of these professions, with the 
 true instincts of the scholar he chose poverty with liberty to pur- 
 sue the studies he loved. He astonished the scientific world by his 
 first published works, < Memoir on the Integral Calculus* (i739) and 
 <0n the Refraction of Solid Bodies > (1741); and while not yet twenty- 
 four years old, the brilliant young mathematician was made a member 
 of the French Academy of Sciences. In 1754 he entered the Acade- 
 mic Frangaise, and eighteen years later became its perpetual secretary. 
 D'Alembert wrote many and important works on physics and 
 mathematics. One of these, < Memoir on the General Cause of 
 Winds, > carried away a prize from the Academy of Sciences of 
 Berlin, in 1746, and its dedication to Frederick II. of Prussia won him 
 the friendship of that monarch. But his claims to a place in French 
 literature, leaving aside his eulogies on members of the French 
 
 D'Alembert.
 
 2^6 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT 
 
 Academy deceased between 1700 and 1772, are based chiefly on his 
 writings in connection with the < Encyclopedic.* Associated with 
 Diderot in this vast enterprise, he was at first, because of his 
 eminent position in the scientific world, its director and official head. 
 He contributed a large number of scientific and philosophic articles, 
 and took entire charge of the revising of the mathematical division. 
 His most noteworthy contribution, however, is the < Preliminary Dis- 
 course,* prefixed as a general introduction and explanation of the 
 work. In this he traced with wonderful clearness and logical pre- 
 cision the successive steps of the human mind in its search after 
 knowledge, and basing his conclusion on the historical evolution of the 
 race, he sketched in broad outlines the development of the sciences 
 and arts. In 1758 he withdrew from the active direction of the 
 * Encyclopedic,* that he might free himself from the annoyance of gov- 
 ernmental interference, to which the work was constantly subjected 
 because of the skeptical tendencies it evinced. But he continued to 
 contribute mathematical articles, with a few on other topics. One of 
 these, on < Geneva,* involved him in his celebrated dispute with Rous- 
 seau and other radicals in regard to Calvinism and the suppression 
 of theatrical performances in the stronghold of Swiss orthodoxy. 
 
 His fame was spreading over Europe. Frederick the Great of 
 Prussia repeatedly offered him the presidency of the Academy of 
 Sciences of Berlin. But he refused, as he also declined the magnifi- 
 cent offer of Catherine of Russia to become tutor to her son, at a 
 yearly salary of a hundred thousand francs. Pope Benedict XIV. 
 honored him by recommending him to the membership of the Insti- 
 tute of Bologne; and the high esteem in which he was held in Eng- 
 land is shown by the legacy of ^200 left him by David Hume. 
 
 All these honors and distinctions did not affect the simplicity of 
 his life, for during thirty years he continued to reside in the pool 
 and incommodious quarters of his foster-mother, whom he partly 
 supported out of his small income. Ill health at last drove him to 
 seek better accommodations. He had formed a romantic attachment 
 for Mademoiselle de I'Espinasse, and lived with her in the same 
 house for years unscandaled. Her death in 1776 plunged him into 
 profound grief. He died nine years later, on the 9th of October, 1783. 
 
 His manner was plain and at times almost rude; he had great 
 independence of character, but also much simplicity and benevolence. 
 With the other French deists, D'Alembert has been attacked for his 
 religious opinions, but with injustice. He was prudent in the public 
 expression of them, as the time necessitated ; but he makes the freest 
 statement of them in his correspondence with Voltaire. His literary 
 and philosopic works were edited by Bassange (Paris, 1891), Condor- 
 cet, in his * Eulogy,* gives the best account of his life and writings.
 
 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT ^.^ 
 
 MONTESQUIEU 
 From the Eulogy published in the < Encyclopedia > 
 
 THESE particulars [of Montesquieu's genealogy] may seem su- 
 perfluous in the eulogy of a philosopher who stands so lit- 
 tle in need of ancestors; but at least we may adorn their 
 memory with that lustre which his name reflects upon it. 
 
 The early promise of his genius was fulfilled in Charles de 
 Secondat. He discovered very soon what he desired to be, and 
 his father cultivated this rising genius, the object of his hope 
 and of his tenderness. At the age of twenty, young Montesquieu 
 had already prepared materials for the * Spirit of Laws,^ by a well- 
 digested extract from the immense body of the civil law; as New- 
 ton had laid in early youth the foundation of his immortal works. 
 The study of jurisprudence, however, though less dry to M. de 
 Montesquieu than to most who attempt it, because he studied it 
 as a philosopher, did not content him. He inquired deeply into 
 the subjects which pertain to religion, and considered them with 
 that wisdom, decency, and equity, which characterize his work. 
 
 A brother of his father, perpetual president of the Parliament 
 of Bordeaux, an able judge and virtuous citizen, the oracle of his 
 own society and of his province, having lost an only son, left his 
 fortune and his office to M. de Montesquieu. 
 
 Some years after, in 1722, during the king's minority, his 
 society employed him to present remonstrances upon occasion of 
 a new impost. Placed between the throne and the people, like a 
 respectful subject and courageous magistrate he brought the cry 
 of the wretched to the ears of the sovereign — a cry which, being 
 heard, obtained justice. Unfortunately, this success was momentary. 
 Scarce was the popular voice silenced before the suppressed tax 
 was replaced by another; but the good citizen had done his duty. 
 
 He was received the 3d of April, 17 16, into the new academy 
 of Bordeaux. A taste for music and entertainment had at first 
 assembled its members. M. de Montesquieu believed that the 
 talents of his friends might be better employed in physical sub- 
 jects. He was persuaded that nature, worthy of being beheld 
 everywhere, could find everywhere eyes worthy to behold her; 
 while it was impossible to gather together, at a distance from 
 the metropolis, distinguished writers on works of taste. He 
 looked upon our provincial societies for belles-lettres as a shadow 
 of literature which obscures the reality. The Duke de la Force, 
 by a prize which he founded at Bordeaux, seconded these rational
 
 3-8 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT 
 
 views. It was decided that a good physical experiment would be 
 better than a weak discourse or a bad poem; and Bordeaux got 
 an Academy of Sciences. 
 
 M. de Montesquieu, careless of reputation, wrote little. It 
 was not till 172 1, that is to say, at thirty-two years of age, that 
 he published the < Persian Letters. * The description of Oriental 
 manners, real or supposed, is the least important thing in these 
 letters. It serves merely as a pretense for a delicate satire upon 
 our own customs and for the concealment of a serious intention. 
 In this moving picture, Usbec chiefly exposes, with as much ease 
 as energy, whatever among us most struck his penetrating eyes: 
 our way of treating the silliest things seriously, and of laughing 
 at the most important; our way of talking which is at once so 
 blustering and so frivolous; our impatience even in the midst of 
 pleasure itself; our prejudices and our actions that perpetually 
 contradict our understandings; our great love of glory and respect 
 for the idol of court favor, our little real pride; our courtiers so 
 mean and vain; our exterior politeness to, and our real contempt 
 of strangers; our fantastical tastes, than which there is nothing 
 lower but the eagerness of all Europe to adopt them; our bar- 
 barous disdain for the two most respectable occupations of a 
 citizen — commerce and magistracy; our literary disputes, so keen 
 and so useless; our rage for writing before we think, and for 
 judging before we understand. To this picture he opposes, in 
 the apologue of the Troglodytes, the description of a virtuous 
 people, become wise by misfortunes — a piece worthy of the por- 
 tico. In another place, he represents philosophy, long silenced, 
 suddenly reappearing, regaining rapidly the time which she had 
 lost; penetrating even among the Russians at the voice of a 
 genius which invites her; while among other people of Europe, 
 superstition, like a thick atmosphere, prevents the all-surrounding 
 light from reaching them. Finally, by his review of ancient and 
 modern government, he presents us with the bud of those bright 
 ideas since fully developed in his great work. 
 
 These different subjects, no longer novel, as when the ^ Persian 
 Letters^ first appeared, will forever remain original — a merit the 
 more real that it proceeds alone from the genius of the writer; 
 for Usbec acquired, during his abode in France, so perfect a 
 knowledge of our morals, and so strong a tincture of our man- 
 ners, that his style makes us forget his country. This small 
 solecism was perhaps not unintentional. While exposing our fol- 
 lies and vices, he meant, no doubt, to do justice to our merits.
 
 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT 
 
 Avoiding the insipidity of a direct panegyric, he has more deli- 
 cately praised us by assuming our own air in professed satire. 
 
 Notwithstanding the success of his work, M. de Montesquieu 
 did not acknowledge it. Perhaps he wished to escape criticism. 
 Perhaps he wished to avoid a contrast of the frivohty of the 
 < Persian Letters > with the gravity of his office; a sort of reproach 
 which critics never fail to make, because it requires no sort of 
 effort. But his secret was discovered, and the public suggested 
 his name for the Academy. The event justified M. de Montes- 
 quieu's silence. Usbec expresses himself freely, not concerning 
 the fundamentals of Christianity, but about matters which people 
 affect to confound with Christianity itself: about the spirit of 
 persecution which has animated so many Christians; about the 
 temporal usurpation of ecclesiastical power; about the excessive 
 multiplication of monasteries, which deprive the State of subjects 
 without giving worshipers to God; about some opinions which 
 would fain be established as principles; about our religious dis- 
 putes, always violent and often fatal. If he appears anywhere to 
 touch upon questions more vital to Christianity itself, his reflec- 
 tions are in fact favorable to revelation, because he shows how 
 little human reason, left to itself, knows. 
 
 Among the genuine letters of M. de Montesquieu the foreign 
 printer had inserted some by another hand. Before the author 
 was condemned, these should have been thrown out. Regardless 
 of these considerations, hatred masquerading as zeal, and zeal 
 without understanding, rose and united themselves against the 
 *■ Persian Letters. •* Informers, a species of men dangerous and 
 base, alarmed the piety of the ministry. M. de Montesquieu, 
 urged by his friends, supported by the public voice, having 
 offered himself for the vacant place of M. de Sacy in the French 
 Academy, the minister wrote ^^ The Forty ^^ that his Majesty would 
 never accept the election of the author of the ^Persian Letters*; 
 that he had not, indeed, read the book, but that persons in whom 
 he placed confidence had informed him of its poisonous tendency. 
 M. de Montesquieu saw what a blow such an accusation might 
 prove to his person, his family, and his tranquillity. He neither 
 sought literary honors nor affected to disdain them when they 
 came in his way, nor did he regard the lack of them as a misfor- 
 tune: but a perpetual exclusion, and the motives of that exclus- 
 ion, appeared to him to be an injury. He saw the minister, and 
 explained that though he did not acknowledge the < Persian Let- 
 ters.* he would not disown a work for which he had no reason to
 
 360 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT 
 
 blush; and that he ought to be judged upon its contents, and not 
 upon mere hearsay. At last the minister read the book, loved 
 the author, and learned wisdom as to his advisers. The French 
 Academy obtained one of its greatest ornaments, and France had 
 the happiness to keep a subject whom superstition or calumny 
 had nearly deprived her of; for M. de Montesquieu had declared 
 to the government that, after the affront they proposed, he would 
 go among foreigners in quest of that safety, that repose, and per- 
 haps those rewards which he might reasonably have expected in 
 his own country. The nation would really have deplored his loss, 
 while yet the disgrace of it must have fallen upon her. 
 
 M. de Montesquieu was received the 24th of January, 1728. 
 His oration is one of the best ever pronounced here. Among 
 many admirable passages which shine out in its pages is the deep- 
 thinking writer's characterization of Cardinal Richelieu, ^* who 
 taught France the secret of its strength, and Spain that of its 
 weakness; who freed Germany from her chains and gave her new 
 ones. ** 
 
 The new Academician was the worthier of this title, that he 
 had renounced all other employments to give himself entirely up 
 to his genius and his taste. However important was his place, he 
 perceived that a different work must employ his talents; that the 
 citizen is accountable to his country and to mankind for all the 
 good he may do; and that he could be more useful by his writ- 
 ings than by settling obscure legal disputes. He was no longer 
 a magistrate, but only a man of letters. 
 
 But that his works should serve other nations, it was neces- 
 sary that he should travel, his aim being to examine the natural 
 and moral world, to study the laws and constitution of every 
 country; to visit scholars, writers, artists, and everywhere to seek 
 for those rare men whose conversation sometimes supplies the 
 place of years of observation. M. de Montesquieu might have 
 said, like Democritus, " I have forgot nothing to instruct myself ; 
 I have quitted my country and traveled over the universe, the 
 better to know truth; I have seen all the illustrious personages of 
 my time.^^ But there was this difference between the French 
 Democritus and him of Abdera, that the first traveled to instruct 
 men, and the second to laugh at them. 
 
 He went first to Vienna, where he often saw the celebrated 
 Prince Eugene. This hero, so fatal to France (to which he 
 might have been so useful), after having checked the advance of 
 Louis XIV. and humbled the Ottoman pride, lived without pomp,
 
 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT ,6l 
 
 loving and cultivating letters in a court where they are little 
 honored, and showing his masters how to protect them. 
 
 Leaving Vienna, the traveler visited Hungary, an opulent and 
 fertile country, inhabited by a haughty and generous nation, the 
 scourge of its tyrants and the support of its sovereigns. As few 
 persons know this country well, he has written with care this 
 part of his travels. 
 
 From Germany he went to Italy. At Venice he met the 
 famous Mr. Law, of whose former grandeur nothing remained 
 but projects fortunately destined to die away unorganized, and a 
 diamond which he pawned to play at games of hazard. One day 
 the conversation turned on the famous system which Law had 
 invented; the source of so many calamities, so many colossal for- 
 tunes, and so remarkable a corruption in our morals. As the Par- 
 liament of Paris had made some resistance to the Scotch minister 
 on this occasion, M. de Montesquieu asked him why he had never 
 tried to overcome this resistance by a method almost always 
 infallible in England, by the grand mover of human actions — in 
 a word, by money. " These are not, '^ answered Law, ^* geniuses so 
 ardent and so generous as my countrymen; but they are much 
 more incorruptible.^^ It is certainly true that a society which is 
 free for a limited time ought to resist corruption more than one 
 which is always free: the first, when it sells its liberty, loses it; 
 the second, so to speak, only lends it, and exercises it even when 
 it is thus parting with it. Thus the circumstances and nature of 
 government give rise to the vices and virtues of nations. 
 
 Another person, no less famous, whom M. de Montesquieu saw 
 still oftener at Venice, was Count de Bonneval. This man, so 
 well known for his adventures, which were not yet at an end, 
 delighted to converse with so good a judge and so excellent a 
 hearer, often related to him the military actions in which he had 
 been engaged, and the remarkable circumstances of his life, and 
 drew the characters of generals and ministers whom he had 
 known. 
 
 He went from Venice to Rome. In this ancient capital of 
 the world he studied the works of Raphael, of Titian, and of 
 Michael Angelo. Accustomed to study nature, he knew her when 
 she was translated, as a faithful portrait appeals to all who are 
 familiar with the original. 
 
 After having traveled over Italy, M. de Montesquieu came to 
 Switzerland and studied those vast countries which are watered
 
 ^ 
 
 52 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT 
 
 by the Rhine. There was the less for him to see in Germany 
 that Frederick did not yet reign. In the United Provinces he 
 beheld an admirable monument of what human industry animated 
 by a love of liberty can do. In England he stayed three years. 
 Welcomed by the greatest men, he had nothing to regret save 
 that he had not made his journey sooner. Newton and Locke 
 were dead. But he had often the honor of paying his respects to 
 their patroness, the celebrated Queen of England, who cultivated 
 philosophy upon a throne, and who properly esteemed and val- 
 ued M. de Montesquieu. Nor was he less well received by the 
 nation. At London he formed intimate friendships with the 
 great thinkers. With them he studied the nature of the govern- 
 ment, attaining profound knowledge of it. 
 
 As he had set out neither as an enthusiast nor a cynic, he 
 brought back neither a disdain for foreigners nor a contempt for 
 his own country. It was the result of his observations that Ger- 
 many was made to travel in, Italy to sojourn in, England to think 
 in, and France to live in. 
 
 After returning to his own country, M. de Montesquieu retired 
 for two years to his estate of La Brede, enjoying that solitude 
 which a life in the tumult and hurry of the world but makes the 
 more agreeable. He lived with himself, after having so long 
 lived with others; and finished his work * On the Cause of the 
 Grandeur and Decline of the Romans,^ which appeared in 1734. 
 
 Empires, like men, must increase, decay, and be extinguished. 
 But this necessary revolution may have hidden causes which the 
 veil of time conceals from us. 
 
 Nothing in this respect more resembles modern history than 
 ancient history. That of the Romans must, however, be excepted. 
 It presents us with a rational policy, a connected system of ag- 
 grandizement, which will not permit us to attribute the great for- 
 tune of this people to obscure and inferior sources. The causes of 
 the Roman grandeur may then be found in history, and it is the 
 business of the philosopher to discover them. Besides, there are 
 no systems in this study, as in that of physics, which are easily 
 overthrown, because one new and unforeseen experiment can 
 upset them in an instant. On the contrary, when we carefully 
 collect the facts, if we do not always gather together all the 
 desired materials, we may at least hope one day to obtain more. 
 A great historian combines in the most perfect manner these 
 defective materials. His merit is like that of an architect, who.
 
 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT 
 
 363 
 
 from a few remains, traces the plan of an ancient edifice; supply- 
 ing, by genius and happy conjectures, what was wanting in fact. 
 
 It is from this point of view that we ought to consider the 
 work of M. de Montesquieu. He finds the causes of the grandeur 
 of the Romans in that love of liberty, of labor, and of countr}% 
 which was instilled into them during their infancy; in those 
 intestine divisions which gave an activity to their genius, and 
 which ceased immediately upon the appearance of an enemy; in 
 that constancy after misfortimes, which never despaired of the 
 republic; in that principle they adhered to of never making peace 
 but after victories; in the honor of a triumph, which was a sub- 
 ject of emulation among the generals; in that protection which 
 they granted to those peoples who rebelled against their kings; 
 in the excellent policy of permitting the conquered to preserve 
 their religion and customs; and the equally excellent determina- 
 tion never to have two enemies upon their hands at once, but to 
 bear everything from the one till they had destroyed the other. 
 He finds the causes of their declension in the aggrandizement of 
 the State itself: in those distant wars, which, obliging the citizens 
 to be too long absent, made them insensibly lose their republican 
 spirit; in the too easily granted privilege of being citizens of 
 Rome, which made the Roman people at last become a sort of 
 many-headed monster; in the corruption introduced by the luxury 
 of Asia; in the proscriptions of Sylla, which debased the genius 
 of the nation, and prepared it for slavery; in the necessity of 
 having a master while their liberty was become burdensome to 
 them; in the necessity of changing their maxims when they 
 changed their government; in that series of monsters who 
 reigned, almost without interruption, from Tiberius to Nerva, 
 and from Commodus to Constantine; lastly, in the translation 
 and division of the empire, which perished first in the West 
 by the power of barbarians, and after having languished in the 
 East, under weak or cruel emperors, insensibly died away, like 
 those rivers which disappear in the sands. 
 
 In a very small volume M. de Montesquieu explained and 
 unfolded his picture. Avoiding detail, and seizing only essentials, 
 he has included in a very small space a vast number of objects 
 distinctly perceived, and rapidly presented, without fatiguing the 
 reader. While he points out much, he leaves us still more to 
 reflect upon; and he might have entitled his book, <A Roman 
 History for the Use of Statesmen and Philosophers. >
 
 ,64 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT 
 
 Whatever reputation M. de Montesquieu had thus far acquired, 
 he had but cleared the way for a far grander undertaking — for 
 that which ought to immortahze his name, and commend it to 
 the admiration of future ages. He had meditated for twenty 
 years upon its execution; or, to speak more exactly, his whole 
 life had been a perpetual meditation upon it. He had made 
 himself in some sort a stranger in his own country, the better to 
 understand it. He had studied profoundly the different peoples 
 of Europe. The famous island, which so glories in her laws, and 
 which makes so bad a use of them, proved to him what Crete 
 had been to Lycurgus — a school where he learned much without 
 approving everything. Thus he attained by degrees to the noblest 
 title a wise man can deserve, that of legislator of nations. 
 
 If he was animated by the importance of his subject, he was 
 at the same time terrified by its extent. He abandoned it, and 
 returned to it again and again. More than once, as he himself 
 owns, he felt his paternal hands fail him. At last, encouraged 
 by his friends, he resolved to publish the *■ Spirit of Laws. * 
 
 In this important work M. de Montesquieu, without insisting, 
 like his predecessors, upon metaphysical discussions, without con- 
 fining himself, like them, to consider certain people in certain 
 particular relations or circumstances, takes a view of the actual 
 inhabitants of the world in all their conceivable relations to each 
 other. Most other writers in this way are either simple moral- 
 ists, or simple lawyers, or even sometimes simple theologists. As 
 for him, a citizen of all nations, he cares less what duty requires 
 of us than what means may constrain us to do it; about the 
 metaphysical perfection of laws, than about what man is capable 
 of; about laws which have been made, than about those which 
 ought to have been made; about the laws of a particular people, 
 than about those of all peoples. Thus, when comparing himself 
 to those who have run before him in this noble and grand 
 career, he might say, with Correggio, when he had seen the 
 works of his rivals, ^^And I, too, am a Painter.*^ 
 
 Filled with his subject, the author of the *■ Spirit of Laws * 
 comprehends so many materials, and treats them with such brev- 
 ity and depth, that assiduous reading alone discloses its merit. 
 This study will make that pretended want of method, of which 
 some readers have accused M. de Montesquieu, disappear. Real 
 want of order should be distinguished from what is apparent 
 pnly. Real disorder confuses the analogy and connection of ideas;
 
 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT ^g- 
 
 or sets tip conclusions as principles, so that the reader, after 
 innumerable windings, finds himself at the point whence he set 
 out. Apparent disorder is when the author, putting his ideas 
 in their true place, leaves it to the readers to supply intermedi- 
 ate ones. M. de Montesquieu's book is designed for men who 
 think, for men capable of supplying voluntary and reasonable 
 omissions. 
 
 The order perceivable in the grand divisions of the < Spirit 
 of Laws^ pervades the smaller details also. By his method of 
 arrangement we easily perceive the influence of the different parts 
 upon each other; as, in a system of human knowledge well under- 
 stood, we may perceive the mutual relation of sciences and arts. 
 There must always remain something arbitrary in every compre- 
 hensive scheme, and all that can be required of an author is, that 
 he follow strictly his own system. 
 
 For an allowable obscurity the same defense exists. What 
 may be obscure to the ignorant is not so for those whom the 
 author had in mind. Besides, voluntary obscurity is not properly 
 obscurity. Obliged to present truths of great importance, the 
 direct avowal of which might have shocked without doing good, 
 M. de Montesquieu has had the prudence to conceal them from 
 those whom they might have hurt without hiding them from the 
 wise. 
 
 He has especially profited from the two most thoughtful his- 
 torians, Tacitus and Plutarch; but, though a philosopher familiar 
 with these authors might have dispensed with many others, he 
 neglected nothing that could be of use. The reading necessary 
 for the ^Spirit of Laws^ is immense; and the author's ingenuity 
 is the more wonderful because he was almost blind, and obliged 
 to depend on other men's eyes. This prodigious reading contrib- 
 utes not only to the utility, but to the agreeableness of the work. 
 Without sacrificing dignity, M. de Montesquieu entertains the 
 reader by unfamiliar facts, or by delicate allusions, or by those 
 strong and brilliant touches which paint, by one stroke, nations 
 and men. 
 
 In a word, M. de Montesquieu stands for the study of laws, as 
 Descartes stood for that of philosophy. He often instructs us, and 
 is sometimes mistaken; and even when he mistakes, he instructs 
 those who know how to read him. The last edition of his works 
 demonstrates, by its many corrections and additions, that when he 
 has made a slip, he has been able to rise again.
 
 ,56 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT 
 
 But what is within the reach of all the world is the spirit of 
 the * Spirit of Laws,* which ought to endear the author to all 
 nations, to cover far greater faults than are his. The love of the 
 public good, a desire to see men happy, reveals itself everywhere; 
 and had it no other merit, it would be worthy, on this account 
 alone, to be read by nations and kings. Already we may perceive 
 that the fruits of this work are ripe. Though M. de Montesquieu 
 scarcely survived the publication of the * Spirit of Laws,* he had 
 the satisfaction to foresee its effects among us; the natural love of 
 Frenchmen for their country turned toward its true object; that 
 taste for commerce, for agriculture, and for useful arts, which 
 insensibly spreads itself in our nation; that general knowledge of 
 the principles of government, which renders people more attached 
 to that which they ought to love. Even the men who have 
 indecently attacked this work perhaps owe more to it than they 
 imagine. Ingratitude, besides, is their least fault. It is not with- 
 out regret and mortification that we expose them; but this history 
 is of too much consequence to M. de Montesquieu and to philoso- 
 phy to be passed over in silence. May that reproach, which at 
 last covers his enemies, profit them! 
 
 The ^ Spirit of Laws * was at once eagerly sought after on 
 account of the reputation of its author; but though M. de Montes- 
 quieu had written for thinkers, he had the vulgar for his judge. 
 The brilliant passages scattered up and down the work, admit- 
 ted only because they illustrated the subject, made the ignorant 
 believe that it was written for them. Looking for an entertaining 
 book, they found a useful one, whose scheme and details they 
 could not comprehend without attention. The * Spirit of Laws * 
 was treated with a deal of cheap wit; even the title of it was 
 made a subject of pleasantry. In a word, one of the finest literary 
 monuments which our nation ever produced was received almost 
 with scurrility. It was requisite that competent judges should 
 have time to read it, that they might correct the errors of the 
 fickle multitude. That small public which teaches, dictated to 
 that large public which listens to hear, how it ought to think and 
 speak; and the suffrages of men of abilities formed only one 
 voice over all Europe. 
 
 The open and secret enemaes of letters and philosophy now 
 united their darts against this work. Hence that multitude of 
 pamphlets discharged against the author, weapons which we shall 
 not draw from oblivion. If those authors were not forgotten, it
 
 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT .67 
 
 might be believed that the * Spirit of Laws^ was written amid a 
 nation of barbarians. 
 
 M. de Montesquieu despised the obscure criticisms of the 
 curious. He ranked them with those weekly newspapers whose 
 encomiums have no authority, and their darts no effect; which 
 indolent readers run over without believing, and in which sov- 
 ereigns are insulted without knowing it. But he was not equally 
 indifferent about those principles of irreligion which they accused 
 him of having propagated. By ignoring such reproaches he 
 would have seemed to deserve them, and the importance of the 
 object made him shut his eyes to the meanness of his adversaries. 
 The ultra-zealous, afraid of that light which letters diffuse, not to 
 the prejudice of religion, but to their own disadvantage, took 
 different ways of attacking him; some, by a trick as puerile as 
 cowardly, wrote fictitious letters to themselves; others, attacking 
 him anonymously, had afterwards fallen by the ears among them- 
 selves. M. de Montesquieu contented himself with making an 
 example of the most extravagant. This was the author of an 
 anonymous periodical paper, who accused M. de Montesquieu of 
 Spinozism and deism (two imputations which are incompatible) ; 
 of having followed the system of Pope (of which there is not a 
 word in his works) ; of having quoted Plutarch, who is not a 
 Christian author; of not having spoken of original sin and of 
 grace. In a word, he pretended that the *■ Spirit of Laws ^ was a 
 production of the constitution JJjiigenitiis; a preposterous idea. 
 Those who understand M. de Montesquieu and Clement XI. may 
 judge, by this accusation, of the rest. 
 
 This enemy procured the philosopher an addition of glory as 
 a man of letters : the ^ Defense of the Spirit of Laws * appeared. 
 This work, for its moderation, truth, delicacy of ridicule, is a 
 model. M. de Montesquieu might easily have made his adversary 
 odious; he did better — he made him ridiculous. We owe the 
 aggressor eternal thanks for having procured us this masterpiece. 
 For here, without intending it, the author has drawn a picture of 
 himself; those who knew him think they hear himi; and posterity, 
 when reading his * Defense,* will decide that his conversation 
 equaled his writings — an encomium which few great men have 
 deserved. 
 
 Another circumstance gave him the advantage. The critic 
 loudly accused the clergy of France, and especially the faculty of 
 theology, of indifference to the cause of God, because they did
 
 36g JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT 
 
 not proscribe the ^Spirit of Laws.' The faculty resolved to 
 examine the * Spirit of Laws. * Though several years have passed, 
 it has not yet pronounced a decision. It knows the grounds of 
 reason and of faith; it knows that the work of a man of letters 
 ought not to be examined like that of a theologian; that a bad 
 interpretation does not condemn a proposition, and that it may 
 injure the weak to see an ill-timed suspicion of heresy thrown 
 upon geniuses of the first rank. In spite of this unjust accusa- 
 tion, M. de Montesquieu was always esteemed, visited, and well 
 received by the greatest and most respectable dignitaries of the 
 Church. Would he have preserved this esteem among men of 
 worth, if they had regarded him as a dangerous writer ? 
 
 M. de Montesquieu's death was not unworthy of his life. 
 Suffering greatly, far from a family that was dear to him, sur- 
 rounded by a few friends and a great crowd of spectators, he 
 preserved to the last his calmness and serenity of soul. After 
 performing with decency every duty, full of confidence in the 
 Eternal Being, he died with the tranquillity of a man of worth, 
 who had ever consecrated his talents to virtue and humanity. 
 France and Europe lost him February loth, 1755, aged sixty-six. 
 
 All the newspapers published this event as a misfortune. We 
 may apply to M. de Montesquieu what was formerly said of an 
 illustrious Roman: that nobody, when told of his death, shov/ed 
 any joy or forgot him when he was no more. Foreigners were 
 eager to demonstrate their regrets: my Lord Chesterfield, whom 
 it is enough to name, wrote an article to his honor — an article 
 worthy of both. It is the portrait of Anaxagoras drawn by 
 Pericles. The Royal Academy of Sciences and Belles-Lettres of 
 Prussia, though it is not its custom to pronounce a eulogy on 
 foreign members, paid him an honor which only the illustrious 
 John Bernoulli had hitherto received. M. de Maupertuis, though 
 ill, performed himself this last duty to his friend, and would not 
 permit so sacred an office to fall to the share of any other. To 
 these honorable suffrages were added those praises given him, 
 in presence of one of us, by that very monarch to whom this 
 celebrated Academy owes its lustre; a prince who feels the losses 
 which Philosophy sustains, and at the same time comforts her. 
 
 The 17th of February the French Academy, according to 
 custom, performed a solemn service for him, at which all the 
 learned men of this body assisted. They ought to have placed 
 the ^Spirit of Laws' upon his coffin, as heretofore they exposed,
 
 JEAN LE RONt) D'ALEMBERT ^69 
 
 opposite to that of Raphael, his Transfiguration. This simple and 
 affecting decoration would have been a fit funeral oration. 
 
 M. de Montesquieu had, in company, an unvarying sweetness 
 and gayety of temper. His conversation was spirited, agreeable, 
 and instructive, because he had known so many great men. It 
 was, like his style, concise, full of wit and sallies, without gall, 
 and without satire. Nobody told a story more brilliantly, more 
 readily, more gracefully, or with less affectation. 
 
 His frequent absence of mind only made him the more amus- 
 ing. He always roused himself to reanimate the conversation. 
 The fire of his genius, his prodigality of ideas, gave rise to 
 flashes of speech; but he never interrupted an interesting conver- 
 sation; and he was attentive without affectation and without con- 
 straint. His conversation not only resembled his character and 
 his genius, but had the method which he observed in his study. 
 Though capable of long-continued meditation, he never exhausted 
 his strength; he always left off application before he felt the 
 least symptom of fatigue. 
 
 He was sensible to glory, but wished only to deserve it, and 
 never tried to augment his own fame by underhand practices. 
 
 Worthy of all distinctions, he asked none, and he was not 
 surprised that he was forgot; but he has protected at court men 
 of letters who were persecuted, celebrated, and unfortunate, and 
 has obtained favors for them. 
 
 Though he lived with the great, their company was not 
 necessary to his happiness. He retired whenever he could to the 
 country; there again with joy to welcome his philosophy, his 
 books, and his repose. After having studied man in the com- 
 merce of the world, and in the history of nations, he studied him 
 also among those simple people whom nature alone has in- 
 structed. From them he could learn something; he endeavored, 
 like Socrates, to find out their genius; he appeared as happy 
 thus as in the most brilliant assemblies, especially when he made 
 up their differences, and comforted them by his beneficence. 
 
 Nothing does greater honor to his memory than the economy 
 with which he lived, and which has been blamed as excessive in 
 a proud and avaricious age. He would not encroach on the pro- 
 vision for his family, even by his generosity to the unfortunate, 
 or by those expenses which his travels, the weakness of his sight, 
 and the printing of his works made necessary. He transmitted 
 to his children, without diminution or augmentation, the estate 
 1—24
 
 370 
 
 JEAN LE ROND D'ALEMBERT 
 
 which he received from his ancestors, adding nothing to it but 
 the glory of his name and the example of his life. He had 
 married, in 17 15, dame Jane de Lartigue, daughter of Peter de 
 Lartigue, lieutenant-colonel of the regiment of Molevrier, and 
 had by her two daughters and one son. 
 
