LIBRARY presented to the UNIVERSITY LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO hr Diana Pohlman A\ASTER PIECES OF IHEjS WORLD'S BESTj/ LITERATURE EDITED BY JEANNEnEL. GILDER j< CLASSIC PUBLISHING CO., NEW YORK Copyright, MCMX, by ORSAMUS TURNER HARRIS New York Printed in the "Unit(d Statos of America INDEX TO AUTHORS PA9S ADDISON, JOSEPH 7 Westminster Abbey. S'T Roger at the Play. Sir Roger as a Host. " Country Sunday. ffJSCHYLUS 24 The Complaint of Prometheus. A Prayer to Artemis. The Vision of Cassandra. JESOP 31 The Ass in the Lion's Skin. The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing. The Country Mouse and the City Mouse. The Wolf and the Lamb. The Bundle of Sticks. ALDRICH. THOMAS BAILEY 35 Baby Bell. Prescience. Sweetheart, Sigh No Mopp. ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM 40 The Ruined Chapel. Song. The Bubble. Robin Redbreast. ANDERSEN, HANS CHRISTIAN 43 The Gardener of the Manor. The Little Match-Girl. The Shadow. A.NGELO, MICHEL 63 Sonnets to Vittoria. Sonnet on the Death of Vittoria. On Dante. ARABIAN NIGHTS, The ....... 66 The Forty Thieves. The First Voyage of Sindbad the Sailor. ARISTOPHANES ... 98 Grand Chorus of Birds. The Call to the Nightingale "The Women's Festival. " ARISTOTLE 102 Prosecution and Defense. On Pleasing the Judges. On Excellence of Style. The Highest Good of Man. ARNOLD, EDWIN U© Serenade. The Light of Asia. He and She- A Home Song. The Rajah's Ride ▼OI* I— 1 1 INDEX TO AUTHORS PA6B ARNOLD, MATTHEW o . 136 The Forsaken Merman. Memorial Verses. A Final "Word on America. The Real Bums. AURELIUS, MARCUS 152 The Beauty of the World. To the Pure AU Things Are Pure. The Gods Be Thanked. AUSTEN, JANE 156 Mr. Collins Proposes and Elizabeth Disposes. Elizabeth Defies Lady Catherine. Lydia Bennet's Wedding. Mr, Bennet and Mr. Collins Play Backgammon. BACHELLER, IRVING 181 The Sea Fight. BACON, LORD „ . . . 191 Translation of the 137th Psalm. Life. Of Love. Of Death. Of Marriage and Single Life. BAILLIE, JOANNA 198 Woo'd and Married and A'. It Was on a Morn. BALZAC, HONORE DE 202 The Greatness and the Decline of Cesar Birotteau. Eugenie Grandet. BARRIE, JAMES MATTHEW 221 Courtship. Election Day Festivities. Wet Days in Thrums. BEACONSFIELD, LORD 243 Lady Corisande. BEDE, VENERABLE 253 Description of Britain. BERANGER, PIERRE JEAN DE 261 Lisette in Attic CeU. The Old Vagabond. BESANT, WALTER 265 The Child of Samson. BJORNSON.BJORNSTJERNE 278 The Princess. The North Land. Ame. BLACKMORE, RT CHARD DODDRIDGE ... 298 In the Doone Valley. INDEX TO TITLES PAGK Ame Bjdmstjeme Bj'dmson 279 Asa in the Lion's Skin, The JEsop 31 Baby Bell Thomas Bailey Aldrich 35 Beauty of the World, The . . . Marcus Aurelius 152 Bennet (Mr.) and Mr. Collins Play Backgammon Ja7ie Austen 177 Bubble, The William Allingham 41 Bundle of Sticks, The ^sop 34 Burns, The Real Matthew Arnold 145 Call to the Nightingale, The .... Aristophanes lOO Cesar Birotteau, The Greatness and the Decline of, Honore de Balzac 202 Collins (Mr.) Proposes and Elizabeth Disposes Jane Austen 156 Complaint of Prometheus, The .... JEschylus 24 Country Mouse and the City Mouse, The . . ^sop 32 Country Sunday, A Joseph Addison 20 Courtship ...... James Matthew Barrie 221 Dante, On Michel Angela 65 Death, Of Lord Bacon 195 Description of Britain Venerable Bede 253 Doone Valley ; In the . . Richard Doddridge Blackmore 298 Election Day Festivities . . James Matthew Barrie 231 Elizabeth Defies Lady Catherine . . . Jane Austen 161 Eugenie Grandet Honore de Balzac 213 Excellence of Style, On Aristotle 109 Final Word on America, A , . . Matthew Arnold 142 Forsaken Merman, The .... Matthew Arnold 136 Forty Thieves, The Arabian Nights 66 Gardener of the Manor, The . Hans Christian Andersen 43 Gods Be Thanked, The .... Marcus Aurelius 153 Grand Chorus of Birds Aristophanes 98 He and She . Edwin Arnold 129 Highest Good of Man, The Aristotle 115 Home Song, A Edwin Arnold 131 It Was on a Mom . . . . ^ . Joanna BaiUie 200 3 INDEX TO TITLES Lady Corisande Lord Beaconsfield £,ifo ... Lord Bacon Light of Asia, The Edwin Arnold Lisette in Attic Cell . . . Pierre Jean de Beranger Little Match-Girl, The . . Hans Christum Andersen Love, Of Lord Bacon Lydia Bennet's Wedding ..... Jane Austen Marriage and Single Life, Of ... . Lord Bacon Memorial Verses Matthew Arnold North Land, The .... Bjdmstjerne Bjdrnson Old Vagabond, The . . Pierre Jean de Beranger Pleasing the Judges, On Aristotle Prayer to Artemis, A JEschylus Prescience Thomas Bailey Aldrich Princess, The Bjornsljeme Bjdrnson Prosecution and Defense Aristotle Rajah's Ride, The ..... Edwin Arnold Robin Redbreast .... William Allingham Ruined Chapel, The William Allingham Samson, The Child of .... Walter Besant Sea Fight, The Irving Bacheller Serenade Edwin Arnold Shadow, The ..... Hans Christian Andersen Sindbad the Sailor, The First Voyage of . Arabian Nights Sir Roger as a Host Joseph Addison Sir Roger at the Play Joseph Addison Song William Allingham Sweetheart, Sigh No More . Thomas Bailey Aldrich To the Pure art Things are Pure . . Marcus Aurelius Translation of the 137th Psalm . . . Lord Bacon Vision of Cassandra, The JUschylus Vittoria, Sonnet on the Death of . . Michel Angela Vittoria, Sonnets to . . . . . Michel Angela Westminster Abbey Joseph Addison Wet Days in Thrums . . . James Matthew Barrie Wolf and the Lamb, The ^sop Wolf in Sheep's Clothing, The ^sop Women's Festival, The Aristophanes Woc'd and Jiarried and A' .... Joanna Baillie EDITOR'S FOREWORD ARE there not already anthologies enough? Why a new one ? To such inquiries many answers might be made, but two will sufficiently set forth the reasons why this series is not only worth while, but why it meets an existing demand. Most of the anthologies are costly. To own them, one must pay many dollars; not, per- haps, more dollars than they are worth, but more dollars than one may find it convenient to spare. The anthology to which this is the foreword is the least expensive work of its class. That is one of its two best reasons for being. The other is that this one differs from its predecessors in aiming less at quantity than at quality. It is impossible to make a large anthology without including many names that are not now, and never will be recorded on Fame's eternal bead roll. Perhaps some of the au- thors represented in these volumes may never attain that position, but the number of such is smaller than in any similar works. The Editor's plan has been to give copious extracts from the writers of admitted eminence, rather 5 EDITOR S FOREWORD than briefer selections from a host of the lesser lights of literature. In many instances the authors now living have made their own selections^ which gives special interest to the work. It is not always that an author knows what is his best, but the Editor is inclined to think that those who have named the selections by which they prefer to be represented here have chosen wisely, and to these authors the Editor gives sincere thanks. Thanks are also due to those who have ap- proved of the selections made by the Editor; and thanks are due furthermore to the pub- lishers who have graciously permitted the use of copyrighted material. In the case of all such material the Editor has been at pains to name the publisher so that the reader whose appetite is whetted by the extracts will know just where to go for more. The reading appetite grows with what it feeds upon and it is our firm conviction that these selections from the works of the masters will do much to create a wider circle of readers for the writings from which they have been chosen. JOSEPH ADDISON Joseph Addisox, poet, essayist and dramatist, was born at Milston, Wiltshire, England, May 1, 1672. His father, who later became Dean of Lichfield, instilled in his mind the love of literature. Young Addison attended first the famous Charter House School in London, and later matriculated at Ox- ford. Destined for the church, his talent for writing drew him into political life. His poem, " The Cam- paign," celebrating the victory of Marlborough, brought him a commissionership, and he was seldom without office until his death at Holland House, in 1719. His contributions to the " Tatler " and the " Spectator " made him the most famous essayist of his time. His writings, instructive, imbued with a cheerful philosophy, a touch of gayety here and there, and of an almost faultless diction, live as models of their kind. The papers on Milton, Sir Roger de Coverley and "The Vision of Mirza" are his most famous works. WESTMINSTER ABBEY (From the " Spectator") WHEN I am in a serious humor T very often walk by myself in Westminster Abbey; where the gloominess of the place, and the use to which it is applied, with the solemnity of the building, and the condition of the people who lie in it, are apt to fill the mind with a kind of melancholy, or rather thoughtfulness, that is not disagreeable. I yester- day passed a whole afternoon in the churchyard, the cloisters, and the church, amusing myself with the tombstones and inscriptions that I met with in JOSEPH ADDISON those several regions of the dead. Most of them recorded nothing else of the buried person but that he was born upon one day, and died upon another; xhe whole history of his life being comprehended in those two circumstances that are common to all man- kind. I could not but look upon these registers of existence, whether of brass or marble, as a kind of satire upon the departed persons; who had left no other memorial of them but that they were born and that they died. They put me in mind of several persons mentioned in the battles of heroic poems, who have sounding names given them, for no other reason but that they may be killed, and are cele- brated for nothing but being knocked on the head. . . . The life of these men is finely described in holy writ by " the path of an arrow," which is im- mediately closed up and lost. Upon my going into the church I entertained my- self with the digging of a grave; and saw in every shovelful of it that was throwTi up the fragment of a bone or skull intermixed with a kind of fresh mouldering earth that some time or other had a place in the composition of a human body. Upon this I began to consider with myself what innumera- ble multitudes of people lay confused together undei the pavement of that ancient cathedral: how men and women, friends and enemies, priests and sol- diers, monks and prebendaries, were crumbled amongst one another, and blended together in the same common mass ; how beauty, strength and youth, with old age, weakness, and deformity, lay undistin- guished in the same promiscuous heap of matter, After having thus surveyed this great magazine of mortality, as it were, in the lump, I examined it more particularly by the accounts which I found on several of the monuments which are raised in every quarter of that ancient fabric. Some of them were covered with such extravagant epitaphs, that if 8 WESTMINSTER ABBEY it were possible for the dead person to be ae» quainted with them, he would blush at the praise* which his friends have bestowed upon him. Their are others so excessively modest that they deliver the character of the person departed in Greek or He- brew, and by that means are not understood once i» a twelvemonth. In the poetical quarter I found there were poets who had no monuments, and monu- ments which had no poets. I observed, indeed, that the present war had filled the church with many of these uninhabited monuments, which had been erected *o the memory of persons whose bodies were perhaps buried in the plains of Blenheim, or in the bosom of the ocean. . . . But to return to our subject. I have left the repository of our English kings for the contempla- tion of another day, when I shall find my mind dis- posed for so serious an amusement. I know that entertainments of this nature are apt to raise dark and dismal thoughts in timorous minds and gloomy imaginations; but for my own part, though I am al- ways serious, I do not know what it is to be melan- choly; and can, therefore, take a view of nature in her deep and solemn scenes with the same pleasure as in her most gay and delightful ones. By this means I can improve myself with those objects which others consider with terror. When I look upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies in me; when I read the epitaphs of the beauti- ful, every inordinate desire goes out; when I meet with the grief of parents upon a tombstone, my heart melts with compassion; when I see the tomb of the parents themselves, I consider the vanity of grieving for those whom we must quickly follow. When I see kings lying by those who deposed them, when I consider rival wits placed side by side, or the holy men that divi^led the world with their contests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishmeu* 5r JOSEPH ADDISON TORIA WHEN she, the aim of every hope and prayer. Was called by death to yon celestial spheres. Nature, who ne'er had fashioned aught so fair. Stood there ashamed, and all who saw shed tears. O cruel fate, quenching the dreams of love! O empty hopes ! O spirit rare and blest ! Where art thou now? On earth thy fair limbs rest: Thy holy thoughts have found their home above. Vet let us think not cruel death could e'er 64 ON DANTE Have stilled the sound of all thy virtuous ways; Lethe's oblivion could extinguish nought; For, robbed of thee, a thousand records fair Speak of thee yet; and death from heaven conveys ITiy powers divine, and thy immortal thought. ON DANTE THERE is no tongue to speak his eulogy; Too brightly burned his splendor for our eyes; Far easier to condemn his injurers, Than for the tongue to reach his smallest worth. He to the realms of sinfulness came down. To teach mankind ; ascending then to God, Heaven unbarred to him her lofty gates. To whom his country hers refused to ope. Ungrateful land! to its own injury, Nurse of his fate! Well, too, does this Instruct That greatest ills fall to the perfectest. And, midst a thousand proofs, let this suffice,^ That, as his exile had no parallel. So never was there man more great than he. THE ARABIAN NIGHTS The Thousaxd and One Nights, commonly called "The Arabian Nights," have now delighted the Western World for two hundred years, as they have the East for centuries. The various stories were undoubtedly the work of many authors, combined much in the same way as the Canterbury Tales of Chaucer. All the color, the fascination of Oriental life, is in them, and the reader loses himself in the oases of Arabian deserts or walks the streets of Bagdad in the reign of Caliph Harun-al-Rashid. THE FORTY THIEVES THERE once lived in a town of Persia two brothers, one named Cassim and the other Ali Baba. Their father divided a gmall inheri- tance equally between them. Cassim married a very rich wife, and became a wealthy merchant. Ali Baba married a woman as poor as himself, and lived by cutting wood, and bringing it upon three asses into the town to sell. One day, when Ali Baba was in the forest, and had just cut wood enough to load his asses, he saw at a distance a great cloud of dust, which seemed to approach him. He observed it with attention, and distinguished soon after a body of horsemen, whom he suspected might be robbers. He deter- mined to leave his asses to save himself. He climbed up a large tree, planted on a high rock, Whose branches were thick enough to conceal him. THE FORTY THIEVES and yet enabled him to see all that passed without being discovered. The troop, who were to the number of forty, all well mounted and armed, came to the foot of the rock on which the tree stood, and there dis- mounted. Every man unbridled his horse, tied him to some shrub, and hung about his neck a bag of corn which they brought behind them. Then each of them took off his saddle-bag, which seemed to Ali Baba to be full of gold and silver from its weight. One, whom he took to be their captain, came under the tree in which Ali Baba was con- cealed, and making his way through some shrubs, pronounced these words : " Open, Sesame ! "* As soon as the captain of the robbers had thus spoken, a door opened in the rock; and after he had made all his troop enter before him, he followed them, when the door shut again of itself. The robbers stayed some time within the rock, during which Ali Baba, fearful of being caught, remained in the tree. At last the door opened again, and as the cap- tain went in last, so he came out first, and stood to see them all pass by him; when Ali Baba heard him make the door close by pronouncing these words, "Shut, Sesame!" Every man at once went and bridled his horse, fastened his wallet, and mounted again. When the captain saw them all ready, he put liimself at their head, and they re- turned the way they had come. Ali Baba followed them with his eyes as far as he could see them; and afterward stayed a con- siderable time before he descended. Remembering the words the captain of the robbers used to cause the door to open and shut, he had the curiosity to try if his pronouncing them would have the same effect. Accordingly, he went among the shrubs, • " Sesame " ia a small grain. 67 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS and perceiving the door concealed behind them, stood before it, and said, " Open, Sesame ! " The door instantly flew wide open. Ali Baba, who expected a dark, dismal cavern, was surprised to see a well-lighted and spacious chamber, which received the light from an opening at the top of the rock, and in which were all sorts of provisions, rich bales of silk, stuff, brocade, and valuable carpeting, piled upon one another; gold and silver ingots in great heaps, and money • in bags. The sight of all these riches made him ; suppose that this cave must have been occupied for i ages bj robbers, who had succeeded one another. I Ali Baba went boldly into the cave, and col- i lected as much of the gold coin, which was in bags, j as he thought his three asses could carry. When 1 he had loaded them with the bags, he laid wood 1 over them in such a manner that they could not be j seen. When he had passed in and out as often as j he wished, he stood before the door, and pronounc- ■ ing the words, " Shut, Sesame !" the door closed of I itself. He then made the best of his way to town. ; When Ali Baba got home, he drove his asses into i a little yard, shut the gates very carefully, threw | off the wood that covered the panniers, carried the j bags into his house, and ranged them in order before | .his wife. He then emptied the bags, which raised I such a great heap of gold as dazzled his wife's eyes, I and then he told her the whole adventure from be- I ginning to end, and, above all, recommended her to | keep it secret. I The wife rejoiced greatly at their good fortune, I and would count all the gold piece by piece, il "Wife," replied Ali Baba, "you do not know what li you undertake, when you pretend to count the li money; you will never have done. I will dig a hole, 3 and bury it. There is no time to be lost." "You » are in the right, husband," replied she, " but let us jl THE FORTY THIEVES know, as nigh as possible, how much we have. I will bcrrow a small measure, and measure it, while you dig the hole." Away the wife ran to her brother-in-law Cassim, who lived just bj, and addressing herself to his wife, desired her to lend her a measure for a little while. Her sister-in-law asked her whether she would have a great or a small one. The other asked for a small one. She bade her stay a little, and she would readily fetch one. The sister-in-law did so, but as she knew Ali Baba's poverty, she was curious to know what sort of grain his wife wanted to measure, and artfully putting some suet at the bottom of the measure, brought it to her, with an excuse that she was sorry that she had made her stay so long, but that she could not find it sooner. Ali Baba's wife \\ent home, set the measure upon the heap of gold, filled it, and emptied it often upon the sofa, till she had done, when she was very well satisfied to find the number of measures amounted to so many as they did, and went to tell her husband, who had almost finished digging the hole. Wliile Ali Baba was burying the gold, his wife, to show her exactness and diligence to her sister-in-law, carried the measure back again, but without taking notice that a piece of gold had stuck to the bottom. " Sis- ter," said she, giving it to her again, " you see that I have not kept your measure long. I am obliged to you for it, and return it with thanks." As soon as Ali Baba's wife was gone, Cassim's looked at the l)ottom of the measure, and was in inexpressible surprise to find a piece of gold stick- ing to it. Envy immediately possessed her breast. *' What ! " said she, " has Ali Baba gold so plentiful as to measure it? Whence has he rdl this wealth?" Cassim, her husband, was at his countin walked up and down, till accidentally he came to \ Baba Mustapha's stall, which was always open be- I fore any of the shops. ' Baba Mustapha was seated with an awl in his hand, just going to work. The robber saluted himj bidding him good-morrow; and perceiving that he was olCi^ said^ " Honest man, you begin to work very early: is it possible that one of your age can see so well? I question, even if it wert somewhat lighter, whether you could see to stitch." "You do not know me," replied Baba Mustapha; ** for old as I am, I have extraordinary good eyes ; and you will not doubt it when I tell you that I sewed the body of a dead man together in a place where I had not so much light as I have now." " A dead body ! " exclaimed the robber, with af- fected amazement. " Yes, yes," answered Baba Mustapha, " I see you want to have me speak out, but you shall know no more" The robber felt sure that he had discovered what he sought. He pulled out a piece of gold, and put- ting it into Baba Mustapha's hand, said to him, " I do not want to learn your secret, though 1 can assure you. you might safely trust me with it. The only thing I desire of you is to show me the house where you stitched up the dead body." " If I were disposed to do you that favor," re- 77 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS pMed Baba Mustapha, "I assure you I cannot. I was taken to a certain place, whence I was led blindfold to the house, and afterward brought back again in the same manner; you see, therefore, the impossibliity of my doing what you desire." "Well," replied the robber, "you may, however, remember a little of the way that you were led blindfolded. Come, let me blind your eyes at the same place. We will walk together; perhaps you may recognize some part; and as everybody ought to be paid for their trouble, there is another piece of gold for you; gratify me in what I ask you.'* So saying, he put another piece of gold into his hand. The two pieces of gold were great temptations to Baba Mustapha. He looked at them a long time in his hand, without saying a word, but at last he pulled out his purse and put them in. " I cannot promise," said he to the robber, " that I can re- member the way exactly; but since you desire, I will try what I can do." At these words Baba Mus- tapha rose up, to the great joy of the robber, and led him to the place where Morgiana had bound his eyes. " It was here," said Baba Mustapha, " I was blindfolded; and I turned this way." The rob- ber tied his handkerchief over his eyes, and walked by him till he stopped directly at Cassim's house, where Ali Baba then lived. The thief, before he pulled off the band, marked the door with a piece of chalk, which he had ready in his hand, and then asked him if he knew whose house that was; to which Baba Mustapha replied, that as he did not live in that neighborhood, he could not tell. The robber, finding he could discover no more from Baba Mustapha, thanked him for the trouble he had taken, and left him to go back to his stall, while he returned to the forest, persuaded that he should be very well received. A little after the robber and Baba Mustapha hail 78 THE FORTY THIEVES parted, IVIorgiana went out of Ali r>i,ba's house upon some errand, and upon her return, seeing the mark the robber had made, stopped r.n observe it. "What can be the meaning of thi» mark?" said she to herself; "somebody intends i»iy master no good; however, with whatever intention it was done, it is advisable to guard against the worst." Accord' ing, she fetched a piece of chalk, and marked two or three doors on each side, in the same manner, without saying a word to her master or mistress. In the mean time, the robber rejoined his troop in the forest, and recounted to them his success; expatiating upon his good fortune, in meeting so soon with the only person who could inform him of what he wanted to know. All the robbers lis- tened to him with the utmost satisfaction; when the captain, after commending his diligence, addressing himself to them all, said, " Comrades, we have no time to lose : let us set off well armed, without its appearing who we are; but that we may not excite any suspicion, let only one or two go into the town together, and join at our rendezvous, which shall be the great square. In the mean time, our comrade who brought us the good news and I will go and find out the house, that we may consult what had best be done." This speech and plan was approved of by all, and they were soon ready. They filed off in par- ties of two each, after some interval of time, and got into the town without being in the least sus- pected. The captain, and he who had visited the town in the morning as spy, came in the last. He led the captain into the street where he had marked Ali Baba's residence; and when they came to the first of the houses which Morgiana had marked, he pointed it out. But the captain observed that the next door was chalked in the same manner, and in the same place; and showing it to his guide, asleep THE ARABIAN NIGHTS Ilim which house it was, that, or the first. The guide was so confounded, that he knew not what answer to make; but still more puzzled, when he and the captain saw five or six houses similarly marked. He assured the captain, with an oath, that he had marked but one, and could not tell who had chalked the rest, so that he could not distinguish the house which the cobbler had stopped at. The captain, finding that their design had proved abortive, went directly to the place of rendezvous, and told his troop that they had lost their labor, and must return to their cave. He himself set them the example, and they all returned as they had come. When the troop was all got together, the captain \ told them the reason of their returning; and pres- , ently the conductor was declared by all worthy of dfeath. He condemned himself, acknowledging that he ought to have taken better precaution, and pre- pared to receive the stroke from him who was ap- pointed to cut off his head. But as the safety of the troop required the dip* ' covery of the second intruder into the cave, an- I other of the gang, who promised himself that he I should succeed better, presented himself, and his offer being accepted, he went and corrupted Baba i Mustapha, as the other had done; and being shown ' the house, marked it in a place more remote from j sight, with red chalk. \ Not long after, Morgiana, whose eyes nothing \ could escape, went out, and seeing the red chalk, i and arguing with herself as she had done before, i marked the other neighbors' houses in the same j place and manner. ] The robbe;r, at his return to his company, valued , himself much on the precaution he had taken, which j he looked upon as an infallible way of distinguish- ] ing Ali Baba's house from the others; and the | 8Q [ THE FORTY THIEVES captain and all of them thought it must succeed. They conveyed themselves into the town with the same precaution as before; but when the robber and his captain rame to the street, they found th^ same difficulty; at which the captain was enragea, and the robber in as great confusion as his prede- cessor. Thus the captain and his troop were forced to retire a second time, and much more dissatisfied; while the robber who had been the author of the mistake underwent the same punishment, which he ^\illingly submitted to. The captain, having lost two brare fellows of his troop, was afraid of diminishing it too much by pursuing this plan to get information of the residence of their plunderer. He found br their example that their heads were not so good as their hands on such occasions; and therefore resolved to take upon himself the important commission. Accordingly, he went and addressed himself to Baba Mustapha, who did him the same service he had done to the other robbers. He did not set any particular mark on the house, but examined and observed it so carefully, by passing often b/ it, that it was impossible for him to mistake it. The captain, well satisfied with his attempt, and informed of what he wanted to know, returned to the forest; and when he came into the cave, where the troop waited for him, said, " Now, comrades, nothing can prevent our full revenge, as I am certain of the house; and in my way hither I have thought how to put it into execution, but if any one :ran form a better expedient, let him communicate it." He then told them his contrivance; and as they approved of it, ordered them to go into the villages about, and buy nineteen mules, with thirty- eight large leather jars, one full of oil, and the others empty. 