 Those who love truth and their country will not be displeased 
 to find some of his maxims here. He thought: That every part 
 of the State ought to be equally subject to the laws, but that the 
 privileges of every part of the State ought to be respected when 
 they do not oppose the natural right which obliges every citizen 
 equally to contribute to the public good; that ancient possession 
 was in this kind the first of titles, and the most inviolable of 
 rights, which it was always unjust and sometimes dangerous to 
 shake; that magistrates, in all circumstances, and notwithstand- 
 ing their own advantage, ought to be magistrates without par- 
 tiality and without passion, like the laws which absolve and 
 punish without love or hatred. He said upon occasion of those 
 ecclesiastical disputes which so much employed the Greek empe- 
 rors and Christians, that theological disputes, when they are not 
 confined to the schools, infallibly dishonor a nation in the eyes 
 of its neighbors: in fact, the contempt in which wise men hold 
 those quarrels does not vindicate the character of their country; 
 because, sages making everywhere the least noise, and being the 
 smallest number, it is never from them that the nation is judged. 
 
 We look upon that special interest which M. de Montesquieu 
 took in the *■ Encyclop6die * as one of the most honorable rewards 
 of our labor. Perhaps the opposition which the work has met 
 with, reminding him of his own experience, interested him the 
 more in our favor. Perhaps he was sensible, without perceiving 
 it, of that justice which we dared to do him in the first volume 
 of the * Encyclopedic,* when nobody as yet had ventured to say a 
 word in his defense. He prepared for us an article upon ^ Taste,* 
 which has been found unfinished among his papers. We shall 
 give it to the public in that condition, and treat it with the same 
 respect that antiquity formerly showed to the last words of 
 Seneca. Death prevented his giving us any further marks of his 
 approval; and joining our own griefs with those of all Europe, 
 we might write on his tomb: — 
 
 *-'^ Finis vitce ejus nobis luctuosus, Patrice tristis, extraneis etiam ignotisque 
 
 non sine cura fuit?^
 
 371 
 
 VITTORIO ALFIERI 
 
 (I 749-1 803) 
 BY L. OSCAR KUHNS 
 
 jTALiAN literature during the eighteenth century, although it 
 could boast of no names in any way comparable with those 
 of Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, and Tasso, showed still a vast 
 improvement on the degradation of the preceding century. Among 
 the most famous writers of the times — Goldoni, Parini, Metastasio — 
 none is so great or so famous as Vittorio Alfieri, the founder of Ital- 
 ian tragedy. The story of his life and of his literary activity, as 
 told by himself in his memoirs, is one of extreme interest. Born at 
 Asti, on January 17th, 1749, of a wealthy and noble family, he grew 
 up to manhood singularly deficient in knowledge and culture, and 
 without the slightest interest in literature. He was "uneducated,** 
 to use his own phrase, in the Academy of Turin. It was only after a 
 long tour in Italy, France, Holland, and England, that, recognizing 
 his own ignorance, he went to Florence to begin serious work. 
 
 At the age of twenty-seven a sudden revelation of his dramatic 
 power came to him, and with passionate energy he spent the rest of 
 his life in laborious study and in efforts to make himself worthy of 
 a place among the poets of his native land. Practically he had to 
 learn everything; for he himself tells us that he had <<an almost 
 total ignorance of the rules of dramatic composition, and an unskill- 
 fulness almost total in the divine and most necessary art of writing 
 well and handling his own language.** 
 
 His private life was eventful, chiefly through his many senti- 
 mental attachments, its deepest experience being his profound love 
 and friendship for the Countess of Albany, — Louise Stolberg, mistress 
 and afterward wife of the « Young Pretender,** who passed under the 
 title of Count of Albany, and from whom she was finally divorced. 
 The production of Alfieri's tragedies began with the sketch called 
 < Cleopatra,* in 1775, and lasted till 1789, when a complete edition, by 
 Didot, appeared in Paris. His only important prose work is his < Auto- 
 biography,* begun in 1790 and ended in the year of his death, 1803, 
 Although he wrote several comedies and a number of sonnets and 
 satires,— which do not often rise above mediocrity, —it is as a tragic 
 poet that he is known to fame. Before him — though Goldoni had 
 successfully imitated Moliere in comedy, and Metastasio had become 
 enormously popular as the poet of love and the opera — no tragedies 
 "had been written in Italy which deserved to be compared with the 
 great dramas of France, Spain, and England. Indeed, it had been
 
 372 VITTORIO ALPIERI 
 
 said that tragedy was not adapted to the Italian tongue or character. 
 It remained for Alfieri to prove the falsity of this theory. 
 
 Always sensitive to the charge of plagiarism, Alfieri declared that 
 whether his tragedies were good or bad, they were at least his own. 
 This is true to a certain extent. And yet he was influenced more 
 than he was willing to acknowledge by the French dramatists of the 
 seventeenth century. In common with Corneille and Racine, he ob- 
 served strictly the three unities of time, place, and action. But the 
 courtliness of language, the grace and poetry of the French dramas, 
 and especially the tender love of Racine, are altogether lacking with 
 him. 
 
 Alfieri had a certain definite theory of tragedy which he followed 
 with unswerving fidelity. He aimed at the simplicity and directness 
 of the Greek drama. He sought to give one clear, definite action, 
 which should advance in a straight line from beginning to end, with- 
 out deviation, and carry along the characters — who are, for the most 
 part, helplessly entangled in the toils of a relentless fate — to an 
 inevitable destruction. For this reason the well-known cojifidantes of 
 the French stage were discarded, no secondary action or episodes 
 were admitted, and the whole play was shortened to a little more 
 than two-thirds of the average French classic drama. Whatever 
 originality Alfieri possessed did not show itself in the choice of sub- 
 jects, which are nearly all well known and had often been used 
 before. From Racine he took ^Polynice,^ < Merope * had been treated 
 by Maffei and Voltaire, and Shakespeare had immortalized the story 
 of Brutus. The situations and events are often conventional; the 
 passions are those familiar to the stage, — jealousy, revenge, hatred, 
 and unhappy love. And yet Alfieri has treated these subjects in a 
 way which differs from all others, and which stamps them, in a cer- 
 tain sense, as his own. With him all is sombre and melancholy; the 
 scene is utterly unrelieved by humor, by the flowers of poetry, or by 
 that deep-hearted sympathy — the pity of it all — which softens the 
 tragic effect of Shakespeare's plays. 
 
 Alfieri seemed to be attracted toward the most horrible phases of 
 human life, and the most terrible events of history and tradition. 
 The passions he describes are those of unnatural love, of jealousy 
 between father and son, of fratricidal hatred, or those in which a 
 sense of duty and love for liberty triumphs over the ties of filial 
 and parental love. In treating the story of the second Brutus, it 
 was not enough for his purpose to have Caesar murdered by his 
 friend; but, availing himself of an unproven tradition, he makes Bru- 
 tus the son of Cassar, and thus a parricide. 
 
 It is interesting to notice his vocabulary; to see how constantly 
 he uses such words as "atrocious,'^ << horror," <Herrible,* << incest,"
 
 VITTORIO ALFIERI ,.^ 
 
 « rivers, » « streams, » « lakes, » and «seas» of blood. The exclama- 
 tion, «0h, rage!» occurs on almost every page. Death, murder, 
 suicide, is the outcome of every tragedy. 
 
 The actors are few, — in many plays only four, — and each repre- 
 sents a certain passion. They never change, but remain true to 
 their characters from beginning to end. The villains are monsters 
 of cruelty and vice, and the innocent and virtuous are invariably 
 their victims, and succumb at last. 
 
 Alfieri's purpose in producing these plays was not to amuse an 
 idle public, but to promulgate throughout his native land — then 
 under Spanish domination — the great and lofty principle of liberty 
 which inspired his whole life. A deep, uncompromising hatred of 
 kings is seen in every drama, where invariably a tyrant figures as 
 the villain. There is a constant declamation against tyranny and 
 slavery. Liberty is portrayed as something dearer than life itself. 
 The struggle for freedom forms the subjects of five of his plays,— 
 * Virginia,^ <The Conspiracy of the Pazzi,* ^Timoleon,* the < First 
 Brutus,^ and the < Second Brutus.* One of these is dedicated to 
 George Washington — < Liberator dell' America.* The warmth of 
 feeling with which, in the < Conspiracy of the Pazzi,* the degrada- 
 tion and slavery of Florence under the Medici is depicted, betrays 
 clearly Alfieri's sense of the political state of Italy in his own day. 
 And the poet undoubtedly has gained the gratitude of his country- 
 men for his voicing of that love for liberty which has always existed 
 in their hearts. 
 
 Just as Alfieri sought to condense the action of his plays, so he 
 strove for brevity and condensation in language. His method of 
 composing was peculiar. He first sketched his play in prose, then 
 worked it over in poetry, often spending years in the process of 
 rewriting and polishing. In his indomitable energy, his persistence 
 in labor, and his determination to acquire a fitting style, he reminds 
 us of Balzac. His brevity of language — which shows itself most 
 strikingly in the omission of articles, and in the number of broken 
 exclamations — gives his pages a certain sententiousness, almost like 
 proverbs. He purposely renounced all attempts at the graces and 
 flowers of poetry. 
 
 It is hard for the lover of Shakespearean tragedy to be just to 
 the merits of Alfieri. There is a uniformity, or even a monotony, 
 in these nineteen plays, whose characters are more or less alike, 
 whose method of procedure is the same, whose sentiments are 
 analogous, and in which an activity devoid of incident hurries the 
 reader to an inevitable conclusion, foreseen from the first act. 
 
 And yet the student cannot fail to detect great tragic power, 
 sombre and often unnatural, but never producing that sense of the
 
 374 VITTORIO ALFIERI 
 
 ridiculous which sometimes mars the effect of Victor Hugo's dramas. 
 The plots are never obscure, the language is never trivial, and the 
 play ends with a climax which leaves a profound impression. 
 
 The very nature of Alfieri's tragedies makes it difficult to repre- 
 sent him without giving a complete play. The following extracts, 
 however, illustrate admirably the horror and power of his climaxes. 
 
 >(^Ca/2^'^t^l-^>-^ 
 
 AGAMEMNON 
 
 [During the absence of Agamemnon at the siege of Troy, j^gisthus, son 
 of Thyestes and the relentless enemy of the House of Atreus, wins the love 
 of Clytemnestra, and with devilish ingenuity persuades her that the only way 
 to save her life and his is to slay her husband.] 
 
 ACT IV — SCENE I 
 
 iEGISTHUS — CLYTEMNESTRA 
 
 yp^GiSTHUS — To be a banished man, ... to fly, ... to die; 
 J-\_.     • These are the only means that I have left. 
 
 Thou, far from me, deprived of every hope 
 Of seeing me again, wilt from thy heart 
 Have quickly chased my image : great Atrides 
 Will wake a far superior passion there; 
 Thou, in his presence, many happy days 
 Wilt thou enjoy — These auspices may Heaven 
 Confirm — I cannot now evince to thee 
 A surer proof of love than by my flight; . . . 
 A dreadful, hard, irrevocable proof. 
 
 Clytemtiest7-a — If there be need of death, we both will die! — 
 But is there nothing left to try ere this ? 
 
 y£gis. — Another plan, perchance, e'en now remains; . . . 
 But little worthy . . . 
 
 Cly. — And it is — 
 
 yEgis. — Too cruel. 
 Cly. — But certain? 
 
 ^gis. — Certain, ah, too much so! 
 
 Ci^.— How 
 Canst thou hide it from me ? 
 
 ^gis. — How canst thou 
 Of me demand it ?
 
 VITTORIO ALFIERI 
 
 375 
 
 Cly. — What then may it be ? . . . 
 I know not . . . Speak: I am too far advanced; 
 I cannot now retract: perchance already 
 I am suspected by Atrides; maybe 
 He has the right already to despise me: 
 Hence do I feel constrained, e'en now, to hate him; 
 I cannot longer in his presence live; 
 I neither will, nor dare. — Do thou, ^gisthus, 
 Teach me a means, whatever it may be, 
 A means by which I may withdraw myself 
 From him forever. 
 
 ^gis. — Thou withdraw thyself 
 From him ? I have already said to thee 
 That now 'tis utterly impossible. 
 
 Cly. — What other step remains for me to take? . . . 
 
 j^gis. — None. 
 
 Cly. — Now I understand thee. — What a flash, 
 Oh, what a deadly, instantaneous flash 
 Of criminal conviction rushes through 
 My obtuse mind! What throbbing turbulence 
 In ev'ry vein I feel! — I understand thee: 
 The cruel remedy . . . the only one . . . 
 Is Agamemnon's life-blood, 
 
 yEgis, — I am silent . . . 
 
 Cly. — Yet, by thy silence, thou dost ask that blood. 
 
 yEgis. — Nay, rather I forbid it. — To our love 
 And to thy life (of mine I do not speak) 
 His living is the only obstacle; 
 But yet, thou knowest that his life is sacred: 
 To love, respect, defend it, thou art bound; 
 And I to tremble at it. — Let us cease: 
 The hour advances now; my long discourse 
 Might give occasion to suspicious thoughts. — 
 At length receive . . . ^gisthus's last farewell. 
 
 Cly. — Ah! hear me . . . Agamemnon to our love . . . 
 And to thy life? . . . Ah, yes; there are, besides him, 
 No other obstacles: too certainly 
 His life is death to us! 
 
 yEgis. — Ah! do not heed 
 My words: they spring from too much love. 
 
 Cly. — And love 
 Revealed to me their meaning. 
 
 ^gis. — Hast thou not 
 Thy mind o'erwhelmed with horror ?
 
 376 VITTORIO ALFIERI 
 
 Cly. — Horror? . . . yes; . . . 
 But then to part from thee! ... 
 
 ^gis. — Wouldst have the courage? . . , 
 Cly. — So vast my love, it puts an end to fear. 
 ^gis. — But the king lives surrounded by his friends: 
 What sword would find a passage to his heart ? 
 Cly. — What sword? 
 
 ^gis. — Here open violence were vain. 
 Cly. — Yet, . . . treachery! . . . 
 I ^gis. — 'Tis true, he merits not 
 
 To be betrayed, Atrides: he who loves 
 His wife so well; he who, enchained from Troy, 
 In semblance of a slave in fetters, brought 
 Cassandra, whom he loves, to whom he is 
 Himself a slave . . . 
 
 C-^.— What do I hear! 
 
 ^gis. — Meanwhile 
 Expect that when of thee his love is wearied. 
 He will divide with her his throne and bed; 
 Expect that, to thy many other wrongs, 
 Shame will be added: and do thou alone 
 Not be exasperated at a deed 
 That rouses every Argive. 
 
 Cly. — What said'st thou? . . . 
 Cassandra chosen as my rival ? . . . 
 
 ^gis. — So 
 Atrides wills. 
 
 Cly. — Then let Atrides perish. 
 jEgis. — How? By what hand? 
 
 Cly. — By mine, this very night, 
 Within that bed which he expects to share 
 With this abhorred slave. 
 
 ^gis. — O Heavens! but think . . . 
 Cly. — I am resolved . . . 
 
 ^gis. — Shouldst thou repent? . . . 
 
 Cly.— \ do 
 That I so long delayed. 
 
 ^gis. — And yet . . . 
 
 Cly.— YW do it: 
 I, e'en if thou wilt not. Shall I let thee. 
 Who only dost deserve my love, be dragged 
 To cruel death ? And shall I let him live 
 Who cares not for my love ? I swear to thee, 
 To-morrow thou shalt be the king in Argos.
 
 VITTORIO ALFIERI 277 
 
 Nor shall my hand, nor shall my bosom tremble . . . 
 But who approaches ? 
 
 ^gis.—'Tis Electra . . . 
 
 Cly. — Heavens! 
 Let us avoid her. Do thou trust in me. 
 
 SCENE II 
 ELECTRA 
 
 Electra — ^gisthus flies from me, and he does well; 
 But I behold that likewise from my sight 
 My mother seeks to fly. Infatuated 
 And wretched mother! She could not resist 
 The guilty eagerness for the last time 
 To see ^gisthus. — They have here, at length. 
 Conferred together . . . But ^gisthus seems 
 Too much elated, and too confident, 
 For one condemned to exile . . . She appeared 
 Like one disturbed in thought, but more possessed 
 With anger and resentment than with grief . . . 
 O Heavens! who knows to what that miscreant base, 
 With his infernal arts, may have impelled her! 
 To what extremities have wrought her up! ... . 
 Now, now, indeed, I tremble : what misdeeds, 
 How black in kind, how manifold in number. 
 Do I behold! . . . Yet, if I speak, I kill 
 My mother: ... If I'm silent — ? ... 
 
 ACT V — SCENE II 
 
 iEGISTHUS — CLYTEMNESTRA 
 
 yEgis. — Hast thou performed the deed? 
 Cly. — -<Egisthus . . . 
 
 yEgis. — What do I behold? O woman, 
 What dost thou here, dissolved in useless tears ? 
 Tears are unprofitable, late, and vain; 
 And they may cost us dear. 
 
 Cly. — Thou here? . . . but how? . . . 
 Wretch that I am ! what have I promised thee ? 
 What impious counsel ? . . . 
 
 ^gis. — Was not thine the counsel? 
 Love gave it thee, and fear recants it. — Now, 
 Since thou'rt repentant, I am satisfied;
 
 378 VITTORIO ALFIERI 
 
 Soothed by reflecting that thou art not guilty, 
 I shall at least expire. To thee I said 
 How difficult the enterprise would be; 
 But thou, depending more than it became thee 
 On that which is not in thee, virile courage, 
 Daredst thyself thy own unwarlike hand 
 For such a blow select. May Heaven permit 
 That the mere project of a deed like this 
 May not be fatal to thee! I by stealth, 
 Protected by the darkness, hither came, 
 And unobserved, I hope. I was constrained 
 To bring the news myself, that now my life 
 Is irrecoverably forfeited 
 To the king's vengeance . . . 
 
 Cly. — What is this I hear? 
 Whence didst thou learn it ? 
 
 ^gis. — More than he would wish 
 Atrides hath discovered of our love; 
 And I already from him have received 
 A strict command not to depart from Argos. 
 And further, I am summoned to his presence 
 Soon as to-morrow dawns: thou seest well 
 That such a conference to me is death. 
 But fear not; for I will all means employ 
 To bear myself the undivided blame. 
 
 Cly. — What do I hear? Atrides knows it all? 
 
 ^gis. — He knows too much: I have but one choice left; 
 It will be best for me to 'scape by death, 
 By self-inflicted death, this dangerous inquest. 
 I save my honor thus; and free myself 
 From an opprobrious end. I hither came 
 To give thee my last warning: and to take 
 My last farewell. . . . Oh, live; and may thy fame 
 Live with thee, unimpeached! All thoughts of pity 
 For me now lay aside; if I'm allowed 
 By my own hand, for thy sake, to expire, 
 I am supremely blest. 
 
 Cly. — Alas! . . . ^gisthus . . . 
 What a tumultuous passion rages now 
 Within my bosom, when I hear thee speak! , . . 
 And is it true ? . . . Thy death . . . 
 
 yEgis. — Is more than certain. . . , 
 
 Cly. — And I'm thy murderer! . . , 
 
 yEgis. — I seek thy safety.
 
 VITTORIO ALFIERI 3^^ 
 
 Cly. — What wicked fury from Avernus* shore, 
 ^gisthus, guides thy steps? Oh, I had died 
 Of grief, if I had never seen thee more; 
 But guiltless I had died: spite of myself, 
 Now, by thy presence, I already am 
 Again impelled to this tremendous crime. . . . 
 An anguish, an unutterable anguish, 
 Invades my bones, invades my every fibre. . . . 
 And can it be that this alone can save thee .''... 
 But who revealed our love ? 
 
 y£gis. — To speak of thee, 
 Who but Electra to her father dare ? 
 Who to the monarch breathe thy name but she ? 
 Thy impious daughter in thy bosom thrusts 
 The fatal sword; and ere she takes thy life, 
 Would rob thee of thy honor. 
 
 Cly. — And ought I 
 This to believe ? . . . Alas ! . . . 
 
 ^gis. — Believe it, then. 
 On the authority of this my sword. 
 If thou believ'st it not on mine. At least 
 I'll die in time. . . . 
 
 Cly. — O Heavens! what wouldst thou do? 
 Sheathe, I command thee, sheathe that fatal sword. — 
 Oh, night of horrors! . . . hear me . . . Perhaps Atrides 
 Has not resolved. . . . 
 
 ^gis. — What boots this hesitation? . . . 
 Atrides injured, and Atrides king. 
 Meditates nothing in his haughty mind 
 But blood and vengeance. Certain is my death. 
 Thine is uncertain: but reflect, O queen. 
 To what thou'rt destined, if he spare thy life. 
 And were I seen to enter here alone. 
 And at so late an hour . . . Alas, what fears 
 Harrow my bosom when I think of thee! 
 Soon will the dawn of day deliver thee 
 From racking doubt; that dawn I ne'er shall see: 
 I am resolved to die: . . . — Farewell . . . forever! 
 
 CTv.— Stay, stay . . . Thou shalt not die. 
 
 yEgis. — By no man's hand 
 Assuredly, except my own: — or thine. 
 If so thou wilt. Ah, perpetrate the deed; 
 Kill me; and drag me, palpitating yet, 
 Before thy judge austere: my blood will be 
 A proud acquittance for thee.
 
 38o 
 
 VITTORIO ALFIERI v, 
 
 Cly. — Madd'ning thought! . , . 
 Wretch that I am ! . . . Shall I be thy assassin ? . . . 
 
 ^gis. — Shame on thy hand, that cannot either kill 
 Who most adores thee, or who most detests thee! 
 Mine then must serve, . . . 
 
 Cly. — Ah! . . . no. . . . 
 
 ^'Egis. — Dost thou desire 
 Me, or Atrides, dead ? 
 
 Cly. — Ah! what a choice! . . . 
 
 JEgis. — Thou art compelled to choose. 
 
 Cly. — I death inflict . . . 
 
 ^gis. — Or death receive; when thou hast witnessed mine. 
 
 Cly. — Ah, then the crime is too inevitable! 
 
 ^gis. — The time now presses. 
 
 Cly. — But . . . the courage . . . strength? . . , 
 
 j^gis. — Strength, courage, all, will love impart to thee. 
 
 Cly. — Must I then with this trembling hand of mine 
 Plunge ... in my husband's heart . . . the sword ? . . . 
 
 j^gis. — The blows 
 Thou wilt redouble with a steady hand 
 In the hard heart of him who slew thy daughter. 
 
 Cly. — Far from my hand I hurled the sword in anguish. 
 
 j^gis. — Behold a steel, and of another temper; 
 The clotted blood-drops of Thyestes's sons 
 Still stiffen on its frame: do not delay 
 To furbish it once more in the vile blood 
 Of Atreus; go, be quick: there now remain 
 But a few moments; go. If awkwardly 
 The blow thou aimest, or if thou shouldst be 
 Again repentant, lady, ere 'tis struck. 
 Do not thou any more tow'rd these apartments 
 Thy footsteps turn: by my own hands destroyed. 
 Here wouldst thou find me in a sea of blood 
 Immersed. Now go, and tremble not; be bold. 
 Enter and save us by his death. — 
 
 SCENE III 
 iEGISTHUS 
 
 yEgis. — Come forth, 
 Thyestes, from profound Avernus; come. 
 Now is the time; within this palace now 
 Display thy dreadful shade. A copious banquet 
 Of blood is now prepared for thee, enjoy it;
 
 VITTORIO ALFIERI ^Sl 
 
 Already o'er the heart of thy foe's son 
 
 Hangs the suspended sword; now, now, he feels it: 
 
 An impious consort grasps it; it was fitting 
 
 That she, not I, did this: so much more sweet 
 
 To thee will be the vengeance, as the crime 
 
 Is more atrocious. . . . An attentive ear 
 
 Lend to the dire catastrophe with me; 
 
 Doubt not she will accomplish it: disdain, 
 
 Love, terror, to the necessary crime 
 
 Compel the impious woman. — 
 
 AGAMEMNON (within) 
 
 Aga. — Treason! Ah! . . . 
 My wife? . . O Heavens! . . I die . . O traitorous deed! 
 
 ^gis. — Die, thou — yes, die! And thou redouble. 
 The blows redouble; all the weapon hide [woman, 
 
 Within his heart; shed, to the latest drop, 
 The blood of that fell miscreant: in our blood 
 He would have bathed his hands. 
 
 SCENE IV 
 CLYTEMNESTRA — .ESGISTHUS 
 
 Cly. — What have I done ? 
 Where am I ? . . . 
 
 ^gis. — Thou hast slain the tyrant: now 
 At length thou'rt worthy of me. 
 
 Cly. — See, with blood 
 The dagger drips; . . . my hands, my face, my garments. 
 All, all are blood . . . Oh, for a deed like this, 
 What vengeance will be wreaked! ... I see already 
 Already to my breast that very steel 
 I see hurled back, and by what hand! I freeze, 
 I faint, I shudder, I dissolve with horror. 
 My strength, my utterance, fail me. Where am I? 
 What have I done ? . . . Alas ! . . . 
 
 yEgis. — Tremendous cries 
 Resound on every side throughout the palace: 
 'Tis time to show the Argives what I am. 
 And reap the harvest of my long endurance.
 
 382 VITTORIO ALFIERI 
 
 SCENE V 
 ELECTRA — iEGISTHUS 
 
 Elec. — It still remains for thee to murder me, 
 Thou impious, vile assassin of my father . . . 
 But what do I behold ? O Heavens ! . . , my mother ? . . 
 Flagitious woman, dost thou grasp the sword? 
 Didst thou commit the murder? 
 
 ^gis. — Hold thy peace. 
 Stop not my path thus; quickly I return; 
 Tremble: for now that I am king of Argos, 
 Far more important is it that I kill 
 Orestes than Electra. 
 
 SCENE VI 
 CLYTEMNESTRA — ELECTRA 
 
 C/v.— Heavens! . . . Orestes? . . . 
 -(^gisthus, now I know thee. . . . 
 
 Elec. — Give it me: 
 Give me that steel. 
 
 qy.— ^gisthus! . . . Stop! . . . Wilt thou 
 Murder my son ? Thou first shalt murder me. 
 
 SCENE VII 
 
 ELECTRA 
 
 Elec.—O night! . . O father! . . Ah, it was your deed, 
 Ye gods, this thought of mine to place Orestes 
 In safety first. — Thou wilt not find him, traitor. — 
 Ah live, Orestes, live: and I will keep 
 This impious steel for thy adult right hand. 
 The day, I hope, will come, when I in Argos 
 Shall see thee the avenger of thy father. 
 
 Translation of Edgar Alfred Bowring, Bohn's Library.
 
 383 
 
 ALFONSO THE WISE 
 
 (i 226-1 284) 
 
 |iNG Alfonso,'^ recordrs the Jesuit historian, Mariana, "was a 
 man of great sense, but more fit to be a scholar than a 
 king; for whilst he studied the heavens and the stars, he 
 lost the earth and his kingdom.* Certainly it is for his services to 
 letters, and not for political or military successes, that the meditative 
 son of the valorous Ferdinand the Saint and the beautiful Beatrice 
 of Swabia will be remembered. The father conquered Seville, and 
 displaced the enterprising and infidel Moors with orthodox and indo- 
 lent Christians. The son could not keep what his sire had grasped. 
 Born in 1226, the fortunate young prince, at the age of twenty-five, 
 was proclaimed king of the newly conquered and united Castile and 
 Leon. He was very young : he was everywhere admired and honored 
 for skill in war, for learning, and for piety; he was everywhere loved 
 for his heritage of a great name and his kindly and gracious manners. 
 
 In the first year of his reign, however, he began debasing the 
 coinage, — a favorite device of needy monarchs in his day, — and his 
 people never forgave the injury. He coveted, naturally enough, the 
 throne of the Empire, for which he was long a favorite candidate ; 
 and for twenty years he wasted time, money, and purpose, heart and 
 hope, in pursuit of the vain bauble. His kingdom fell into confus- 
 ion, his eldest son died, his second son Sancho rebelled against him 
 and finally deposed him. Courageous and determined to the last, 
 defying the league of Church and State against him, he appealed to 
 the king of Morocco for men and money to reinstate his fortunes. 
 
 In Ticknor's < History of Spanish Literature* may be found his 
 touching letter to De Guzman at the Moorish court. He is, like 
 Lear, poor and discrowned, but not like him, weak. His prelates have 
 stirred up strife, his nobles have betrayed him. If Heaven wills, he 
 is ready to pay generously for help. If not, says the royal philoso- 
 pher, still, generosity and loyalty exalt the soul that cherishes them. 
 
 « Therefore, my cousin, Alonzo Perez de Guzman, so treat with your 
 master and my friend [the king of Morocco] that he may lend me, on my 
 richest cro\vn and on the jewels in it, as much as shall seem good to him: 
 and if you should be able to obtain his help for me, do not deprive me of it, 
 which I think you will not do; rather I hold that all the good offices which 
 my master may do me, by your hand they will come, and may the hand of 
 God be with you. 
 
 « Given in my only loyal city of Seville, the thirtieth year of my reig^ 
 
 and the first of my misfortunes. 
 
 «The King.»>
 
 384 ALFONSO THE V/ISE 
 
 In his ^*only loyal city*' the broken man remained, until the Pope 
 excommunicated Sancho, and till neighboring towns began to capit- 
 ulate. But he had been wounded past healing. There was no med- 
 icine for a mind diseased, no charm to raze out the written troubles 
 of the brain. " He fell ill in Seville, so that he drew nigh unto 
 death. , . . And when the sickness had run its course, he said 
 before them all: that he pardoned the Infante Don Sancho, his heir, 
 all that out of malice he had done against him, and to his subjects 
 the wrong they had wrought towards him, ordering that letters con- 
 firming the same should be written — sealed with his golden seal, so 
 that all his subjects should be certain that he had put away his 
 quarrel with them, and desired that no blame whatever should rest 
 upon them. And when he had said this, he received the body of 
 God with great devotion, and in a little while gave up his soul to 
 God.» 
 
 This was in 1284, when he was fifty-eight years old. At this age, 
 had a private lot been his, — that of a statesman, jurist, man of sci- 
 ence, annalist, philosopher, troubadour, mathematician, historian, 
 poet, — he would but have entered his golden prime, rich in promise, 
 fruitful in performance. Yet Alfonso, uniting in himself all these 
 vocations, seemed at his death to have left behind him a wide waste 
 of opportunities, a dreary dearth of accomplishment. Looking back, 
 however, it is seen that the balance swings even. While his kingdom 
 was slipping away, he was conquering a wider domain. He was 
 creating Spanish Law, protecting the followers of learning, cherish- 
 ing the universities, restricting privilege, breaking up time-honored 
 abuses. He prohibited the use of Latin in public acts. He adopted 
 the native tongue in all his own works, and thus gave to Spanish an 
 honorable eminence, while French and German struggled long for a 
 learning from scholars, and English was to wait a hundred years for 
 the advent of Dan Chaucer. 
 
 Greatest achievement of all, he codified the common law of Spain 
 in <Las Siete Partidas* (The Seven Parts). Still accepted as a legal 
 authority in the kingdom, the work is much more valuable as a com- 
 pendium of general knowledge than as an exposition of law. The 
 studious king with astonishing catholicity examined alike both Christ- 
 ian and Arabic traditions, customs, and codes, paying a scholarly 
 respect to the greatness of a hostile language and literature. This 
 meditative monarch recognized that public office is a public trust, 
 and wrote : — 
 
 « Vicars of God are the kings, each one in his kingdom, placed over the 
 people to maintain them in justice and in truth. They have been called the 
 heart and soul of the people. For as the soul lies in the heart of men, and 
 by it the body lives and is maintained, so in the king lies justice, which is 
 the life and maintenance of the people of his lordship. . , .
 
 ALf^ONso THE Wise 
 
 3^5 
 
 «And let the king guard the thoughts of his heait in three manners: 
 firstly let him not desire nor greatly care to have superfluous and worthless 
 honors. Superfluous and worthless honors the king ought not to desire. For 
 that which is beyond necessity cannot last, and being lost, and come short 
 of, turns to dishonor. Moreover, the wise men have said that it is no less a 
 virtue for a man to keep that which he has than to gain that which he has 
 not; because keeping comes of judgment, but gain of good fortune. And the 
 king who keeps his honor in such a manner that every day and by all means 
 it is increased, lacking nothing, and does not lose that which he has for that 
 which he desires to have, — he is held for a man of right judgment, who 
 loves his own people, and desires to lead them to all good. And God will 
 keep him in this world from the dishonoring of men, and in the next from 
 the dishonor of the Avicked in hell.* 
 
 Besides the * Siete Partidas,* the royal philosopher was the author, 
 or compiler, of a < Book of Hunting'; a treatise on Chess; a sys- 
 tem of law, the * Fuero Castellano * (Spanish Code), — an attempt to 
 check the monstrous irregularities of municipal privilege ; < La Gran 
 Conquista d'Ultramar (The Great Conquest Beyond the Sea), an 
 account of the wars of the Crusades, which is the earliest known 
 specimen of Castilian prose; and several smaller works, now col- 
 lected under the general title of * Opuscules Legales ' (Minor Legal 
 Writings). It was long supposed that he wrote the * Tesoro * (The- 
 saurus), a curious medley of ignorance and superstition, much of it 
 silly, and all of it curiously inconsistent with the acknowledged char- 
 acter of the enlightened King. Modern scholarship, however, dis- 
 cards this petty treatise from the list of his productions. 
 
 His * Tablas Alfonsinas ' (Alfonsine Tables), to which Chaucer 
 refers in the * Frankeleine's Tale,* though curiously mystical, yet were 
 really scientific, and rank among the most famous of medieval books. 
 Alfonso had the courage and the wisdom to recall to Toledo the 
 heirs and successors of the great Arabian philosophers and the 
 learned Rabbis, who had been banished by religious fanaticism, and 
 there to establish a permanent council — a medieeval Academy of 
 Sciences — which devoted itself to the study of the heavens and the 
 making of astronomical calculations. <^ This was the first time,'* says 
 the Spanish historian, " that in barbarous times the Republic of 
 Letters was invited to contemplate a great school of learning, — men 
 occupied through many years in rectifying the old planetary observa- 
 tions, in disputing about the most abstruse details of this science, in 
 constructing new instruments, and observing, by means of them, the 
 courses of the stars, their declensions, their ascensions, eclipses, longi- 
 tudes, and latitudes.'* It was the vision of Roger Bacon fulfilled. 
 
 At his own expense, for years together, the King entertained in 
 his palace at Burgos, that their knowledge might enrich the nation, 
 not only certain free-thinking followers of Averroes and Avicebron, 
 
 1—25
 
 386 
 
 ALFONSO THE WISE 
 
 but infidel disciples of the Koran, and learned Rabbis who denied the 
 true faith. That creed must not interfere with deed, was an aston- 
 ishing mental attitude for the thirteenth century, and invited a gen- 
 eral suspicion of the King's orthodoxy. His religious sense was 
 really strong, however, and appears most impressively in the < Can- 
 tigas a la Vergen Maria* (Songs to the Virgin), which were sung 
 over his grave by priests and acolytes for hundreds of years. They 
 are sometimes melancholy and sometimes joyous, always simple and 
 genuine, and, written in Galician, reflect the trustful piety and hap- 
 piness of his youth in remote hill provinces where the thought of 
 empire had not penetrated. It was his keen intelligence that ex- 
 pressed itself in the saying popularly attributed to him, << Had I been 
 present at the creation, I might have offered some useful sugges- 
 tions.'* It was his reverent spirit that made mention in his will of 
 the sacred songs as the testimony to his faith. So lived and died 
 Alfonso the Tenth, the father of Spanish literature, and the reviver 
 of Spanish learning. 
 
 «WHAT MEANETH A TYRANT, AND HOW HE USETH HIS POWER 
 IN A KINGDOM WHEN HE HATH OBTAINED IT» 
 
 « A TYRANT,** says this law, *^doth signify a cruel lord, who, 
 f\ 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 rather to work their own profit, though it be in 
 harm of the land, than the common profit of all, for they always 
 live in an ill fear of losing it. And that they may be able to 
 fulfill this their purpose unincumbered, 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, because, when they be such, they 
 may not be bold to rise against them, nor to resist their wills; 
 and the second is, that they be not kindly and united among 
 themselves, in such wise that they trust not one another, for 
 while they live in disagreement, they shall not dare to make any 
 discourse against their lord, for fear faith and secrecy should not 
 be kept among themselves; and the third way is, that they strive 
 to make them poor, and to put them upon great undertakings, 
 which they never can finish, whereby they may have so much 
 harm that it may never come into their hearts to devise any- 
 thing against their ruler. And above all this, have tyrants ever
 
 ALFONSO THE WISE 
 
 387 
 
 Striven to make spoil of the strong and to destroy the wise; and 
 have forbidden fellowship and assemblies of men in their land, 
 and striven always to know what men said or did; and do trust 
 their counsel and the guard of their person rather to foreigners, 
 wlio will serve at their will, than to them of the land, who 
 serve from oppression. And moreover, we say that though any 
 man may have gained mastery of a kingdom by any of the law- 
 ful means whereof we have spoken in the laws going before this, 
 yet, if he use his power ill, in the ways whereof we speak in 
 this law, hiiTL may the people still call tyrant; for he turneth his 
 mastery which was rightful into wrongful, as Aristotle hath said 
 in the book which treateth of the rule and government of king- 
 doms. '^ 
 
 From <Las Siete Partidas,* quoted in Ticknor's < Spanish Literature.> 
 
 ON THE TURKS, AND WHY THEY ARE SO CALLED 
 
 THE ancient histories which describe the early inhabitants of 
 the East and their various languages show the origin of 
 each tribe or nation, or whence they came, and for what 
 reason they waged war, and how they were enabled to conquer 
 the former lords of the land. Now in these histories it is told 
 that the Turks, and also the allied race called Turcomans, were 
 all of one land originally, and that these names were taken from 
 two rivers which flow through the territory whence these people 
 came, which lies in the direction of the rising of the sun, a lit- 
 tle toward the north; and that one of these rivers bore the name 
 of Turco, and the other Mani: and finally that for this reason 
 the two tribes which dwelt on the banks of these two rivers came 
 to be commonly known as Turcomanos or Turcomans. On the 
 other hand, there are those who assert that because a portion of 
 the Turks lived among the Comanos (Comans) they accordingly, 
 in course of time, received the name of Turcomanos; but the 
 majority adhere to the reason already given. However this may 
 be, the Turks and the Turcomans belong both to the same fam- 
 ily, and follow no other life than that of wandering over the 
 country, driving their herds from one good pasture to another, 
 and taking with them their wives and their children and all 
 their property, including money as well as flocks. 
 
 The Turks did not dwell then in houses, but in tents made of 
 skins, as do in these days the Comanos and Tartars; and when
 
 388 
 
 ALFOisrSO THE Wisfi 
 
 they had to move from one place to another, they divided them- 
 selves into companies according to their different dialects, and 
 chose a cahdillo (judge), who settled their disputes, and rendered 
 justice to those who deserved it. And this nomadic race culti- 
 vated no fields, nor vineyards, nor orchards, nor arable lands of 
 any kind; neither did they buy or sell for money: but traded 
 their flocks among one another, and also their milk and cheese, 
 and pitched their tents in the places where they found the best 
 pasturage; and when the grass was exhausted, they sought fresh 
 herbage elsewhere. And whenever they reached the border of a 
 strange land, they sent before them special envoys, the most 
 worthy and honorable of their men, to the kings or lords of 
 such countries, to ask of them the privilege of pasturage on their 
 lands for a space; for which they were willing to pay such rent 
 or tax as might be agreed upon. After this manner they lived 
 among each nation in whose territory they happened to be. 
 
 From <La Gran Conquista de Ultramar,> Chapter xiii. 
 
 TO THE MONTH OF MARY 
 From the <Cantigas> 
 
 WELCOME, O May, yet once again we greet theel 
 So alway praise we her, the Holy Mother, 
 Who prays to God that he shall aid us ever 
 Against our foes, and to us ever listen. 
 Welcome, O May! loyally art thou welcome! 
 So alway praise we her, the Mother of kindness, 
 Mother who alway on us taketh pity. 
 Mother who guardeth us from woes unnumbered. 
 Welcome, O May! welcome, O month well favoredl 
 So let us ever pray and offer praises 
 To her who ceases not for us, for sinners, 
 To pray to God that we from woes be guarded. 
 Welcome, O May! O joyous month and stainless! 
 So will we ever pray to her who gaineth 
 Grace from her Son for us, and gives each morning 
 Force that by us the Moors from Spain are driven. 
 Welcome, O May, of bread and wine the giver! 
 Pray then to her, for in. her arms, an infant 
 She bore the Lord ! she points us on our journey. 
 The journey that to her will bear us quickly I
 
 389 
 
 ALFRED THE GREAT 
 
 (849-901) 
 
 jN THE Ashmolean Museum at Oxford may be seen an antique 
 jewel, consisting of an enameled figure in red, blue, and 
 green, enshrined in a golden frame, and bearing the legend 
 "Alfred mec heht gewyrcean » (Alfred ordered me made). This 
 was discovered in 1693 in Newton Park, near Athelney, and through 
 it one is enabled to touch the far-away life of a thousand years ago. 
 But greater and more imperishable than this archaic gem is the gift 
 that the noble King left to the English nation — a gift that affects 
 the entire race of English-speaking people. For it was Alfred who 
 laid the foundations for a national literature. 
 
 Alfred, the younger son of Ethelwulf, king of the West Saxons, 
 and Osberga, daughter of his cup-bearer, was born in the palace at 
 Wantage in the year 849. He grew up at his father's court, a migra- 
 tory one, that moved from Kent to Devonshire and from Wales to 
 the Isle of Wight whenever events, raids, or the Witan (Parliament) 
 demanded. At an early age Alfred was sent to pay homage to the 
 Pope in Rome, taking such gifts as rich vessels of gold and silver, 
 silks, and hangings, which show that Saxons lacked nothing in 
 treasure. In 855 Ethelwulf visited Rome with his young son, bearing 
 more costly presents, as well as munificent sums for the shrine of 
 St. Peter's; and returning by way of France, they stopped at the 
 court of Charles the Bold. Once again in his home, young Alfred 
 applied himself to his education. He became a marvel of courage at 
 the chase, proficient in the use of arms, excelled in athletic sports, 
 was zealous in his religious duties, and athirst for knowledge. His 
 accomplishments were many; and when the guests assembled in the 
 great hall to make the walls ring with their laughter over cups of 
 mead and ale, he could take his turn with the harpers and minstrels 
 to improvise one of those sturdy bold ballads that stir the blood 
 to-day with their stately rhythms and noble themes. 
 
 Ethelwulf died in 858, and eight years later only two sons, Ethel- 
 red and Alfred, were left to cope with the Danish invaders. They 
 won victory after victory, upon which the old chroniclers love to 
 dwell, pausing to describe wild frays among the chalk-hills and 
 dense forests, which afforded convenient places to hide men and to 
 bury spoils. 
 
 Ethelred died in 871, and the throne descended to Alfred. His 
 kingdom was in a terrible condition, for Wessex, Kent, Mercia, Sus- 
 sex, and Surrey lay at the mercy of the marauding enemy. <<The
 
 ^OQ ALFRED THE GREAT 
 
 land," says an old writer, ^'was as the Garden of Eden before t^em, 
 and behind them a desolate wilderness." London was in ruins; the 
 Danish standard, with its black Raven, fluttered everywhere ; and the 
 forests were filled with outposts and spies of the "pagan army." 
 There was nothing for the King to do but gather his men and dash 
 into the fray to "let the hard steel ring upon the high helmet." 
 Time after time the Danes are overthrown, but, like the heads of the 
 fabled Hydra, they grow and flourish after each attack. They have 
 one advantage : they know how to command the sea, and numerous 
 as the waves that their vessels ride so proudly and well, the invaders 
 arrive and quickly land to plunder and slay. 
 
 Alfred, although but twenty-five, sees the need for a navy, and in 
 875 gathers a small fleet to meet the ships of the enemy, wins one 
 prize, and puts the rest to flight. The chroniclers now relate that he 
 fell into disaster and became a fugitive in Selwood Forest, while 
 Guthrum and his host were left free to ravage. From this period 
 date the legends of the King's visit in disguise to the hut of the 
 neat-herd, and his burning the bread he was set to watch; his pene- 
 trating into the camp of the Danes and entertaining Guthrum by his 
 minstrelsy while discovering his plans and force; the vision of St. 
 Cuthbert; and the fable of his calling five hundred men by the 
 winding of his horn. 
 
 Not long after he was enabled to emerge from the trials of exile 
 in Athelney ; and according to Asser, " In the seventh week after 
 Easter, he rode to Egbert's Stone in the eastern part of Selwood or 
 the Great Wood, called in the old British language Coit-mawr. 
 Here he was met by all the neighboring folk of Somersetshire, Wilt- 
 shire, and Hampshire, who had not for fear of the Pagans fled 
 beyond the sea; and when they saw the king alive after such great 
 tribulation, they received him, as he deserved, with joy and ac- 
 clamations and all encamped there for the night." Soon afterward 
 he made a treaty with the Danes, and became king of the whole of 
 England south of the Thames. 
 
 It was now Alfred's work to reorganize his kingdom, to strengthen 
 the coast defenses, to rebuild London, to arrange for a standing 
 army, and to make wise laws for the preservation of order and 
 peace; and when all this was accomplished, he turned his attention 
 to the establishment of monasteries and colleges. " In the mean- 
 time," says old Asser, "the King, during the frequent wars and 
 other trammels of this present life, the invasions of the Pagans, and 
 his own daily infirmities of body, continued to carry on the govern- 
 ment, and to exercise hunting in all its branches; to teach his 
 workers in gold and artificers of all kinds, his falconers, hawkers, 
 and dog-keepers, to build houses majestic and good, beyond all the
 
 ALFRED THE GREAT ^91 
 
 precedents of his ancestors, by his new mechanical inventions, to 
 recite the Saxon books, and more especially to learn by heart the 
 Saxon poems, and to make others learn them also; for he alone 
 never desisted from studying, most diligently, to the best of his 
 ability; he attended the mass and other daily services of religion: 
 he was frequent in psalm-singing and prayer, at the proper hours, 
 both of the night and of the day. He also went to the churches, as 
 we have already said, in the night-time, to pray, secretly and un- 
 known to his courtiers; he bestowed alms and largesses both on his 
 own people and on foreigners of all countries; he was affable and 
 pleasant to all, and curious to investigate things unknown. >^ 
 
 As regards Alfred's personal contribution to literature, it ma}'- be 
 said that over and above all disputed matters and certain ],ost works, 
 they represent a most valuable and voluminous assortment due 
 directly to his own royal and scholarly pen. History, secular and 
 churchly, laws and didactic literature, were his field ; and though it 
 would seem that his actual period of composition did not much exceed 
 ten years, yet he accomplished a vast deal for any man, especially any 
 busy sovereign and soldier. 
 
 An ancient writer, Ethelwerd, says that he translated many books 
 from Latin into Saxon, and William of Malmesbury goes so far as to 
 say that he translated into Anglo-Saxon almost all the literature of 
 Rome. Undoubtedly the general condition of education was deplor- 
 able, and Alfred felt this deeply. « Formerly, » he writes, "men 
 came hither from foreign lands to seek instruction, and now when 
 we desire it, we can only obtain it from abroad.*^ Like Charlemagne 
 he drew to his court famous scholars, and set many of them to work 
 writing chronicles and translating important Latin books into Anglo- 
 Saxon. Among these was the ^Pastoral Care of Pope Gregory, > to 
 which he wrote the Preface; but with his own hand he translated 
 the < Consolations of Philosophy, > by Boethius, two manuscripts of 
 which still exist. In this he frequently stops to introduce observations 
 and comments of his own. Of greater value was his translation of 
 the < History of the World,' by Orosius, which he abridged, and to 
 which he added new chapters giving the record of coasting voyages 
 in the north of Europe. This is preserved in the Cotton MSB. in the 
 British Museum. His fourth translation was the < Ecclesiastical His- 
 tory of the English Nation,' by Bede. To this last may be added 
 the < Blossom Gatherings from St. Augustine,' and many minor com- 
 positions in prose and verse, translations from the Latin fables and 
 poems, and his own note-book, in which he jots, with what may be 
 termed a journalistic instinct, scenes that he had witnessed, such as 
 Aldhelm standing on the bridge instructing the people on Sunday 
 afternoons; bits of philosophy; and such reflections as the following,
 
 2c,2 ALFRED THE GREAT 
 
 which remind one of Marcus Aurelius: — " Desirest thou power? But 
 thou shalt never obtain it without sorrows — sorrows from strange 
 folk, and yet keener sorrows from thine own kindred ; ** and " Hard- 
 ship and sorrow! Not a king but would wish to be without these if 
 he could. But I know that he cannot.'* Alfred's value to literature 
 is this: he placed by the side of Anglo-Saxon poetry, — consisting of 
 two great poems, Caedmon's great song of the *■ Creation * and Cyne- 
 wulf's ^Nativity and Life of Christ,* and the unwritten ballads passed 
 from lip to lip, — four immense translations from Latin into Anglo- 
 Saxon prose, which raised English from a mere spoken dialect to a 
 true language. From his reign date also the famous Anglo-Saxon 
 Chronicle and the Anglo-Saxon Gospels; and a few scholars are 
 tempted to class the magnificent *■ Beowulf * among the works of this 
 period. At any rate, the great literary movement that he inaugurated 
 lasted until the Norman Conquest. 
 
 In 893 the Danes once more disturbed King Alfred, but he foiled 
 them at all points, and they left in 897 to harry England no more 
 for several generations. In 901 he died, having reigned for thirty 
 years in the honor and affection of his subjects. Freeman in his 
 * Norman Conquest * says that " no other man on record has ever so 
 thoroughly united all the virtues both of the ruler and of the private 
 man.** Bishop Asser, his contemporary, has left a half-mythical 
 eulogy, and William of Malmesbury, Roger of Wendover, Matthew 
 of Westminster, and John Brompton talk of him fully and freely. 
 Sir John Spellman published a quaint biography in Oxford in 1678, 
 followed by Powell's in 1634, and Bickneli's in 1777. The modern 
 lives are by Giles, Pauli, and Hughes. 
 
 KING ALFRED ON KING-CRAFT 
 
 Comment in his Translation of Boethius's < Consolations of Philosophy* 
 
 THE Mind then answered and thus said: O Reason, indeed 
 thou knowest that covetousness and the greatness of this 
 earthly power never well pleased me, nor did I altogether 
 very much yearn aftet this earthly authority. But nevertheless I 
 was desirous of materials for the work which I was commanded 
 to perform; that was, that I might honorably and fitly guide and 
 exercise the power which was committed to me. Moreover, thou 
 knowest that no man can show any skill nor exercise or control 
 any power, without tools and materials. There are of every 
 craft the materials without which man cannot exercise the craft. 
 These, then, are a king's materials and his tools to reign with:
 
 saa
 
 ALFRED THE GREAT 393 
 
 that he have his land well peopled; he must have prayer-men, 
 and soldiers, and workmen. Thou knowest that without these 
 tools no king can show his craft. This is also his materials 
 which he must have besides the tools: provisions for the three 
 classes. This is, then, their provision: land to inhabit, and gifts 
 and weapons, and meat, and ale, and clothes, and whatsoever is 
 necessary for the three classes. He cannot without these pre- 
 serve the tools, nor without the tools accomplish any of those 
 things which he is commanded to perform. Therefore, I was 
 desirous of materials wherewith to exercise the power, that my 
 talents and power should not be forgotten and concealed. For 
 every craft and every power soon becomes old, and is passed 
 over in silence, if it be without wisdom: for no man can accom- 
 plish any craft without wisdom. Because whatsoever is done 
 through folly, no one can ever reckon for craft. This is now 
 especially to be said: that I wished to live honorably whilst I 
 lived, and after my life, to leave to the men who were after me, 
 my memory in good works. 
 
 ALFRED'S PREFACE TO THE VERSION OF POPE GREGORY'S 
 
 < PASTORAL CARE> 
 
 KING Alfred bids greet Bishop Waerferth with his words lov- 
 ingly and with friendship; and I let it be known to thee 
 that it has very often come into my mind, what wise men 
 there formerly were throughout England, both of sacred and sec- 
 ular orders; and what happy times there were then throughout 
 England; and how the kings who had power of the nation in 
 those days obeyed God and his ministers; and they preserved 
 peace, morality, and order at home, and at the same time en- 
 larged their territory abroad; and how they prospered both with 
 war and with wisdom; and also the sacred orders, how zealous 
 they were, both in teaching and learning, and in all the services 
 they owed to God; and how foreigners came to this land in 
 search of wisdom and instruction, and how we should now have 
 to get them from abroad if we would have them. So general 
 was its decay in England that there were very few on this side 
 of the Humber who could understand their rituals in English, 
 or translate a letter from Latin into English; and I believe 
 there were not many beyond the Humber. There were so few 
 Xk^t I cannot remember a single one south of the Thames wheu
 
 2P4 ALFRED THE GREAT 
 
 I came to the throne. Thanks be to God Almighty that we 
 have any teachers among us now. And therefore I command 
 thee to do as I believe thou art willing, to disengage thyself 
 from worldly matters as often as thou canst, that thou mayst 
 apply the wisdom which God has given thee wherever thou 
 canst. Consider what punishments would come upon us on 
 account of this world if we neither loved it (wisdom) ourselves 
 nor suffered other men to obtain it: we should love the name 
 only of Christian, and very few of the virtues. 
 
 When I considered all this I remembered also how I saw, 
 before it had been all ravaged and burnt, how the churches 
 throughout the whole of England stood filled with treasures and 
 books, and there was also a great multitude of God's servants; 
 but they had very little knowledge of the books, for they could 
 not understand anything of them, because they were not written 
 in their own language. As if they had said, " Our forefathers, 
 who formerly held these places, loved wisdom, and through it 
 they obtained wealth and bequeathed it to us. In this we can 
 still see their tracks, but we cannot follow them, and therefore 
 we have lost both the wealth and the wisdom, because we would 
 not incline our hearts after their example.*^ 
 
 When I remembered all this, I wondered extremely that the 
 good and wise men, who were formerly all over England, and 
 had perfectly learnt all the books, did not wish to translate 
 them into their own language. But again, I soon answered 
 myself and said, " They did not think that men would ever be 
 so careless, and that learning would so decay; therefore they 
 abstained from translating, and they trusted that the wisdom in 
 this land might increase with our knowledge of languages.* 
 
 Then I remember how the law was first known in Hebrew, 
 and again, when the Greeks had learnt it, they translated the 
 whole of it into their own language, and all other books besides. 
 And again, the Romans, when they had learnt it, they translated 
 the whole of it through learned interpreters into their own 
 language. And also all other Christian nations translated a part 
 of them into their own language. Therefore it seems better to 
 me, if ye think so, for us also to translate some books which are 
 most needful for all men to know, into the language which we 
 can all understand, and for you to do as we very easily can if we 
 have tranquillity enough; that is, that all the youth now in 
 England of free men, who are rich enough to be able to devote
 
 ALFRED THE GREAT ^95 
 
 themselves to it, be set to learn as long as they are not fit for 
 any other occupation, until that they are well able to read English 
 writing: and let those be afterward taught more in the Latin 
 language who are to continue learning and be promoted to a 
 higher rank. When I remember how the knowledge of Latin had 
 formerly decayed throughout England, and yet many could read 
 English writing, I began among other various and manifold 
 troubles of this kingdom, to translate into English the book which 
 is called in Latin ^ Pastoralis, ^ and in English ^Shepherd's Book, 
 sometimes word by word and sometimes according to the sense, 
 as I had learnt it from Plegmund, my archbishop, and Asser, my 
 bishop, and Grimbold, my mass-priest, and John, my mass-priest. 
 And when I had learnt it as I could best understand it, and as I 
 could most clearly interpret it, I translated it into English; and 
 I will send a copy to every bishopric in my kingdom; and on 
 each there is a clasp worth fifty mancus. And I command, in 
 God's name, that no man take the clasp from the book or the 
 book from the minister: it is uncertain how long there may be 
 such learned bishops as now, thanks be to God, there are nearly 
 everywhere; therefore, I wish them always to remain in their 
 place, unless the bishop wish to take them with him, or they be 
 lent out anywhere, or any one make a copy from them. 
 
 BLOSSOM GATHERINGS FROM ST. AUGUSTINE 
 
 IN every tree I saw something there which I needed at home, 
 therefore I advise every one who is able and has many 
 wains, that he trade to the same wood where I cut the stud 
 shafts, and there fetch more for himself and load his wain with 
 fair rods, that he may wind many a neat wall and set many a 
 comely house and build many a fair town of them; and thereby 
 may dwell merrily and softly, so as I now yet have not done. 
 But He who taught me, to whom the wood was agreeable. He may 
 make me to dwell more softly in this temporary cottage, the while 
 that I am in this world, and also in the everlasting home which 
 He has promised us through St. Augustine, and St. Gregory, and 
 St. Jerome, and through other holy fathers; as I believe also 
 that for the merits of all these He will make the way more con- 
 venient than it was before, and especially the carr}-ing and the 
 building: but every man wishes after he has built a cottage on 
 his lord's lease by his help, that he may sometimes rest him
 
 39^ 
 
 ALFRED THE GREAT 
 
 therein and hunt, and fowl, and fish, and use it every way under 
 the lease both on water and on land, until the time that he earn 
 book-land and everlasting heritage through his lord's mercy. So 
 do enlighten the eyes of my mind so that I may search out the 
 right way to the everlasting home and the everlasting glory, and 
 the everlasting rest which is promised us through those holy 
 fathers. May it be so! . 
 
 It is no wonder though men swink in timber working, and in 
 the wealthy Giver who wields both these temporary cottages and 
 eternal homes. May He who shaped both and wields both, grant 
 me that I may be meet for each, both here to be profitable and 
 thither to come. 
 
 o 
 
 WHERE TO FIND TRUE JOY 
 From < Boethius > 
 
 H ! IT is a fault of weight, 
 
 Let him think it out who will, 
 And a danger passing great 
 Which can thus allure to ill 
 
 Careworn men from the rightway. 
 Swiftly ever led astray. 
 
 Will ye seek within the wood 
 
 Red gold on the green trees tall ? 
 None, I wot, is wise that could, 
 For it grows not there at all : 
 Neither in wine-gardens green 
 Seek they gems of glittering sheen. 
 
 Would ye on some hill-top set, 
 
 When ye list to catch a trout. 
 Or a carp, your fishing-net ? 
 
 Men, methinks, have long found out 
 That it would be foolish fare, 
 For they know they are not there. 
 
 In the salt sea can ye find, 
 
 When ye list to start an hunt, 
 With your hounds, the hart or hind ? 
 It will sooner be your wont 
 In the woods to look, I wot. 
 Than in seas where they are not.
 
 ALFRfei) THE GREA'r 3$;* 
 
 Is it wonderful to know- 
 That for crystals red or white 
 One must to the sea-beach go, 
 Or for other colors bright, 
 Seeking by the river's side 
 Or the shore at ebb of tide ? 
 
 Likewise, men are well aware 
 
 Where to look for river-fish; 
 And all other worldly ware 
 
 "Where to seek them when they wish; 
 Wisely careful men will know 
 Year by year to find them so. 
 
 But of all things 'tis most sad 
 
 That they foolish are so blind, 
 So besotted and so mad, 
 
 That they cannot surely find 
 Where the ever-good is nigh 
 And true pleasures hidden lie. 
 
 Therefore, never is their strife 
 
 After those true joys to spur; 
 In this lean and little life 
 
 They, half-witted, deeply err 
 
 Seeking here their bliss to gain. 
 That is God Himself in vain. 
 
 Ah! I know not in my thought 
 
 How enough to blame their sin, 
 None so clearly as I ought 
 
 Can I show their fault within; 
 
 For, more bad and vain are they 
 And more sad than I can say. 
 
 All their hope is to acquire 
 
 Worship goods and worldly weal; 
 When they have their mind's desire. 
 Then such witless Joy they feel. 
 That in folly they believe 
 Those True Joys they then receive. 
 
 Works of Alfred the Great, Jubilee Edition (Oxford and Cambridge, 1852).
 
 398 ALFRED THE GREAT 
 
 A SORROWFUL FYTTE 
 From < Boethius > 
 
 Lo! I sung cheerily 
 In my bright days, 
 But now all wearily 
 Chaunt I my lays; 
 Sorrowing tearfully, 
 Saddest of men. 
 Can I sing cheerfully, 
 As I could then ? 
 
 Many a verity 
 
 In those glad times 
 Of my prosperity 
 
 Taught I in rhymes; 
 Now from forgetfulness 
 
 Wanders my tongue, 
 Wasting in fretfulness. 
 
 Metres unsung. 
 
 Worldliness brought me here 
 
 Foolishly blind, 
 Riches have wrought me here 
 
 Sadness of mind; 
 When I rely on them, 
 
 Lo! they depart, — 
 Bitterly, fie on them! 
 
 Rend they my heart. 
 Why did your songs to me. 
 
 World-loving men. 
 Say joy belongs to me 
 
 Ever as then ? 
 Why did ye lyingly 
 
 Think such a thing. 
 Seeing how flyingly 
 
 Wealth may take wing ? 
 
 Works of Alfred the Great, Jubilee Edition (Oxford and Cambridge, 1852).
 
 399 
 
 CHARLES GRANT ALLEN 
 
 (1848-1899) 
 
 JHE Irish-Canadian natxiralist, Charles Grant Blairfindie Allen, 
 who turned his versatile hand with equal facility to scientific 
 writing, to essays, short stories, botanical treatises, biography, 
 and novels, is known to literature as Grant Allen, as "Arbuthnot 
 Wilson,** and as '* Cecil Power." 
 
 His work may be divided into two classes : fiction and popular 
 essays. The first shows the author's familiarity with varied scenes 
 and types, and exhibits much feeling for dramatic situations. His 
 list of novels is long, and includes among others, < Strange Stories,* 
 < Babylon, > < This Mortal Coil,> <The Tents of Shem,> < The Great 
 Taboo, > < Recalled to Life,' < The Woman Who Did,> and < The British 
 Barbarians.* In many of these books he has woven his plots around 
 a psychological theme ; a proof that science interests him more than 
 invention. His essays are written for unscientific readers, and care- 
 fully avoid all technicalities and tedious discussions. Most persons, 
 he says, <^ would much rather learn why birds have feathers than 
 why they have a keeled sternum, and they think the origin of bright 
 flowers far more attractive than the origin of monocotyledonous 
 seeds or esogenous stems.** 
 
 Grant Allen was born in Kingston, Canada, February 24th, 1848. 
 After graduation at Merton College, Oxford, he occupied for four 
 years the chair of logic and philosophy at Queen's College, Spanish 
 Town, Jamaica, which he resigned to settle in England, where he 
 died in 1899. Early in his career he became an enthusiastic follower 
 of Darwin and Herbert Spencer, and published the attractive books 
 entitled < Science in Arcady,* ^Vignettes from Nature,* ^ The Evolu- 
 tionist at Large,* and < Colin Clout's Calendar.* In his preface to 
 Vignettes from Nature,* he says that the ^* essays are written from 
 an easy-going, half-scientific half-aesthetic standpoint.** In this spirit 
 he rambles in the woods, in the meadows, at the seaside, or upon 
 the heather-carpeted moor, finding in such expeditions material and 
 suggestions for his lightly moving essays, which expound the prob- 
 lems of Nature according to the theories of his acknowledged mas- 
 ters. A fallow deer grazing in a forest, a wayside berry, a guelder 
 rose, a sportive butterfly, a bed of nettles, a falling leaf, a mountain 
 tarn, the hole of a hedgehog, a darting humming-bird, a ripening 
 plum, a clover-blossom, a spray of sweet-briar, a handful of wild 
 thyme, or a blaze of scarlet geranium before a cottage door, furnish 
 him with a text for the discussion of ^* those biological and cosmical
 
 466 CHARLES GRAlSft ALLfiiJ 
 
 doctrines which have revolutionized the thought of the nineteenth 
 century,'^ as he says in substance. 
 
 Somewhat more scientific are < Psychological -^Esthetics,* *The 
 Color Sense,* ^ The Color of Flowers,* and < Flowers and their Pedi- 
 grees*; and still deeper is < Force and Energy* (1888), a theory of 
 dynamics in which he expresses original views. In < Psychological 
 Esthetics* (1877), he first seeks to explain <<such simple pleasures in 
 bright color, sweet sound, or rude pictorial imitation as delight the 
 child and the savage, proceeding from these elementary principles 
 to the more and more complex gratifications of natural scenery, 
 painting, and poetry.** In < The Color Sense* he defines all that we 
 do not owe to the color sense, for example the rainbow, the sunset, 
 the sky, the green or purple sea, the rocks, the foliage of trees and 
 shrubs, hues of autumn, effects of iridescent light, or tints of min- 
 erals and precious stones ; and all that we do owe, namely, " the 
 beautiful flowers of the meadow and the garden-roses, lilies, cow- 
 slips, and daisies; the exquisite pink of the apple, the peach, the 
 mango, and the cherry, with all the diverse artistic wealth of 
 oranges, strawberries, plums, melons, brambleberries, and pomegran- 
 ates; the yellow, blue, and melting green of tropical butterflies; the 
 magnificent plumage of the toucan, the macaw, the cardinal-bird, 
 the lory, and the honey-sucker; the red breast of our homely robin; 
 the silver or ruddy fur of the ermine, the wolverene, the fox, the 
 squirrel, and the chinchilla; the rosy cheeks and pink lips of the 
 English maiden; the whole catalogue of dyco, paints, and pigments: 
 and last of all, the colors of art in every age and nation. 
 
 Since his death it has been ascertained that Mr. Allen was the 
 author of " The Typewriter GirP' and ^' Rosalba,'' which appeared under 
 the pseudonym of Olive Pratt Rayner. Some critics think the latter 
 book his most effective work of fiction. His book, " Flashlights on 
 Nature," was published in 1898, and *' The European Totir" in 1899. 
 
 THE COLORATION OF FLOWERS 
 From <The Colors of Flowers* 
 
 THE different hues assumed by petals are all thus, as it were, 
 laid up beforehand in the tissues of the plant, ready to be 
 brought out at a moment's notice. And all flowers, as we 
 know, easily sport a little in color. But the question is. Do their 
 changes tend to follow any regular and definite order? Is there 
 any reason to believe that the modification runs from any one 
 color toward any other? Apparently there is. The general con- 
 clusion to be set forth in this work is the statement of such a
 
 CHARLES GRANT ALLEN 
 
 401 
 
 tendency. All flowers, it would seem, were in their earliest ^orm 
 yellow; then some of them became white; after that, a few of 
 them grew to be red or purple; and finally, a comparatively 
 small number acquired various shades of lilac, mauve, violet, or 
 blue. So that if this principle be true, such a flower as the hare- 
 bell will represent one of the most highly developed lines of 
 descent; and its ancestors will have passed successively through 
 all the intermediate stages. Let us see what grounds can be 
 given for such a belief. 
 