81 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS In two or three days' time the robbers had pur- chased the mules and jars, and as tlie mouths of the jars were rather too narrow for his purpose, the captain caused them to be widened, and after having put one of his men into each, with the wea- pons which he thought lit, leaving open the seam which had been undone to leave them room to breathe, he rubbed the jars on the outside with oil from the full vessel. Things being thus prepared, when the nineteen mules were loaded with thirty-seven robbers in jars, and the jar of oil, the captain, as their driver, set out with them, and reached the town by the dusk of the evening, as he had intended. He led them through the streets, till he came to Ali Baba's, at whose door he designed to have knocked; but was prevented by his sitting there after supper to take a little fresh air. He stopped his mules, addressed himself to him, and said, " I have brought some oil a great way, to sell at to-morrow's market; and it is now so late that I do not know where to lodge. If I should not be troublesome to you, do me the favor to let me pass the night with you, and I shall be very much obliged by your hospitality." Though Ali Baba had seen the captain of the robbers in the forest, and had heard him speak, it was impossible to know him in the disguise of an oil merchant. He told him he should be welcome, and immediately opened his gates for the mules to go into the yard. At the same time he called to a slave, and ordered him, when the mules were un- loaded, to put them into the stable, and to feed them; and then went to Morgiana, to bid her get a good supper for his guest. After they had fin- ished supper, Ali Baba, charging Morgiana afresh to take care of his guest, said to her, " To-morrow morning I design to go to the bath before day; take care my bathing linen be ready, give them to THE FORTY THIEVES Abdalla (which was the slave's name), and make me some good broth against I return." After this he went to bed. In the mean time the captain of the robbers went into the yard, and took off the lid of each jar, and gave his people orders what to do. Beginning at the first jar, and so on to the last, he said to each man: "As soon as I throw some stones out of the chamber window where I lie, do not fail to come out, and I will immediately join you." After this he returned into the house, when Morgiana, taking up a light, conducted him to his chamber, where she left him; and he, to avoid any suspicion, put the light out soon after, and laid himself down in his clothes, that he might be the more ready to rise. jNIorgiana, remembering Ali Baba's orders, got his bathing linen ready, and ordered Abdalla tu set on the pot for the broth; but while she was preparing it the lamp went out, and there was no otiore oil in the house, nor any candles. What to do she did not know, for the broth must be made. Abdalla, seeing her very uneasy, said, "Do not fret and tease yourself, but go into the yard, and take some oil out of one of the jars." Morgiana thanked Abdalla for his advice, took the oil-pot, and went into the yard; when, as she came nigh the first jar, the robber within said softly, "Is it time?" Though naturally much surprised at finding a man in the jar instead of the oil she wanted, she immediately felt the importance of keeping silence, as Ali Baba, his family, and herself were in great danger; and collecting herself, without showing the least emotion, she answered, " Not yet, but pres- ently." She went quietly in this manner to all the jars, giving the same answer, till she came to the jar of oil. By this means Morgiana found that her master 83 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS All Baba had admiited thirty-eight robbers into his house, and that this pretended oil merchant was their captain. She made what haste she could to fill her oil-pot, and returned into her kitchen, where, as soon as she had lighted her lamp, she took a great kettle, went again to the oil-jar, filled the ket- tle, set it on a large wood fire, and as soon as it boiled, went and poured enough into every jar to stifle and destroy the robber within. When this action, worthy of the courage of Mor- giana, was executed without any noise, as she had projected, she returned into the kitchen with the empty kettle; and having put out the great fire she had made to boil the oil, and leaving just enough to make the broth, put out the lamp also, and re- mained silent, resolving not to go to rest till she had observed what might follow through a window of the kitchen, which opened into the yard. She had not waited long before the captain of the robbers got up, opened the window, and finding no light, and hearing no noise, or any one stirring in the house, gave the appointed signal, by throwing little stones, several of which hit the jars, as he doubted not by the sound they gave. He then lis- tened, but not hearing or perceiving anything where- by he could judge that his companions stirred, he began to grow very uneasy, threw stones again a second and also a third time, and could not compre- hend the reason that none of them should answer his signal. Much alarmed, he went softly down into the yard, and going to the first jar, while asking I; the robber, whom he thought alive, if he was in d readiness, smelled the hot boiled oil, which sent i forth a steam out of the jar. Hence he suspected i that his plot to murder Ali Baba, and plunder his B house, was discovered. Examining all the jars, one |i after another, he found that all his gang were dead; S and, enraged to despair at having failed in his de- I S4 i THE FORTY THIEVES sign, he forced the lock of a door tliat led from the yard to the garden, and climbing over the walls, made liis escape. When JNIorgiana saw him depart, she went to bedj, satisfied and pleased to have succeeded so well in saving her master and familr. Ali Baba rose before day, and, followed by his slave, went to the baths, entirely ignorant of the important event wliich had hapj^ened at home. When he returned from the baths, he was very much surprised to see the oil-jars, and that the merchant was not gone with the mules. He asked Morgiana, who opened the door, the reason of it. " My good master," answered she, " God preserve you and all of rour^ family. You will be better in- formed of what you wish to know when you havt seen what I have to show you, if you will follow me." As soon as JNIorgiana had shut the door, Ali Baba followed her, when she requested him to look into the first jar, and see if there was any oil. Ali Baba did so, and seeing a man, started back in alarm, and cried out. " Do not be afraid," said Morgiana, " the man you see there can neither do jou nor anybody else any harm. He is dead." " Ah, Morgi- ana," said Ali Baba, "what is it you show me? Explain yourself." " I will," replied Morgiana. " Moderate your astonishment, and do not excite the curiosity of your neighbors; for it is of great importance to keep this affair secret. Look into all the other jars." Ali Baba examined all the other jars, one after another; and when he came to that which had the oil in, found it prodigiously sunk, and stood for 5ome time motionless, sometimes looking at the jars? attd sometimes at Morgiana, without saying a word, so great was his surprise. At last, when he had re- covered himself, he said, " And what is become of the merchant? " 85 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS "Merchant!" answered she; "he is as much one as I am. I will tell you who he is, and what is become of him; but you had better hear the story in your own chamber; for it is time for your health that you had your broth after your bathing." Morgiana then told him all she had done, from the first observing the mark upon the house, to the destruction of the robbers, and the flight of the ! captain. On hearing of these brave deeds from the lips i of Morgiana, Ali Baba said to her — " God, by your ' means, has delivered me from the snares these rob- ■ bers laid for my destruction. I owe, therefore, my ■ life to you; and, for the first token of my acknowl- '| edgment, give you your liberty, from this moment, j till I can complete your recompense as I intend." j Ali B aba's garden wa? very long, and shaded at '| the further end by a great number of large trees, j Near these he and the slave Abdalla dug a trench, 1 long and wide enough to hold the bodies of the rob- ( bers; and as the earth was light, they were not long in doing it. When this was done, Ali Baba hid the jars and weapons; and as he had no occasion for the mules, he sent them at different times to be sold in the market by his slave. While Ali Baba took these measures, the captain of the forty robbers returned to the forest with inconceivable mortification. He did not stay long; the loneliness of the gloomy cavern became fright- ful to him. He determined, however, to avenge the fate of his companions, and to accomplish the death of Ali Baba. For this purpose he returned to the town, and took a lodging in a khan, and disguised himself as a merchant in silks. Under this assumed character, he gradually conveyed a great many sorts of rich stuffs and fine linen to his lodging from the cavern, but with all the necessary precautions to conceal the place whence he brought them. In order THE FORTY THIEVES to dispose of the merchandise, when he had thus amassed them together, he took a warehouse, which happened to be opposite to Cassim's, which All Baba's son had occupied since the death of his uncle. He took the name of Cogia Houssain, and, as a new-comer, was, according to custom, extremelj civil and complaisant to all the merchants his neigh- bors. Ali Baba's son was, from his vicinity, one of the first to converse with Cogia Houssain, who strove to cultivate his friendship more particularly. Two or three days after he was settled, Ali Baba came to see his son, and the captain of the robbers recognized him at once, and soon learned from his son who he was. After this he increased his assidu- ities, caressed him in the most engaging manner, made him some small presents, and often asked him to dine and sup with him, when he treated him very handsomely. Ali Baba's son did not choose to lie under such obligation to Cogia Houssain; but was so much straitened for want of room in his house, that he could not entertain him. Hetherefore acquainted his father, Ali Baba, with his wish to invite him in return. Ali Baba with great pleasure took the treat upon himself. " Son," said he, " to-morrow being Friday, which is a day that the shops of such great mer- chants as Cogia Houssain and yourself are shut, get him to accompany you, and as you pass by my door, call in. I will go and order Morgiana to provide a supper." The next day Ali Baba's son and Cogia Houssain met by appointment, took their walk, and as they returned, Ali Baba's son led Cogia Houssain through the street where his father lived, and when they came to the house, stopped and knocked at the door. " This, sir," said he, "is my father's house, who, from the account I have given him of your friendship, charged me to procure him the honor of 87 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS your acquaintance; and 1 desire you to add thli pleasure to those for which I am already indebted to you." I Though it was the sole aim of Cogia Houssain to ' introduce himself into Ali B aba's house, that he j might kill him, without hazarding his own life or i making any noise, yet he excused himself, and of- ■ fered to take his leave; but a slave having opened ; the door, Ali Baba's son took him obligingly by the I hand, and, in a manner, forced him in. \ Ali Baba received Cogia Houssain with a smiling , countenance, and in the most obliging manner he ' could wish. He thanked him for all the favors he i had done his son; adding, withal, the obligation was the greater as he was a young man, not much ac- , quainted with the world, and that he might contrib- ute to his information. Cogia Houssain returned the compliment by as- i suring Ali Baba, that though his son might no*' | have acquired the experience of older men, he ■ had good sense equal to the experience of many \ others. After a little more conversation on different I subjects, he offered again to take his leave, when i Ali Baba, stopping him, said, " Where are you going, j sir, in so much haste? I beg you would do me the i honor to sup with me, though my entertainment may ] not be worthy your acceptance; such as it is, I . heartily offer it." " Sir," replied Cogia Houssain, | " 1 am thoroughly persuaded of your good-will ; but ; the truth is, I can eat no victuals that have any salt i in them; therefore judge how I should feel at your ! table. "If that is the only reason," said Ali Baba, | "it ought not to deprive me of the honor of your ' company; for, in the first place, there is no salt ever put into my bread, and as to the meat we shall have : to-night, I promise you there shall be none in that, j Tljerefore you must do me the favor to stay. I will return immediately." ; THE FORTY THIEVES Ali Baba went into the kitchen, and ordered Mor- gianu to put no salt to the meat that was to be dressed that night; and to make quickly two or three ragouts besides what he had ordered, but be sure to put no salt in them. Morgiana, who was always ready to obey her mas- ter, could not help being surprised at his strange order. " Who is this strange man," said she, " who eats no salt with his meat? Your supper will be spoiled, if I keep it back so long." " Do not be i angry, Morgiana," replied Ali Baba; "he is an hon- l est man, therefore do as I bid you." r Morgiana obeyed, though with no little reluctance, I and had a curiosity to see tliis man who ate no salt. ' To this end, when she had finished what she had to do in the kitchen, she helped Abdalla to carry up the dishes; and looking at Cogia Houssain, knew hhn at first sight, notwithstanding his disguise, to be the captain of the robbers, and examining him very carefully, perceived that he had a dagger under his garment. " I am not in the least amazed," said she to herself, " that this wicked man, who is my masters' greatest enemy, would eat no salt with him, since he intends to assassinate him; but I will prevent him." Morgiana, while they were at supper, determined in her own mind to execute one of the boldest acts ever meditated. When Abdalla came for the dessert of fruit, and had put it with the wine and glasses before Ali Baba, Morgiana retired, dressed herself neatly, with a suitable head-dress like a dancer, girded her waist with a silver-gilt girdle, to which there hung a poniard with a hilt and guard of the same metal, and put a handsome mask on her face. When she had thus disguised herself, she said to Abdalla," Take your tabor, and let us go and divert our master and his son's friend, as we do sometimes when he is alone." 