 Some hints of a progressive law in the direction of a color- 
 change from yellow to blue are sometimes afforded to us even by 
 the successive stages of a single flower. For example, one of our 
 common little English forget-me-nots, Myosotis versicolor, is pale 
 yellow when it first opens; but as it grows older, it becomes 
 faintly pinkish, and ends by being blue, like the others of its 
 race. Now, this sort of color-change is by no means uncommon; 
 and in almost all known cases it is always in the same direction, 
 from yellow or white, through pink, orange, or red, to purple or 
 blue. For example, one of the wall-flowers, Cheiranthus chamcs- 
 leo, has at first a whitish flower, then a citron-yellow, and finally 
 emerges into red or violet. The petals of Stytidiuni fructicosum 
 are pale yellow to begin with, and afterward become light rose- 
 colored. An evening primrose, (Enothera tetraptera, has white 
 flowers in its first stage, and red ones at a later period of devel- 
 opment. Cobea scandens goes from white to violet; Hibiscus 
 mutabilis from white through flesh-colored to red. The common 
 Virginia stock of our gardens {Malcolmid) often opens of a pale 
 yellowish green, then becomes faintly pink; afterward deepens 
 into bright red; and fades away at the last into mauve or blue. 
 Fritz Miiller's Lantana is yellow on its first day, orange on its 
 second, and purple on the third. The whole family of Boraginacece 
 begin by being pink and end with being blue. The garden con- 
 volvulus opens a blushing white and passes into full purple. In 
 all these and many other cases the general direction of the 
 changes is the same. They are usually set down as due to vary- 
 ing degrees of oxidation in the pigmentary matter. If this be so, 
 there is a good reason why bees should be specially fond of blue, 
 and why blue flowers should be specially adapted for fertilization 
 by their aid. For Mr. A. R. Wallace has shown that color is 
 most apt to appear or to vary in those parts of plants or animals 
 which have undergone the highest amount of modification. The 
 I — 26
 
 4Q2 CHARLES GRANT ALLEN 
 
 markings of the peacock and the argiis pheasant come out upon 
 their immensely developed secondary tail-feathers or wing-plumes; 
 the metallic hues of sun-birds, or humming-birds, show them- 
 selves upon their highly specialized crests, gorgets, or lappets. It 
 is the same with the hackles of fowls, the head ornaments of 
 fruit-pigeons, and the bills of toucans. The most exquisite colors 
 in the insect world are those which are developed on the greatly 
 expanded and delicately feathered wings of butterflies; and the 
 eye-spots which adorn a few species are usually found on their 
 very highly modified swallow-tail appendages. So too with flow- 
 ers: those which have undergone most modification have their 
 colors most profoundly altered. In this way, we may put it down 
 as a general rule (to be tested hereafter) that the least developed 
 flowers are usually yellow or white; those which have undergone 
 a little more modification are usually pink or red; and those which 
 have been most highly specialized of any are usually purple, lilac, 
 or blue. Absolute deep ultramarine probably marks the highest 
 level of all. 
 
 On the other hand, Mr. Wallace's principle also explains why 
 the bees and butterflies should prefer these specialized colors to 
 all others, and should therefore select those flowers which display 
 them by preference over any less developed types; for bees and 
 butterflies are the most highly adapted of all insects to honey- 
 seeking and flower-feeding. They have themselves on their side 
 undergone the largest amount of specialization for that particular 
 function. And if the more specialized and modified flowers, 
 which gradually fitted their forms and the position of their honey- 
 glands to the forms of the bees or butterflies, showed a natural 
 tendency to pass from yellow through pink and red to purple 
 and blue, it would follow that the insects which were being 
 evolved side by side with them, and which were aiding at the 
 same time in their evolution, would grow to recognize these 
 developed colors as the visible symbols of those flowers from 
 which they could obtain the largest amount of honey with the 
 least possible trouble. Thus it would finally result that the 
 ordinary unspecialized flowers, which depended upon small insect 
 riff-raff, would be mostly left yellow or white; those which 
 appealed to rather higher insects would become pink or red; and 
 those which laid themselves out for bees or butterflies, the aristo- 
 crats of the arthropodous world, would grow for the most part 
 to be purple or blue.
 
 CHARLES GRANT ALLEN 403 
 
 Now, this is very much what we actually find to be the 
 case in nature. The simplest and earliest flowers are those with 
 regular, symmetrical open cups, like the Ranunculus genus, the 
 Potentillas, and the Alsine or chickweeds, which can be visited 
 by any insects whatsoever: and these are in large part yellow or 
 white. A little higher are flowers like the Campions or SiletiecF, 
 and the stocks {Mattkiola), with more or less closed cups, whose 
 honey can only be reached by more specialized insects; and these 
 are oftener pink or reddish. More profoundly modified are those 
 irregular one-sided flowers, like the violets, peas, and orchids, 
 which have assumed special shapes to accommodate bees and 
 other specific honey-seekers; and these are often purple and not 
 unfrequently blue. Highly specialized in another way are the 
 flowers like harebells {CampanidacecB), scabious {DipsacecE), and 
 heaths {Ericacecs), whose petals have all coalesced into a tubular 
 corolla; and these might almost be said to be usually purple or 
 blue. And finally, highest of all are the flowers like labiates 
 (rosemary. Salvia, etc.) and speedwells [Veronica), whose tubular 
 corolla has been turned to one side, thus combining the united 
 petals with the irregular shape; and these are almost invariably 
 purple or blue. 
 
 AMONG THE HEATHER 
 From <The Evolutionist at Large > 
 
 I SUPPOSE even that apocryphal person, the general reader, would 
 be insulted at being told at this hour of the day that all 
 bright-colored flowers are fertilized by the visits of insects, 
 whose attentions they are specially designed to solicit. Every- 
 body has heard over and over again that roses, orchids, and 
 columbines have acquired their honey to allure the friendly bee, 
 their gaudy petals to advertise the honey, and their divers shapes 
 to insure the proper fertilization by the correct type of insect. 
 But everybody does not know how specifically certain blossoms 
 have laid themselves out for a particular species of fly, beetle, 
 or tiny moth. Here on the higher downs, for instance, most flow- 
 ers are exceptionally large and brilliant; while all Alpine climb- 
 ers must have noticed that the most gorgeous masses of bloom 
 in Switzerland occur just below the snow-line. The reason is, 
 that such blossoms must be fertilized by butterflies alone. Bees.
 
 404 CHARLES GRANT ALLEN 
 
 their great rivals in honey-sucking, frequent only the lower mead- 
 ows and slopes, where flowers are many and small: they seldom 
 venture far from the hive or the nest among the high peaks and 
 chilly nooks where we find those great patches of blue gentian 
 or purple anemone, which hang like monstrous breadths of tapes- 
 try upon the mountain sides. This heather here, now fully open- 
 ing in the warmer sun of the southern counties — it is still but 
 in the bud among the Scotch hills, I doubt not — specially lays 
 itself out for the humble-bee, and its masses form almost his 
 highest pasture -grounds; but the butterflies — insect vagrants that 
 they are — have no fixed home, and they therefore stray far 
 above the level at which bee-blossoms altogether cease to grow. 
 Now, the butterfly differs greatly from the bee in his mode of 
 honey-hunting: he does not bustle about in a business-like man- 
 ner from one buttercup or dead-nettle to its nearest fellow; but 
 he flits joyously, like a sauntering straggler that he is, from a 
 great patch of color here to another great patch at a distance, 
 whose gleam happens to strike his roving eye by its size and 
 brilliancy. Hence, as that indefatigable observer, Dr. Hermann 
 Miiller, has noticed, all Alpine or hill-top flowers have very large 
 and conspicuous blossoms, generally grouped together in big 
 clusters so as to catch a passing glance of the butterfly's eye. 
 As soon as the insect spies such a cluster, the color seems to act 
 as a stimulant to his broad wings, just as the candle-light does to 
 those of his cousin the moth. Off he sails at once, as if by auto- 
 matic action, towards the distant patch, and there both robs the 
 plant of its honey, and at the same time carries to it on his legs 
 and head fertilizing pollen from the last of its congeners which 
 he favored with a call. For of course both bees and butterflies 
 stick on the whole to a single species at a time; or else the 
 flowers would only get uselessly hybridized, instead of being 
 impregnated with pollen from other plants of their own kind. 
 For this purpose it is that most plants lay themselves out to 
 secure the attention of only two or three varieties among their 
 insect allies, while they make their nectaries either too deep or 
 too shallow for the convenience of all other kinds. 
 
 Insects, however, differ much from one another in their ccs- 
 thetic tastes, and flowers are adapted accordingly to the varying 
 fancies of the different kinds. Here, for example, is a spray of 
 common white galium, which attracts and is fertilized by small 
 flies, who generally frequent white blossoms. But here again.
 
 CHARLES GRANT ALLEN 405 
 
 not far off, I find a luxuriant mass of the yellow species, known 
 by the quaint name of ^^ lady's-bedstraw,^* — a legacy from the old 
 legend which represents it as having formed Our Lady's bed in 
 the manger at Bethlehem. Now why has this kind of galium 
 yellow flowers, while its near kinsman yonder has them snowy 
 white ? The reason is that lady's-bedstraw is fertilized by small 
 beetles; and beetles are known to be one among the most color- 
 loving races of insects. You may often find one of their number, 
 the lovely bronze and golden-mailed rose-chafer, buried deeply in 
 the very centre of a red garden rose, and reeling about when 
 touched as if drunk with pollen and honey. Almost all the 
 flowers which beetles frequent are consequently brightly decked 
 in scarlet or yellow. On the other hand, the whole family of the 
 umbellates, those tall plants with level bunches of tiny blossoms, 
 like the fool's-parsley, have all but universally white petals; and 
 Miiller, the most statistical of naturalists, took the trouble to 
 count the number of insects which paid them a visit. He found 
 that only fourteen per cent, were bees, while the remainder con- 
 sisted mainly of miscellaneous small flies and other arthropodous 
 riff-raff, whereas, in the brilliant class of composites, including 
 the asters, sunflowers, daisies, dandelions, and thistles, nearly sev- 
 enty-five per cent, of the visitors were steady, industrious bees. 
 Certain dingy blossoms which lay themselves out to attract wasps 
 are obviously adapted, as Miiller quaintly remarks, " to a less aes- 
 thetically cultivated circle of visitors.'* But the most brilliant 
 among all insect-fertilized flowers are those which specially affect 
 the society of butterflies; and they are only surpassed in this 
 respect throughout all nature by the still larger and more mag- 
 nificent tropical species which owe their fertilization to humming- 
 birds and brush-tongued lories. 
 
 Is it not a curious, yet a comprehensible circumstance, that 
 the tastes which thus show themselves in the development, by 
 natural selection, of lovely flowers, should also show themselves 
 in the marked preference for beautiful mates ? Poised on yonder 
 sprig of harebell stands a little purple-winged butterfly, one of 
 the most exquisite among oiir British kinds. That little butterfly 
 owes its own rich and delicately shaded tints to the long selective 
 action of a million generations among its ancestors. So we find 
 throughout that the most beautifully colored birds and insects are 
 always those which have had most to do with the production of 
 bright-colored fruits and flowers. The butterflies and rose-beetlea
 
 4o6 CHARLES GRANT ALLEN 
 
 are the most gorgeous among insects; the humming-birds and par- 
 rots are the most gorgeous among birds. Nay, more, exactly like 
 effects have been produced in two hemispheres on different tribes 
 by the same causes. The plain brown swifts of the North have 
 developed among tropical West Indian and South American 
 orchids the metallic gorgets and crimson crests of the humming- 
 bird; while a totally unlike group of Asiatic birds have developed 
 among the rich flora of India and the Malay Archipelago the 
 exactly similar plumage of the exquisite sun-birds. Just as bees 
 depend upon flowers, and flowers upon bees, so the color-sense of 
 animals has created the bright petals of blossoms; and the bright 
 petals have reacted upon the tastes of the animals themselves, 
 and through their tastes upon their own appearance. 
 
 M' 
 
 THE HERON'S HAUNT 
 From < Vignettes from Nature* 
 
 osT of the fields on the country-side are now laid up for 
 hay, or down in ■^.he tall haulming corn; and so I am 
 driven from my accustomed botanizing grounds on the 
 open, and compelled to take refuge in the wild bosky moor- 
 land back of Hole Common. Here, on the edge of the copse, 
 the river widens to a considerable pool, and coming upon it 
 softly through the wood from behind — the boggy, moss-covered 
 ground masking and muffling my foot-fall — I have surprised a 
 great, graceful ash-and-white heron, standing all unconscious on 
 the shallow bottom, in the very act of angling for minnows. 
 The heron is a somewhat rare bird among the more cultivated 
 parts of England; but just hereabouts we get a sight of one 
 not infrequently, for they still breed in a few tall ash-trees at 
 Chilcombe Park, where the lords of the manor in mediaeval 
 times long preserved a regular heronry to provide sport for 
 their hawking. There is no English bird, not even the swan, 
 so perfectly and absolutely graceful as the heron. I am leaning 
 now breathless and noiseless against the gate, taking a good 
 look at him, as he stands half-knee deep on the oozy bottom, 
 with his long neck arched over the water, and his keen purple 
 eye fixed eagerly upon the fish below. Though I am still 
 twenty yards from where he poises lightly on his stilted legs, I 
 can see distinctly his long pendent snow-white breast-feathers,
 
 CHARLES GRANT ALLEN ^oy 
 
 his crest of waving black plumes, falling loosely backward over 
 the ash-gray neck, and even the bright red skin of his bare 
 legs just below the feathered thighs. I dare hardly move 
 nearer to get a closer view of his beautiful plumage; and 
 still I will try. I push very quietly through the gate, but not 
 quite quietly enough for the heron. One moment he raises his 
 curved neck and poises his head a little on one side to listen 
 for the direction of the rustling; then he catches a glimpse of 
 me as I try to draw back silently behind a clump of flags and 
 nettles; and in a moment his long legs give him a good spring 
 from the bottom, his big wings spread with a sudden flap sky- 
 wards, and almost before I can note what is happening he is 
 off and away to leeward, making a bee-line for the high trees 
 that fringe the artificial water in Chilcombe Hollow. 
 
 All these wading birds — the herons, the cranes, the bitterns, 
 the snipes, and the plovers — are almost necessarily, by the very 
 nature of their typical conformation, beautiful and graceful in 
 form. Their tall, slender legs, which they require for wading, 
 their comparatively light and well-poised bodies, their long, 
 curved, quickly-darting necks and sharp beaks, which they need 
 in order to secure their rapid-swimming prey, — all these things 
 make the waders, almost in spite of themselves, handsome and 
 shapely birds. Their feet, it is true, are generally rather large 
 and sprawling, with long, wide-spread toes, so as to distribute 
 their weight on the snow-shoe principle, and prevent them from 
 sinking in the deep soft mud on which they tread; but then we 
 seldom see the feet, because the birds, when we catch a close 
 view of them at all, are almost always either on stilts in the 
 water, or flying with their legs tucked behind them, after their 
 pretty rudder-like fashion. I have often wondered whether it 
 is this general beauty of form in the waders which has tiirned 
 their aesthetic tastes, apparently, into such a sculpturesque line. 
 Certainly, it is very noteworthy that whenever among this 
 particular order of birds we get clear evidence of ornamental 
 devices, such as Mr. Darwin sets down to long-exerted selective 
 preferences in the choice of mates, the ornaments are almost 
 always those of form rather than those of color. 
 
 The waders, I sometimes fancy, only care for beauty of 
 shape, not for beauty of tint. As I stood looking at the heron 
 here just now, the same old idea seemed to force itself more 
 clearly than ever upon my mind. The decorative adjuncts — the
 
 4o8 
 
 CHARLES GRANT ALLEN 
 
 curving tufted crest on the head, the pendent silvery gorget on 
 the neck, the long ornamental quills of the pinions — all look 
 exactly as if they were deliberately intended to emphasize and 
 heighten the natural gracefulness of the heron's form. May it 
 not be, I ask myself, that these birds, seeing one another's 
 statuesque shape from generation to generation, have that shape 
 hereditarily implanted upon the nervous system of the species, 
 in connection with all their ideas of mating and of love, just 
 as the human form is hereditarily associated with all our deep- 
 est emotions, so that Miranda falling in love at first sight with 
 Ferdinand is not a mere poetical fiction, but the true illustra- 
 tion of a psychological fact ? And as on each of our minds and 
 brains the picture of the beautiful human figure is, as it were, 
 antecedently engraved, may not the ancestral type be similarly 
 engraved on the minds and brains of the wading birds ? If so, 
 would it not be natural to conclude that these birds, having thus 
 a very graceful form as their generic standard of taste, a grace- 
 ful form with little richness of coloring, would naturally choose 
 as the loveliest among their mates, not those which showed any 
 tendency to more bright-hued plumage (which indeed might be 
 fatal to their safety, by betraying them to their enemies, the fal- 
 cons and eagles), but those which most fully embodied and carried 
 furthest the ideal specific gracefulness of the wading type ? . . . 
 Forestine flower-feeders and fruit-eaters, especially in the 
 tropics, are almost always brightly colored. Their chromatic 
 taste seems to get quickened in their daily search for food 
 among the beautiful blossoms and brilliant fruits of southern 
 woodlands. Thus the humming-birds, the sun-birds, and the 
 brush-tongued lories, three very dissimilar groups of birds as 
 far as descent is concerned, all alike feed upon the honey and 
 the insects which they extract from the large tubular bells of 
 tropical flowers; and all alike are noticeable for their intense 
 metallic lustre or pure tones of color. Again, the parrots, the 
 toucans, the birds of paradise, and many other of the more beau- 
 tiful exotic species, are fruit-eaters, and reflect their inherited 
 taste in their own gaudy plumage. But the waders have no such 
 special reasons for acquiring a love for bright hues. Hence 
 their aesthetic feeling seems rather to have taken a turn toward 
 the further development of their own graceful forms. Even the 
 plainest wading birds have a certain natural elegance of shape 
 which supplies a primitive l?asi§ for sef>thetiQ selection to work on.
 
 409 
 
 JAMES LANE ALLEN 
 
 (1850-) 
 
 Jhe literary work of James Lane Allen was begun with maturer 
 powers and wider culture than most writers exhibit in their 
 first publications. His mastery of English was acquired with 
 difficulty, and his knowledge of Latin he obtained through years of 
 instruction as well as of study. The wholesome open-air atmosphere 
 which pervades his stories, their pastoral character and love of nat- 
 ure, come from the tastes bequeathed to him by three generations of 
 paternal ancestors, easy-going gentlemen farmers of the blue-grass 
 region of Kentucky. On a farm near Lexington, in this beautiful 
 country of stately homes, fine herds, and great flocks, the author was 
 born, and there he spent his childhood and youth. 
 
 About 1885 he came to New York to devote himself to literature; 
 for though he had contributed poems, essays, and criticisms to lead- 
 ing periodicals, his first important work was a series of articles 
 descriptive of the <^ Blue-Grass Region, '^ published in Harper's Maga- 
 zine. The field was new, the work was fresh, and the author's ability 
 was at once recognized. Inevitably he chose Kentucky for the scene 
 of his stories, knowing and loving, as he did, her characteristics and 
 her history. While preparing his articles on < The Blue-Grass Region,* 
 he had studied the Trappist Monastery and the Convent of Loretto, 
 as well as the records of the Catholic Church in Kentucky; and his 
 first stories, <The White CowP and < Sister Dolorosa, > which appeared 
 in the Century Magazine, were the first fruits of this labor. A con- 
 troversy arose as to the fairness of these portraitures; but however 
 opinions may differ as to his characterization, there can be no ques- 
 tion of the truthfulness of the exposition of the mediaeval spirit of 
 those retreats. 
 
 This tendency to use a historic background marks most of Mr. 
 Allen's stories. In *The Choir Invisible,* a tale of the last century, 
 pioneer Kentucky once more exists. The old clergyman of * Flute 
 and Violin* lived and died in Lexington, and had been long for- 
 gotten when his story ** touched the vanishing halo of a hard and 
 saintly life.** The old negro preacher, with texts embroidered on his 
 coat-tails, was another figure of reality, unnoticed until he became 
 one of the * Two Gentlemen of Kentucky.* In Lexington lived and 
 died "King Solomon,** who had almost faded from memory when 
 his historian found the record of the poor vagabond's heroism during 
 the plague, and made it memorable in a story that touches the heart 
 and fills the eyes. <A Kentucky Cardinal,* with 'Aftermath,* its
 
 41 o JAMES LANE ALLEN 
 
 second part, is full of history and of historic personages. < Summer 
 in Arcady: A Tale of Nature,^ the latest of Mr. Allen's stories, is no 
 less based on local history and no less full of local color than his 
 other tales, notwithstanding its general unlikeness. 
 
 This book sounds a deeper note than the earlier tales, although 
 the truth which Mr. Allen sees is not mere fidelity to local types, but 
 the essential truth of human nature. His realism has always a poetic 
 aspect. Quiet, reserved, out of the common, his books deal with 
 moods rather than with actions; their problems are spiritual rather 
 than physical; their thought tends toward the higher and more diffi- 
 cult way of life. 
 
 A COURTSHIP 
 From < Summer in Arcady > 
 
 THE sunlight grew pale the following morning; a shadow crept 
 rapidly over the blue; bolts darted about the skies like 
 maddened redbirds; the thunder, ploughing its way down 
 the dome as along zigzag cracks in the stony street, filled the 
 caverns of the horizon with reverberations that shook the earth; 
 and the rain was whirled across the landscape in long, white, 
 wavering sheets. Then all day quiet and silence throughout 
 Nature except for the drops, tapping high and low the twinkling 
 leaves; except for the new melody of woodland and meadow 
 brooks, late silvery and with a voice only for their pebbles and 
 moss and mint, but now yellow and brawling and leaping back 
 into the grassy channels that were their old-time beds; except 
 for the indoor music of dripping eaves and rushing gutters and 
 overflowing rain-barrels. And when at last in the gold of the 
 cool west the sun broke from the edge of the gray, over what a 
 green, soaked, fragrant world he reared the arch of Nature's 
 peace ! 
 
 Not a little blade of corn in the fields but holds in an eme- 
 rald vase its treasures of white gems. The hemp-stalks bend so 
 low under the weight of their plumes, that were a vesper spar- 
 row to alight on one for his evening hymn, it would go with 
 him to the ground. The leaning barley and rye and wheat flash 
 in the last rays their jeweled beards. Under the old apple- 
 trees, golden-brown mushrooms are already pushing upward 
 through the leaf -loam, rank with many an autumn's dropping. 
 About the yards the peonies fall with faces earthward. In 
 the stable-lots the larded porkers, with bristles as clean as frost,
 
 JAMES LANE ALLEN 411 
 
 and flesh of pinky whiteness, are hunting with nervous nostrils 
 for the lush purslain. The fowls are driving their bills up and 
 down their wet breasts. And the farmers who have been shell- 
 ing corn for the mill come out of their barns, with their coats 
 over their shoulders, on the way to supper, look about for the 
 plough-horses, and glance at the western sky, from which the 
 last drops are falling. 
 
 But soon only a more passionate heat shoots from the sun 
 into the planet. The plumes of the hemp are so dry again, that 
 by the pollen shaken from their tops you can trace the young 
 rabbits making their way out to the dusty paths. The shadows 
 of white clouds sail over purple stretches of blue-grass, hiding 
 the sun from the steady eye of the turkey, whose brood is 
 spread out before her like a fan on the earth. At early morn^ 
 ing the neighing of the stallions is heard around the horizon; at 
 noon the bull makes the deep, hot pastures echo with his majes- 
 tic summons; out in the blazing meadows the butterflies strike 
 the afternoon air with more impatient wings; under the moon 
 all night the play of ducks and drakes goes on along the mar- 
 gins of the ponds. Young people are running away and marry- 
 ing; middle-aged farmers surprise their wives by looking in on 
 them at their butter-making in the sweet dairies; and Nature 
 is lashing everything — grass, fruit, insects, cattle, human creat- 
 ures — more fiercely onward to the fulfillment of her .ends. She 
 is the great heartless haymaker, wasting not a ray of sunshine 
 on a clod, but caring naught for the light that beats upon a 
 throne, and holding man and woman, with their longing for im- 
 inortality, and their capacities for joy and pain, as of no more 
 account than a couple of fertilizing nasturtiums. 
 
 The storm kept Daphne at home. On the next day the earth 
 was yellow with sunlight, but there were puddles along the path^ 
 and a branch rushing swollen across the green valley in the 
 fields. On the third, her mother took the children to town to be 
 fitted with hats and shoes, and Daphne also, to be freshened up 
 with various moderate adornments, in view of a protracted meet- 
 ing soon to begin. On the fourth, some ladies dropped in to 
 spend the day, bearing in mind the episode at the dinner, and 
 having growm curious to watch events accordingly. On the fifth, 
 her father carried out the idea of cutting down some cedar-trees 
 in the front yard for fence posts; and whenever he was w^orking 
 about the house, he kept her near to w^ait on him in unnecessarj'
 
 412 JAMES LANE ALLEN 
 
 ways. On the sixth, he rode away with two hands and an empty 
 wagon-bed for some work on the farm; her mother drove off to 
 another dinner — dinners never cease in Kentucky, and the wife 
 of an elder is not free to dechne invitations; and at last she was 
 left alone in the front porch, her face turned with burning eager- 
 ness toward the fields. In a little while she had slipped away. 
 
 All these days Hilary had been eager to see her. He was 
 carrying a good many girls in his mind that summer; none in 
 his heart; but his plans concerning these latter were for the time 
 forgotten. He hung about that part of his farm from which he 
 could have descried her in the distance. Each forenoon and 
 afternoon, at the usual hour of her going to her uncle's, he rode 
 over and watched for her. Other people passed to and fro, — 
 children and servants, — but not Daphne; and repeated disappoint- 
 ments fanned his desire to see her. 
 
 When she came into sight at last, he was soon walking beside 
 her, leading his horse by the reins. 
 
 ** I have been waiting to see you, Daphne,'' he said, with a 
 smile, but general air of seriousness. ^* I have been waiting a 
 long time for a chance to talk to you.*' 
 
 *^ And I have wanted to see you, '' said Daphne, her face 
 turned away and her voice hardly to be heard. ** I have been 
 waiting for a chance to talk to you.'' 
 
 The change in her was so great, so unexpected, it contained 
 an appeal to him so touching, that he glanced quickly at her. 
 Then he stopped short and looked searchingly around the 
 meadow. 
 
 The thorn-tree is often the only one that can survive on these 
 pasture lands. Its spikes, even when it is no higher than the 
 grass, keep off the mouths of grazing stock. As it grows higher, 
 birds see it standing solitary in the distance and fly to it, as a 
 resting-place in passing. Some autumn day a seed of the wild 
 grape is thus dropped near its root; and in time the thorn-tree 
 and the grape-vine come to thrive together. 
 
 As Hilary now looked for some shade to which they could 
 retreat from the blinding, burning sunlight, he saw one of these 
 standing off at a distance of a few hundred yards. He slipped 
 the bridle-reins through the head-stall, and giving his mare a 
 soft slap on the shoulder, turned her loose to graze. 
 
 ** Come over here and sit down out of the sun, " he said, start- 
 ing off in his authoritative way. "I want to talk to you.*
 
 JAMES LANE ALLEN 413 
 
 Daphne followed in his wake, through the deep grass. 
 
 When they reached the tree, they sat down under the rayless 
 boughs. Some sheep lying there ran round to the other side and 
 stood watching them, with a frightened look in their clear, peace- 
 ful eyes. 
 
 <^ What's the matter ? >* he said, fanning his face, and tugging 
 with his forefinger to loosen his shirt collar from his moist neck. 
 He had the manner of a powerful comrade who means to succor 
 a weaker one. 
 
 "Nothing, *' said Daphne, like a true woman. 
 
 ** Yes, but there is, *^ he insisted. " I got you into trouble. I 
 didn't think of that when I asked you to dance." 
 
 ** You had nothing to do with it, '* retorted Daphne, with a flash. 
 ** I danced for spite. *^ 
 
 He threw back his head with a peal of laughter. All at once 
 this was broken off. He sat up, with his eyes fixed on the lower 
 edge of the meadow. 
 
 *' Here comes your father,** he said gravely. 
 
 Daphne turned. Her father was riding slowly through the 
 bars. A wagon-bed loaded with rails crept slowly after him. 
 
 In an instant the things that had cost her so much toil and 
 so many tears to arrange, — her explanations, her justifications, 
 and her parting, — all the reserve and the coldness that she had 
 laid up in her heart, as one fills high a little ice-house with fear 
 of far-off summer heat, — all were quite gone, melted away. 
 And everything that he had planned to tell her was forgotten 
 also at the sight of that stern figure on horseback bearing un- 
 consciously down upon them. 
 
 " If I had only kept my mouth shut about his old fences,* 
 he said to himself. "Confound my bull!** and he looked anx- 
 iously at Daphne, who sat with her eyes riveted on her father. 
 The next moment she had turned, and they were laughing in 
 each other's faces. 
 
 " What shall I do ? ** she cried, leaning over and burying her 
 face in her hands, and lifting it again, scarlet with excitement. 
 
 "Don't do anything,** he said calmly. 
 
 "But Hilary, if he sees us, we are lost.** 
 
 " If he sees us, we are found. ** 
 
 * But he mustn't see me here I'* she cried, with something 
 like real terror. " I believe I'll lie down in the grass. Maybe 
 he'll think I am a friend of yours.**
 
 ^14 JAMES LANE ALLEN 
 
 * My friends all sit up in the grass, ^* said Hilary. 
 But Daphne had already hidden. 
 
 Many a time, when a little girl, she had amused herself by 
 screaming like a hawk at the young guineas, and seeing them 
 cuddle invisible under small tufts and weeds. Out in the stable 
 lot, where the grass was grazed so close that the geese could 
 barely nip it, she would sometimes get one of the negro men 
 to scare the little pigs, for the delight of seeing them squat as 
 though hidden, when they were no more hidden than if they 
 had spread themselves out upon so many dinner dishes. All of 
 us reveal traces of this primitive instinct upon occasion. Daphne 
 was doing her best to hide now. 
 
 When Hilary realized it he moved in front of her, screening 
 her as well as possible. 
 
 ** Hadn't you better lie down, too ? '^ she asked. 
 
 * No, *^ he replied quickly. 
 
 ^' But if he sees you, he might take a notion to ride over this 
 way ! ** 
 
 «Then he'll have to ride.» 
 
 ^^ But, Hilary, suppose he were to find me lying down here 
 behind you, hiding ? ** 
 
 ^^ Then he'll have to find you. ^* 
 
 "You get me into trouble, and then you won't help me out!** 
 exclaimed Daphne with considerable heat. 
 
 " It might not make matters any better for me to hide, ** he 
 answered quietly. " But if he comes over here and tries to get 
 us into trouble, I'll see then what I can do.** 
 
 Daphne lay silent for a moment, thinking. Then she nestled 
 more closely down, and said with gay, unconscious archness: 
 "I'm not hiding because I'm afraid of him. I'm doing it just 
 because I want to.** 
 
 She did not know that the fresh happiness flushing her at 
 that moment came from the fact of having Hilary between her- 
 self and her father as a protector; that she was drinking in the 
 delight a woman feels in getting playfully behind the man she 
 loves in the face of danger: but her action bound her to him 
 and brought her more under his influence. 
 
 His words showed that he also felt his position, — the position 
 of the male who stalks forth from the herd and stands the silent 
 challenger. He was young, and vain of his manhood in the 
 usual innocent way that led him to carry the chip on his
 
 JAMES LANE ALLEN 41c 
 
 shoulder for the world to knock off; and he placed himself 
 before Daphne with the understanding that if they were discov- 
 ered, there would be trouble. Her father was a violent man, 
 and the circumstances were not such that any Kentucky father 
 would overlook them. But with his inward seriousness, his face 
 wore its usual look of reckless unconcern. 
 
 " Is he coming this way ? ^^ asked Daphne, after an interval of 
 impatient waiting. 
 
 " Straight ahead. Are you hid ? ^* 
 
 "I can't see whether I'm hid or not. Where is he now?" 
 
 « Right on us.» 
 
 *^ Does he see you } ** 
 
 «Yes.» 
 
 ^* Do you think he sees me ? " 
 
 " I'm sure of it.'* 
 
 **Then I might as well get up,'* said Daphne, with the cour- 
 age of despair, and up she got. Her father was riding along 
 the path in front of them, but not looking. She was down 
 again like a partridge. 
 
 ^^ How could you fool me, Hilary ? Suppose he /lad been 
 looking ! ** 
 
 ** I wonder what he thinks I'm doing, sitting over here in the 
 grass like a stump,'* said Hilary. "If he takes me for one, he 
 must think I've got an awful lot of roots." 
 
 " Tell me when it's time to get up, " 
 
 « I will. » 
 
 He turned softly toward her. She was lying on her side, with 
 her burning cheek in one hand. The other hand rested high on 
 the curve of her hip. Her braids had fallen forward, and lay in 
 a heavy loop about her lovely shoulders. Her eyes were closed, 
 her scarlet lips parted in a smile. The edges of her snow-white 
 petticoats showed beneath her blue dress, and beyond these one 
 of her feet and ankles. Nothing more fragrant with innocence 
 ever lay on the grass. 
 
 " Is it time to get up now ? " 
 
 * Not yet, " and he sat bending over her. 
 
 « Now ? » 
 
 ** Not yet, '* he repeated more softly. 
 
 « Now, then ? " 
 
 *^ Not for a long time. ** 
 
 His voice thrilled her, and she glanced up at him. His laugh- 
 ing eyes were glowing down upon her under his heavy mat of
 
 ^i5 JAMES LANE ALLEN 
 
 hair. She sat up and looked toward the wagon crawling away in 
 the distance; her father was no longer in sight. 
 
 One of the ewes, dissatisfied with a back view, stamped her 
 forefoot impatiently, and ran round in front, and out into the 
 sun. Her lambs followed, and the three, ranging themselves 
 abreast, stared at Daphne, with a look of helpless inquiry. 
 
 ** Sh-pp-pp ! '* she cried, throwing up her hands at them, irri- 
 tated. ^^ Go away ! ** 
 
 They turned and ran; the others followed; and the whole 
 number, falling into line, took a path meekly homeward. They 
 left a greater sense of privacy under the tree. Several yards off 
 was a small stock-pond. Around the edge of this the water 
 stood hot and green in the tracks of the cattle and the sheep, 
 and about these pools the yellow butterflies were thick, alighting 
 daintily on the promontories of the mud, or rising two by two 
 through the dazzling atmosphere in columns of enamored flight. 
 
 Daphne leaned over to the blue grass where it swayed un- 
 broken in the breeze, and drew out of their sockets several stalks 
 of it, bearing on their tops the purplish seed-vessels. With them 
 she began to braid a ring about one of her fingers in the old 
 simple fashion of the country. 
 
 As they talked, he lay propped on his elbow, watching her 
 fingers, the soft slow movements of which little by little wove a 
 spell over his eyes. And once again the power of her beauty 
 began to draw him beyond control. He felt a desire to seize her 
 hands, to crush them in his. His eyes passed upward along her 
 tapering wrists, the skin of which was like mother-of-pearl; up- 
 ward along the arm to the shoulder — to her neck — to her deeply 
 crimsoned cheeks — to the purity of her brow — to the purity of 
 her eyes, the downcast lashes of which hid them like conscious 
 fringes. 
 
 An awkward silence began to fall between them. Daphne 
 felt that the time had come for her to speak. But, powerless 
 to begin, she feigned to busy herself all the more devotedly 
 with braiding the deep-green circlet. Suddenly he drew himself 
 through the grass to her side. 
 
 « Let me ! » 
 
 ^* No ! '^ she cried, lifting her arm above his reach and looking 
 at him with a gay threat. *^ You don't know how.** 
 
 *I do know how,** he said, with his white teeth on his red 
 underlip, and his eyes sparkling; and reaching upward, he laid 
 his hand in the hollow of her elbow and pulled her arm down.
 
 JAMES LANE ALLEN 4x7 
 
 ^^ No ! No ! *^ she cried again, putting her hands behind her 
 back. " You will spoil it ! *^ 
 
 ^* I will not spoil it, ** he said, moving so close to her that his 
 breath was on her face, and reaching round to unclasp her hands. 
 
 ^^No! No! No!^^ she cried, bending away from him. I don't 
 want any ring! *^ and she tore it from her finger and threw it out 
 on the grass. Then she got up, and, brushing the grass-seed off 
 her lap, put on her hat. 
 
 He sat cross-legged on the grass before her. He had put on 
 his hat, and the brim hid his eyes. 
 
 " And you are not going to stay and talk to me ? *^ he said in 
 a tone of reproach fulness, without looking up. 
 
 She was excited and weak and trembling, and so she put out 
 her hand and took hold of a strong loop of the grape-vine hang- 
 ing from a branch of the thorn, and laid her cheek against her 
 hand and looked away from him. 
 
 ^* I thought you were better than the others, ^^ he continued, 
 with the bitter wisdom of twenty years. " But you women are 
 all alike. When a man gets into trouble, j^ou desert him. You 
 hurry him on to the devil. I have been turned out of the 
 church, and now you are down on me. Oh, well! But you 
 know how much I have always liked you. Daphne.*^ 
 
 It was not the first time he had acted this character. It had 
 been a favorite role. But Daphne had never seen the like. She 
 was overwhelmed with happiness that he cared so much for her; 
 and to have him reproach her for indifference, and see him suf- 
 fering with the idea that she had turned against him — that 
 instantly changed the whole situation. He had not heard then 
 what had taken place at the dinner. Under the circumstances, 
 feeling certain that the secret of her love had not been dis- 
 covered, she grew emboldened to risk a little more. 
 
 So she turned toward him smiling, and swayed gently as she 
 clung to the vine. 
 
 "Yes; I have my orders not even to speak to you! Never 
 again ! *^ she said, with the air of tantalizing. 
 
 "Then stay with me a while now,'* he said, and lifted slowly 
 to her his appealing face. She sat down, and screened herself 
 with a little feminine transparency. 
 
 "I can't stay long: it's going to rain!'' 
 
 He cast a wicked glance at the sky from under his hat; there 
 were a few clouds on the horizon. 
 
 I 27
 
 4i8 JAMES LANE ALLEN 
 
 ^^ And SO you are never going to speak to me again ? * he 
 said mournfully. 
 
 <' Never !'^ How delicious her laughter was. 
 
 *^ I'll put a ring on your finger to remember me by.^* 
 
 He lay over in the grass and pulled several stalks. Then he 
 lifted his eyes beseechingly to hers. 
 
 « Will you let me ? » 
 
 Daphne hid her hands. He drew himself to her side and 
 took one of them forcibly from her lap. 
 
 With a slow, caressing movement he began to braid the 
 grass ring around her finger — in and out, around and around, 
 his fingers laced with her fingers, his palm lying close upon her 
 palm, his blood tingling through the skin upon her blood. He 
 made the braiding go wrong, and took it off and began over 
 again. Two or three times she drew a deep breath, and stole a 
 bewildered look at his face, which was so close to hers that his 
 hair brushed it — so close that she heard the quiver of his own 
 breath. Then all at once he folded his hands about hers with a 
 quick, fierce tenderness, and looked up at her. She turned her 
 face aside and tried to draw her hand away. His clasp tight- 
 ened. She snatched it away, and got up with a nervous laugh. 
 
 ^^ Look at the butterflies! Aren't they pretty ?^^ 
 
 He sprang up and tried to seize her hand again, 
 
 " You shan't go home yet ! '^ he said, in an undertone. 
 
 ^^ Shan't I ? '^ she said, backing away from him. " Who's 
 going to keep me ? *' 
 
 "/ rtw,'^ he said, laughing excitedly and following her closely. 
 
 "My father's coming! ^^ she cried out as a v,'arning. 
 
 He turned and looked: there was no one in sight. 
 
 "He is coming — sooner or later !^^ she called. 
 
 She had retreated several yards off into the sunlight of the 
 meadow. 
 
 The remembrance of the risk that he was causing her to run 
 checked him. He went over to her. 
 
 " When can I see you again — soon ? ** 
 
 He had never spoken so seriously to her before. He had 
 never before been so serious. But within the last hour Nature 
 had been doing her work, and its effect was immediate. His 
 sincerity instantly conquered her. Her eyes fell. 
 
 "No one has any right to keep us from seeing each other!" 
 he insisted "We must settle that for ourselves.'^
 
 JAMES LANE ALLEN ^jo 
 
 Daphne made no reply. 
 
 "But we can't meet here any more — with people passing 
 backward and forward ! ^^ he continued rapidly and decisively. 
 "What has happened to-day mustn't happen again.'* 
 
 " No ! '* she replied, in a voice barely to be heard. " It must 
 never happen again. We can't meet here.** 
 
 They were walking side by side now toward the meadow- 
 path. As they reached it he paused. 
 
 "Come to the back of the pasture — to-morrow I — at four 
 o'clock ! ** he said, tentatively, recklessly. 
 
 Daphne did not answer as she moved away from him along 
 the path homeward. 
 
 " Will you come ? " he called out to her. 
 
 She turned and shook her head. Whatever her own new 
 plans may have become, she was once more happy and laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 " Come, Daphne ! ** 
 
 She walked several paces further and turned and shook her 
 head again. 
 
 " Come ! ** he pleaded. 
 
 She laughed at him. 
 
 He wheeled round to his mare grazing near. As he put his 
 foot into the stirrup, he looked again: she was standing in the 
 same place, laughing still. 
 
 " You go," she cried, waving him. good-by. "There'll not be 
 a soul to disturb you! To-morrow — at four o'clock!** 
 
 " Will you be there ? ** he said. 
 
 " Will you ? ** she answered. 
 
 "I'll be there to-morrow,** he said, "and every other day till 
 
 you come.** 
 
 By permission of the Macmillan Company, Publishers. 
 
 OLD KING SOLOMON'S CORONATION 
 
 From < Flute and Violin, and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances* 
 Copyright 1891, by Harper and Brothers 
 
 HE STOOD on the topmost of the court-house steps, and for a 
 moment looked down on the crowd with the usual air of 
 official severity. 
 "Gentlemen,** he then cried out sharply, "by an ordah of the 
 cou't I now offah this man at public sale to the highes' biddah.
 
 420 JAMES LANE ALLEN 
 
 He is able-bodied but lazy, witliout visible property or means of 
 suppoht, an' of dissolute habits. He is therefoh adjudged guilty 
 of high misdemeanahs, an' is to be sole into labah foh a twelve- 
 month. How much, then, am I offahed foh the vagrant ? How 
 much am I ofEahed foh ole King Sol'mon ? '* 
 
 Nothing was offered for old King Solomon. The spectators 
 formed themselves into a ring around the big vagrant, and settled 
 down to enjoy the performance. 
 
 ** Staht 'im, somebody.'* 
 
 Somebody started a laugh, which rippled around the circle. 
 
 The sheriff looked on with an expression of unrelaxed severity, 
 but catching the eye of an acquaintance on the outskirts, he ex- 
 changed a lightning wink of secret appreciation. Then he lifted 
 off his tight beaver hat, wiped out of his eyes a little shower of 
 perspiration which rolled suddenly down from above, and warmed 
 a degree to his theme. 
 
 "Come, gentlemen,'* he said more suasively, "it's too hot to 
 Stan' heah all day. Make me an offah! You all know ole King 
 Sol'mon; don't wait to be interduced. How much, then, to staht 
 'im? Say fifty dollahs! Twenty-five! Fifteen! Ten! Why, 
 gentlemen ! Not ten dollahs ? Remembah, this is the Blue-Grass 
 Region of Kentucky — the land of Boone an' Kenton, the home 
 of Henry Clay!'* he added, in an oratorical crescendo. 
 
 "He ain't wuth his victuals,*' said an oily little tavern-keeper, 
 folding his arms restfully over his own stomach and cocking up 
 one piggish eye into his neighbor's face. " He ain't wuth his 
 'taters. " 
 
 "Buy 'im foh 'is rags!" cried a young law student, with a 
 Blackstone under his arm, to the town rag picker opposite, who 
 was unconsciously ogling the vagrant's apparel. 
 
 " I might buy 'im foh 'is scalp, " drawled a farmer, who had 
 taken part in all kinds of scalp contests, and was now known to 
 be busily engaged in collecting crow scalps for a match soon to 
 come off between two rival counties. 
 
 "I think I'll buy 'im foh a hat sign," said a manufacturer of 
 ten-dollar Castor and Rhorum hats. This sally drew merry atten- 
 tion to the vagrant's hat, and the merchant felt rewarded. 
 
 "You'd bettah say the town ought to buy 'im an' put 'im up 
 on top of the cou't-house as a scarecrow foh the cholera," said 
 some one else. 
 
 " What news of the cholera did the stage coach bring this 
 mohning ? " quickly inquired his neighbor in his ear ; and the two
 
 JAMES LANE ALLEN 42 I 
 
 immediatel}'- fell into low, grave talk, forgot the auction, and 
 turned away. 
 
 "Stop, gentlemen, stop!'^ cried the sheriff, who had watched 
 the rising tide of good humor, and now saw his chance to float 
 in on it with spreading sails. "You're runnin' the price in the 
 wrong direction — down, not up. The law requires that he be 
 sole to the highes' biddah, not the lowes'. As loyal citizens, 
 uphole the constitution of the commonwealth of Kentucky an' 
 make me an offah; the man is really a great bargain. In the 
 first place, he would cos' his ownah little or nothin', because, as 
 you see, he keeps himself in cigahs an' clo'es; then, his main 
 article of diet is whisky — a supply of which he always has on 
 han'. He don't even need a bed, foh you know he sleeps jus' 
 as well on an}^ doohstep; noh a chair, foh he prefers to sit roun' 
 on the curbstones. Remembah, too, gentlemen, that ole King 
 Sol'mon is a Virginian — from the same neigh bohhood as Mr. 
 Clay. Remembah that he is well educated, that he is an awful 
 Whig, an' that he has smoked mo' of the stumps of Mr. Clay's 
 cigahs than any other man in existence. If you don't b'lieve nic, 
 gentlemen, yondah goes Mr. Clay now; call him ovah an' ask 
 'im foh yo'se'ves. ** 
 
 He paused, and pointed with his right forefinger towards 
 Main Street, along which the spectators, with a sudden craning 
 of necks, beheld the familiar figure of the passing statesman, 
 
 "But you don't need ^//ji'body to tell these fac's, gentlemen,'^ 
 he continued. " You merely need to be reminded that ole King 
 Sol'mon is no ohdinary man. Mo'ovah he has a kine heaht; he 
 nevah spoke a rough wohd to anybody in this worl', an' he is as 
 proud as Tecumseh of his good name an' charactah. An', gentle- 
 men,** he added, bridling with an air of mock gallantry and lay- 
 ing a hand on his heart, "if anythin' fu'thah is required in the 
 way of a puffect encomium, we all know that there isn't anothah 
 man among us who cuts as wide a swath among the ladies. 
 The 'foh, if you have any appreciation of virtue, any magnanimity 
 of heaht; if you set a propah valuation upon the descendants of 
 Virginia, that mothah of Presidents; if you believe in the pure 
 laws of Kentucky as the pioneer bride of the Union; if you love 
 America an' love the vx^orl' — make me a gen'rous, high-toned 
 offah foh ole King Sol'mon ! " 
 
 He ended his peroration amid a shout of laughter and ap- 
 plause, and feeling satisfied that it was a good time for returning
 
 42 2 JAMES LANE ALLEN 
 
 to a more practical treatment of his subject, proceeded in a sin- 
 cere tone: — 
 
 *^ He can easily earn from one to two dollahs a day, an' from 
 three to six hundred a yeah. There's not anothah white man in 
 town capable of doin' as much work. There's not a niggah han' 
 in the hemp factories with such muscles an' such a chest. Look 
 at 'em ! An', if you don't b'lieve me, step fo'ward and /eel 'em. 
 How much, then, is bid foh 'im ? ^* 
 
 " One dollah ! '* said the owner of a hemp factory, who had 
 walked forward and felt the vagrant's arm, laughing, but coloring 
 up also as the eyes of all were quickly turned upon him. In 
 those days it was not an unheard-of thing for the muscles of a 
 human being to be thus examined when being sold into servitude 
 to a new master. 
 
 ** Thank you ! ** cried the sheriff, cheerily. << One precinc' 
 heard from! One dollah! I am offahed one dollah foh ole King 
 Sol'mon. One dollah foh the king! Make it a half. One dollah 
 an' a half. Make it a half. One dol-dol-dol-dollah ! " 
 
 Two medical students, returning from lectures at the old Med- 
 ical Hall, now joined the group, and the sheriff explained: — 
 
 <* One dollah is bid foh the vagrant ole King Sol'mon, who is 
 to be sole into labah foh a twelvemonth. Is there any othah 
 bid? Are you all done? One dollah, once — '^ 
 
 <^ Dollah and a half, ^^ said one of the students, and remarked 
 half jestingly under his breath to his companion, '< I'll buy him 
 on the chance of his dying. We'll dissect him.'* 
 
 ^* Would you own his body if he sJiould die ? '' 
 
 **If he dies while bound to me, I'll arrange that J* 
 
 **One dollah an' a half,'* resumed the sheriff, and falling into 
 the tone of a facile auctioneer he rattled on : — 
 
 ^'One dollah an' a half foh ole Sol'mon — sol, sol, sol, — do, re, 
 mi, fa, sol, — do, re, mi, fa, sol! Why, gentlemen, you can set 
 the king to music ! '* 
 
 All this time the vagrant had stood in the centre of that close 
 ring of jeering and humorous bystanders — a baffling text from 
 which to have preached a sermon on the infirmities of our imper- 
 fect humanity. Some years before, perhaps as a master-stroke of 
 derision, there had been given to him that title which could but 
 heighten the contrast of his personality and estate with every 
 suggestion of the ancient sacred magnificence; and never had the 
 mockery seemed so fine as at this moment, when he was led
 
 JAMES LANE ALLEN ^2^ 
 
 forth into the streets to receive the lowest sentence of the law 
 upon his poverty and dissolute idleness. He was apparently in 
 the very prime of life — a striking figure, for nature at least had 
 truly done some royal work on him. Over six feet in height, 
 erect, with limbs well shaped and sinewy, with chest and neck full 
 of the lines of great power, a large head thickly covered with long, 
 reddish hair, eyes blue, face beardless, complexion fair but dis- 
 colored by low passions and excesses — such was old King Solo- 
 mon. He wore a stiff, high, black Castor hat of the period, with 
 the crown smashed in and the torn rim hanging down over one 
 ear; a black cloth coat in the old style, ragged and buttonless; a 
 white cotton shirt, with the broad collar crumpled wide open at 
 the neck and down his sunburnt bosom; blue jean pantaloons, 
 patched at the seat and the knees; and ragged cotton socks that 
 fell down over the tops of his dusty shoes, which were open at 
 the heels. 
 
 In one corner of his sensual mouth rested the stump of a 
 cigar. Once during the proceedings he had produced another, 
 lighted it, and continued quietly smoking. If he took to himself 
 any shame as the central figure of this ignoble performance, no 
 one knew it. There was something almost royal in his uncon- 
 cern. The humor, the badinage, the open contempt, of which he 
 was the public target, fell thick and fast upon him, but as harm- 
 lessly as would balls of pith upon a coat of mail. In truth, there 
 was that in his great, lazy, gentle, good-humored bulk and bear- 
 ing which made the gibes seem all but despicable. He shuffled 
 from one foot to the other as though he found it a trial to stand 
 up so long, but all the while looking the spectators full in the 
 eyes without the least impatience. He suffered the man of the 
 factory to walk round him and push and pinch his muscles as 
 calmly as though he had been the show bull at a country fair. 
 Once only, when the sheriff had pointed across the street at the 
 figure of Mr. Clay, he had looked quickly in that direction with 
 a kindling light in his eye and a passing flush on his face. For 
 the rest, he seemed like a man who has drained his cup of human 
 life and has nothing left him but to fill again and drink without 
 the least surprise or eagerness. 
 
 The bidding between the man of the factory and the student 
 had gone slowly on. The price had reached ten dollars. The 
 heat was intense, the sheriff tired. Then something occurred to 
 revivify the scene. Across the market place and toward the steps
 
 424 JAMES LANE ALLEN 
 
 of the court-house there suddenly came trundling along in breath- 
 less haste a huge old negress, carrying on one arm a large shal- 
 low basket containing apple -crab lanterns and fresh gingerbread. 
 With a series of half -articulate grunts and snorts she approached 
 the edge of the crowd and tried to force her way through. She 
 coaxed, she begged, she elbowed and pushed and scolded, now 
 laughing, and now with the passion of tears in her thick, excited 
 voice. All at once, catching sight of the sheriff, she lifted one 
 ponderous brown arm, naked to the elbow, and waved her hand 
 to him above the heads of those in front. 
 
 ** Hole on marster ! hole on ! '^ she cried in a tone of humorous 
 entreaty. " Don' knock 'im off till I come ! Gim iiic a bid at 'im " '* 
 
 The sheriff paused and smiled. The crowd made way tumult- 
 uously, with broad laughter and comment. 
 
 ^* Stan' aside theah an' let Aun' Charlotte in ! ** 
 
 « Now you'll see biddin' ! » 
 
 «Get out of the way fob Aun' Charlotte ! >> 
 
 ^*Up, my free niggah! Hurrah foh Kentucky I** 
 
 A moment more and she stood inside the ring of spectators, 
 her basket on the pavement at her feet, her hands plumped 
 akimbo into her fathomless sides, her head up, and her soft, 
 motherly eyes turned eagerly upon the sheriff. Of the crowd 
 she seemed unconscious, and on the vagrant before her she had 
 not cast a single glance. 
 
 She was dressed with perfect neatness. A red and yellow 
 Madras 'kerchief was bound about her head in a high coil, and 
 another over the bosom of her stiffly starched and smoothly 
 ironed blue cottonade dress. Rivulets of perspiration ran down 
 over her nose, her temples, and around her ears, and disappeared 
 mysteriously in the creases of her brown neck. A single drop 
 accidentally hung glistening like a diamond on the circlet of one 
 of her large brass earrings. 
 
 The sheriff looked at her a moment, smiling but a little dis- 
 concerted. The spectacle was unprecedented. 
 
 *■'- What do you want heah, Aun' Charlotte ? '^ he asked kindly. 
 **You can't sell yo' pies an' gingerbread heah.'^ 
 
 ** I don' wan' sell no pies en gingerbread,'^ she replied, con- 
 temptuously. *' I wan' bid on ///;//, '^ and she nodded sidewise at 
 the vagrant. ^^ White folks allers sellin' niggahs to wuk fuh 
 dcni; I gwine to buy a white man to wuk fuh me. En he 
 gwine t' git a mighty hard mistiss, you heah me! ^^
 
 JAMES LANE ALLEN 423 
 
 The eyes of the sheriff twinkled with delight. 
 
 <<Ten doUahs is offahed foh ole King Sol'mon. Is theah any 
 othah bid. Are you all done ? ^^ 
 
 " Leben, ^* she said. 
 
 Two young ragamuffins crawled among the legs of the crowd 
 up to her basket and filched pies and cake beneath her very 
 nose. 
 
 " Twelve ! '^ cried the student, laughing, 
 
 << Thirteen ! '^ she laughed, too, but her eyes flashed. 
 
 ** Vote are bidding against a niggah^^'* whispered the student's 
 companion in his ear. 
 
 ^^So I am; let's be off,** answered the other, with a hot flush 
 on his proud face. 
 
 Thus the sale was ended, and the crowd variously dispersed. 
 In a distant corner of the courtyard the ragged urchins were 
 devouring their unexpected booty. The old negress drew a red 
 handkerchief out of her bosom, untied a knot in a corner of it, 
 and counted out the money to the sheriff. Only she and the 
 vagrant were now left on the spot. 
 
 <* You have bought me. What do you want me to do ? ** he 
 asked quietly. 
 
 <' Lphd, honey ! ** she answered, in a low tone of affectionate 
 chiding, " I don' wan' you to do nothin\' I wuzn' gwine t' 'low 
 dem white folks to buy 3^ou. Dey'd wuk you till you dropped 
 dead. You go 'long en do ez you please.** 
 
 vShe gave a cunning chuckle of triumph in thus setting at 
 naught the ends of justice, and in a voice rich and musical 
 with affection, she said, as she gave him a little push: — 
 
 "You bettah be gittin' out o' dis blazin' sun. G' on home! I 
 be 'long by-en-by.** 
 
 He turned and moved slowly away in the direction of Water 
 Street, where she lived; and she, taking up her basket, shuffled 
 across the market place toward Cheapside, muttering to herself 
 the while: — 
 
 " I come mighty nigh gittin' dar too late, foolin' 'long wid 
 dese pies. Sellin' him 'ca'se he don' wuk! Umph! if all de men 
 in dis town dat don' wuk wuz to be tuk up en sole, d' wouldn' 
 be 'nough money in de town to buy em! Don' I see 'em settin' 
 'roun' dese taverns f 'om mohnin' till night ? **
 
 426 JAMES LANE ALLEN 
 
 Nature soon smiles upon her own ravages and strews our 
 graves with flowers, not as memories, but for other flowers when 
 the spring returns. 
 
 It was one cool, brilliant morning late in that autumn. The 
 air blew fresh and invigorating, as though on the earth there 
 were no corruption, no death. Far southward had flown the 
 plague. A spectator in the open court square might have seen 
 many signs of life returning to the town. Students hurried 
 along, talking eagerly. Merchants met for the first time and 
 spoke of the winter trade. An old negress, gayly and neatly 
 dressed, came into the market place, and sitting down on a side- 
 walk displayed her yellow and red apples and fragrant ginger- 
 bread. She hummed to herself an old cradle-song, and in 
 her soft, motherly black eyes shone a mild, happy radiance. A 
 group of young ragamuffins eyed her longingly from a distance. 
 Court was to open for the first time since the spring. The 
 hour was early, and one by one the lawyers passed slowly in. 
 On the steps of the court-house three men were standing: 
 Thomas Brown, the sheriff; old Peter Leuba, who had just 
 walked over from his music store on Main Street; and little 
 M. Giron, the French confectioner. Each wore mourning on his 
 hat, and their voices were low and grave. 
 
 ^^ Gentlemen," the sheriff was saying, ^*it was on this very 
 spot the day befoah the cholera broke out that I sole 'im as a 
 vagrant. An' I did the meanes' thing a man can evah do. I 
 hel' 'im up to public ridicule foh his weakness an' made spoht 
 of 'is infirmities. I laughed at 'is povahty an' 'is ole clo'es. I 
 delivahed on 'im as complete an oration of sarcastic detraction 
 as I could prepare on the spot, out of my own meanness an' 
 with the vulgah sympathies of the crowd. Gentlemen, if I only 
 had that crowd heah now, an' ole King Sol'mon standin' in the 
 midst of it, that I might ask 'im to accept a humble public 
 apology, offahed from the heaht of one who feels himself un- 
 worthy to shake 'is han'! But gentlemen, that crowd will nevah 
 reassemble. Neahly ev'ry man of them is dead, an' ole King 
 Sol'mon buried them.'* 
 
 ^* He buried my friend Adolphe Xaupi,'* said Frangois Giron, 
 touching his eyes with his handkerchief. 
 
 ** There is a case of my best Jamaica rum for him whenever 
 he comes for it,'* said old Leuba, clearing his throat. 
 
 ** But, gentlemen, while we are speakin' of ole King Sol'mon
 
 JAMES LANE ALLEN ^27 
 
 we ought not to forget who it is that has suppohted 'im. Yon- 
 dah she sits on the sidewalk, sellin' 'er apples an' gingerbread.** 
 
 The three men looked in the direction indicated. 
 
 "Heah comes ole King Sol'mon now/* exclaimed the sheriff. 
 
 Across the open square the vagrant was seen walking slowly 
 along with his habitual air of quiet, unobtrusive preoccupation. 
 A minute more and he had come over and passed into the court- 
 house by a side door. 
 
 " Is Mr. Clay to be in court to-day ? * 
 
 " He is expected, I think. ** 
 
 ^'Then let's go in: there will be a crowd.** 
 
 ** I don't know: so many are dead.** 
 
 They turned and entered and found seats as quietly as pos- 
 sible; for a strange and sorrowful hush brooded over the court- 
 room. Until the bar assembled, it had not been realized how 
 many were gone. The silence was that of a common over- 
 whelming disaster. No one spoke with his neighbor; no one 
 observed the vagrant as he entered and made his way to a seat 
 on one of the meanest benches, a little apart from the others. 
 He had not sat there since the day of his indictment for 
 vagrancy. The judge took his seat, and making a great effort 
 to control himself, passed his eyes slowly over the court-room. 
 All at once he caught sight of old King Solomon sitting against 
 the wall in an obscure corner; and before any one could know 
 what he was doing, he had hurried down and walked up to the 
 vagrant and grasped his hand. He tried to speak, but could not. 
 Old King Solomon had buried his wife and daughter, — buried 
 them one clouded midnight, with no one present but himself. 
 
 Then the oldest member of the bar started up and followed 
 the example; and then the other members, rising by a common 
 impulse, filed slowly back and one by one wrung that hard and 
 powerful hand. After them came the other persons in the court- 
 room. The vagrant, the gravedigger, had risen and stood 
 against the wall, at first with a white face and a dazed express- 
 ion, not knowing what it meant; afterwards, when he under- 
 stood it, his head dropped suddenly forward and his tears fell 
 thick and hot upon the hands that he could not see. And his 
 were not the only tears. Not a man in the long file but paid 
 his tribute of emotion as he stepped forward to honor that 
 image of sadly eclipsed but still effulgent humanit}'. It was not 
 grief, it was not gratitude, nor any sense of making reparation
 
 428 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 
 
 for the past. It was the softening influence of an act of hero- 
 ism, which makes every man feel himself a brother hand in 
 hand with every other; — such power has a single act of moral 
 greatness to reverse the relations of men, lifting up one, and 
 bringing all others to do him homage. 
 
 It was the coronation scene in the life of ^ Ole ^ King Solo- 
 mon of Kentucky. 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 
 
 (1828-1889) 
 
 j|%;^^^ACH form of verse has, in addition to its laws of structure, a 
 ||4 subtle quality as difficult to define as the perfume of a 
 y^^M, flower. The poem, ^ An Evening-, > given below, may be 
 classified both as a song and as a lyric ; yet it needs no music other 
 than its own rhythms, and the full close to each verse which falls 
 upon the ear like a soft and final chord ending a musical composi- 
 tion. A light touch and a feeling for shades of meaning are required 
 to execute such dainty verse. In ^ St. Margaret's Eve,' and in many 
 other ballads, Allingham expresses the broader, more dram.atic sweep 
 of the ballad, and reveals his Celtic ancestry. 
 
 The lovable Irishman, William Allingham, worked hard to enter 
 the brotherhood of poets. When he was only fourteen his father 
 took him from school to become clerk in the town bank of which he 
 himself was manager. ^^ The books which he had to keep for the 
 next seven years were not those on which his heart was set,'* says 
 Mr. George Birkbeck Hill. But this fortime is almost an inevitable 
 part, and probably not the worst part, of the training for a literary 
 vocation; and he justified his ambitions by pluckily studying alone 
 till he had mastered Greek, Latin, French, and German. 
 
 Mr. Hill, in his < Letters of D. G. Rossetti > (Atlantic Monthly, 
 May, 1896), thus quotes Allingham's own lelightful description of his 
 early home at Ballyshannon, County Donega] : —   
 
 «The little old town where I was born has a voice of its own, low, solemn, 
 persistent, humming through the air day and night, summer and winter. 
 Whenever I think of that town I seem to hear the voice. The river which 
 makes it rolls over rocky ledges into the tide. Before spreads a great ocean in 
 sunshine or storm; behind stretches a m.any-islanded lake. On the south runs 
 a wavy line of blue mountains; and on the north, over green rocky hills rise 
 peaks of a more distant range. The trees hide in glens or cluster near the 
 riyer; gray rocks aiid, bowlders lie scattered about the windy pastures. The
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 429 
 
 sky arches wide over all, giving room to multitudes of stars by night, and 
 long processions of clouds blown from the sea; but also, in the childish mem- 
 ory where these pictures live, to deeps of celestial blue in the endless days of 
 summer. An odd, out-of-the-way little town, ours, on the extreme western 
 edge of Europe; our nest neighbors, sunset way, being citizens of the great 
 new republic, which indeed, to our imagination, seemed little if at all farther 
 off than England in the opposite direction. » 
 
 Of the cottage m which he spent most of his childhood and 
 youth he writes: — 
 
 << Opposite the hall door a good-sized walnut-tree leaned its wrinkled stem 
 towards the house, and brushed some of the second-story panes with its 
 broad, fragrant leaves. To sit at that little upper window when it was open to 
 a summer twilight, and the great tree rustled gently, and sent one leafy spray 
 so far that it even touched my face, was an enchantment beyond all telling. 
 Killarney, Switzerland, Venice, could not, in later life, come near it. On three 
 sides the cottage looked on flowers and branches, which I count as one of the 
 fortunate chances of my childhood; the sense of natural beauty thus receiving 
 \ts due share of nourishment, and of a kind suitable to those early years. ^> 
 
 At last a position in the Customs presented itself: — 
 
 «In the spring of 1846 I gladly took leave forever of discount ledgers 
 and current accounts, and went to Belfast for two months' instruction in the 
 duties of Principal Coast Officer of Customs; a tolerably well-sounding title, 
 but which carried with it a salary of but ;,{^So a year. I trudged daily about 
 the docks and timber-yards, learning to measure logs, piles of planks, and, 
 more troublesome, ships for tonnage; indoors, part of the time practiced cus- 
 toms book-keeping, and talked to the clerks about literature and poetry in a 
 way that excited some astonishment, but on the whole, as I found at parting, 
 a certain degree of curiosity and respect. I preached Tennyson to them. 
 My spare time was mostly spent in reading and haunting booksellers' shops 
 where, I venture to say, I laid out a good deal more than most people, in pro- 
 portion to my income, and managed to get glimpses of many books which I 
 could not afford or did not care to buy. I enjoyed my new position, on the 
 whole, without analysis, as a great improvement on the bank; and for the 
 rest, my inner mind was brimful of love and poetry, and usually all external 
 things appeared trivial save in their relation to it.» 
 
 Of Allingham's early song- writing, his friend Arthur Hughes 
 says : — 
 
 «Rossetti, and I think Allingham himself, told me, in the early days of our 
 acquaintance, how in remote Ballyshannon, where he was a clerk in the Cus- 
 toms, in evening walks he would hear the Irish girls at their cottage doors 
 singing old ballads, which he would pick up. If they were broken or incom- 
 plete, he would add to them or finish them ; if they were improper he would 
 refine them. He could not get them sung till he got the Dublin Catnach of 
 that day to print them, on long strips of blue paper, like old songs, and if 
 about the sea. wnth the old rough woodcut of a ship on the top. He either
 
 430 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 
 
 gave them away or they were sold in the neighborhood. Then, in his evening 
 walks, he had at last the pleasure of hearing some of his own ballads sung at 
 the cottage doors by the blooming lasses, who were quite unaware that it was 
 the author who was passing by.» 
 
 In 1850 Allingham published a small volume of lyrics whose fresh- 
 ness and delicacy seemed to announce a new singer, and four years 
 later his ^ Day and Night Songs ' strengthened this impression. 
 Stationed as revenue officer in various parts of England, he wrote 
 much verse, and published also the <The Rambles of Patricius Walker, > 
 a collection of essays upon his walks through England; < Lawrence 
 Bloomfield in Ireland, > the tale of a young landlord's efforts to 
 improve the condition of his tenantry; an anthology, ^Nightingale 
 Valley' (1862), and an excellent collection of English ballads, <The 
 Ballad Book> (1865). 
 