89 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS Abdalla took his tabor and played all the way into the hall before Morgiana, who, when she came to the door, made a low obeisance by way of asking leave to exhibit her skill, while Abdalla left oflf playing. " Come in, Morgiana," said Ali Baba, " and let Cogia Houssain see what you can do, that he may tell us what he thinks of your performance." Cogia Houssain, who did not expect this diversion after supper, began to fear he should not be able to take advantage of the opportunity he thought he had found; but hoped, if he now missed his aim,, to secure it another time, by keeping up a friendly correspondence with the father and son; therefore, though he could have Avished Ali Baba would have declined the dance, he pretended to be obliged to him for it, and had the complaisance to express his satisfaction at what he saw, which pleased his host. As soon as Abdalla saw that Ali Baba and Cogia Houssain had done talking, he began to plaj'" on the tabor, and accompanied it with an air, to which Morgiana, who was an excellent performer, danced in such a manner as would have created admiration in any company. After she had danced several dances with much grace, she drew the poniard, and holding it in her hand, began a dance, in which she outdid herself by the many different figures, light movements, and the surprising leaps and wonderful exertions with which she accompanied it. Sometimes she presented the poniard to one breast, sometimes to another, and sometimes seemed to strike her own. At last, she snatched the tabor from Abdalla with her left hand, and holding the dagger in her right presented the other side of the tabor, after the manner of those who get a livelihood by dancing, and solicit the lib- erality of the spectators. Ali Baba put a piece of gold into the tabor, as did also his son ; and Cogia Houssain seeing that she was 90 THK KORTY THIEVES coming to him, had pulled his purse out of big bosom to make her a present; but while he was put- ting his hand into it, JNIorgiana, with a courage and resolution worthy of herself, plunged the poniard into his heart, Ali Baba and his son, shocked at this action, cried out aloud. " Unhappy woman ! " exclaimed Ali Baba, " what have you done to ruin me and my fam- ily?" "It was to preserve, not to ruin you," an- swered Morgiana; "for see here," continued she, opening the pretended Cogia Houssain's garment, and showing the dagger, " what an enemy you had entertained? Look well at him, and you will find him to be both the fictitious oil merchant, and the captain of the gang of forty robbers. Remember, too, that he would eat no salt with you; and what would you have more to persuade you of his wicked design? Before I saw him, I suspected him as soon as you told me you had such a guest. I knew hira, and you now find that my suspicion was not ground- less. Ali Baba, who immediately felt the new obligation he had to Morgiana for saving his life a second time, embraced her: "Morgiana," said he, "I gave you your liberty, and then promised you that my grati- tude should not stop there, but that I would soon give you higher proofs of its sincerity, which I now do by making you my daughter-in-law." Then ad- dressing himself to his son, he said, " I believe you, son, to be so dutiful a child, that you will not refuse Morgiana for your wife. You see that Cogia Hou«- sain sought your friendship with a treacherous de- sign to take away my life; and if he had succeeded, there is no doubt but he would have sacrificed you also to his revenge. Consider, that by marrying Morgiana you marry the preserver o\' my family and your own." The son, far from showing any dislike, readily •1 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS consented to the marriage; not only because he would not disobey his father, but also because it was agreeable to his inclination. After this they thought of burying the captain of the robbers with his comrades, and did it so privately that nobody discovered their bones till many years after, when i no one had any concern in the publication of this i remarkable history. A few days afterward. All i Baba celebrated the nuptials of his son and Mor- giana with great solemnity, a sumptuous feast, and I the usual dancing and spectacles; and had the satis- i faction to see that his friends and neighbors, whom I he invited, had no knowledge of the true motives of J the marriage; but that those who were not unac- I quainted with M or gi ana's good qualities commended 1 his generosity and goodness of heart. Ali Baba did | not visit the robber's cave for a whole year, as he ! supposed the other two. whom he could get no ac- count of, might be alive. | At the year's end, when he found they had not ! made any attempt to disturb him, he had the curi- osity to make another journey. He mounted his horse, and when he came to the cave he alighted, tied his horse to a tree, then approaching the en- trance, and pronouncing the words, " Open, Se- same ! " the door opened. He entered the cavern, and by the condition he found things in, judged that nobody had been there since the captain- had fetched the goods for his shop. From this time he believed he was the only person in the world who had the secret of opening the cave, and that all the treasure was at his sole disposal. He put as much gold into Ws saddle-bag as his horse would carry, and re- turned to town. Some years later he carried his son to the cave and taught him the secret, which he handed down to his posterity, who, using their good fortune with moderation, lived in great honoi and splendor. 93 THE FIRST VOYAGE OF SINDBAD THE SAILOR THE FIRST VOYAGE OF SINDBAD THE SAILOR MY father was a wealthy mercliant of much re- pute. He bequeathed me a large estate, which I wasted in riotous living. I quickly perceived mj error, and that I was misspending my time, which is of all things most valuable. I remembered the saying of the great Solomon, which I had frequently heard from my father, "A good name is better than precious ointment," and again, " Wisdom is good with an inheritance." Struck with these reflec- tions, I resolved to walk in my father's ways, and I entered into a contract with some merchants, and embarked with them on board a ship we had jointly fitted out. We set sail, and steered our course toward the Indies, through the Persia Gulf, which is formed by the coasts of Arabia Felix on the right, and by those of Persia on the left. At first I was troubled with sea-sickness, but speedily recovered my health, and was not afterward subject to that complaint. In our voyage we touched at several islands, where we sold or exchanged our goods. One day, while under sail, we were becalmed near a small island, but little elevated above the level of the water, and resembling a green meadow. The captain ordered his sails to be furled, and permitted such persons as were so inclined to land; of this number I was one. But while we were enjoying ourselves in eating and drinking, and recovering ourselves from the fa- tigue of the sea, the island on a sudden trembled and shook us terribly. The trembling of the island was perceived on board the ship, and we were called upon to re-em- bark speedily, or we should all be lost; for what we took for an island proved to be the back of a sea 93 THE ARABIAN NIGHTS monster. The nimblest got into the sloop, others betook themselves to swimming; but as for myself, I was still upon the island when it disappeared into the sea, and I had only time to catch hold of a piece of wood that we had brought out of the ship to make a fire. Meanwhile the captain, having re- ceived those on board who were in the sloop, and taken up some of those that swam, resolved to im- prove the favorable gale that had just risen, and hoisting his sails pursued his voyage, so that it was impossible for me to recover the ship. Thus was I exposed to the mercy of the waves all the rest of the day and the following night. By this time I found my strength gone, and despaired of saving my life, when happily a wave threw me against an island. The bank was high and rugged; so that I could scarcely have got up had it not been for some roots of trees which 1 founA withirv reach. When the sun arose, though I was very feeble, both from hard labor and want of food, I crept along to find some herbs fit to eat, and had the good luck not only to procure some, but likewise to discover a stream of excellent water, which contributed much to recover me. After this I advanced farther into the island, and at least reached a fine plain, where I perceived some horses feeding. I went toward them, when I heard the voice of a man, who immediately appeared and asked me who I was. I related to him my adventure, after which, taking me by the hand, iie led me into a cave, where there were several other people, no less amazed to see me than I was to see them. I partook of some provisions which they offered me. I then asked them what they did in such a desert place; to which they answered, that they were grooms belonging to the maharaja, sovereign of the island, and that every year they brought thither the king's horses for pasturage. They added. 94 THE FIRST VOYAGE OF SINDBAD THE SAILOR that they were to return home on the morrow, and had I been one day later, I must have perished, because the inhabited ])art of the island was a great distance off, and it would lir.ve been impossible for me to have got thither without a guide. Next morning they returned to the capital of the island, took me with them, and presented me to the maharaja. He asked me who I was, and bj"^ what adventure I had come into his dominions. After I had satisfied hira, he told me he was much con- cerned for my misfortune, and at the same time ordered that I should want for nothing; which com- mands his officers were so generous and careful as to see exactly fulfilled. Being a merchant, I frequented men of my own profession, and particularly inquired for those who were strangers, that perchance I might hear news from Bagdad, or find an opportunity to return. For the maharaja's capital is situated on the sea- coast, and has a fine harbor, where ships arrive daily from the different quarters of the world. I fre- quented also the society of the learned Indians, and took delight to hear them converse; but withal, I took care to make my court regularly to the maha- raja, and conversed with the governors and petty kings, his tributaries, that were about him. They put a thousand questions respecting my country; and I, being willing to inform myself as to their laws and customs, asked them concerning everything which I thought worth knowing. There belongs to this king an island named Cassel. They assured me that every night a noise of drums was heard there, whence the mariners fancied that it was the residence of Degial. I determined to visit this wonderful place, and in my way thither saw fishes of 100 and 200 cubits long, that occasion more fear than hurt; for they are so timorous, that they will fly upon the rattling of two sticks or THE ARABIAN NIGHTS boards, l saw likewise other l\sh, about a cubit in length, that had heads like owls. As I was one day at the port after my return, the ship irrived in which I had embarked at Bus- sorah. I at once knew the captain, and I went and asked him for my bales. " I am Sindbad," said I, " and those bales marked with his name are mine." When the captain heard me speak thus, " Heav- ens ! " he exclaimed, " whom can we trust in these times ! I saw Sindbad perish with my own eyes, as did also tb« passengers on board, and yet you tell me you are that Sindbad. What impudence is this ! and what a false tale to tell, in order to possess yourself of what does not belong to you ! " " Have patience," replied I ; "do me the favor to hear what I have to say." The captain was at length per- suaded that I was no cheat; for there came people from his ship who knew me, paid me great compli- *>ents, and expressed much joy at seeing me alive. At last he recollected me himself, and embracing me, " Heaven be praised," said he, " for your happy escape! I cannot express the joy it affords me. There are your goods ; take and do with them as you please." I took out what was most valuable in my bales, and presented them to the maharaja, who, knowing my misfortune, asked me how I came by such rari- ties. I acquainted him with the circumstance of their recovery. He was pleased at my good luck, accepted my present, and in return gave me one much more considerable. Upon this I took leave of him, and went aboard the same ship after I had exchanged my goods for the commodities of that country. I carried with me wood of aloes, sandals, camphor, nutmegs, cloves, pepper, and ginger. We passed by several islands, and at last arrived at Bus- sorah, from whence I came to this city, with the «alue of 100,000 sequins. 