 In 1870 he gladly embraced an opportunity to leave the Customs 
 for the position of assistant editor of Eraser's Magazine under Froude, 
 whom he afterward succeeded as editor. He was now a member of 
 a brilliant literary circle, knew Tennyson, Ruskin, and Carlyle, and 
 was admitted into the warm friendship of the Pre-Raphaelites. But 
 in no way does he reflect the Pre-Raphaelite spirit by which he was 
 surrounded; nor does he write his lyrics in the metres and rhythms 
 of mediaeval France. He is as oblivious of rondeaux, ballades, and 
 roundels, as he is of fair damosels with cygnet necks and full pome- 
 granate lips. He is a child of nature, whose verse is free from all 
 artificial inspiration or expression, and seems to flow easily, clearly, 
 and tenderly from his pen. Some of it errs in being too fanciful. 
 In the Flower-Songs, indeed, he sometimes becomes trivial in his 
 comparison of each English poet to a special flower; but his poetry 
 is usually sincere with an undercurrent of pathos, as in ^ The Ruined 
 Chapel,* * The Winter Pear,* and the *Song.* For lightness of touch 
 and aerial grace, *■ The Bubble * will bear comparison with any verse 
 of its own genre. * Robin Redbreast * has many delightful lines ; and 
 in *■ The Fairies * one is taken into the realm of Celtic folklore, which 
 is Allingham's inheritance, where the Brownies, the Pixies, and the 
 Leprechauns trip over the dew-spangled meadows, or dance on the 
 yellow sands, and then vanish away in fantastic mists. Quite differ- 
 ent is * Lovely Mary Donnelly,* which is a sample of the popular songs 
 that made him a favorite in his own country. 
 
 After his death at Hampstead in 1889, his body was cremated 
 according to his wish, when these lines of his own were read: — 
 
 «Body to purifying flame. 
 Soul to the Great Deep whence it came. 
 Leaving a song on earth below, 
 An urn of ashes white as snow.'*
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 431 
 
 THE RUINED CHAPEL 
 
 BY THE shore, a plot of ground 
 Clips a ruined chapel round, 
 Buttressed with a grassy mound; 
 Where Day and Night and Day go by 
 And bring no touch of human sound. 
 
 Washing of the lonely seas, 
 Shaking of the guardian trees, 
 Piping of the salted breeze ; 
 
 Day and Night and Day go by 
 To the endless tune of these. 
 
 Or when, as winds and waters keep 
 A hush more dead than any sleep, 
 Still morns to stiller evenings creep. 
 
 And Day and Night and Day go by; 
 Here the silence is most deep. 
 
 The empty ruins, lapsed again 
 
 Into Nature's wide domain. 
 
 Sow themselves with seed and grain 
 
 As Day and Night and Day go by; 
 And hoard June's sun and April's rain. 
 
 Here fresh funeral tears were shed; 
 
 Now the graves are also dead; 
 
 And suckers from the ash-tree spread, 
 
 While Day and Night and Day go by; 
 And stars move calmly overhead. 
 
 From < Day and Night Songs.' 
 
 THE WINTER PEAR 
 
 IS ALWAYS Age severe ? 
 Is never Youth austere? 
 Spring-fruits are sour to eat; 
 Autumn's the mellow time. 
 Nay, very late in the year. 
 
 Short day and frosty rime. 
 Thought, like a winter pear. 
 
 Stone-cold in summer's prime. 
 May turn from harsh to sweet. 
 
 From < Ballads and Songs.'
 
 432 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 
 
 SONG 
 
 SPIRIT of the Summer-time! 
 
 Bring back the roses to the dells; 
 The swallow from her distant clime. 
 The honey-bee from drowsy cells. 
 
 o 
 
 Bring back the friendship of the sun- 
 The gilded evenings calm and late, 
 
 When weary children homeward nm, 
 And peeping stars bid lovers wait. 
 
 Bring back the singing; and the scent 
 
 Of meadow-lands at dewy prime; 
 Oh, bring again my heart's content, 
 
 Thou Spirit of the Sumrher-time ! 
 
 From <Day and Night Songs.* 
 
 s 
 
 THE BUBBLE 
 
 EE the pretty planet! 
 Floating sphere' 
 Faintest breeze will fan it 
 Far or near; 
 
 World as light as feather; 
 
 Moonshine rays, 
 Rainbow tints together, 
 
 As it plays. 
 
 Drooping, sinking, failing. 
 
 Nigh to earth, 
 Motrnting. whirling, sailing. 
 
 Full of mirth; 
 
 Life there, welling, flowing, 
 
 Waving round; 
 Pictures coming, going, 
 
 Without sound. 
 
 Quick now, be this airy 
 
 Globe repelled! 
 Never can the fairy 
 
 Star be held. 
 
 Touched — it in a twinkle 
 
 Disappears ! 
 
 Leaving but a sprinkle, 
 
 As of tears. 
 
 From < Ballads and Songs.''
 
 I 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 433 
 
 ST. MARGARET'S EVE 
 
 BUILT my castle upon the seaside, 
 
 The waves roll so gayly O, 
 Half on the land and half in the tide, 
 Love me true! 
 
 Within was silk, without was stone. 
 
 The waves roll so gayly O, 
 It lacks a queen, and that alone. 
 Love me true! 
 
 The gray old harper sang to me. 
 
 The waves roll so gayly O, 
 <* Beware of the Damsel of the Sea!** 
 Love me true! 
 
 Saint Margaret's Eve it did befall, 
 
 The waves roll so gayly O, 
 The tide came creeping up the wall. 
 Love me true! 
 
 1 opened my gate; who there should standi 
 
 The waves roll so gayly O, 
 But a fair lady, with a cup in her hand, 
 Love me true! 
 
 The cup was gold, and full of wine, 
 
 The waves roll so gayly O, 
 « Drink, >* said the lady, <* and I will be thine,'* 
 Love me true! 
 
 *^ Enter my castle, lady fair,'* 
 
 The waves roll so gayly O, 
 <*You shall be queen of all that's there,** 
 Love me true! 
 
 A gray old harper sang to me. 
 The waves roll so gayly O, 
 "Beware of the Damsel of the Sea!** 
 Love me true ! 
 
 In hall he harpeth many a year, 
 
 The waves roll so gayly O, 
 And we will sit his song to hear. 
 Love me true! 
 
 1—28
 
 434 
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 
 
 «I love thee deep, I love thee true,® 
 
 The waves roll so gayly O, 
 "But ah! I know not how to woo,* 
 Love me true! 
 
 Down dashed the cup, with a sudden shock, 
 
 The waves roll so gayly O, 
 The wine like blood ran over the rock, 
 Love me true! 
 
 She said no word, but shrieked aloud, 
 
 The waves roll so gayly O, 
 And vanished away from where she stood, 
 Love me true! 
 
 I locked and barred my castle door, 
 
 The waves roll so gayly O, 
 Three summer days I grieved sore, 
 Love me true! 
 
 For myself a day, a night. 
 
 The waves roll so gayly O, 
 And two to moan that lady bright. 
 Love me true! 
 
 From < Ballads and Songs.' 
 
 THE FAIRIES 
 (A Child's Song) 
 
 Up THE airy mountain, 
 Down the rushy glen, 
 We daren't go a hunting 
 For fear of little men: 
 Wee folk, good folk. 
 
 Trooping all together; 
 Green jacket, red cap. 
 
 And white owl's feather. 
 
 Down along the rocky shore 
 
 Some have made their home; 
 They live on crispy pancakes 
 
 Of yellow-tide foam. 
 Some in the reeds 
 
 Of the black mountain-lake. 
 With frogs for their watch-dogs. 
 
 All night awake.
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 435 
 
 High on the hill-top 
 
 The old King sits; 
 He is now so old and gray 
 
 He's nigh lost his wits. 
 With a bridge of white mist 
 
 Columbldll he crosses, 
 On his stately journeys 
 
 From Sliveleague to Rosses; 
 Or going up with music 
 
 On cold starry nights, ' 
 
 To sup with the Queen 
 
 Of the gay northern lights. 
 
 They stole little Bridget 
 
 For seven years long; 
 When she came down again 
 
 Her friends were all gone. 
 They took her lightly back, 
 
 Between the night and morrow. 
 They thought that she was fast asleep. 
 
 But she was dead with sorrow. 
 They have kept her ever since 
 
 Deep within the lakes, 
 On a bed of flag leaves 
 
 Watching till she wakes. 
 
 By the craggy hillside. 
 
 Through the mosses bare. 
 They have planted thorn-trees 
 
 For pleasure here and there. 
 Is any man so daring 
 
 As dig them up in spite, 
 He shall feel their sharpest thorns 
 
 In his bed at night. 
 
 Up the airy mountain, ; 
 
 Down the rushy glen. 
 We daren't go a hunting 
 
 For fear of little men: 
 Wee folk, good folk. 
 
 Trooping all together; 
 Green jacket, red cap. 
 
 And white owl's feather. 
 
 From < Ballads and SongS.<
 
 436 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 
 
 ROBIN REDBREAST 
 (A Child's Song) 
 
 GOOD-BY, good-by, to Summer I 
 For Summer's nearly done; 
 The garden smiling faintly, 
 Cool breezes in the sun; 
 Our Thrushes now are silent, 
 Our Swallows flown away — 
 But Robin's here, in coat of brown, 
 With ruddy breast-knot gay. 
 Robin, Robin Redbreast, 
 
 Oh, Robin, dear! 
 Robin singing sweetly 
 
 In the falling of the year. 
 
 Bright yellow, red, and orange, 
 
 The leaves come down in hosts; 
 The trees are Indian Princes, 
 
 But soon they'll turn to Ghosts; 
 The scanty pears and apples 
 
 Hang russet on the bough. 
 It's Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 
 'Twill soon be winter now. 
 Robin, Robin Redbreast, 
 
 Oh, Robin, dear! 
 And welaway! my Robin, 
 
 For pinching times are near. 
 
 The fireside for the Cricket, 
 
 The wheatstack for the Mouse, 
 When trembling night-winds whistle 
 
 And moan all round the house. 
 The frosty ways like iron, 
 
 The branches plumed with snow — 
 Alas! in Winter, dead and dark, 
 Where can poor Robin go ? 
 Robin, Robin Redbreast, 
 
 Oh, Robin, dear! 
 And a crumb of bread for Robin, 
 His little heart to cheer. 
 
 From < Ballads and Songs.'
 
 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 4^7 
 
 A 
 
 AN EVENING 
 
 sunset's mounded cloud; 
 A diamond evening-star; 
 Sad blue hills afar: 
 Love -in his shroud. 
 
 Scarcely a tear to shed; 
 Hardly a word to say; 
 The end of a summer's day; 
 Sweet Love is dead. 
 
 From < Day and Night Songs. 
 
 DAFFODIL 
 
 GOLD tassel upon March's bugle-horn, 
 Whose blithe reveille blows from hill to hill 
 And every valley rings — O Daffodil! 
 What promise for the season newly born ? 
 Shall wave on wave of flow'rs, full tide of corn, 
 O'erflow the world, then fruited Autumn fill 
 Hedgerow and garth ? Shall tempest, blight, or chill 
 Turn all felicity to scathe and scorn ? 
 
 Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring 
 
 Lies open, writ in blossoms; not a bird 
 
 Of evil augury is seen or heard : 
 Come now, like Pan's old crew, we'll dance and sing, 
 Or Oberon's: for hill and valley ring 
 
 To March's bugle-horn, — Earth's blood is stirred. 
 
 From < Flower Pieces.* 
 
 LOVELY MARY DONNELLY 
 (To an Irish Tune) 
 
 O LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best! 
 If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest. 
 Be what it may the time of day. the place be where it will. 
 Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. 
 
 Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock. 
 
 How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many 
 
 a shock. 
 Red rowans warm in sunshine and wetted with a shower, 
 Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power,
 
 438 WILLIAM ALLINGHAM 
 
 Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up; 
 Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup; 
 Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine, 
 It's rolling down upon her neck and gathered in a twine. 
 
 The dance o' last Whit Monday night exceeded all before; 
 No pretty girl for miles about was missing from the floor; 
 But Mary kept the belt of love, and oh, but she was gay! 
 She danced a jig, she sung a song, that took my heart away. 
 
 When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete, 
 The music nearly killed itself to listen to her feet; 
 The fiddler moaned his blindness, he heard her so much praised. 
 But blessed himself he wasn't deaf, when once her voice she 
 raised. 
 
 And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung, 
 
 Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue; 
 
 But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your 
 
 hands, 
 And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands. 
 
 Oh, you're the flower o' womankind in country or in town; 
 
 The higher I exalt you, the lower I'm cast down. 
 
 If some great lord should come this way, and see your beauty 
 
 bright. 
 And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right. 
 
 Oh, might we live together in a lofty palace hall. 
 Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! 
 Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small. 
 With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall! 
 
 O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress: 
 It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less. 
 The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low; 
 But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go! 
 
 From < Ballads and Songs.'
 
 439 
 
 KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST 
 
 (1793-1866) 
 
 Jlmquist, one of the most versatile writers of Sweden, was a 
 man of strange contrasts, a genius as uncertain as a will-o'- 
 the-wisp. His contemporary, the famous poet and critic 
 Atterbom, writes: — 
 
 «What did the great poets of past times possess which upheld them under 
 even the bitterest worldly circumstances ? Two things : one a strong and 
 conscientious will, the other a single — not double, much less manifold — deter- 
 mination for their work, oneness. They were not self-seekers; they sought, 
 they worshiped something better than themselves. The aim which stood 
 dimly before their inmost souls was not the enjoyment of flattered vanity; it 
 was a high, heroic symbol of love of honor and love of country, of heavenly 
 wisdom. For this they thought it worth while to fight, for this they even 
 thought it worth while to suffer, without finding the suffering in itself strange, 
 or calling earth to witness thereof. . . . The writer of <T6mrosens Bok* 
 [The Book of the Rose] is one of these few; he does therefore already reign 
 over a number of youthful hearts, and out of them will rise his time of honor, 
 a time when many of the celebrities of the present moment will have faded 
 away.» 
 
 Almquist was born in Stockholm in 1793. When still a very 
 young man he obtained a good official position, but gave it up in 
 1823 to lead a colony of friends into the forests of Varmland, where 
 they intended to return to a primitive life close to the heart of 
 nature. He called this colony a << Man's-home Association, >* and 
 ordained that in the primeval forest the members should live in turf- 
 covered huts, wear homespun, eat porridge with a wooden spoon, 
 and enact the ancient freeholder. The experiment was not successful, 
 he tired of the manual work, and returning to Stockholm, became 
 master of the new Elementary School, and began to write text-books 
 and educational works. His publication of a number of epics, 
 dramas, lyrics, and romances made him suddenly famous. Viewed 
 as a whole, this collection is generally called * The Book of the 
 Rose,* but at times < En Irrande Hind* (A Stray Deer). Of this, the 
 two dramas, ^ Signora Luna* and * Ramido Marinesco,* contain some 
 of the pearls of Swedish literature. Uneven in the plan and execu- 
 tion, they are yet masterly in dialogue, and their dramatic and 
 tragic force is great. Almquist's imagination showed itself as indi- 
 vidual as it is fantastic. Coming from a man hitherto known as the 
 writer of text-books and the advocate of popular social ideas, the
 
 440 KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST 
 
 volumes aroused extraordinary interest. The author revealed himself 
 as akin to Novalis and Victor Hugo, with a power of language like 
 that of Atterbom, and a richness of color resembling Tegner's. At- 
 terbom himself wrote of * Tornrosens Bok > that it was a work whose 
 " faults were exceedingly easy to overlook and whose beauties ex- 
 ceedingly difficult to match.'* 
 
 After this appeared in rapid succession, and written with equal 
 ease, lyrical, dramatic, educational, poetical, aesthetical, philosophical, 
 moral, and religious treatises, as well as lectures and studies in his- 
 tory and law; for Almquist now gave all his time to literary labors. 
 His novels showed socialistic sympathies, and he put forth news- 
 paper articles and pamphlets on Socialism which aroused considerable 
 opposition. Moreover, he delighted in contradictions. One day he 
 wrote as an avowed Christian, extolling virtue, piety, and Christian 
 knowledge; the next, he abrogated religion as entirely unnecessary: 
 and his own explanation of this variability was merely — <<I paint so 
 because it pleases me to paint so, and life is not otherwise.** 
 
 In 1 85 1 was heard the startling rumor that he was accused of 
 forgery and charged with murder. He fled from Sweden and disap- 
 peared from the knowledge of men. Going to America, he earned 
 under a fictitious name a scanty living, and became, it is said, the 
 private secretary of Abraham Lincoln. In 1866 he found himself 
 again under the ban of the law, his papers were destroyed, and he 
 escaped with difficulty to Bremen, where he died. 
 
 One of his latest works was his excellent modern novel, * Det Gar 
 An* (It's All Right), a forerunner of the <^ problem novel** of the day. 
 It is an attack upon conventional marriage, and pictures the helpless- 
 ness of a woman in the hands of a depraved man. Its extreme 
 views called out violent criticism. 
 
 He was a romanticist through and through, with a strong leaning 
 toward the French school. Among the best of his tales are *Ara- 
 minta May,* <Skallnora Quarn* (Skallnora's Mill), and * Grimstahamns 
 Nybygge* ( Grimstahamn's Settlement). His idyl *Kapellet* (The 
 Chapel) is wonderfully true to nature, and his novel <Palatset* (The 
 Palace ) is rich in humor and true poesy. His literary fame will 
 probably rest on his romances, which are the best of their kind in 
 Swedish literature.
 
 KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST 441 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS OF CATTLE 
 
 ANY one with a taste for physiognomy should carefully observe 
 the features of the ox and the cow; their demeanor and 
 the expression of their eyes. They are figures which bear 
 an extraordinary stamp of respectability. They look neither joy- 
 ful nor melancholy. They are seldom evilly disposed, but never 
 sportive. They are full of gravity, and always seem to be going 
 about their business. They are not merely of great economic 
 service, but their whole persons carry the look of it. They are 
 the very models of earthly carefulness. 
 
 Nothing is ever to be seen more dignified, more official-look- 
 ing, than the whole behavior of the ox; his way of carrying his 
 head, and looking around him. If anybody thinks I mean these 
 words for a sarcasm, he is mistaken: no slur on official life, or 
 on what the world calls a man's vocation, is intended. I hold 
 them all in as much respect as could be asked. And though I 
 have an eye for contours, no feeling of ridicule is connected in 
 my mind with any of these. On the contrary, I regard the ox 
 and the cow with the warmest feelings of esteem. I admire in 
 them a naive and striking picture of one who minds his own 
 business; who submits to the claims of duty, not using the 
 word in its highest sense; who in the world's estimate is dig- 
 nified, steady, conventional, and middle-aged, — that is to say, 
 neither youthful nor stricken in years. 
 
 Look at that ox which stands before you, chewing his cud 
 and gazing around him with such unspeakable thoughtfulness — - 
 but which you will find, when you look more closely into his 
 eyes, is thinking about nothing at all. Look at that discreet, 
 excellent Dutch cow, which, gifted with an inexhaustible udder, 
 stands quietly and allows herself to be milked as a matter of 
 course, while she gazes into space with a most sensible express- 
 ion. Whatever she does, she does with the same imperturbable 
 calmness, and as when a person leaves an important trust to his 
 own time and to posterity. If the worth of this creature is 
 thus great on the one side, yet on the other it must be con- 
 fessed that she possesses not a single trait of grace, not a 
 particle of vivacity, and none of that quick characteristic retreat- 
 ing from an object which indicates an internal buoyancy, an 
 elastic temperament, such as we see in a bird or fish. 
 There is something very agreeable in the varied lowin^f of cattle
 
 442 KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST 
 
 when heard in the distant country, and when replied to by a 
 large herd, especially toward evening and amid echoes. On the 
 other hand, nothing is more unpleasant than to hear all at once, 
 and just beside one, the bellowing of a bull, who thus authori- 
 tatively announces himself, as if nobody else had any right to 
 utter a syllable in his presence. 
 
 A NEW UNDINE 
 From <The Book of the Rose> 
 
 Miss RuDENSKOLD and her companion sat in one of the pews 
 in the cheerful and beautiful church of Normalm, which 
 is all that is left of the once famous cloister of St. Clara, 
 and still bears the saint's name. The sermon was finished, and 
 the strong full tones of the organ, called out by the skillful 
 hands of an excellent organist, hovered like the voices of un-seen 
 angel choirs in the high vaults of the church, floated down to 
 the listeners, and sank deep into their hearts. 
 
 Azouras did not speak a single word; neither did she sing, 
 for she did not know a whole hymn through. Nor did Miss 
 Rudenskold sing, because it was not her custom to sing in 
 church. During the organ solo, however. Miss Rudenskold vent- 
 ured to make some remarks about Dr. Asplund's sermon which 
 was so beautiful, and about the notices afterward which were so 
 tiresome. But when her neighbor did not answer, but sat look- 
 ing ahead w4th large, almost motionless eyes, as people stare 
 without looking at anything in particular, she changed her sub- 
 ject. 
 
 At one of the organ tones which finished a cadence, Azouras 
 started, and blinked quickly with her eyelids, and a light sigh 
 showed that she came back to herself and her friend, from her 
 vague contemplative state of mind. Something indescribable, 
 very sad, shone in her eyes, and made them almost black; and 
 with a childlike look at Miss Rudenskold she asked, **Tell me 
 what that large painting over there represents.* 
 
 « The altar-piece ? Don't you know ? The altar-piece in Clara 
 is one of the most beautiful we possess." 
 
 **What is going on there?" asked Azouras. 
 
 Miss Rudenskold gave her a side glance; she did not know 
 that her neighbor in the pew was a girl without baptism, with- 
 out Christianity, without the slightest knowledge of holy religion,
 
 KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST ^4^ 
 
 a heathen — and knew less than a heathen, for such a one has 
 his teachings, although they are not Christian. Miss Rudenskold 
 thought the girl's question came of a momentary forgetfulness, 
 and answered, to remind her: — 
 
 ^^Well, you see, it is one of the usual subjects, but unusually 
 well painted, that is all. High up among the other figures in 
 the painting you will see the half -reclining figure of one that is 
 dead — see what an expression the painter has put into the face! 
 — That is the Saviour.'* 
 
 «The Saviour ?» 
 
 *Yes, God's son, you know; or God Himself.** 
 
 ** And he is dead ? ** repeated Azouras to herself with wonder- 
 ing eyes. ^'Yes, I believe that; it must be so: it is godlike to 
 die ! » 
 
 Miss Rudenskold looked at her neighbor with wide-opened 
 eyes. ^*You must not misunderstand this subject,** she said. ^* It 
 is human to live and want to live; you can see that, too, in the 
 altar-piece, for all the persons who are human beings, like our- 
 selves, are alive.** 
 
 * Let us go out! I feel oppressed by fear — no, I will tarry 
 here until my fear passes away. Go, dearest, I will send you 
 word. ** 
 
 Miss Rudenskold took leave of her; went out of the church 
 and over the churchyard to the Eastern Gate, which faces Oden's 
 lane. . . . 
 
 The girl meanwhile stayed inside; came to a comer in the 
 organ stairs; saw people go out little by little; remained unob- 
 served, and finally heard the sexton and the church-keeper go 
 away. When the last door was closed, Azouras stepped out of 
 her hiding-place. Shut out from the entire world, severed from 
 all human beings, she found herself the only occupant of the 
 large, light building, into which the sun lavishly poured his gold. 
 
 Although she was entirely ignorant of our holy church cus- 
 toms and the meaning of the things she saw around her, she had 
 nevertheless, sometimes in the past, when her mother was in 
 better health, been present at the church service as a pastime, 
 and so remembered one thing and another. The persons with 
 whom she lived, in the halls and corridors of the opera, hardly 
 ever went to God's house; and generally speaking, church-going 
 was not practiced much during this time. No wonder, then, that 
 a child who was not a member of any religious body, and who
 
 444 KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST 
 
 had never received an enlightening word from any ministei, 
 should neglect what the initiated themselves did not attend to 
 assiduously. 
 
 She walked up the aisle, and never had the sad, strange feel- 
 ing of utter loneliness taken hold of her as it did now; it was 
 coupled with the apprehension of a great, overhanging danger. 
 Her heart beat wildly; she longed unspeakably — but for what? 
 for her wild free forest out there, where she ran around quick as 
 a deer ? or for what ? 
 
 She walked up toward the choir and approached the altar rail- 
 ing. ^* Here at least — I remember that once — but that was long 
 ago, and it stands like a shadow before my memory — I saw many 
 people kneel here : it must have been of some use to them ? 
 Suppose I did likewise ? ^^ 
 
 Nevertheless she thought it would be improper for her to 
 kneel down on the decorated cushions around the chancel. She 
 folded her hands and knelt outside of the choir on the bare stone 
 floor. But what more was she to do or say now ? Of what use 
 was it all ? Where was she to turn ? 
 
 She knew nothing. She looked down into her own thoughts 
 as into an immense, silent dwelling. Feelings of sorrow and a 
 sense of transiency moved in slow swells, like shining, breaking 
 waves, through her consciousness. "Oh — something to lean on — 
 a help — where ? where ? where ? '* 
 
 She looked quietly about her; she saw nobody. She was sure 
 to meet the most awful danger when the door was opened, if 
 help did not come first. 
 
 She turned her eyes back toward the organ, and in her 
 thoughts she besought grace of the straight, long, shining pipes. 
 But all their mouths were silent now. 
 
 She looked up to the pulpit; nobody was standing there. In 
 the pews nobody. She had sent everybody away from here and 
 from herself. 
 
 She turned her head again toward the choir. She remem- 
 bered that when she had seen so many gathered here, two min- 
 isters in vestments had moved about inside of the railing and 
 had offered the kneeling worshipers something. No doubt to 
 help them! But now — there was nobody inside there. To be 
 sure she was kneeling here with folded hands and praying eyes; 
 but there was nobody, nobody, nobody who offered her the least 
 little thing. She wept.
 
 KARL JONAS LUDVIG ALMQUIST ^^r 
 
 She looked out of the great church windows to the clear 
 noonday sky; her eyes beheld the delicate azure light which 
 spread itself over everything far, far away, but on nothing could 
 her eyes rest. There were no stars to be seen now, and the sun 
 itself was hidden by the window post, although its mild golden 
 light flooded the world. 
 
 She looked away again, and her eyes sank to the ground. 
 Her knees were resting on a tombstone, and she saw many of 
 the same kind about her. She read the names engraven on the 
 stones; they were all Swedish, correct and well-known. '^^Oh,'* 
 she said to herself with a sigh, ^* I have not a name like others ! 
 My names have been many, borrowed, — and oh, often changed. 
 I did not get one to be my very own! If only I had one like 
 other people ! Nobody has written me down in a book as I have 
 heard it said others are written down. Nobody asks about me. 
 I have nothing to do with anybody! Poor Azouras,'* she whis- 
 pered low to herself. She wept much. 
 
 There was no one else who said ** poor Azouras Tintomara ! '* 
 but it was as if an inner, higher, invisible being felt sorry for 
 the outer, bodily, visible being, both one and the same person 
 in her. She wept bitterly over herself. 
 
 **God is dead,** she thought, and looked up at the large altar- 
 piece again. ^* But I am a human being; I must live.** And 
 she wept more heartily, more bitterly. . . . 
 
 The afternoon passed, and the hour for vespers struck. The 
 bells in the tower began to lift their solemn voices, and keys 
 rattled in the lock. Then the heathen girl sprang up, and, much 
 like a thin vanishing mist, disappeared from the altar. She hid 
 in her corner again. It seemed to her that she had been for- 
 ward, and had taken liberties in the choir of the church to 
 which she had no right; and that in the congregation coming in 
 now, she saw persons who had a right to everything. 
 
 Nevertheless, when the harmonious tones of the organ began 
 to mix with the fragrant summer air in the church, Azouras 
 stood radiant, and she felt quickly how the weight lifted from 
 her breast. Was it because of the tears she had shed ? Or did 
 an unknown helper at this moment scatter the fear in her heart ? 
 
 She felt no more that it would be dangerous to leave the 
 church; she stole away, before vespers were over, came out into 
 the churchyard and turned off to the northern gate.
 
 446 JOHANNA AMBROSIUS 
 
 GOD'S WAR 
 
 HIS mighty weapon drawing, 
 God smites the world he loves; 
 Thus, worthy of him growing, 
 She his reflection proves. 
 God's war like lightning striking, 
 
 The heart's deep core lays bare, 
 Which fair grows to his liking 
 Who is supremely fair. 
 
 Escapes no weakness shame, 
 
 No hid, ignoble feeling; 
 
 But when his thunder pealing 
 Enkindles life's deep flame. 
 And water clear upwelleth, 
 
 Flowing unto its goal, 
 God's grand cross standing, telleth 
 
 His truth unto the soul. 
 
 Sing, God's war, earth that shakes! 
 Sing, sing the peace he makes I 
 
 JOHANNA AMBROSIUS 
 (1854-) 
 
 jEFORE the year 1895 the name of the German peasant, Johanna 
 Ambrosius, was hardly known, even within her own country. 
 Now her melodious verse has made her one of the most 
 popular writers in Germany. Her genius found its way from the 
 humble farm in Eastern Prussia, where she worked in the field beside 
 her husband, to the very heart of the great literary circles. She was 
 born in Lengwethen, a parish village in Eastern Prussia, on the 3d of 
 August, 1854. She received only the commonest education, and every 
 day was filled with the coarsest toil. But her mind and soul were 
 uplifted by the gift of poetry, to which she gave voice in her rare 
 moments of leisure. A delicate, middle-aged woman, whose simplicity 
 is undisturbed by the lavish praises of literary men, she leads the 
 most unpretending of lives. Her work became known by the merest 
 chance. She sent a poem to a German weekly, where it attracted the 
 attention of a Viennese gentleman, Dr. Schrattenthal, who collected 
 her verses and sent the little volume into the world with a preface 
 by himself. This work has already gone through twenty-six editions.
 
 JOHANNA AMBROSIUS 
 
 447 
 
 The short sketch cited, written some years ago, is the only prose of 
 hers that has been published. 
 
 The distinguishing characteristics of the poetry of this singularly 
 gifted woman are the deep, almost painfully intense earnestness per- 
 vading its every line, the fine sense of harmony and rhythmic felicity 
 attending the comparatively few attempts she has thus far made, and 
 her tender touch when dwelling upon themes of the heart and home. 
 One cannot predict what her success will be when she attempts more 
 ambitious flights, but thus far she seems to have probed the aesthetic 
 heart of Germany to its centre. 
 
 A PEASANT'S THOUGHTS 
 
 THE first snow, in large and thick flakes, fell gently and silently 
 on the barren branches of the ancient pear-tree, standing 
 like a sentinel at my house door. The first snow of the 
 year speaks both of joy and sadness. It is so comfortable to sit 
 in a warm room and watch the falling flakes, eternally pure and 
 lovely. There are neither flowers nor birds about, to make you 
 see and hear the beautiful great world. Now the busy peasant 
 has time to read the stories in his calendar. And I, too, stopped 
 my spinning-wheel, the holy Christ-child's gift on my thirteenth 
 birthday, to fold my hands and to look through the calendar of 
 my thoughts. 
 
 I did not hear a knock at the door, but a little man came in 
 with a cordial " Good morning, little sister ! *' I knew him well 
 enough, though we were not acquaintances. Half familiar, half 
 strange, this little time-worn figure looked. His queer face 
 seemed stamped out of rubber, the upper part sad, the lower 
 full of laughing wrinkles. But his address surprised me, for we 
 were not in the least related. I shook his horny hand, respond- 
 ing, ** Hearty thanks, little brother." ^^ I call this good luck,** 
 began little brother: *a room freshly scoured, apples roasting in 
 the chimney, half a cold duck in the cupboard ; and you all alone 
 with cat and clock. It is easier talking when there are two, for 
 the third is always in the way.** 
 
 The old man amused me inmiensely. I sat down on the 
 bench beside him and asked after his wife and family. ^^ Thanks, 
 thanks, ** he nodded, " all well and happy except our nestling 
 Ille. She leaves home to-morrow, to eat her bread as a dress- 
 maker in B . ** — "And the other children, where are they?**
 
 448 JOHANNA AMBROSIUS 
 
 * Flown away, long ago! Do you suppose, little sister, that I 
 want to keep all fifteen at home like so many cabbages in 
 a single bed ? *' Fifteen children ! Almost triumphantly, little 
 brother watched me. I owned almost as many brothers and 
 sisters myself, and fifteen children were no marvel to me. So I 
 asked if he were a grandfather too. 
 
 ** Of course,'^ he answered gravely. ^^ But I am going to tell 
 you how I came by fifteen children. You know how we peasant 
 folk give house and land to the eldest son, and only a few 
 coppers to the youngest children. A bad custom, that leads to 
 quarrels, and ends sometimes in murder. Fathers and mothers 
 can't bring themselves to part with the property, and so they 
 live with the eldest son, who doles out food and shelter, and gets 
 the farm in the end. So, in time, a family has some rich mem- 
 bers and more paupers. Now, we'd better sell the land and let 
 the children share alike; but then that way breaks estates too. 
 I was a younger child, and I received four hundred thalers; — a 
 large sum forty years ago. I didn't know anything but field 
 work. The saying that *■ The peasant must be kept stupid or he 
 will not obey* was still printed in all the books. So I had to 
 look about for a family where a son was needed. One day, with 
 my four hundred thalers in my pocket, I went to a farm where 
 there was an unmarried daughter. When you go a-courting 
 among us, you pretend to mean to buy a horse. That's the 
 fashion. With us, a lie doesn't wear French rouge. The parents 
 of Marianne (that was her name) made me welcome. Brown 
 Bess was brought from the stable, and her neck, legs, and teeth 
 examined. I showed my willingness to buy her, which meant as 
 much as to say, *■ Your daughter pleases me. * As proud as you 
 please, I walked through the buildings. Everything in plenty, all 
 right, not a nail wanting on the harrow, nor a cord missing from 
 the harness. How I strutted! I saw myself master, and I was 
 tickled to death to be as rich as my brother. 
 
 " But I reckoned without my host. On tiptoe I stole into the 
 kitchen, where my sweetheart was frying ham and eggs. I 
 thought I might snatch a kiss. Above the noise of the sizzling 
 frying-pan and the crackling wood, I plainly heard the voice of 
 my — well, let us say it — bride, weeping and complaining to an 
 old house servant: ^ It's a shame and a sin to enter matrimony 
 with a lie. I can't wed this Michael: not because he is ugly; 
 that doesn't matter in a man, but he comes too late! My heart
 
 JOHANNA AMBROSIUS 449 
 
 belongs to poor Joseph, the woodcutter, and I'd sooner be turned 
 out of doors than to make a false promise. Money blinds my 
 mother's eyes!^ Don't be surprised, little sister, that I remember 
 these words so well. A son doesn't forget his father's blessing, 
 nor a prisoner his sentence. This was my sentence to poverty 
 and single-blessedness. I sent word to Marianne that she should 
 be happy — and so she was. 
 
 " But now to my own story. I worked six years as farm hand 
 for my rich brother, and then love overtook me. The little 
 housemaid caught me in the net of her golden locks. What a 
 fuss it made in our family! A peasant's pride is as stiff as that 
 of your *■ Vous * and ^ Zus. ■* My girl had only a pair of willing 
 hands and a good heart to give to an ugly, pock-marked being, 
 like me. My mother (God grant her peace!) caused her many a 
 tear, and when I brought home my Lotte she wouldn't keep the 
 peace until at last she found out that happiness depends on kind- 
 ness more than on money. On the patch of land that I bought, 
 my wife and I lived as happily as people live when there's love 
 in the house and a bit of bread to spare. We worked hard and 
 spent little. A long, scoured table, a wooden bench or so, a 
 chest or two of coarse linen, and a few pots and pans — that was 
 our furniture. The walls had never tasted whitewash, but Lotte 
 kept them scoured. She went to church barefoot, and put on 
 her shoes at the door. Good things such as coffee and plums, 
 that the poorest hut has now-a-days, we never saw. We didn't 
 save much, for crops sold cheap. But I didn't speculate, nor 
 squeeze money from the sweat of the poor. In time five pretty 
 little chatterboxes arrived, all flaxen-haired girls with blue eyes, 
 or brown. I was satisfied with girls, but the mother hankered 
 after a boy. That's a poor father that prefers a son to a 
 daughter. A man ought to take boys and girls alike, just as 
 God sends them. I was glad enough to work for my girls, and 
 I didn't worry about their future, nor build castles in the air for 
 them to live in. After fifteen years the boy arrived, but he took 
 himself quickly out of the world and coaxed his mother away 
 with him.*^ 
 
 Little brother was silent, and bowed his snow-white head. My 
 heart felt as if the dead wife flitted through the room and gently 
 touched the old fellow's thin locks. I saw him kneeling at her 
 death-bed, heard the little girls sobbing, and waited in silence till 
 he drew himself up, sighing deeply: — 
 
 I— 2Q
 
 45© JOHANNA AMBROSIUS 
 
 ^^ My Lotte died ; she left me alone. What didn't I promise 
 the dear Lord in those black hours! My life, my savings, yea, all 
 my children if He would but leave her to me. In vain. * My 
 thoughts are not thy thoughts, saith the Lord, and My ways 
 are not thy ways.^ It was night in my soul. I cried over my 
 children, and I only half did my work. At night I tumbled into 
 bed tearless and prayerless. Oh, sad time! God vainly knocked at 
 my heart's door until the children fell ill. Oh, what would become 
 of me if these flowers were gathered ? What wealth these rosy 
 mouths meant to me, how gladly would they smile away my sor- 
 row ! I had set myself up above the Lord. But by my children's 
 bedside I prayed for grace. They all recovered. I took my 
 motherless brood to God's temple to thank Him there. Church- 
 going won't bring salvation, but staying away from church makes 
 a man stupid and coarse. 
 
 " But I am forgetting, little sister. I started to tell you 
 about my fifteen children. You see I made up my mind that I 
 had to find a mother for the chicks. I wouldn't chain a young 
 thing to my bonds, even if she understood housekeeping. I held 
 to the saying, *■ Equal wealth, equal birth, equal years make a 
 good match.* When an old widower courts a young girl he looks 
 at her faults with a hundred eyes when he measures her with 
 his first wife. But a home without a wife is like spring with- 
 out blossoms. So, thinking this way, I chose a widow with ten 
 children. * 
 
 Twirling his thumbs, little brother smiled gayly as he looked 
 at me. *^ Five and ten make fifteen, I thought, and when fifteen 
 prayers rise to heaven, the Lord must hear. My two eldest 
 stepsons entered military service. We wouldn't spend all our 
 money on the boys and then console our poor girls with a hus- 
 band. I put three sons to trades. But my girls were my pride. 
 They learned every kind of work. When they could cook, wash, 
 and spin, we sent them into good households to learn more. 
 Two married young. Some of the rest are seamstresses and 
 housekeepers. One is a secretary, and our golden-haired Miez is 
 lady's-maid to the Countess H . Both these girls are be- 
 trothed. Miez is the brightest, and she managed to learn, even 
 at the village school. So much is written about education nowa- 
 days,** (little brother drew himself up proudly as he added, ^* I 
 take a newspaper,**) "but the real education is to keep children 
 at work and make them unselfish. They must love their work.
 
 JOHANNA AMBROSIUS 451 
 
 Work and pray, these were my rules, and thank Heaven! all my 
 children are good and industrious. 
 
 "Just think, last summer my dear girls sent me a suit of fine 
 city clothes and money to go a journey, begging their old father 
 to make them a visit. Oh, how pretty they looked when they 
 showed me round the city in spite of my homespun, for I 
 couldn't bring myself to wear the fine clothes, after all. The 
 best dressed one was our little lady's-maid, who had a gold watch 
 in her belt. So I said: ^Listen, child, that is not fit for you.* 
 But she only laughed. *■ Indeed it is, little father. If my gra- 
 cious lady makes me a present, I'm not likely to be mistaken for 
 her on that account.* — ^And girls, are you contented to be in 
 service ? * — ^ Certainly, father : unless there are both masters and 
 servants the world would go out of its grooves. My good 
 Countess makes service so light, that we love and serve her. 
 Yes, little father,* added Miez, ^my gracious mistress chose Gus- 
 tav for me, and is going to pay for the wedding and start us in 
 housekeeping — God bless her!* Now see what good such a 
 woman does. If people would but learn that it takes wits to 
 command as well as to obey, they would get along well enough 
 in these new times of equality. Thank heaven! we country folk 
 shan't be ruined by idleness. When I saw my thatched roof 
 again, among the fir-trees, I felt as solemn as if I were going to 
 prayers. The blue smoke looked like incense. I folded my 
 hands, I thanked God.** 
 
 Little brother arose, his eyes bright with tears. He cast a 
 
 wistful look toward the apples in the chimney : " My old wife, 
 
 little sister?** — " Certainly, take them all, little brother, you are 
 
 heartily welcome to them.** — "We are like children, my wife and 
 
 I, we carry tidbits to each other, now that our birds have all 
 
 flown away. ** — " That is right, old boy, and God keep thee ! ** I 
 
 said. From the threshold the words echoed back, " God keep 
 
 thee!** 
 
 Translation of Miss H. Geist. 
 
 STRUGGLE AND PEACE 
 
 A QUARTER-CENTURY warfare wokt. 
 No sabre clash nor powder smoke. 
 No triumph song nor battle cry; 
 Their shields no templared knights stood by»
 
 45^ Johanna ambrosius 
 
 Though fought were many battles hot, 
 Of any fight the world knew not 
 How great the perils often grew — 
 God only knew. 
 
 Within my deepest soul-depths torn, 
 In hands and feet wounds bleeding borne, 
 Trodden beneath the chargers' tread, 
 How I endured, felt, suffered, bled. 
 How wept and groaned I in my woe, 
 "When scoffed the malice-breathing foe, 
 How pierced his scorn my spirit through, 
 God only knew. 
 
 The evening nears; cool zephyrs blow; 
 The struggle wild doth weaker grow; 
 The air with scarce a sigh is filled 
 From the pale mouth; the blood is stilled. 
 Quieted now my bitter pain; 
 A faint star lights the heavenly plain; 
 Peace cometh after want and woe — 
 My God doth know. 
 
 DO THOU LOVE, TOO! 
 
 THE waves they whisper 
 In Luna's glance. 
 Entrancing music 
 
 For the nixies' dance. 
 They beckon, smiling, 
 And wavewise woo. 
 While softly plashing: — 
 << Do thou love, too ! * 
 
 In blossoming lindens 
 
 Doves fondly rear 
 Their tender fledglings 
 
 From year to year. 
 With never a pausing. 
 
 They bill and coo. 
 And twitter gently: — 
 
 *Do thou love, too!**
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 
 
 INVITATION 
 
 453 
 
 HOW long wilt stand outside and cower? 
 Come straight within, beloved guest. 
 The winds are fierce this wintry hour: 
 Come, stay awhile with me and rest. 
 You wander begging shelter vainly 
 
 A weary time from door to door; 
 I see what you have suffered plainly: 
 
 Come, rest with me and stray no more! 
 
 And nestle by me, trusting-hearted; 
 
 Lay in my loving hands your head: 
 Then back shall come your peace departed. 
 
 Through the world's baseness long since fled; 
 And deep from out your heart upspringing, 
 
 Love's downy wings will soar to view, 
 The darling smiles like magic bringing 
 
 Around your gloomy lips anew. 
 
 Come, rest: myself will here detain you, 
 
 So long as pulse of mine shall beat; 
 Nor shall my heart grow cold and pain you, 
 
 Till carried to your last retreat. 
 You gaze at me in doubting fashion, 
 
 Before the offered rapture dumb; 
 Tears and still tears your sole expression: 
 
 Bedew my bosom with them — come! 
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 
 
 (1846-) 
 
 [n 1869, < Vita Militare* (Military Life), a collection of short 
 stories, was perhaps the most popular Italian volume of the 
 year. Read alike in court and cottage, it was everywhere 
 discussed and enthusiastically praised. Its prime quality was that 
 quivering sympathy which insures some success to any imaginative 
 work, however crudely written. But these sketches of all the grim 
 and amusing phases of Italian soldier life are drawn with an exqui- 
 site precision. The reader feels the breathless discouragement of 
 the tired soldiers when new dusty vistas are revealed by a sudden 
 turn in the road (*A Midsummer March ^J; understands the strong
 
 454 
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 
 
 silent love between officer and orderly, suppressed by military eti- 
 quette ('The Orderly'); smiles with the soldiers at the pretty runa- 
 way boy, idol of the regiment (^The Son of the Regiment'); pities 
 the humiliations of the conscript novice (<The Conscript'); thrills 
 with the proud sorrow of the old man whose son's colonel tells the 
 story of his heroic death (^Dead on the Field of Battle'). *^When I 
 had finished reading it," said an Italian workman, <<I would gladly 
 have pressed the hand of the first soldier whom I happened to 
 meet." The author was only twenty-three, and has since given the 
 world many delightful volumes, but nothing finer. 
 
 These sketches were founded upon personal knowledge, for De 
 Amicis began life as a soldier. After his early education at Coni 
 and Turin, he entered the military school at Modena, from which he 
 was sent out as sub-lieutenant in the third regiment of the line. He 
 saw active service in various expeditions against Sicilian brigands; 
 and in the war with Austria he fought at the battle of Custozza. 
 
 His literary power seems to have been early 
 manifest; for in 1867 he became manager 
 of a newspaper, L'ltalia Militare, at Flor- 
 ence; and in 1871, yielding to his friends' 
 persuasions, he settled down to authorship 
 at Turin. His second book was the <Ricordi,' 
 memorials dedicated to the youth of Italy, 
 of national events which had come within 
 his experience. Half a dozen later stories 
 published together were also very popular, 
 especially ^ Gli Amici di Collegio ' (College 
 Friends), * Fortezza,' and *■ La Casa Paterna' 
 (The Paternal Home). He has written 
 some graceful verse as well. 
 But De Amicis soon craved the stimulus of novel environments, 
 of differing personalities; and he set out upon the travels which he 
 has so delightfully recounted. This ardent Italian longed for the 
 repose of «a gray sky," a critic tells us. He went first to Holland, 
 and experienced a joyous satisfaction in the careful art of that trim 
 little land. Later, a visit to North Africa in the suite of the Italian 
 ambassador prompted a brilliant volume, < Morocco,' « which glitters 
 and flashes like a Damascus blade." Among his other well-known 
 books, descriptive of other trips, are < Holland and Its People,' 
 < Spain,' < London,' < Paris,' and < Constantinople,' which, translated 
 into many languages, have been widely read. 
 
 That unfortunate though not uncommon traveler who finds e/i/n/t 
 everywhere must envy De Amicis his inexhaustible enthusiasm, his 
 power of epicurean enjoyment in the color and glory of every land. 
 
 Edmondo de Amicis
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS acc 
 
 His is a curiously optimistic nature. Always perceiving the beautiful 
 and picturesque in art and nature, he treats other aspects hopefully, 
 and ignores them when he may. He catches what is characteristic 
 in every nation as inevitably as he catches the physiognomy of a 
 land with its skies and its waters, its flowers and its atmosphere. 
 His is a realism transfigured by poetic imagination, which divines 
 essential things and places them in high relief. 
 
 Very early in life De Amicis announced his love and admiration 
 of Manzoni, of whom he called himself a disciple. But his is a very 
 different mind. This Italian, born at Oneglia of Genoese parents, 
 has inherited the emotional nature of his country. He sees every- 
 thing with feeling, penetrating below the surface with sympathetic 
 insight. Italy gives him his sensuous zest in life. But from France, 
 through his love of her vigor and grace, his cordial admiration of 
 her literature, he has gained a refining and strengthening influence. 
 She has taught him that direct diction, that choice simplicity, which 
 forsakes the stilted Italian of literary tradition for a style far 
 simpler, stronger, and more natural. 
 
 All selections used by permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons 
 
 THE LIGHT 
 From < Constantinople > 
 
 AND first of all, the light! One of my dearest delights at Con- 
 stantinople was to see the sun rise and set, standing upon 
 the bridge of the Sultana Valide. At dawn, in autumn, the 
 Golden Horn is almost always covered by a light fog, behind 
 which the city is seen vaguely, like those gauze curtains that 
 descend upon the stage to conceal the preparations for a scenic 
 spectacle. Scutari is quite hidden; nothing is to be seen but the 
 dark uncertain outline of her hills. The bridge and the shores 
 are deserted, Constantinople sleeps; the solitude and silence render 
 the spectacle more solemn. The sky begins to grow golden 
 behind the hills of Scutari. Upon that luminous strip are drawn, 
 one by one, black and clear, the tops of the cypress trees in the 
 vast cemetery, like an army of giants ranged upon the heights; 
 and from one cape of the Golden Horn to the other there shines 
 a tremulous light, faint as the first murmur of the awakening 
 city. Then behind the cypresses of the Asiatic shore comes forth 
 an eye of fire, and suddenly the white tops of the four minarets 
 of Saint Sophia are tinted with deep rose. In a few minutes,
 
 456 
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 
 
 from hill to hill, from mosque to mosque, down to the end of the 
 Golden Horn, all the minarets, one after the other, turn rose 
 color; all the domes, one by one, are silvered, the flush descends 
 from terrace to terrace, the tremulous light spreads, the great 
 veil melts, and all Stamboul appears, rosy and resplendent upon 
 her heights, blue and violet along the shores, fresh and young, as 
 if just risen from the waters. 
 
 As the sun rises, the delicacy of the first tints vanishes in an 
 immense illumination, and everything remains bathed in white 
 light until toward evening. Then the divine spectacle begins 
 again. The air is so limpid that from Galata one can see clearly 
 every distant tree, as far as Kadi-Kioi. The whole of the 
 immense profile of Stamboul stands out against the sky with such 
 a clearness of line and rigor of color, that every minaret, obelisk, 
 and cypress-tree can be counted, one by one, from Seraglio Point 
 to the cemetery of Eyub. The Golden Horn and the Bosphorus 
 assume a wonderful ultramarine color; the heavens, the color of 
 amethyst in the East, are afire behind Stamboul, tinting the hori- 
 zon with infinite lights of rose and carbuncle, that make one 
 think of the first day of the creation; Stamboul darkens, Galata 
 becomes golden, and Scutari, struck by the last rays of the set- 
 ting sun, with every pane of glass giving back the glow, looks 
 like a city on fire. 
 
 And this is the moment to contemplate Constantinople. There 
 is one rapid succession of the softest tints, pallid gold, rose and 
 lilac, which quiver and float over the sides of the hills and the 
 water, every moment giving and taking away the prize of beauty 
 from each part of the city, and revealing a thousand modest 
 graces of the landscape that have not dared to show themselves 
 in the full light. Great melancholy suburbs are lost in the 
 shadow of the valleys; little purple cities smile upon the heights; 
 villages faint as if about to die; others die at once like extin- 
 guished flames; others, that seemed already dead, revive, and 
 glow, and quiver yet a moment longer under the last ray of the 
 sun. Then there is nothing left but two resplendent points upon 
 the Asiatic shore, — the summit of Mount Bulgurlu, and the 
 extremity of the cape that guards the entrance to the Propontis; 
 they are at first two golden crowns, then two purple caps, then 
 two rubies; then all Constantinople is in shadow, and ten thou- 
 sand voices from ten thousand minarets announce the close of 
 the day. _
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 4c 7 
 
 RESEMBLANCES 
 
 From < Constantinople > 
 
 IN THE first days, fresh as I was from the perusal of Oriental 
 literature, I saw everywhere the famous personages of history 
 and legend, and the figures that recalled them resembled 
 sometimes so faithfully those that were fixed in my imagination, 
 that I was constrained to stop and look at them. How many 
 times have I seized my friend by the arm, and pointing to a 
 person passing by, have exclaimed: <^ It is he, cospetto! do you 
 not recognize him ? '^ In the square of the Sultana Valide, I fre- 
 quently saw the gigantic Turk who threw down millstones from 
 the walls of Nicaea on the heads of the soldiers of Baglione; I 
 saw in front of a mosque Umm Djemil, that old fury that sowed 
 brambles and nettles before Mahomet's house; I met in the book 
 bazaar, with a volume under his arm, Djemaleddin, the learned 
 man of Broussa, who knew the whole of the Arab dictionary by 
 heart; I passed quite close to the side of Ayesha, the favorite 
 wife of the Prophet, and she fixed upon my face her eyes, brill- 
 iant and humid, like the reflection of stars in a well; I have 
 recognized, in the At-Meidan, the famoi:s beauty of that poor 
 Greek woman killed by a cannon ball at the base of the serpent- 
 ine column; I have been face to face, in the Fanar, with Kara- 
 Abderrahman, the handsome young Turk of the time of Orkhan; 
 I have seen Coswa, the she-camel of the Prophet; I have en- 
 countered Kara-bulut, Selim's black steed; I have met the poor 
 poet Fignahi, condemned to go about Stamboul tied to an ass 
 for having pierced with an insolent distich the Grand Vizier of 
 Ibrahim; I have been in the same cafe with Soliman the Big, 
 the monstrous admiral, whom four robust slaves hardly succeeded 
 in lifting from the divan; Ali, the Grand Vizier, who could not 
 find in all Arabia a horse that could carry him; Mahmoud Pasha, 
 the ferocious Hercules that strangled the son of Soliman; and the 
 stupid Ahmed Second, who continually repeated " Koso ! Koso ! '* 
 (Very well, very well) crouching before the door of the cop3asts' 
 bazaar, in the square of Bajazet. All the personages of the 
 ^Thousand and One Nights,* the Aladdins, the Zobeides, the 
 Sindbads, the Gulnares, the old Jewish merchants, possessors of 
 enchanted carpets and wonderful lamps, passed before me like a 
 procession of phantoms.
 
 458 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 
 
 BIRDS 
 
 From < Constantinople > 
 
 CONSTANTINOPLE has One grace and gayety peculiar to itself, 
 that comes from an infinite number of birds of every kind, 
 for which the Turks nourish a warm sentiment and regard. 
 Mosques, groves, old walls, gardens, palaces, all resound with 
 song, the whistling and twittering of birds; everywhere wings 
 are fluttering, and life and harmony abound. The sparrows enter 
 the houses boldly, and eat out of women's and children's hands; 
 swallows nest over the caf6 doors, and under the arches of the 
 bazaars; pigeons in innumerable swarms, maintained by legacies 
 from sultans and private individuals, form garlands of black and 
 white along the cornices of the cupolas and around the terraces 
 of the minarets; sea-gulls dart and play over the water; thousands 
 of turtle-doves coo amorously among the cypresses in the ceme- 
 teries; crows croak about the Castle of the Seven Towers hal- 
 cyons come and go in long files between the Black Sea and 
 the Sea of Marmora; and storks sit upon the cupolas of the 
 mausoleums. For the Turk, each one of these birds has a gentle 
 meaning, or a benignant virtue: turtle-doves are favorable to 
 lovers, swallows keep away fire from the roofs where they build 
 their nests, storks make yearly pilgrimages to Mecca, halcyons 
 carry the souls of the faithful to Paradise. Thus he protects and 
 feeds them, through a sentiment of gratitude and piety; and they 
 enliven the house, the sea, and the sepulchre. Every quarter of 
 Stamboul is full of the noise of them, bringing to the city a sense 
 of the pleasures of country life, and continually refreshing the 
 soul with a reminder of nature. 
 
 CORDOVA 
 From < Spain > 
 
 FOR a long distance the country offers no new aspect to the 
 feverish curiosity of the tourist. At Vilches there is a vast 
 plain, and beyond there the open country of Tolosa, where 
 Alphonso VIII., King of Castile, gained the celebrated victory 
 ^* de las Navas '^ over the Mussulman army. The sky was very 
 clear, and in the distance one could see the mountains of the 
 Sierra de Segura. Suddenly, there comes over one a sensation
 
 EDMOXDO DE AMICIS 4^g 
 
 which seems to respond to a suppressed exclamation of surprise: 
 the first aloes with their thick leaves, the unexpected heralds of 
 tropical vegetation, rise on both sides of the road. Beyond, the 
 fields studded with flowers begin to appear. The first are studded, 
 those which follow almost covered, then come vast stretches of 
 ground entirely clothed with poppies, daisies, lilies, wild mush- 
 rooms, and ranunculuses, so that the country (as it presents itself 
 to view) looks like a succession of immense purple, gold, and 
 snowy-hued carpets. In the distance, among the trees, are in- 
 numerable blue, white, and yellow streaks, as far as the eye can 
 reach; and nearer, on the banks of the ditches, the elevations of 
 ground, the slopes, and even on the edge of the road are flowers 
 in beds, clumps, and clusters, one above the other, grouped in 
 the form of great bouquets, and trembling on their stalks, which 
 one can almost touch with his hand. Then there are fields white 
 with great blades of grain, flanked by plantations of roses, orange 
 groves, immense olive groves, and hillsides varied by a thousand 
 shades of green, surmounted by ancient Moorish towers, scattered 
 with many-colored houses; and between the one and the other 
 
 are white and slender bridges that cross rivulets hidden by the 
 trees. 
 
 On the horizon appear the snowy caps of the Sierra Nevada; 
 under that white streak lie the undulating blue ones of the nearer 
 mountains. The country becomes more varied and flourishing; 
 Arjonilla lies in a grove of olives, whose boundary one cannot 
 see; Pedro Abad, in the midst of a plain, covered with vineyards 
 and fruit-trees; Ventas di Alcolea, on the last hills of the Sierra 
 Nevada, peopled with villas and gardens. We are approaching 
 Cordova, the train flies along, we see little stations half hidden 
 by trees and flowers, the wind carries the rose leaves into the 
 carriages, great butterflies fly near the windows, a delicious per- 
 fume permeates the air, the travelers sing; we pass through an 
 enchanted garden, the aloes, oranges, palms, and villas grow 
 more frequent; and at last we hear a cry — ^< Here is Cordova !'' 
 
 How many lovely pictures and grand recollections the sound 
 of that name awakens in one's mind! Cordova, — the ancient 
 pearl of the East, as the Arabian poets call it, — the city of 
 cities; Cordova of the thirty suburbs and three thousand mosques, 
 which inclosed within her walls the greatest temple of Islam! 
 Her fame extended throughout the East, and obscured the glory 
 of ancient Damascus. The faithful came from the most remote
 
 46o 
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 
 
 regions of Asia to banks of the Guadalquivir to prostrate them- 
 selves in the marvelous Mihrab of her mosque, in the light of the 
 thousand bronze lamps cast from the bells of the cathedrals of 
 Spain. Hither flocked artists, savants, poets from every part of 
 the Mahometan world to her flourishing schools, immense libra- 
 ries, and the magnificent courts of her caliphs. Riches and 
 beauty flowed in, attracted by the fame of her splendor. From 
 here they scattered, eager for knowledge, along the coasts of 
 Africa, through the schools of Tunis, Cairo, Bagdad, Cufa, and 
 even to India and China, in order to gather inspiration and 
 records; and the poetry sung on the slopes of the Sierra Morena 
 flew from lyre to lyre, as far as the valleys of the Caucasus, to 
 excite the ardor for pilgrimages. The beautiful, powerful, and 
 wise Cordova, crowned with three thousand villages, proudly 
 raised her white minarets in the midst of orange groves, and 
 spread around the valley a voluptuous atmosphere of joy and 
 glory. 
 
 I leave the train, cross a garden, look around me. I am 
 alone. The travelers who were with me disappear here and 
 there; I still hear the noise of a carriage which is rolling off; 
 then all is quiet. It is midday, the sky is very clear, and the 
 air suffocating. I see two white houses; it is the opening of a 
 street; I enter and go on. The street is narrow, the houses as 
 small as the little villas on the slopes of artificial gardens, 
 almost all one story in height, with windows a few feet from 
 the ground, the roofs so low that one could almost touch them 
 with a stick, and the walls very white. The street turns; I 
 look, see no one, and hear neither step nor voice. I say to 
 myself: — ^^This must be an abandoned street!*^ and try another 
 one, in which the houses are white, the windows closed, and 
 there is nothing but silence and solitude around me. *^ Why, 
 where am I ? '^ I ask myself. I go on ; the street, which is so 
 narrow that a carriage could not pass, begins to wind; on the 
 right and left I see other deserted streets, white houses, and 
 closed windows. My step resounds as if in a corridor. The 
 whiteness of the walls is so vivid that even the reflection is 
 trying, and I am obliged to walk with my eyes half closed, for 
 it really seems as if I were making my way through the snow. 
 I reach a small square; everything is closed, and no one is to 
 be seen. At this point a vague feeling of melancholy seizes 
 me, such as I have never experienced before; a mixture of
 
 EDMONDO Dfi AMtCiS 
 
 461 
 
 pleasure and sadness, similar to that which comes to children 
 when, after a long run, they reach a lonely rural spot and 
 rejoice in their discovery, but with a certain trepidation lest 
 they should be too far from home. Above many roofs rise the 
 palm-trees of inner gardens. Oh, fantastic legends of Odalisk 
 and Caliph! On I go from street to street, and square to 
 square; I begin to meet some people, but they pass and disap- 
 pear like phantoms. All the streets resemble each other; the 
 houses have only three or four windows; and not a spot, scrawl, 
 or crack is to be seen on the walls, which are as smooth and 
 white as a sheet of paper. From time to time I hear a whisper 
 behind a blind, and see, almost at - the same moment, a dark 
 head, with a flower in the hair, appear and disappear. I look 
 in at a door. 
 
 A patio! How shall I describe a patio ? It is not a court, 
 nor a garden, nor a room; but it is all three things combined. 
 Between the patio and the street there is a vestibule. On the 
 four sides of the patio rise slender columns, which support, up 
 to a level with the first floor, a species of gallery inclosed in 
 glass; above the gallery is stretched a canvas, which shades the 
 court. The vestibule is paved with marble, the door flanked 
 by columns, surmounted by bas-reliefs, and closed by a slendei 
 iron gate of graceful design. At the end of the patio there is 
 a fountain; and all around are scattered chairs, work-tables, 
 pictures, and vases of flowers. I run to another door: there is 
 another patio, with its walls covered with ivy, and a number of 
 niches holding little statues, busts, and urns. I look in at a third 
 door: here is another patio, with its walls worked in mosaics, a 
 palm in the centre, and a mass of flowers all around. I stop at 
 a fourth door: after the patio there is another vestibule, after this 
 a second patio, in which one sees other statues, columns, and 
 fountains. All these rooms and gardens are so neat and clean 
 that one could pass his hand over the walls and on the ground 
 without leaving a trace; and they are fresh, odorous, and lighted 
 by an uncertain light, which increases their beauty and mysterious 
 appearance. 
 
 On I go at random from street to street. As I walk, my 
 curiosity increases and I quicken my pace. It seems impossible 
 that a whole city can be like this; I am afraid of stumbling 
 across some house or coming into some street that will remind 
 aie o£ other cities, and disturb my beautiful dream. But no, the
 
 462 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 
 
 dream lasts; for everything is small, lovely, and mysterious. At 
 every hundred steps I reach a deserted square, in which I stop 
 and hold my breath; from time to time there appears a cross- 
 road, and not a living soul is to be seen; everything is white, 
 the windows closed, and silence reigns on all sides. At each 
 door there is a new spectacle; there are arches, columns, flowers, 
 jets of water, and palms; a marvelous variety of design, tints, 
 light, and perfume; here the odor of roses, there of oranges, 
 farther on of pinks; and with this perfume a whiff of fresh air, 
 and with the air a subdued sound of women's voices, the rustling 
 of leaves, and the singing of birds. It is a sweet and varied 
 harmony, that without disturbing the silence of the streets, 
 soothes the ear like the echo of distant music. Ah! it is not a' 
 dream! Madrid, Italy, Europe, are indeed far away! Here one 
 lives another life, and breathes the air of a different world, — for 
 I am in the East. 
 
 THE LAND OF PLUCK 
 
 From < Holland and Its People* 
 
 WHOEVER looks for the first time at a large map of Holland 
 wonders that a country so constituted can continue to 
 exist. At the first glance it is difficult to see whether 
 land or water predominates, or whether Holland belongs most to 
 the continent or to the sea. Those broken and compressed 
 coasts; those deep bays; those great rivers that, losing the aspect 
 of rivers, seem bringing new seas to the sea; that sea which, 
 changing itself into rivers, penetrates the land and breaks it into 
 archipelagoes; the lakes, the vast morasses, the canals crossing 
 and recrossing each other, all combine to give the idea of a 
 country that may at any moment disintegrate and disappear. 
 Seals and beavers would seem to be its rightful inhabitants; but 
 since there are men bold enough to live in it, they surely cannot 
 ever sleep in peace. 
 
 What sort of a country Holland is, has been told by many in 
 few words. Napoleon said it was an alluvion of French rivers, — 
 the Rhine, the Scheldt, and the Meuse, — and with this pretext he 
 added it to the Empire. One writer has defined it as a sort of 
 transition between land and sea. Another, as an immense crust 
 of earth floating on the water. Others, an annex of the old
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 
 
 463 
 
 continent, the China of Europe, the end of the earth and the 
 beginning of the ocean, a measureless raft of mud and sand; 
 and PhiHp II. called it the country nearest to hell. 
 
 But they all agreed upon one point, and all expressed it in 
 the same words : — Holland is a conquest made by man over the 
 sea; it is an artilicial country: the Hollanders made it; it exists 
 because the Hollanders preserve it; it will vanish whenever the 
 Hollanders shall abandon it. 
 
 To comprehend this truth, we must imagine Holland as it was 
 when first inhabited by the first German tribes that wandered 
 away in search of a country. 
 
 It was almost uninhabitable. There were vast tempestuous 
 lakes, like seas, touching one another; morass beside morass; one 
 tract after another covered with brushwood; immense forests of 
 pines, oaks, and alders, traversed by herds of wild horses, and 
 so thick were these forests that tradition says one could travel 
 leagues passing from tree to tree without ever putting foot to the 
 ground. The deep bays and gulfs carried into the heart of the 
 country the fury of the northern tempests. Some provinces dis- 
 appeared once every year under the waters of the sea, and were 
 nothing but muddy tracts, neither land nor water, where it was 
 impossible either to walk or to sail. The large rivers, without 
 sufficient inclination to descend to the sea, wandered here and 
 there uncertain of their way, and slept in monstrous pools and 
 ponds among the sands of the coasts. It was a sinister place, 
 swept by furious winds, beaten by obstinate rains, veiled in a 
 perpetual fog, where nothing was heard but the roar of the sea 
 and the voices of wild beasts and birds of the ocean. The first 
 people who had the courage to plant their tents there, had to 
 raise with their own hands dikes of earth to keep out the rivers 
 and the sea, and lived within them like shipwrecked men upon 
 desolate islands, venturing forth at the subsidence of the waters 
 in quest of food in the shape of fish and game, and gathering the 
 eggs of marine birds upon the sand. 
 
 Caesar, passing by, was the first to name this people. The 
 other Latin historians speak with compassion and respect of these 
 intrepid barbarians who lived upon a ^^ floating land, *^ exposed to 
 the intemperance of a cruel sky and the fury of the mysterious 
 northern sea; and the imagination pictures the Roman soldiers, 
 who, from the heights of the uttermost citadels of the empire, 
 beaten by the waves, contemplated with wonder and pity those
 
 4^4 £t)MONDO DE AMiClS 
 
 wandering tribes upon their desolate land, like a race accursed of 
 heaven. 
 