96 THE FIRST VOYAGE OF SINDBAD THE SAILOR Sindbad stopped here, and ordered the musicians to proceed with their concert, wliich the story had interrupted. When it was evening, Sindbad sent for a purse of 100 sequins, and giving it to the por- ter, said, " Take this, Sindbad, return to your home, and come back to-morrow to hear more of ray ad- ventures." The porter went away, astonished at the honor done him, and the present made him. The account of his adventure proved very agreeable to his wife and children, who did not fail to return thanks for what Providence had sent them by the hand of Sindbad. m ARISTOPHANES Abistophanes, the greatest comic poet of Greece, was born in 448 b.c. His death occurred about 380 B.C. Of his fifty-four plays only eleven are extant. "The Knights," "The Birds," "The Clouds" and ** The Frogs " are best known to the moderns. All were attacks upon persons or public measures ob- jectionable to the poet. GRAND CHORUS OF BIRDS (From "The Birds " : Swinburne's Translation) COME on then, ye dwellers by nature in dark- ness, and like to the leaves' generations. That are little of might, that are molded of mire, unenduring and shadowlike nations. Poor plumeless ephemerals, comfortless mortals, as visions of shadows fast fleeing. Lift up your mind unto us that are deathless, and dateless the date of our being; Us, children of heaven, us, ageless for aye, us, all of whose thoughts are eternal: That ye may from henceforth, having heard of us all things aright as to matters supernal, Of the being of birds, and beginning of gods, and of streams, and the dark beyond reaching, Trustfully knowing aright, in my name bid Prodicus pack with his preaching! It was Chaos and Night at the first, and the black- ness of darkness, and Hell's broad border, Earth was not, nor air, neither heaven: when in depths of the womb of the dark without order 98 GRAND CHORUS OF BIRDS First thing, first-born of the black-plumed Night, was a wind-egg hatched in her bosom. Whence timely with seasons revolving again sweet Love burst out as a blossom. Gold wings glittering forth of his back, like whirl- winds gustily turning. He, after his wedlock with Chaos, whose wings are of darkness, in Hell broad-burning. For his nestlings begat him the race of us first, and upraised us to light new-lighted. And before this was not the race of the gods, until all things by Love were united: And of kind united in kind with communion of na- ture the sky and the sea are Brought forth, and the earth, and the race of the gods everlasting and blest. So that we are Far away the most ancient of all things blest. And that we are of Love's generation There are manifest manifold signs. We have wings, and with us have the Love's habitation; And manifold fair young folk that forswore love once, ere the bloom of them ended, Have the men that pursued and desired them sub- dued by the help of us only befriended, W'ith such baits as a quail, a flamingo, a goose, or a cock's comb staring and splendid. All best good things that befall men come from us birds, as is plain to all reason: For first we proclaim and make known to them spring, and the winter and autumn in season; Bid sow, when the crane starts clanging for Afric in shrill-voiced emigrant number. And calls to the pilot to hang up his rudder again for the season and slumber; And then weave a cloak for Orestes the thief, lest he strip men of theirs if it freezes. And again thereafter tlie kite reappearing announces a change in the breezes, 99 ARISTOPHANES And that here is the season for shearing your sheep of their spring wool. Then does the swallow Give you notice to sell your great-coat, and provide something light for the heat that's to follow. Thus are we as Ammon or Delphi unto you, Dodona, nay, Phoebus Apollo. For, as first ye come all to get auguries of birds, even such is in all things your carriage, Be the matter a matter of trade, or of earning your bread, or of any one's marriage. And all things ye lay to the charge of a bird that be- long to discerning prediction: Winged fame is a bird, as you reckon; you sneeze, and the sign's as a bird for conviction; All tokens are " birds " with you — sounds, too, and lackeys and donkeys. Then must it not follow That we are to you all as the manifest godhead that speaks in prophetic Apollo? THE CALL TO THE NIGHTINGALE (From " The Birds *' : Frere's Translation) AWAKE! awake! Sleep no more, my gentle mate ! With your tiny tawny bill. Wake the tuneful echo shrill, On vale or hill; Or in her rocky seat, Let her listen and repeat The tender ditty that you teli. The sad lament, The dire event. To luckless Itys that befef Thence the strain Shall rise again. And soar amain, 100 FROM THE WOMEN S FESTIVAL Up to the lofty palace gate Where mighty Apollo sits in state In Jove's abode, with his ivory lyre. Hymning aloud to the heavenly choir. While all the gods shall join with thee In a celestial sjinphony. PROM "THE WOMEN'S FESTIVAl." (Translated by W. Lucas Collins) THEY'RE always abusing the women. As a terrible plague to men; They say we're the root of all evil. And repeat it again and again; Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed. All mischief, be what it may; And pray, then, why do you marry us. If we're all the plagues you say? And why do you take such care of us, And keep us so safe at home. And are never easy a moment. If ever we chance to roam? When you ought to be thanking heaven That your plague is out of the way — You all keep fussing and fretting: "Where is my Plague to-day?" If a Plague peeps out at a window. Up go the eyes of the men; If she hides, then they all keep Staring Until she looks out again. lOL ARISTOTLE AaisTOTLE was born in Macedonia in 384 B.C.; died at Chalcis in 322. He was a student in Plato's school, in Athens, and for a time acted as instructor of Alexander the Great. Aristotle wrote on a large variety of subjects. He gave direction and system to Greek thought, and for two thousand years he was the greatest force in the world of philosophy. PROSECUTION AND DEFENSE ' (Prom Buckley's translation in the Bohn Library) j IT will be for me next to speak of the number and j nature of the sources out of which the orator j must construct his reasonings, touching accusation | and defense. Now we must ascertain three points: j one, what and how many are the objects for the sake of which men act unjustly; the second, how them- i selves are disposed; and the third, towards persons of what character and of what disposition they do so act. Let us then, after defining the acting unjustly, speak in order of the rest. Let the acting unjustly be defined to be the voluntary commission of hurt I in contravention of law. Now law is either general j or peculiar. The peculiar law I call that, by whose j written enactments men direct their polity; the gen- ! eral, whatever unwritten rules appear to be recog- j nized among all men. Men are voluntary agents in J] whatever they do wittingly, and without compulsion. ;, Men, therefore, do not everything on fixed principle, j which they do wittingly ;■ but whatever they do on j 102 j PROSECUTION AND DEFENSE fixed principle, that they do \Wttingly; because no one is ignorant of that which he chooses on prin- ciple. Now, the principles by whose motion men deliberately choose to hurt and do evil in contra- vention of law are depravity and moral weak- ness; for if any are depraved either in one or more respects, it is in reference to that point, on which they are so depraved, that they are guilty of injustice. The illiberal man, for instance, on the subject of money; the intemperate, touch- ing the pleasure of the body; and the effeminatev respecting objects of ease; and the coward, respect- ing danger (for it is by reason of fear that men abandon their comrades in danger) ; the ambitious man, on the score of honor; the hasty man, by reason of anger; the man eager to excel, on account of \ictory; the vindictive, for the sake of revenge; a silly man, owing to his being mistaken on points of right and wrong; a man of effrontery, from his con- tempt of character. And in other characters in the same way each [goes wrong] respecting his own particular w^eakness. But my meaning on these mat- ters will be evident from what has been already said on the subject of the virtues, and from what here- after will be stated on the subject of the passions. It merely remains for me to state on what account, how effected, and toward whom, men do commit in- justice. First, then, let us distinctly enumerate the ob- jects, which desiring, or which avoiding, we set about injustice: because it evidently should be con- sidered by the plaintiff how many, and what sort of those things, from a desire of which men wrong their neighbors, have an existence on the side of his adver- sary; and by the defendant again, what, and what number of these things do not so exist. Now all men do all things either of themselves, or not of them- 103 ARISTOTLE Sdves. The things which they do not of themselves, they do either by chance or from necessity; and the things done by necessity, they do either by compul- sion or by nature. So that all things whatsoever which men do not of themselves, they do either by chance, or from compulsion, or by nature. Again, the things which they do of themselves, and of which they are themselves the causes, some they do through custom, and others through natural desire; and this partly through this desire influenced by reason, and in part through it devoid of reason. Now, the act of wishing is desire accompanied by reason, fixing on some good as its object; because no one wishes for anything other than what he conceives to be a good. The desires devoid of reason are anger and appetite. So that all things whatever which men do, they neces- sarily do from seven causes; by chance, compulsion, nature, custom, will, anger, or appetite. But to carry on distinctions in reference to age, or habits, or whatever else enacts itself in conduct, were super- fluous. For, granting that it happens to young men to be passionate, it is not by motion of their youth that they act thus, but by motion of anger and appe- tite; neither is it by motion either of wealth or pov- erty simply, but (in the case of the poor) it is on account of their neediness that it happens that they cherish an appetite for wealth; and (in the case of the rich) on account of their having the means, that they risk an appetite for unnecessary pleasure; and Jiese persons will act neither by motion of their ;vealth nor of their poverty, but by motion of appe- tite. And in exactly the same way, the just and un- just, and all such as are said to act conformably to habits, will in reality act, under all circumstances, by motion of these principles; for they act on the im- pulse either of reason or of passion; but some from good manners and passions, others from the contrary. Still, however- it happens that on habits of this par- 104 PROSECUTION AND DEFENSE ticular character, principles of action the same in character are consequent; and on those of that kind, principles also of that kind. For on the temperate man perhaps forthwith, by motion of his temperance, are attendant good opinions and appetites respecting pleasures; but on the intemperate, the contrary on these same subjects. For which reason we must waive distinctions of such a kind; but we must con- sider on what conditions, what principles of conduct are wont to follow: for it is not ordained (in the nature of things) that, if a man be white or black, or tall or short, principles of this or that kind should be attendant on him; but if he be young or old, just or unjust, here some difference begins; and so, in a word, in the case of all contingent circumstances whatever, which produce a difference in the tempers of men, for instance, a man's seeming to himself to be rich or poor, fortunate or unfortunate; in all these cases there will be some essential difference. Of this, however, we will speak hereafter; let us now treat first of the remaining points. Things proceed from chance which are of such kind that their cause is not definite, and are produced in the absence of any final motive, and that neither invariably, nor usually, nor in any prescribed order. My meaning on these subjects will be plain from the definition of chance. All those things exist naturally whose cause is internal and ordinate; for they turn out, either in- variably or generally, in the same way; since there is no need of an accurate inquiry on results contrary to nature, whether they be produced conformably to a Certain nature, or any other cause. It would appear, too, that chance is the cause of such results. All things originate in compulsion, which are produced through the instrumentality of the agents themselves, contrary to their inclination and reason. In habit originates everything which men do because they have often done it before. From will proceed whatever 105 ARISTOTLE of the forementioned goods appear to be useful, either as an end or as conducing to the end, when it is by reason of such their usefulness that they are realized in action: for even the intemperate do some things which are useful; but not on account of their usefulness, but on account of pleasure. Through the medium of anger and excited feeling arise acts of vengeance. Now, between revenge and punishment there is a difference; for punishment is for the sake of the sufferer, but revenge for that of the person inflicting it, in order that he may be satiated. On what subjects this excitement of feeling exists will