 Now, if we remember that such a region has become one of 
 the most fertile, wealthiest, and best regulated of the countries 
 of the world, we shall understand the justice of the saying that 
 Holland is a conquest made by man. But, it must be added, the 
 conquest goes on forever. 
 
 To explain this fact — to show how the existence of Holland, 
 in spite of the great defensive works constructed by the inhabit- 
 ants, demands an incessant and most perilous struggle — it will 
 be enough to touch here and there upon a few of the principal 
 vicissitudes of her physical history, from the time when her 
 inhabitants had already reduced her to a habitable country. 
 
 Tradition speaks of a great inundation in Friesland in the 
 sixth century. From that time every gulf, every island, and it 
 may be said every city, in Holland has its catastrophe to record. 
 In thirteen centuries, it is recorded that one great inundation, 
 beside smaller ones, has occurred every seven years; and the 
 country being all plain, these inundations were veritable floods. 
 Towards the end of the thirteenth century, the sea destroyed a 
 part of a fertile peninsula near the mouth of the Ems, and swal- 
 lowed up more than thirty villages. In the course of the same 
 century, a series of inundations opened an immense chasm in 
 northern Holland, and formed the Zuyder Zee, causing the death 
 of more than eighty thousand persons. In 142 1 a tempest swelled 
 the Meuse, so that in one night the waters overwhelmed seventy- 
 two villages and one hundred thousand inhabitants. In 1532 the 
 sea burst the dikes of Zealand, destroying hundreds of villages, 
 and covering forever a large tract of country. In 1570 a storm 
 caused another inundation in Zealand and in the province of 
 Utrecht; Amsterdam was invaded by the waters, and in Fries- 
 land twenty thousand people were drowned. Other great inunda- 
 tions took place in the seventeenth century; two terrible ones at 
 the beginning and the end of the eighteenth; one in 1825 that 
 desolated North Holland, Friesland, Over-Yssel, and Gueldres; 
 and another great one of the Rhine, in 1855, which invaded 
 Gueldres and the province of Utrecht, and covered a great part 
 of North Brabant. Beside these great catastrophes, there hap- 
 pened in different centuries innumerable smaller ones, which 
 would have been famous in any other country, but which in 
 Holland are scarcely remembered: like the rising of the lake of
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 465 
 
 Haarlem, itself the result of an inundation of the sea; flourishing 
 cities of the gulf of Zuyder Zee vanished under the waters; the 
 islands of Zealand covered again and again by the sea, and again 
 emerging; villages of the coast, from Helder to the mouths of 
 the Meuse, from time to time inundated and destroyed; and in 
 all these inundations immense loss of life of men and animals 
 It is plain that miracles of courage, constancy, and industry must 
 have been accomplished by the Hollanders, first in creating and 
 afterwards in presei"ving such a country. The enemy from which 
 they had to wrest it was triple: the sea, the lakes, the rivers. 
 They drained the lakes, drove back the sea, and imprisoned the. 
 rivers. 
 
 To drain the lakes the Hollanders pressed the air into their 
 service. The lakes, the marshes, were surrounded by dikes, the 
 dikes by canals; and an army of windmills, putting in motion 
 force-pumps, turned the water into the canals, which carried it 
 off to the rivers and the sea. Thus vast tracts of land buried 
 under the water saw the sun, and were transformed, as if by 
 magic, into fertile fields, covered with villages, and intersected by 
 canals and roads. In the seventeenth century, in less than forty 
 years, twenty-six lakes were drained. At the beginning of the 
 present century, in North Holland alone, more than six thousand 
 hectares (or fifteen thousand acres) were thus redeemed from the 
 waters; in South Holland, before 1844, twenty-nine thousand 
 hectares; in the whole of Holland, from 1500 to 1858, three hun- 
 dred and fifty-five thousand hectares. Substituting steam-mills 
 for windmills, in thirty-nine months was completed the great 
 undertaking of the draining of the lake of Haarlem, which meas- 
 ured forty-four kilometres in circumference, and forever threatened 
 with its tempests the cities of Haarlem, Amsterdam, and Leyden. 
 And they are now meditating the prodigious work of drying up 
 the Zuyder Zee, which embraces an area of more than seven 
 hundred square kilometres. 
 
 The rivers, another eternal enemy, cost no less of labor and 
 sacrifice. Some, like the Rhine, which lost itself in the sands 
 before reaching the sea, had to be channeled and defended at 
 their mouths, against the tides, by formidable cataracts; others, 
 like the Meuse, bordered by dikes as powerful as those that 
 were raised against the ocean; others, turned from their course; 
 the wandering waters gathered together; the course of the afflu- 
 ents regulated; the waters divided with rigorous measure in order 
 I— ao
 
 466 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 
 
 to retain that enormous mass of liquid in equilibrium, where the 
 slightest inequality might cost a province; and in this way all 
 the rivers that formerly spread their devastating floods about 
 the country were disciplined into channels and constrained to do 
 service. 
 
 But the most tremendous struggle was the battle with the 
 ocean. Holland is in great part lower than the level of the sea; 
 consequently, everywhere that the coast is not defended by sand- 
 banks it has to be protected by dikes. If these interminable bul- 
 warks of earth, granite, and wood were not there to attest the 
 indomitable courage and perseverance of the Hollanders, it would 
 not be believed that the hand of man could, even in many cen- 
 turies, have accomplished such a work. In Zealand alone the 
 dikes extend to a distance of more than four hundred kilometres. 
 The western coast of the island of Walcheren is defended by a 
 dike, in which it is computed that the expense of construction 
 added to that of preservation, if it were put out at interest, 
 would amount to a sum equal in value to that which the dike 
 itself would be worth were it made of massive copper. Around 
 the city of Helder, at the northern extremity of North Holland, 
 extends a dike ten kilometres long, constructed of masses of Nor- 
 wegian granite, which descends more than sixty metres into the 
 sea. The whole province of Friesland, for the length of eighty- 
 eight kilometres, is defended by three rows of piles sustained by 
 masses of Norwegian and German granite. Amsterdam, all the 
 cities of the Zuyder Zee, and all the islands, — fragments of van- 
 ished lands, — which are strung like beads between Friesland and 
 North Holland, are protected by dikes. From the mouths of the 
 Ems to those of the Scheldt, Holland is an impenetrable fortress, 
 of whose immense bastions the mills are the towers, the cataracts 
 are the gates, the islands the advanced forts; and like a true 
 fortress, it shows to its enemy, the sea, only the tops of its bell- 
 towers and the roofs of its houses, as if in defiance and derision. 
 
 Holland is a fortress, and her people live as in a fortress, on 
 a war footing with the sea. An army of engineers, directed by 
 the Minister of the Interior, spread over the country, and, ordered 
 like an army, continually spy the enemy, watch over the internal 
 waters, foresee the bursting of the dikes, order and direct the 
 defensive works. The expenses of the war are divided, — one 
 part to the State, one part to the provinces; every proprietor 
 pays, beside the general imposts, a special impost for the dikes,
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 
 
 467 
 
 in proportion to the extent of his lands and their proximity to 
 the water. An accidental rupture, an inadvertence, may cause a 
 flood; the peril is unceasing; the sentinels are at their posts upon 
 the bulwarks; at the first assault of the sea, they shout the war- 
 cry, and Holland sends men, material, and money. And even 
 when there is no great battle, a quiet, silent struggle is forever 
 going on. The innumerable mills, even in the drained districts, 
 continue to work unresting, to absorb and turn into the canals 
 the water that falls in rain and that which filters in from the sea. 
 Every day the cataracts of the bays and rivers close their gigan- 
 tic gates against the high tide trying to rush into the heart of 
 the land. The work of strengthening dikes, fortifying sand-banks 
 with plantations, throwing out new dikes where the banks are 
 low, straight as great lances, vibrating in the bosom of the sea 
 and breaking the first impetus of the wave, is forever going on. 
 And the sea eternally knocks at the river-gates, beats upon the 
 ramparts, growls on every side her ceaseless menace, lifting her 
 curious waves as if to see the land she counts as hers, piling up 
 banks of sand before the gates to kill the commerce of the cities, 
 forever gnawing, scratching, digging at the coast; and failing to 
 overthrow the ramparts upon which she foams and fumes in 
 angry effort, she casts at their feet ships full of the dead, that 
 they may announce to the rebellious country her fury and her 
 strength. 
 
 In the midst of this great and terrible struggle Holland is 
 transformed: Holland is the land of transformations. A geo- 
 graphical map of that country as it existed eight centuries ago 
 is not recognizable. Transforming the sea, men also are trans- 
 formed. The sea, at some points, drives back the land; it takes 
 portions from the continent, leaves them and takes them again; 
 joins islands to the mainland with ropes of sand, as in the case 
 of Zealand; breaks off bits from the mainland and makes new 
 islands, as in Wieringen; retires from certain coasts and makes 
 land cities out of what were cities of the sea, as Leuvarde; con- 
 verts vast tracts of plain into archipelagoes of a hundred islets, 
 as Biisbosch; separates a city from the land, as Dordrecht; forms 
 new gulfs two leagues broad, like the gulf of Dollart; divides 
 two provinces with a new sea, like North Holland and Friesland. 
 The effect of the inundations is to cause the level of the sea to 
 rise in some places and to sink in others; sterile lands are fertil- 
 ized by the slime of the rivers, fertile lands are changed into
 
 468 
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 
 
 deserts of sand. With the transformations of the waters alternate 
 the transformations of labor. Islands are united to continents, 
 like the island of Ameland; entire provinces are reduced to 
 islands, as North Holland will be by the new canal of Amster- 
 dam, which is to separate it from South Holland; lakes as large 
 as provinces disappear altogether, like the lake of Beemster; by 
 the extraction of peat, land is converted into lakes, and these 
 lakes are again transformed into meadows. And thus the country 
 changes its aspect according to the violence of nature or the 
 needs of men. And while one goes over it with the latest map 
 in hand, one may be sure that the map will be useless in a few 
 years, because even now there are new gulfs in process of forma- 
 tion, tracts of land just ready to be detached from the mainland, 
 and great canals being cut that will carry life to uninhabited dis- 
 tricts. 
 
 But Holland has done more than defend herself against the 
 waters; she has made herself mistress of them, and has used 
 them for her own defense. Should a foreign army invade her 
 territory, she has but to open her dikes and unchain the sea and 
 the rivers, as she did against the Romans, against the Spaniards, 
 against the army of Louis XIV., and defend the land cities with 
 her fleet. Water was the source of her poverty, she has made 
 it the source of wealth. Over the whole country extends an 
 immense network of canals, which serves both for the irrigation 
 of the land and as a means of communication. The cities, by 
 means of canals, communicate with the sea; canals run from 
 town to town, and from them to villages, which are themselves 
 bound together by these watery ways, and are connected even to 
 the houses scattered over the country; smaller canals surround 
 the fields and orchards, pastures and kitchen -gardens, serving at 
 once as boundary wall, hedge, and road-way; every house is a 
 little port. Ships, boats, rafts, move about in all directions, as 
 in other places carts and carriages. The canals are the arteries 
 of Holland, and the water her life-blood. But even setting aside 
 the canals, the draining of the lakes, and the defensive works, on 
 every side are seen the traces of marvelous undertakings. The 
 soil, which in other countries is a gift of nature, is in Holland a 
 work of men's hands. Holland draws the greater part of her 
 wealth from commerce; but before commerce comes the cultiva- 
 tion of the soil; and the soil had to be created. There were 
 sand-banks interspersed with layers ot peat, broad downs swept
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 
 
 469 
 
 by the winds, great tracts of barren land apparently condemned 
 to an eternal sterility. The first elements of manufacture, iron 
 and coal, were wanting; there was no wood, because the forests 
 had already been destroyed by tempests when agriculture began; 
 there was no stone, there were no metals. Nature, says a Dutch 
 poet, had refused all her gifts to Holland; the Hollanders had to 
 do everything in spite of nature. They began by fertilizing the 
 sand. In some places they formed a productive soil with earth 
 brought from a distance, as a garden is made; they spread the 
 siliceous dust of the downs over the too watery meadows; they 
 mixed with the sandy earth the remains of peat taken from the 
 bottoms; they extracted clay to lend fertility to the surface of 
 their lands; they labored to break up the downs with the plow: 
 and thus in a thousand ways, and continually fighting off the 
 menacing waters, they succeeded in bringing Holland to a state 
 of cultivation not inferior to that of more favored regions. That 
 Holland, that sandy, marshy country which the ancients consid- 
 ered all but uninhabitable, now sends out yearly from her con- 
 fines agricultural products to the value of a hundred millions of 
 francs, possesses about one million three hundred thousand head 
 of cattle, and in proportion to the extent of her territory may be 
 accounted one of the most populous of European States. 
 
 It may be easily understood how the physical peculiarities of 
 their country must influence the Dutch people ; and their genius 
 is in perfect harmony with the character of Holland. It is suffi- 
 cient to contemplate the monuments of their great struggle with 
 the sea in order to understand that their distinctive characteristics 
 must be firmness and patience, accompanied by a calm and con- 
 stant courage. That glorious battle, and the consciousness of 
 owing everything to their own strength, must have infused and 
 fortified in them a high sense of dignity and an indomitable spirit 
 of liberty and independence. The necessity of a constant struggle, 
 of a continuous labor, and of perpetual sacrifices in defense of 
 their existence, forever taking them back to a sense of reality, 
 must have made them a. highly practical and economical people; 
 good sense should be their most salient quality, economy one of 
 their chief virtues; they must be excellent in all useful arts, 
 sparing of diversion, simple even in their greatness; succeeding 
 in what they undertake by dint of tenacity and a thoughtful and 
 orderly activity; more wise than heroic; more conservative than 
 creative; giving no great architects to the edifice of modem
 
 470 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 
 
 thougnt, but the ablest of workmen, a legion of patient and 
 laborious artisans. And by virtue of these qualities of prudence, 
 phlegmatic activity, and the spirit of conservatism, they are ever 
 advancing, though by slow degrees; they acquire gradually, but 
 never lose what they have gained; holding stubbornly to their 
 ancient customs; preserving almost intact, and despite the neigh- 
 borhood of three great nations, their own originality; preserving 
 it through every form of government, through foreign invasions, 
 through political and religious wars, and in spite of the immense 
 concourse of strangers from every country that are always coming 
 among them; and remaining, in short, of all the northern races, 
 that one which, though ever advancing in the path of civilization, 
 has kept its antique stamp most clearly. 
 
 It is enough also to remember its form in order to compre- 
 hend that this country of three millions and a half of inhabitants, 
 although bound in so compact a political union, although recog- 
 nizable among all the other northern peoples by certain traits 
 peculiar to the population of all its provinces, must present a 
 great variety. And so it is in fact. Between Zealand and Hol- 
 land proper, between Holland and Friesland, between Friesland 
 and Gueldres, between Groningen and Brabant, in spite of 
 vicinity and so many common ties, there is no less difference 
 than between the more distant provinces of Italy and France; 
 difference of language, costume, and character; difference of race 
 and of religion. The communal regime has impressed an indeli- 
 ble mark upon this people, because in no other country does it 
 so conform to the nature of things. The country is divided into 
 various groups of interests organized in the same manner as the 
 hydraulic system. Whence, association and mutual help against 
 the common enemy, the sea; but liberty for local institutions 
 and forces. Monarchy has not extinguished the ancient munici- 
 pal spirit, and this it is that renders impossible a complete fusion 
 of the State, in all the great States that have made the attempt. 
 The great rivers and gulfs are at the same time commercial 
 roads serving as national bonds between the different provinces, 
 and barriers which defend old traditions and old customs in each.
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS .^j 
 
 THE DUTCH MASTERS 
 From < Holland and Its People* 
 
 THE Dutch school of painting has one quaHty which renders it 
 particularly attractive to us Italians; it is above all others 
 the most different from our own, the very antithesis or the 
 opposite pole of art. The Dutch and Italian schools are the most 
 original, or, as has been said, the only two to which the title 
 rigorously belongs; the others being only daughters or younger 
 sisters, more or less resembling them. 
 
 Thus even in painting Holland offers that which is most sought 
 after in travel and in books of travel: the new. 
 
 Dutch painting was bom with the liberty and independence of 
 Holland. As long as the northern and southern provinces of the 
 Low Countries remained under the Spanish rule and in the Cath- 
 olic faith, Dutch painters painted like Belgian painters; they stud- 
 ied in Belgium, Germany, and Italy; Heemskerk imitated Michael 
 Angelo, Bloemart followed Correggio, and ^^ II Moro *^ copied 
 Titian, not to indicate others : and they were one and all pedantic 
 imitators, who added to the exaggerations of the Italian style a 
 certain German coarsenesss, the result of which was a bastard 
 style of painting, still inferior to the first, childish, stiff in design, 
 crude in color, and completely wanting in chiaroscuro, but at least 
 not a servile imitation, and becoming, as it were, a faint prelude 
 of the true Dutch art that was to be. 
 
 With the war of independence,, liberty, reform, and painting 
 also were renewed. With religious traditions fell artistic tradi- 
 tions; the nude nymphs, Madonnas, saints, allegory, mythology, 
 the ideal — all the old edifice fell to pieces. Holland, animated by 
 a new life, felt the need of manifesting and expanding it in a 
 new way; the small country, become all at once glorious and 
 formidable, felt the desire for illustration ; the faculties which had 
 been excited and strengthened in the grand undertaking of creat- 
 ing a nation, now that the work was completed, overflowed and 
 ran into new channels. The conditions of the country were favor- 
 able to the revival of art. The supreme dangers were conjured 
 away; there was security, prosperity, a splendid future; the heroes 
 had done their duty, and the artists were permitted to come to 
 the front; Holland, after many sacrifices, and much suffering, 
 issued victoriously from the struggle, lifted her face among her 
 people and smiled. And that smile is art.
 
 479 
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 
 
 What that art would necessarily be, might have been guessed 
 even had no monument of it remained. A pacific, laborious, prac- 
 tical people, continually beaten down, to quote a great German 
 poet, to prosaic realities by the occupations of a vulgar burgher 
 life; cultivating its reason at the expense of its imagination; liv- 
 ing, consequently, more in clear ideas than in beautiful images; 
 taking refuge from abstractions; never darting its thoughts beyond 
 that nature with which it is in perpetual battle; seeing only that 
 which is, enjoying only that which it can possess, making its hap- 
 piness consist in the tranquil ease and honest sensuality of a life 
 without violent passions or exorbitant desires; — such a people 
 must have tranquillity also in their art, they must love an art that 
 pleases without startling the mind, which addresses the senses 
 rather than the spirit; an art full of repose, precision, and deli- 
 cacy, though material like their lives: in one word, a realistic art, 
 in which they can see themselves as they are and as they are con- 
 tent to be. 
 
 The artists began by tracing that which they saw before their 
 eyes — the house. The long winters, the persistent rains, the 
 dampness, the variableness of the climate, obliged the Hollander 
 to stay within doors the greater part of the year. He loved his 
 little house, his shell, much better than we love our abodes, for 
 the reason that he had more need of it, and stayed more within 
 it; he provided it with all sorts of conveniences, caressed it, made 
 much of it; he liked to look out from his well-stopped windows 
 at the falling snow and the drenching rain, and to hug himself 
 with the thought, " Rage, tempest, I am warm and safe ! '^ Snug 
 in his shell, his faithful housewife beside him, his children about 
 him, he passed the long autumn and winter evenings in eating 
 much, drinking much, smoking much, and taking his well-earned 
 ease after the cares of the day were over. The Dutch painters 
 represented these houses and this life in little pictures proportion- 
 ate to the size of the walls on which they were to hang; the bed- 
 chambers that make one feel a desire to sleep, the kitchens, the 
 tables set out, the fresh and smiling faces of the house-mothers, 
 the men at their ease around the fire; and with that conscientious 
 realism which never forsakes them, they depict the dozing cat, the 
 yawning dog, the clucking hen, the broom, the vegetables, the 
 scattered pots and pans, the chicken ready for the spit. Thus 
 they represent life in all its scenes, and in every grade of the 
 social scale — the dance, the conversazione, the orgie, the feast, the.
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS .-- 
 
 game ; and thus did Terburg, Metzu, Netscher, Dow, Miens, Steen, 
 Brouwer, and Van Ostade become famous. 
 
 After depicting the house, they turned their attention to the 
 country. The stem cHmate allowed but a brief time for the 
 admiration of nature, but for this very reason Dutch artists 
 admired her all the more; they saluted the spring with a livelier 
 joy, and permitted that fugitive smile of heaven to stamp itself 
 more deeply on their fancy. The country was not beautiful, but 
 it was twice dear because it had been torn from the sea and 
 from the foreign oppressor. The Dutch artist painted it lov- 
 ingly; he represented it simply, ingenuously, with a sense of 
 intimacy which at that time was not to be found in Italian or 
 Belgian landscape. The flat, monotonous country had, to the 
 Dutch painter's eyes, a marvelous variety. He caught all the 
 mutations of the sky, and knew the value of the water, with its 
 reflections, its grace and freshness, and its power of illuminating 
 everything. Having no mountains, he took the dikes for back- 
 ground; with no forests, he imparted to a single group of trees 
 all the mystery of a forest; and he animated the whole with 
 beautiful animals and white sails. 
 
 The subjects of their pictures are poor enough, — a windmill, 
 a canal, a gray sky; but how they make one think! A few 
 Dutch painters, not content with nature in their own country, 
 came to Italy in search of hills, luminous skies, and famous 
 ruins; and another band of select artists is the result, — Both, 
 Swanevelt, Pyn acker, Breenberg, Van Laer, Asselyn. But the 
 palm remains with the landscapists of Holland; with Wynants 
 the painter of morning, with Van der Neer the painter of night, 
 with Ruysdael the painter of melancholy, with Hobbema the 
 illustrator of windmills, cabins, and kitchen gardens, and with 
 others who have restricted themselves to the expression of the 
 enchantment of nature as she is in Holland. 
 
 Simultaneously with landscape art was born another kind of 
 painting, especially peculiar to Holland, — animal painting. Ani- 
 mals are the riches of the country; that magnificent race of 
 cattle which has no rival in Europe for fecundity and beauty. 
 The Hollanders, who owe so much to them, treat them, one 
 may say, as part of the population; they wash them, comb 
 them, dress them, and love them dearly. They are to be seen 
 everywhere; they are reflected in all the canals, and dot with 
 points of black and white the immense fields that stretch on
 
 474 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 
 
 every side, giving an air of peace and comfort to every place, 
 and exciting in the spectator's heart a sentiment of Arcadian gen- 
 tleness and patriarchal serenity. The Dutch artists studied these 
 animals in all their varieties, in all their habits, and divined, as 
 one may say, their inner life and sentiments, animating the tran- 
 quil beauty of the landscape with their forms. Rubens, Luyders, 
 Paul de Vos, and other Belgian painters, had drawn animals with 
 admirable mastery; but all these are surpassed by the Dutch 
 artists Van der Velde, Berghem, Karel du Jardin, and by the 
 prince of animal painters, Paul Potter, whose famous ^* Bull, '* in 
 the gallery of the Hague, deserves to be placed in the Vatican 
 beside the ^* Transfiguration '^ by Raphael. 
 
 In yet another field are the Dutch painters great, — the sea. 
 The sea, their enemy, their power, and their glory, forever 
 threatening their country, and entering in a hundred ways into 
 their lives and fortunes; that turbulent North Sea, full of sinistei 
 color, with a light of infinite melancholy upon it, beating forever 
 upon a desolate coast, must subjugate the imagination of the 
 artist. He passes, indeed, long hours on the shore, contemplat- 
 ing its tremendous beauty, ventures upon its waves to study the 
 effects of tempests, buys a vessel and sails with his wife and 
 family, observing and making notes, follows the fleet into battle 
 and takes part in the fight; and in this way are made marine 
 painters like William Van der Velde the elder and William the 
 younger, like Backhuysen, Dubbels, and Stork. 
 
 Another kind of painting was to arise in Holland, as the 
 expression of the character of the people and of republican 
 manners. A people which without greatness had done so many 
 great things, as Michelet says, must have its heroic painters, if 
 we call them so, destined to illustrate men and events. But this 
 school of painting, — precisely because the people were without 
 greatness, or to express it better, without the form of great- 
 less, — modest, inclined to consider all equal before the country, 
 Decause all had done their duty, abhorring adulation, and the 
 glorification in one only of the virtues and the triumph of 
 many,-^this school has to illustrate not a few men who have 
 excelled, and a few extraordinary facts, but all classes of citizen- 
 ship gathered among the most ordinary and pacific of burgher 
 life. From this come the great pictures which represent five, 
 ten, thirty persons together, arquebusiers, mayors, officers, pro- 
 fessors, magistrates, administrators; seated or standing around a
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS ^j s, 
 
 table, feasting and conversing; of life size, most faithful like- 
 nesses; grave, open faces, expressing that secure serenity of 
 conscience by which may be divined rather than seen the noble- 
 ness of a life consecrated to one's country, the character of that 
 strong, laborious epoch, the masculine virtues of that excellent 
 generation; all this set off by the fine costume of the time, so 
 admirably combining grace and dignity, — those gorgets, those 
 doublets, those black mantles, those silken scarves and ribbons, 
 those arms and banners. In this field stand pre-eminent Van der 
 Heist, Hals, Govaert, Fhnk, and Bol. 
 
 Descending from the consideration of the various kinds of 
 painting, to the special manner by means of which the artist 
 excelled in treatment, one leads all the rest as the distinctive 
 feature of Dutch painting — the light. 
 
 The light in Holland, by reason of the particular conditions 
 of its manifestation, could not fail to give rise to a special man- 
 ner of painting. A pale light, waving with marvelous mobility 
 through an atmosphere impregnated with vapor, a nebulous veil 
 continually and abruptly torn, a perpetual struggle between light 
 and shadow, — such was the spectacle which attracted the eye of 
 the artist. He began to observe and to reproduce all this agita- 
 tion of the heavens, this struggle which animates with varied and 
 fantastic life the solitude of nature in Holland; and in represent- 
 ing it, the struggle passed into his soul, and instead of repre- 
 senting he created. Then he caused the two elements to contend 
 under his hand; he accumulated darkness that he might split and 
 seam it with all manner of luminous effects and sudden gleams 
 of light; sunbeams darted through the rifts, sunset reflections 
 and the yellow rays of lamp-light were blended with delicate 
 manipulation into mysterious shadows, and their dim depths 
 were peopled with half-seen forms; and thus he created all sorts 
 of contrasts, enigmas, play and effect of strange and unexpected 
 chiaroscuro. In this field, among many, stand conspicuous 
 Gerard Dow, the author of the famous four-candle picture, and 
 the great magician and sovereign illuminator Rembrandt. 
 
 Another marked feature of Dutch painting was to be color. 
 Besides the generally accepted reasons that in a country where 
 there are no mountainous horizons, no varied prospects, no great 
 coup d'oeil, — no forms, in short, that lend themselves to design, — 
 the artist's eye must inevitably be attracted by color; and that 
 this might be peculiarly the case in Holland, where the uncertain
 
 476 
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 
 
 light, the fog-veiled atmosphere, confuse and blend the outlines 
 of all objects, so that the eye, unable to fix itself upon the 
 form, flies to color as the principal attribute that nature presents 
 to it, — besides these reasons, there is the fact that in a country 
 so fiat, so uniform, and so gray as Holland, there is the same 
 need of color as in southern lands there is need of shade. The 
 Dutch artists did but follow the imperious taste of their country^ 
 men, who painted their houses in vivid colors, as well as theit 
 ships, and in some places the trunks of their trees and the 
 palings and fences of their fields and gardens; whose dress was 
 of the gayest, richest hues; who loved tulips and hyacinths even 
 to madness. And thus the Dutch painters were potent colorists, 
 and Rembrandt was their chief. 
 
 Realism, natural to the calmness and slowness of the Dutch 
 character, was to give to their art yet another distinctive feature, 
 — finish, which was carried to the very extreme of possibility. It 
 is truly said that the leading quality of the people may be found 
 in their pictures; viz., patience. Everything is represented with 
 the minuteness of a daguerreotype; every vein in the wood of a 
 piece of furniture, every fibre in a leaf, the threads of cloth, the 
 stitches in a patch, every hair upon an animal's coat, every 
 wrinkle in a man's face; everything finished with microscopic pre- 
 cision, as if done with a fairy pencil, or at the expense of the 
 painter's eyes and reason. In reality a defect rather than an 
 excellence, since the ofhce of painting is to represent not what is, 
 but what the eye sees, and the eye does not see everything; but 
 a defect carried to such a pitch of perfection that one admires, 
 and does not find fault. In this respect the most famous prodi- 
 gies of patience were Dow, Mieris, Potter, and Van der Heist, 
 but more or less all the Dutch painters. 
 
 But realism, which gives to Dutch art so original a stamp and 
 such admirable qualities, is yet the root of its most serious defects. 
 The artists, desirous only of representing material truths, gave to 
 their figures no expression save that of their physical sentiments. 
 Grief, love, enthusiasm, and the thousand delicate shades of feel- 
 ing that have no name, or take a different one with the different 
 causes that give rise to them, they express rarely, or not at all. 
 For them the heart does not beat, the eyes do not weep, the lips 
 do not quiver. One whole side of the human soul, the noblest 
 and highest, is wanting in their pictures. More: in their faithful 
 reproduction of everything, even the ugly, and especially the ugly,
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS .-^ 
 
 they end by exaggerating even that, making defects into deformi- 
 ties and portraits into caricatures; they calumniate the national 
 type; they give a burlesque and graceless aspect to the human 
 countenance. In order to have the proper background for such 
 figures, they are constrained to choose trivial subjects: hence the 
 great number of pictures representing beer-shops, and drinkers 
 with grotesque, stupid faces, in absurd attitudes; ugly women and 
 ridiculous old men; scenes in which one can almost hear the 
 brutal laughter and the obscene words. Looking at these pictures, 
 one would naturally conclude that Holland was inhabited by the 
 ugliest and most ill-mannered people on the earth. We will not 
 speak of greater and worse license. Steen, Potter, and Brouwer, 
 the great Rembrandt himself, have all painted incidents that are 
 scarcely to be mentioned to civilized ears, and certainly should 
 not be looked at. But even setting aside these excesses, in the 
 picture galleries of Holland there is to be found nothing that ele- 
 vates the mind, or moves it to high and gentle thoughts. You 
 admire, you enjoy, you laugh, you stand pensive for a moment 
 before some canvas; but coming out, you feel that something is 
 lacking to your pleasure, you experience a desire to look upon a 
 handsome countenance, to read inspired verses, and sometimes 
 you catch yourself murmuring, half unconsciously, " O Raphael ! ^^ 
 Finally, there are still two important excellences to be recorded 
 of this school of painting: its variety, and its importance as the 
 expression — the mirror, so to speak — of the country. If we 
 except Rembrandt with his group of followers and imitators, 
 almost all the other artists differ very much from one another; 
 no other school presents so great a number of original masters. 
 The realism of the Dutch painters is bom of their common love 
 of nature : but each one has shown in his work a kind of love 
 peculiarly his own; each one has rendered a different impression 
 which he has received from nature; and all, starting from the 
 same point, which was the worship of material truth, have arrived 
 at separate and distinct goals. Their realism, then, inciting them 
 to disdain nothing as food for the pencil, has so acted that Dutch 
 art succeeds in representing Holland more completely than has 
 ever been accomplished by any other school in any other country. 
 It has been truly said that should every other visible witness of 
 the existence of Holland in the seventeenth century — her period 
 of greatness — vanish from the earth, and the pictures remain, in 
 them would be found preserved entire the city, the country, the
 
 47B 
 
 EDMONDO DE AMICIS 
 
 ports, the ships, the markets, the shops, the costumes, the arms, 
 the linen, the stuffs, the merchandise, the kitchen utensils, the 
 food, the pleasures, the habits, the religious belief and supersti- 
 tions, the qualities and effects of the people; and all this, which 
 is great praise for literature, is no less praise for her sister art. 
 
 But there is one great hiatus in Dutch art, the reason for 
 which can scarcely be found in the pacific and modest disposition 
 of the people. This art, so profoundly national in all other re- 
 spects, has, with the exception of a few naval battles, completely 
 neglected all the great events of the war of independence, among 
 which the sieges of Leyden and of Haarlem alone would have 
 been enough to inspire a whole legion of painters. A war of 
 almost a century in duration, full of strange and terrible vicis- 
 situdes, has not been recorded in one single memorable painting. 
 Art, so varied and so conscientious in its records of the country 
 and its people, has represented no scene of that great tragedy, as 
 William the Silent prophetically named it, which cost the Dutch 
 people, for so long a time, so many different emotions of terror, 
 of pain, of rage, of joy, and of pride ! 
 
 The splendor of art in Holland is dimmed by that of political 
 greatness. Almost all the great painters were born in the first 
 thirty years of the seventeenth century, or in the last part of the 
 sixteenth; all were dead after the first ten years of the eighteenth, 
 and after them there were no more, — Holland had exhausted her 
 fecundity. Already towards the end of the seventeenth century 
 the national sentiment had grown weaker, taste had corrupted, 
 the inspiration of the painters had declined with the moral ener- 
 gies of the nation. In the eighteenth century, the artists, as if 
 they were tired of nature, went back to mythology, to classicism, 
 to conventionalities; the imagination grew cold, style was impov- 
 erished, every spark of the antique genius was extinct. Dutch 
 art still showed to the world the wonderful flowers of Van Huy- 
 sum, the last great lover of nature, and then folded her tired 
 hands and let the flowers fall upon his tomb. 
 
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