therefore be plain in my treatise of the passions. But all such things as appear pleasant are produced in action on the impulse of appetite. But that which is familiar and has become habitual is of the number of things pleasant; for many things there are, even among such as are not pleasant naturally, which, when men have been habituated to, they do with pleasure. So that, to speak in one word comprehend- ing the whole, everything whatsoever which men do of their own proper motion, either is good, or appar- ently good; pleasant, or apparently pleasant. But ai6 they act voluntarily in whatever they do of their own motion, and involuntarily in whatever they do not of their own motion; all things whatsoever in re- spect to which they act voluntarily will be either good or apparently good; pleasant or apparently pleasant. For I also set down the getting quit either of evils or apparent evils, and the getting a less evil in ex- change for a greater, in the class of goods; because they are in a certain way desirable things. And, among things pleasant, I likewise set down the get- ting quit of things bringing pain, or appearing to do so; or the getting things less so, in exchange for such as are so in greater degree. We have, therefore, to ascertain the number of .things pleasant and of what kinds they are. • Now 106 ON PLEASING THE JUDGES on the subject of what is useful, something has been already said in my treating of deliberative rhetoric; but on the subject of what is pleasant let us treat, beginning at this point. As to the definitions, you must deem them to be adequate [to my purpose] if they be found, on each subject, exempt from ob- scurity, though not accurately precise. ON PLEASING THE JUDGES THE materials, then, from which we must exhort and dissuade, praise and blame, accuse and defend, the notions also and propositions, useful in order to render these points credible, are those which we have discussed : for respecting these questions, and out of these sources, are enthymemes deduced, so that an orator, thus provided, may speak on each separate department of questions. But as rhetoric has in view the coming to a decision (for in delibera- tive oratory the assembly arrive at decisions; and the sentence of a court of justice is ipso facto a de- cision); it is necessary to look not only to your speech, in what way that will be of a character to convince and persuade, but also to invest yourself with a certain kind of character, and the judge with a certain kind of feeling. For it is a point of great consequence, particularly in deliberative cases; and, next to these, in judicial; as well that the speaker seem to be a man of a certain character as that his audience conceive him to be of a certain disposition toward themselves; moreover, it is of consequence if your audience chance to be themselves also disposed in a certain way. Now, as to a speaker's appearing to be himself of a certain character, this point is more available in deliberations: bat the disposing the auditor in a certain way, in judicial cases; for things do not show themselves in the same light to persons 107 ARISTOTLE affected by love and by hatred, nor to those under emotions of anger, as to those who are disposed to placability; but they appear either utterly different in character, or at least different in degree. For to a judge who is affected by love toward the party re- specting whom he pronounces his decision, that party appears either not at all to be unjust, or to be so in a very trivial degree. To a judge, however, who is affected by hatred, the case has a contrary appear- ance. So also to a person who is eager and sanguine, the proposed object, if pleasant, takes the appear- ance, as well of being likely to accrue, as of being likely to prove really a good ; while by one who is in- different and reluctant, the opposite view is taken. Now, there are three causes of a speaker's deserv- ing belief; for so many in number are the qualities on account of which we lend our credit, indepen- dently of proof adduced; and these are prudence, moral excellence, and the having our interests at heart (for men are fallacious in what they allege or ad- vise by reason, either of all, or some, of these causes; for either, from want of ability, they do not rightly apprehend the question; or, rightly apprehending it, from their depravity, they do not tell you what they think; or, being men both of ability and moral ex- cellence, they have not your interests at heart, on which account it is possible they should not give you the best advice, though fully known what is best) ; End besides these there is no other: it follows, there- fore, of course, that the speaker who appears to pos- sess all these qualities is considered by his audience as deserving credit. Now, the means by which men may appear virtuous and prudent are to be derived from what has been laid down on the subject of the virtues ; for it is by help of the very same things that an orator may invest himself, and any one else, in a certain character. The subject of feeling an interest, and of friendliness, must be discussed in my treatise ON EXCEI.LENCE OF STYLE of the passions, commencing henceforth. Passions, however^ are all emotions whatsoever, on which pain and pleasure are consequent, by whose operation, undergoing a change, men differ in respect to their decisions: for instance, anger, pity, fear, and what- ever other emotions are of such a nature, and those opposed to them. But it will be fitting to divide what I have to say respecting each into three considera- tions: to consider, respecting anger, for example, how those who are susceptible of anger are affected; with whom they usually are angry; and on what oc- casions. For, granted that we be in possession of one, or even two, of these points, and not of them all, it will be impossible for us to kindle anger in the breast ; and in the case of the rest of the passions in a similar way. In the same way, then, as on the sub- jects treated of above, I have separately drawn up the several propositions, so let me do in respect of these also, and make my distinctions according to the manner specified. ON EXCELLENCE OF STYLE LET excellence of style be defined to consist in its being clear (a sign of this is this, that th( diction, unless it make the sentiment clear, will no affect its purpose) ; and neither low, nor above the dignity of the subject, but in good taste; for the style of poetry, indeed, is not low, yet it is not be- coming in prose. Of nouns and verbs those which are in general use produce the effect of clearness; to prevent its being low, and to give it ornament, there are other nouns which have been mentioned in the " Poetics," for a departure [from ordinary acceptations] causes it to appear more dignified; for men are affected in re- spect of style in the very same way as they are to- 109 ARISTOTLE wards foreigners and citizens. On which account you should give your phrase a foreign air; for men are admirers of things out of the way, and what is an object of admiration is pleasant. Now in the case of metrical compositions, there are many things which produce this effect, and they are very becom- ing, because both the subject and the person stand more apart [from ordinary life]; in prose, how- ever, these helps are much fewer, for the subject is less exalted: since even in that art were a slave, or a mere youth, or [any one, in fact, in speaking] of mere trifles to express himself in terms of studied ornament, it would be rather unbecoming; but here too [as in poetry] the rule of good taste is that your style be lowered or raised according to the subject. On which account we must escape observation in doing this, and not appear to speak in a studied manner, but naturally, for the one is of a tendency to persuade, the other is the very reverse; because people put themselves on their guard, as thou^ against one who has a design upon them, just as they would against adulterated wine. [Let your style then be such] as was the case with the voice of Theo- dorus as compared with that of the other actors; for it appeared to be that of the character which was speak'ing, theirs, however, were foreign from the character. And the deceit is neatly passed off if one frame his nomenclature upon a selection from ordi- nary conversation; the thing which Euripides does, and first gave the hint of. As, however, nouns and verbs are [the materials} of which the speech is made up, and as nouns admit so many species as have been examined in the " Poetics," out of the number of these we must em- ploy but sparingly, and in very few places, exotic and compound words, and those newly coined ; where they may be employed I will state hereafter: the reason [of the restriction] has been mentioned, viz., 110 ON EXCELLENCE OF STYLE because thev remove your style [from that of com' mon life] more than is consistent with good taste. Words, however, of ordinary use, and in their original acceptations and metaphors, are alone available in the style of prose: a proof [that this is the fact is] that these are the only words which all persons em- ploy; for everybody carries on conversation by means of metaphors, and words in their primary sense, and those of ordinary use. Thus it is plain that if one should have constructed his style well, it will be both of a foreign character, and that [the art of the ora- tor] may still elude observation, and [the style itself] will have the advantage of clearness; this, however, was laid down to be the perfection of rhetorical lan- guage. But of all nouns, those which are equivocal suit the purposes of the sophist, for by their help he effects his fallacies, while synonyms are of use to the poet; I mean these which are both synonyms and of common usage, as iropevrjadai and §adl^€i.v, for these two are both of common usage and synonymous to each other. The nature then of each of these varieties, and how many species of metaphor there are, and also that this ornament is of the greatest effect, as well in poetry as prose, has been explained (as I have ob- served above), in the "Poetics." In prose, how- ever, we should bestow the greater attention on them, in proportion as an oration has to be made up of fewer adjuments than a metrical composition. More- over, the metaphor possesses in an especial manner [the beauties of] clearness and sweetness, with ar air of being foreign; and it is not possible to derive it from any other person. You must, however, apply, in the case both of epi- thets and metaphors, such as are appropriate; and this will depend on their being constructed on princi- ples of analog^'', otherwise they will be sure to appear in bad taste; because contraries show themselves tc 111 ARISTOTLE oe such, particularly when set by each other. But you must consider, as a purple garment becomes a youth, what is equally so to an old man; since the tame garment does not become [both]. And if you wish to embellish your subject, see you deduce your metaphor from such things coming under the same class as are better; and if to cry it down, from such as are worse: I mean, as the cases pre opposed and come under the same genus, that the saying, for example, of a beggar, that " he prays," and of one who is praying, that " he begs " (both being species of asking), is to do the thing which has been mentioned; just as Iphicrates called Callias " a mere collector to the goddess, and not a bearer of the torch." He, howevf r, replied, " that he must needs be uninitiated himself, or he would not call him a collector, but a bearer of the torch.** For these are both services connected with the god- dess ; the one, however, is respectable, while the other is held in no repute. And some one [speaks of the courtiers of Dionysius as] Dionysian parasites; they, however, call themselves artificers. And these expres- sions are both metaphors; the one of persons who would depreciate, the other the contrary. Even rob- bers, nowadays, call themselves purveyors. On which principle we may say of a man who " has acted unjustly," that he "is in error"; and of one who "is in error," that he "has acted unjustly.'* Again, of one who has stolen, both that has taken, [in way of diminution,] and that has ravaged [in exaggeration]. But the saying, as the Telephus of Euripides does, " that he lords it o'er the oars, and landing in Mysia," etc., is out of taste; for the ex- pression, "lording it o'er," is above the dignity of the subject; [the rhetorical artifice] then, is not palmed off. Tliere will also be a fault in the sylla- bles, unless they are significant of a grateful sound; for instance, Dionysius, sumamed Chalcous, in his 113 ON EXCELLENCE OF STYLE elegies, calls poetry, "the clangor of Calliope," be- cause both are vocal sounds; the metaphor, howevec. is a paltry one, and couched in uncouth expressions. Again, our metaphors should not I->e farfetched; but we should make the transfer, on the principle of assigning names out of the number of kindred ob- jects, and such as are the same in species, to objects which are unnamed, of which, however, it is clear, simultaneously with their being uttered, that they are akin, as in that approved enigma, — A man I once beheld, [and wondering view*d,] Who, on another, brass with fire had glued. — Twining. for the operation is undesignated by any name, and both are species of attaching; wherefore the writer called the application of the cupping instrument, a gluing. And, generally speaking, it is possible out of neatly constructed enigmas to extract excellent metaphors: because it is on the principles of meta- phor that men construct enigmas; so that it is evident that [if the enigma be a good one] the metaphor has been properly borrowed. The transfer also should be made from objects which are beautiful; beauty, however, of words con- sists, as Licymnius observes, in the sound or in the idea conveyed; as does also their inelegance. And there is, moreover, a third, which does away the sophistical doctrine; since it is not the fact, as Bryso argues, " that no one speaks inelegantly, if, indeed, the using one expression instead of another carries with it the same meaning " : for this is a fallacy ; be- cause sonit words are nearer in their ordinary ac- ceptations, more assimilated, and have more peculiar force of setting the object before the eyes than oth- ers. And what is more, one word represents the ob- ject under diflFerent circumstances from another; so that we may even on this principle lay it Jown that 113 ARISTOTLE one word has more or less of beauty and inelegance than another; for although both words, [at the same time,] express [properties which are J beautiful, as well as such as are inelegant; yet they either ex- press them not qua they are beautiful, or not qua they are inelegant; or granting they do, yet they express them, the one in a greater, the other in a less degree. But we are to deduce our metaphors from these sources; — from such as are beautiful either in sound, in meaning, or [in the image they present] to the sight, or any other sense. And there is a differ- ence, in the saying, for instance, " the rosy-fingered Aurora," rather than " the purple-fingered," or, what is still worse, " the crimson-fingered." Also, in the case of epithets, it is very possible to derive one's epithets from a degrading or disgrace- ful view of the case; for instance, "the murderer of his mother " : and we may derive them from a view on the better side; as, "the avenger of his father." And Simonides, when the victor in a race by mules offered him a trifling present, was not disposed to write, as though feeling hurt at writing on demiasses; when, however, he offered a sufficient present, he composed the poem — Hail! Daughters of the generous Horse, That skim, like wind, along the course, etc. — Harris. and yet they were daughters of asses as well. Again, it is possible to express the selfsame thing diminu- tively. And it is the employment of diminutives which renders both good and evil less; just as Aris- tophanes jests in "The Babyloiiians " ; using, instead of gold, " a tiny piece of gold "; instead of " a gar- ment," " a little garment " ; instead of " reproach," " puny reproach "; and instead of " sickness," " slight indisposition." We ought, however, to be careful, and always keep to the mean in both cases. . . . 114 THE HIGHEST GOOD OF MAN Style will possess the quality of being in good taste if it be expressive at once of feeling and character, and in proportion to the subject-matter. This pre portion, however, is preserved, provided the style be neither careless on questions of dignity, nor dignified on such as are mean: neither to a mean word let or- nament be superadded; otherwise it appears mere burlesque. . . . But [the style] expressive of feeling, supposing the case be one of assault, is the style of a man in a passion; if, however, it be one of loathsome- ness and impiety, the expressing yourself with disgust and painful caution; if, however, the case demand praise, with exultation; if pity, with submis- sion ; and so on in the other cases. And a style which is appropriate, moreover, invests the subject with persuasive efficacy. For the mind is cheated into a persuasion, that the orator is speaking with sincer- ity, because under such circumstances men stand affected in that manner. So that people suppose things to be even as the speaker states them, what though, in reality, they are not: and the hearer has a kindred feeling with the orator, who expresses himself feelingly, even should he say nothing to the purpose; availing themselves of which, may bear down their hearers in the storm of passion. THE HIGHEST GOOD OF MAN EVERY art and every scientific system, and in like manner every cause of action and delib- erate preference, seems to aim at some good; and consequently " the Goocf' has been well defined as " that which all things aim at." But there appears to be a kind of difference in ends; for some are energies; others again beyond these, certain works; but wherever there are certain ARISTOTLE ends besides the actions, there the works are natu- rallj'- better than the energies. Now since there are many actions, arts, and sci- ences, it follows that there are many ends; for of medicine the end is health; of ship-building, a ship; of generalship, victory; of economy, wealth. But whatever of such arts are contained under any one faculty (as, tor instance, under horsemanship is contained the art of making bridles, and all other horse furniture ; and this and the whole art of war is contained under generalship; and in the same man- ner other arts are contained under different facul- ties), in all these the ends of the chief arts are more eligible than the ends of the subordinate ones; be- cause for the sake of the former, the latter are pur- sued. It makes, however, no difference whether the energies themselves, or something else besides these, are the ends of actions, just as it would make no difference in the sciences above mentioned. If, therefore, there is some end of all that we do, which we wish for on its own account, and if we wish for all other things on account of this, and do not choose everything for the sake of something else (for thus we should go on to infinity, so that desire would be empty and vain), it is evident that this must be " the good," and the greatest good. Has not, then, the knowledge of this end a great influence on the conduct of life? and, like archers, shall we not have a mark? If so, we ought to endeavor to give an outline at least of its nature, and to determine to which of the sciences or faculties it belongs. Now it would appear to be th*» end of that which is especially the chief and master science, and this seems to be the political science, for it directs what sciences states ought to cultivate, what individuals should learn, and how far they should pursue them. We see, too, that the most valued faculties are com- prehended under it, as for example, generalship, 116 THE HIGHEST GOOD OF MAN economy, rhetoric. Since, then, this science makes use of the practical sciences, and legislates respect- ing what ought to be done, and what abstained from, its end must include those of the others; so that this end must be the good of man. Yot although the good of an individual and a state be the same, still that of a state appears more important and more perfect both to obtain and to preserve. To discover the good of an individual is satisfactory, but to dis- cover that of a state or a nation is more noble and divine. This, then, is the object of my treatise, wtiich is of a political kind. * * * * Since all knowledge and every act of deliberate preference aims at some good, let us show what that iSt which we say that the political science aims at, and what is the highest good of all things which are done. As to its name, indeed, almost all men are agreed; for both the vulgar and the educated call it happiness: but they suppose that to live well and do well are synonyms with being happy. But con- cerning the nature of happiness they are at variance, and the vulgar do not give the same definition of it as the educated; for some imagine it to be an obvi- ous and well-known object — such as pleasure, or wealth, or honor; but different men think differ- ently of it; and frequently even the same person entertains different opinions respecting it at differ- ent times; for, when diseased, he believes it to be health; when poor, wealth; but, conscious of their own ignorance, they admire those who say that it is something great and beyond them. Some, again, have supposed that besides these numerous goods, there is another self-existent good, which is to all these the cause of their being goods. Now, to exam- ine all the opinions would perhaps be rather un- profitable; but it will be sufficient to examine those which lie most upon the surface, or seem to be most reasonable. 117 ARISTOTLE Let it not, however, escape our notice, that argu- ments from principles differ from arguments to prin« ciples, for well did Plato also propose doubts on this point, and inquire whether the right way is from principle or to principles; just as in the course from the starting-post to the goal, or the contrary. For we must begin from those things that are known ; and things are known in two ways; or some are known to ourselves, others are generally known; perhaps, therefore, we should begin from the things known to ourselves. Whoever, therefore, is to study with advantage the things which are honorable and just, and in a word the subjects of political science, must have been well and morally educated; for the point from whence we must begin is the fact, and if this is satisfactorily proved, it will be unnecessary to add the reason. Such a student possesses, or would easily acquire, the principles. But let him who possesses neither of these qualifications, hear the sentiments of Hesiod: " Far does the man all other men excel, Who, from his wisdom, thinks in all things well. Wisely considering, to himself a friend. All for the present best, and for the end. Nor is the man without his share of praise, Who well the dictates of the wise obeys: But he that is not wise himself, nor can Hearken to wisdom, is a useless man." 118 EDWIN ARNOLD Sib Edwix Arxold, poet and journalist, was born in England in 1833. He won a scholarship at Oxford, and received the Newdigate prize for poetry. In addition to his numerous poems he wrote a number of practical books on education and ad- ministration in India. " The Light of Asia " is his most famous work. SERENADE (The MacMillan Co., Publishers) LUTE ! breathe thy lowest in my Lady's ear, Sing while she sleeps, " Ah ! belle dam^ aimexvous ? '* Till, dreaming still, she dream that I am here. And wake to find it, as my love is, true; Then, while she listens in her warm white nest, Say in slow music, — softer, tenderer yet. That lute-strings quiver when their tone's at rest And my heart trembles when my lips are set. Stars ! if my sweet love still a-dreaming lies. Shine through the roses for a lover's sake; And send your silver to her lidded eyes, Kissing them very gently till she wake; Then, while she wonders at the lay and light. Tell her, though morning endeth star and song. That ye live still, when no star glitters bright, And my love lasteth, though it find no tongue. 119 *:DWIN ARNOLD THE LIGHT OF ASIA Yet not to love Alone trusted the king; love's prison-house Stately and beautiful he bade them build, So that in all the earth no marvel was Like Vishramvan, the prince's pleasure-plnt^e. Midway in those wide palace-grounds there rose A verdant hill whose base Rohini bathed. Murmuring adown from Himalay's broail feet. To bear its tribute into Gunga's waves. Southward is a growth of tamarind trees, and sdl, Thick set Math pale sky-colored ganthi-ilowers. Shut out the world, save if the city's hum Came on the wind no harsher than when bees Hum out of sight in thickets. Northward soared The stainless ramps of huge Himala's wall. Ranged in white ranks against the blue — untrod, Infinite, wonderful — whose uplands vast. And lifted universe of crest and crag. Shoulder and shelf, green slope and icy horn. Riven ravine, and splintered precipice Led climbing thought higher and higher, until It seemed to stand in heaven and speak with gods. Fronting this The builders set the bright pavilion up. Fair-planted on the ierraced hill, with towers On either flank and pillarea jloisters round. Its beams were carved with stories of old time — Radha and Krishna and the sylvan girls — Sita and Hanuman and Draupadi; And on the middle porch god Ganesha, With disk and hook — to bring wisdom and wealth- Propitious safe, wreathing his sidelong trunk. By winding ways of garden and of court The imier gate was reached, of marble wrought, 120 THE LIGHT OF ASIA White with pink veins; the Hntel lazuli, The threshold alabaster, and the doors Sandal-wood, cut in pictured panelling; Whereby to lofty halls and shadowy bowers Passed the delighted foot, on stately stairs, Through latticed gallerys, 'neath painted roofs And clustering columns, where cool fountains — fringed With lotus and nelumbo — danced, and fish Gleamed through their crystal, scarlet, gold, and blue. Great-ejed gazelles in sunny alcoves browsed The blown red roses; birds of rainbow wing Fluttered among the palms; doves, green and gray, Built their safe nests on gilded cornices; Over the shinrng pavements peacocks drew The splendors of their trains, sedately watched By milk-white herons and the small house-owls. The plum-necked parrots swung from fruit to fruit The yellow sun-birds whirred from bloom to bloom, The timid lizards on the lattice basked Fearless, the squirrels ran to feed from hand. For all was peace: the shy black snake, that gives Fortune to households, sunned his sleepy coils Under the moon-flowers, where the musk-deer played' And brown-eyed monkeys chattered to the crows. ( And all this house of love was peopied fair With sweet attendance, so that in each part With lovely sights were gentle faces found. Soft speech and willing service, each one glad To gladden, pleased at pleasure, proud to obey; Till life glided beguiled, like a smooth stream Banked by perpetual flow'rs, Yasodhara Queen of the enchanting court But innermost, Beyond the richness of those hundred halls; A secret chamber lurked where skill had spen* 121 J«f)^lN ARNOLD All lovely fantasieP to lull the mind. The entrance of it was a cloistered square — Roofed by the sky, 'vnd in the midst a tank — Of milky marble built, and laid with slabs Of milk-white marble; bordered round the tank And on the steps, and all along the frieze With tender inlaid work of agate-stones. Cool as to tread in summer-time on snows It was to loiter there; th** sunbeams dropped Their gold, and, passing into porch and niche. Softened to shadows, silvery, pale, and dim. As if the very day paused and grew eve In love and silence at that bower's gate; For there beyond the gate th^ chamber was. Beautiful, sweet; a wonder of thft world! Soft light from per fumed lamps through windows fell Of nakre and stained stars of luc^i^t film On golden cloths outspread, and silken beds. And heavy splendor of the purdah's fringe. Lifted to take only the loveliest in. Here, whether it was night or day noiK* knew For always streamed that softening Jjght, mo»^ bright Than sunrise, but as tender as the eve's; And always breathed sweet airs, more joy-jriving Than morning's, but as cool as midnight's breath; And night and day lutes sighed, and night anti d^v Delicious foods were spread, and dewy fruits, Sherbets new chilled with snows of Himalay, And sweetmeats made of subtle daintiness. With sweet tree-milk in its own ivory cup. And night and day served there a chosen band Of nautch-girls, cup-bearers, and cymballers. Delicate, dark-browed ministers of love, Who fanned the sleeping eyes of the happy prince, And when he waked, led back his thoughts to bhss With music whispering through the blooms, and charm 125 ■fYHC LIGHT OF ASIA Of amorous songs and dreamy dances, linked By chime of ankle bells and wave of arms And silver vina-strings: while essences Of musk and champak and the blue haze spread From burning spices soothed his soul again To drowse by sweet Yasodhara; and thus Siddartha lived forgetting. Furthermore, The king commanded that within those walls No mention should be made of death or age. Sorrow, or pain, or sickness. If one dropped In the lovely court — her dark glance dim, her feet Faint in the dance — the guiltless criminal Passed forth an exile from that Paradise, Lest he should see and suffer at her woe. Bright-eyed intendants watched to execute Sentence on such as spake of the harsh world Wit-hout, where aches and plagues were, tears anck fears And wail of mourners, and grim fume of pyrea. *Twas treason if a thread of silver strayed In tress of singing-girl or nautch-dancer ; At every dawn the dying rose was plucked, The dead leaves hid, all evil sights removed : For said the king, "If he shall pass his youth Far from such things as move to wistfulness, And brooding on the empty eggs of thoughtj The shadow of this fate, too vast for man, May fade, belike, and I shall see him grow To that great stature of fair sovereignty When he shall rule all lands — if he will rule — • The king of kings and glory of his time." Softly the Indian night sinks on the plains At full moon in the month of Chaitra Shud, When mangoes redden and the asoka buds Sweeten the breeze, and Rama's birthday comes, 123 EDWIN ARNOLD And ali the fields are glad and all the towns. Softly that night fell over Vishramvan, Fragrant with blooms and jeweled thick with stars. And cool with mountain airs sighing adown From snow-flats on Himala high outspread; For the moon swung above the eastern peaks. Climbing the spangled vault, and lighting clear Rohini's ripples and the hills and plains And all the sleeping land, and near at hand Silvering those roof-tops of the pleasure-house. Where nothing stirred nor sign of watching was. Save at the outer gates, whose warders cried Muclra, the watchword, and the countersign Angana, and the watch-drums beat a round; Whereat the earth lay still, except for call Of prowling jackals, and the ceaseless trill Of crickets on the garden grounds. Within— Where the moon glittered through the lace-worked stone Lighting the walls of pearl-shell and the floors Paved with veined marble — softly fell her beams On such rare company of Indian girls. It seemed some chamber sweet in Paradise Where Devis rested. All the chosen ones Of Prince Siddartha's pleasure home were there, The brightest and most faithful of the court, Each form so lovely in the peace of sleep. That you had said, " This is the pearl of all I " Save that beside her or beyond her lay Fairer and fairer till the pleasured gaze Roamed o'er that feast of beauty as it roams From gem to gem in some great goldsmith-work, Caught by each color till the next is seen. With careless grace they lay, their soft brown limbs Part hidden, part revealed; their glossy hair Bound back with gold or flowers or flowing loose 124 THE LIGHT OF ASIA In Mack wares down the shapely nape and neck» Lulled in\o pleasant dreams by happy toils. They slept, no wearier than jeweled birds "U'hich sing and iove all day, then under wing Fold head till morn bids sing and love again. Lamps of chased silver swinging from the roof In silver chains, and fed with perfumed oils, Made with the moonbeams tender lights and shades. Whereby were seen the perfect lines of grace. The bosom's placid heave, the soft stained palms Drooping or clasped, the faces fair and dark, The great arched brows, the parted lips, the teeth Like pearls a merchant picks to make a string. The satin-lidded eyes Avith lashes dropped Sweeping the delicate cheeks, the rounded wrists, The smooth small feet with bells and bangles decked, Tinkling low music where some sleeper moved. Breaking her smiling dream of some new dance Praised by the prince, some magic ring to find, Some fairy love-gift. Here one lay full-length. Her vina by her cheek, and in its strings The little fingers still all interlaced As when the last notes of her light song played Those radiant eyes to sleep and sealed her own. Another slumbered folding in her arms A desert antelope, its slender head Buried with back-sloped horns between her breasts Soft nestling; it was eating — when both drowsed — Red roses, and her loosening hand still held A rose half-mumbled, while a rose-leaf curled Between the deer's lips. Here two friends had dozed Together, weaving mogra-buds, which bound Their sister-sweetness in a starry chain. Linking them limb to limb and heart to heart. One pillowed on the blossoms, one on her. Another, ere she slept, was stringing stones To make a necklet — agate, onyx, sard. Coral and moonstone — round her wrist it gleamed 125 EDWIN ARNOLD A coil of splendid color, while she held, Unthreaded yet, the bead to close it up Green turkis, carved with golden gods and scripts. Lulled by the cadence of the garden stream, Thus lay they on the clustered carpets, each A girlish rose with shut leaves, waiting dawn To open and make daylight beautiful. This was the antechamber of the prince; But at the purdah's fringe the sweetest slept — Gunga and Gotami — chief ministers In that still house of love. The purdah hung. Crimson and blue, with broidered threads of gold, Across a portal carved in sandal wood. Whence by three steps the way was to the bower Of inmost splendor, and the marriage-couch Set on dais soft with silver cloths, Where the foot fell as though it trod on piles Of neem-blooms. All the walls were plates of peari. Cut shapely from the shells of Lanka's wave; And o'er the alabaster roof there ran Rich inlayings of lotus and of bird. Wrought in skilled work of lazulite and jade, Jacynth and jasper; woven round the dome. And down the sides, and all about the frames Wherein were set the fretted lattices. Through which there breathed, with moonlight and cool airs. Scents from the shell flowers and the jasmine sprays Not bringing thither grace or tenderness Sweeter than shed from those fair presences Within the place — the beauteous Sakya prince, And hers, the stately, bright Yasodhara. Half risen from her soft nest at his side. The chuddah fallen to her waist, her brow Laid in both palms, the lovely princess leaned With heaving bosom and fast falling tears. 126 THE LIGHT OF ASIA Thrice with her lips she touclied Siddartha's hand, And at the third kiss moaned, " Awake, my Lord ! Give me the comfort of thy speech ! " Then he— " What is it with thee, O my life ? " but still She moaned anew before the words would come; Then spake, " Alas, my prince ! I sank to sleep Most happy, for the babe I bear of thee Quickened this eye, and at my heart there beat That double pulse of life and joy and love; Whose happy music lulled me, but — ah ! — In slumber I beheld three sights of dread, With thought whereof my heart is throbbing yet. I saw a white bull with wide branching horns, A lord of pastures, pacing through the streets. Bearing upon his front a gem which shone As if some star had dropped to glitter there. Or like the kantha-stone the great snake keeps To make bright daylight underneath the earth. Slow through the streets toward the gates he paced. And none could stay him, though there came a voice From Indra's temple, 'If ye stay him not. The glory of the city goeth forth.' Yet none could stay him. Then I wept aloud, And locked my arms about his neck, and strove And bade them bar the gates; but that ox-king Bellowed, and lightly tossing free his crest. Broke from my clasp, and bursting through the barSs Trampled the warders down and passed away. The next strange dream was this: Four presences Splendid, with shining eyes, so beautiful They seemed the regents of the earth who dweU On mount Sumeru, lighting from the sky With retinue of countless heavenly ones, Swift swept unto our city, where I saw The golden flag of Indra on the gate Flutter and fall ; and lo ! there rose instead A glorious banner, all the folds whereof Rippled with flasliing fire of rubies sewn 127 EDWIN ARNOLD Thick on the silver threads, the rays wherefrom Set forth new words and weighty sentences Whose message made all li%'ing creatures glad; And from the east the wind of sunrise blew With tender waft, opening those jeweled scrolls So that all iiesh might read; and wondrous blooms — Plucked in what clime I know not — fell in showers, Colored as none are colored in our groves." Then spake the prince: " All this, my lotus flower: Was good to see," " Ah lord," the princess said, " Save that it ended with a voice of fear Crying, ' The time is nigh ! the time is nigh ! * Thereat the third dream came; for then I sought Thy side, sweet Lord! ah, on our bed there lay An unpressed pillow and an empty robe — Nothing of thee but those! — nothing of thee. Who art my life and light, my king, my world I And sleeping still I rose, and sleeping saw Thy belt of pearls, tied here below my breasts. Change to a stinging snake; my ankle-rings Fall oflF, my golden bangles part and fall; The jasmines in my hair wither to dust; While this our bridal-couch sank to the ground. And something rent the crimson purdah down; Then far away I heard the white bull low, And far away the embroidered banner flap, And once again that cry 'The time is come.'' But with that cry — which shakes my spirit still — I woke! O prince! what may such visions mean Except I die, or — worse than any death — Thou shouldst forsake me or be taken?" Sweet As the last smile of sunset was the look Siddartha bent upon his weeping wife. " Comfort thee, dear ! " he said, " if comfort lives In changeless love; for though thy dreams may be Shadow of things to come, and though the gods 128 HE AND SHE Are shaken in their seats, and though the world Stands nigh, perchance, to know some way of help. Yet, whatsoever fall to thee and ine. Be sure I loved and love Yasddhara." HE AND SHE SHE is dead !" they said to him: "come away ; Kiss her and leave her, — thy love is clay I" They smoothed her tresses of dark-brown hair; On her forehead of marble they laid it fair ; Over her eyes that gazed too much They drew the lids with a gentle touch ; With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell ; About her brows and beautiful face They tied her veil and her marriage lace. And drew on her white feet her white-silk shoes,— Which were the whitest no eye could choose, — And over her bosom they crossed her hands, " Come away ! " they said, " God understands." And there was silence, and nothing there But silence, and scents of eglantere. And jasmine, and roses and rosemary ; And they said, " As a lady should lie, lies she." And they held their breath till they left the room. With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom. EDWIN ARNOLD But he who loved her too well to dread The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead. He lit his lamp, and took the key And turned it — alone again, he and she. He and she; but she would not speak. Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek. He and she; yet she would not smile. Though he called her the name she loved erewhile. He and she; still she did not move To any passionate whisper of love. Then he said, " Cold lips and breasts without breath. Is there no voice, no language of death, " Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, But to heart and to soul distinct, intense? " See, now; I will listen with soul, not ear : What was the secret of dying, dear ? " Was it the infinite wonder of all That you ever could let life's flower fall? " Or was it a greater marvel to feel The perfect calm o'er the agony steal ? " Was the miracle greater to find how deep Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep ? " Did life roll back its record dear. And show, as they say it does, past things clear? " And was it the innermost heart of the bliss To find out so, what a wisdom love is ? **0 perfect dead! O dead most dear ! I hold the breath of my soul to hear. 130 HE AND SHE •* I listen as deep as to horrible hell, As high as to heaven, and you do not tell. " There must be pleasure in dying, sweet. To make you so placid from head to feet 1 " I would tell you, darling, if I were dead. And 't were your hot tears upon my brow shed, — " I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid, — "You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise. " The very strangest and suddenest thing Of all the surprises that dying must bring." Ah, foolish world ! O most kind dead ! Though he told me, who will believe it was said? Who will believe that he heard her say, With the sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way, " The utmost wonder is this, — I hear And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear; " I am your angel, who was your bride, And know that though dead, I have never died.*^ A HOME SONG (Swanscombe, April 1857) THE swallow is come from his African home I'o build on the English eaves; The sycamore wears all his glistening spears. And the almond rains roseate leaves; And, dear Love ! with thee, as with bird and with tree 'Tis the time of blossom and nest, Then, what good thing of the bountiful Spring Shall I liken to thee— the best ? 131 EDWIN ARNOLD i Over the streamlet the rose-bushes bend Clouded with tender green. And green the buds grow upon every bough, ] Though as yet no rose-tint is seen; j L